summary - you're running the flower gram booth fundraiser. this poses a bit of an obstacle for jack.
a/n - medschool!jack abbot!!! awkward idiots in love!!! did i get the idea for this from an episode of bobs burgers? yes. but its rlly cute your honor. it took me so long to write this because my writers block has been BRUTAL and i kept starting and then scrapping stories before i got here. agh pls send in any requests it rlly helps, and im going to start cranking on the ones in my inbox!!! enjoy <3
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“Shit! Shit!”
You flapped your hand madly to rid it of the sting the pruning had shears caused. You paused to examine it; blood was blooming along a thin, short slash mark, but it wouldn’t need more than a bandaid. Still, you thought grumpily, just another way to make your arduous valentines-carnation journey more unpleasant. God, you hated the stupid holiday.
It was against your wishes that your school’s chapter of the AMWA decided on doing a flower gram for the annual fundraiser, but alas, you were outvoted. And, stuck with no other option than to do what you do, you embraced the campaign one hundred percent. You were never good at half-assing things.
You had your pride, but it also left you with the responsibility of gathering one thousand red carnations and organizing a campus-wide exchange, ensuring delivery of flowers to the intended recipients.
It had taken you longer than you expected to find a place to sell you that many flowers wholesale. Then, of course, once you got your hands on them, there were the flowers themselves. They were obviously cut rather roughly, made for the hands of experienced florists to turn them into beautiful bouquets, but that was a far cry from you. You were an overworked, overtired year two medical student, desperate for this to go well and somewhat in over your head.
So you found yourself, a week from the fourteenth, sitting on the floor of your apartment, surrounded with heaps of stems, working feverishly into the night in a hope that all would be trimmed and somewhat presentable to be delivered by the deadline. As the clock struck twelve, you became a little more rushed, and a little less careful, as evidenced by your bleeding hand.
Still swearing like a sailor, you carefully stepped out of your petal nest and creaked your way towards the bathroom, joints snapping along the way. Your roommate, Chelsea, was brushing her teeth at the sink with a ginormous volume propped up on the faucet in front of her. As you ruffled through the drawers, you caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. You looked exhausted, if the bags under your eyes were anything to go by, and flyaways framed your droopy face in an odd crown. Chelsea didn’t look much better, a lawyer in training. You often lamented together about your inexplicable choice to put yourselves through more expensive and rigorous schooling.
“What’d you do?” asked Chelsea, muffled over the buzz of her toothbrush.
“Just a nick,” you said, finally locating and retrieving a box of Disney bandaids. “What the hell are you still doing up, Chels?”
Chelsea spit into the basin and turned on the tap, eyes not leaving the pages.
“I’m not up, I’m not up, I just wanted to finish this chapter,” she said. “What are you doing up? Can’t those fucking flowers wait another day? V-day isn’t until next Monday.”
“Yes, well, I have other commitments, believe it or not,” you said, slapping an iron man bandage on your finger.
“Actually, I don’t really,” said Chelsea, grabbing the floss. “You spent the whole weekend volunteering at a clinic, like a goddamn hero. And I know Jack asked you to come to his little friend’s housewarming party with him.”
You had been teased one too many times about Jack for your face to immediately heat like it used to, and you rolled your eyes.
“Not with him, just — you know, with him,” you said exasperatedly. “As a group thing.”
“You are so determined not to see that man’s crush on you,” said Chelsea.
Tired of your friend’s repeated attempts to make you see something that you were sure wasn’t there, you regurgitated your own repeated defenses.
“If he liked me, he would have asked me out ages ago,” you said. “I mean I’ve known the guy since our year one cadaver lab.”
“Aw, he’s just shy,” said Chelsea sweetly. “Cut him some slack!”
You huffed slightly and stalked back to your post on the living room floor.
“Goodnight, meddler!”
“Goodnight sweetums.”
What bothered you most about Chelsea’s pestering was that she acted as though you wouldn’t take the chance if offered to you. Well, the idea scared you slightly. You had never had a real relationship, never even a true fling, only messy, intoxicated hookups in bars and trucks. You were far too busy with school and work to be fussed much about boys.
Jack, though, you had to admit, was special. He was just as steadfast as you, however less fiery. He got good grades, and worked hard to achieve them. You’d never known him to drink or smoke more than the occasional party, similar to yourself, and he was often joining you in your role of designated driver. He understood your overzealous nature, though he didn’t copy it, and he never once dampened your spark. On the contrary, he seemed to admire it.
And he was just oh so pretty. Dark auburn curls, and a crooked smile, and let’s face it, pecs for days. You’d never really gotten over the group beach day your friends forced you to attend over break; he had glistened in the sun like a statue carved by Michelangelo.
But with all of that, he still seemed unaware of his own beauty. He blushed and stuttered when people flirted with him. You knew it spread all the way down his pale, freckled chest because there were a few lifeguards who had taken a liking to him that same day.
You picked up your shears again and resumed your chopping with a little more force.
Silly though it seemed, sure though you were that Jack held nothing more than friendly intentions for you, you had thought through the scenario on several occasions. If he asked you out, would you say yes? Surely he could only prove to be a distraction? But it was Jack, so perhaps not…
God, this was all Valentine’s Day’s fault. The stupid holiday had everyone feeling overly susceptible to harmful, heteronormative ideals blasting out at you from every advertisement, sign, decoration, and rom com displayed. You needed to ground yourself. The facts were that Jack was not going to ask you out, and you would never be tempted to say yes.
In the end, you only made it some halfway through your carnations before you were practically falling asleep right there on the rug, and you forced yourself to bed. After class the next morning, bright and early, you took up your station at the flower booth, placed in the very middle of the quad, with students rushing to and fro in a constant buzz.
You were bundled up against the wind, with two sweaters, a coat, a scarf, a wooly hat, and matching mittens that made it exceedingly difficult to set up your signs. They instructed the public that it was two dollars per carnation, five dollars if you wanted a fancy ribbon. Luckily, the ribbon responsibility fell to your co-organizer, Janice. One less thing to worry about, though you would have swapped her for the flowers any day.
“Need some help?” said a familiar voice.
You looked up, braced for the harsh wind, but found it blocked by Jack’s solid body. You couldn’t help but smile in return; his was warming you from the inside out.
“Thanks, Jack,” you sighed, sitting down at last while he fiddled with the plastic legs of your sign. “What are you doing out here?”
“Can’t I just want to visit you?” said Jack, and you told yourself the pink in his cheeks was from the cold.
“I guess,” you said, working hard to combat your widening smile.
“Can I sit?”
“Um, sure,” you said, waving a gloved hand. “Liz is never on time, anyways.”
He took the empty seat next to you, then shoved his red hands in his pockets. You allowed yourself exactly three seconds to admire his curls in the breeze, before you forced your head forward to face the front.
“So how’s it going out here?” he asked.
“Oh, it’s great,” you drawled sarcastically. “Yeah, I really love freezing my ass off so that people can come up and ask me dumb questions and never buy a flower. Do they not see the signs?”
Jack chuckled.
“Well, you know, charity and all.”
You hummed noncommittally.
“I just love how everyone who voted for the stupid idea magically became swamped when it came to organizing the damn thing,” you grumbled. “I should have done that.”
“You couldn’t possibly have,” said Jack, matter of factly.
“Yeah, you’re right,” you sighed. “Jesus, sometimes it’s exhausting being the way I am.”
“You’re better for it,” said Jack, so genuinely you had to avert your eyes.
You were distracted momentarily when a group of giggling freshmen approached the table, and one in the middle sheepishly asked for a carnation. They twittered away excitedly, and you slumped back with your stiff legs crossed. You shook your head. Jack looked fondly after them.
“I feel like I know how that one will turn out,” you said glumly, scribbling on your clipboard.
“Oh, come on, don’t you remember what it was like to be out on your own for the first time?” said Jack. “The first crush, or girlfriend you’d had when you didn’t need to ask your parent’s permission to go out?”
Your lips turned slightly down.
“Not really,” you said honestly. “I’ve never had many crushes. And when I did, they were never all consuming like that, never strong enough to pull me away from a night of studying.”
You glanced Jack’s way and found that he was already watching you, though upon being caught, he turned quickly to a lone dead leaf on the ground, crushing it with his shoe.
“So… do you — what are your Valentine’s plans?”
You could practically hear Chelsea in your head, but you shook her off.
“Well, I’m going to wander around res all day, delivering love carnations from a wagon,” you said in a monotonous voice, “and then I’m probably gonna go to the library and study for Ratliff’s. Which reminds me, I need to book a study room. Though I hardly think they’ll be in high demand on Valentine’s Day.”
“Yeah, right,” said Jack, scratching his cheek. “No, yeah, I should probably do the same. Um… mind if I join you? Next week, I mean?”
You’re brow furrowed, and you stared at the side of Jack’s curly head.
“You want to study the names and properties of medications with me… in the library… on Valentine’s Day?”
The ear you could see was quickly reddening. He coughed.
“Uh, yeah. I mean, I feel like no one else’ll be around — all my friends have dates, at least.”
“You don’t have a date?” you asked, accidentally aloud, and it was your turn to avert your eyes.
“No,” he said hurriedly. “Not unless you count all the alone time I spend with the Principles of Pharmacology.”
You chuckled lightly, heart picking up a bit. Spending the most romantic day of the year, alone, in a secluded library with a gorgeous guy sounded almost too good to be true. A little dangerous, even. But, you firmly reminded yourself, he was right. No one else would be around anyways, and you could quiz each other. And when your friends woke up the next morning with hangovers, you’d be waking up with a productive night of studying under your belt.
“Okay,” you said, and he grinned at you. “Sounds fun. I can stop by the library later today.”
“That’s okay, I’ll do it!” said Jack happily. “I’m headed that way anyway.”
“Alright,” you said, heart fluttering madly. “Oh, here comes Liz.”
Your friend and peer, with a head of curls not dissimilar to Jack’s but in a shade of darkest brown, was dragging her feet in your direction. There was an iced coffee in her hand, and sleep in her eyes. Jack immediately jumped up from her folding chair, and all she could offer him with her mouth around the straw was a nod of thanks.
“Liz, what the hell are you wearing?” you said sharply.
“A hoodie,” she said.
You shook your head, then began removing your jacket.
“Here you go,” you said, shoving it into Liz’s hands without waiting for permission.
“Babe, I don’t want —”
“Just take it, you stubborn asshole,” you said, sure that she would be moaning about the cold in ten minutes time, and wishing to avoid that all together.
Sighing like you were doing her a great disservice, she set down her drink and shrugged the coat over her shoulders.
Before you could make another move, another jacket was now being shoved, this time to you. Jack was standing in the courtyard in nothing but a crew with your university’s logo on it, no gloves, no hat, no scarf. You blinked.
“That’s okay, Jack.”
“But you’ll be cold without a coat.”
“I’ve got two sweaters on, I’ll be fine.”
“Please just take it, I’ll be inside anyways —”
“Yeah, don’t be a stubborn asshole,” quipped Liz with a grin around her straw.
Sending her a glare, and Jack a shy smile, you pulled on his puffy coat. You were suddenly overwhelmed with the scent of him, and it was all you could do not to stick your nose into the collar and inhale deeply. Only when it was zipped all the way up did Jack look satisfied.
“Thank you,” you said in a small voice.
“No problem,” said Jack. He wasn’t shivering, but his cheeks were turning rather pink again. “Um, I’ll see you Thursday, for the patho study group?”
You nodded, and he smiled again, and disappeared into the crowd. You could feel Liz’s eyes on you, but were spared a confrontation by the approach of a student.
It was a pretty good day for the booth. You got to see Chelsea come to order some flowers for her girlfriend, Tara, then saw Tara later that day to do just the same for Chelsea. There were a couple guys you recognized and were sure they were only sending flowers to dates to increase their chances of sex. A young, and rather brazen girl, who boldly addressed a red carnation to a professor, which technically there was no rule against, though you made a mental note to ask your advisor about it later.
You left around two for a class, and when you got back, Liz was happily reporting the day’s haul as close to five hundred dollars raised. All in all, it wasn’t so bad. The booth did pretty well, and you actually got some studying done at the table.
As the week progressed, flower sales steadily grew and your locked tin box of money was filling up. It meant great things for the association, and helped you accept that maybe, despite the injuries to your fingers and lower back, the hours slaved over the flowers were worth it.
You also kept getting preoccupied by your not-date with Jack, which was drawing ever nearer. You didn’t dare breathe a word of it to any of your friends, especially your despicable roommate, who already had a thirty minute freakout when you walked through the door wearing his coat. You knew that if you confided in her, she’d go overboard and get in your head.
At the Thursday study group, the combination of handing back said coat to its original owner, plus his confirmation of the study room number for Monday, caused some more suspicious looks. Fortunately, Chelsea didn’t tend to run in the same circles, being of a different major, so you were subjected to her preaching.
On Monday, after class, you were needed back at the apartment to help her pick out the perfect Valentine’s outfit. Then the two of you parted ways on the street. Chelsea off to her date, and you off to the library.
You got to the room before Jack did. You compulsively checked the sign up sheet outside the door, but you weren’t surprised to see it, and the rest of the library, almost totally empty that night.
You set up your books, index cards, notebooks, and pencil case, while trying hard not to pick over your outfit. After hours of agonizing, far more agonizing than Chelsea had spared, you had rested on your regular jeans and a zip up hoodie. Cute, comfy, and most importantly, casual. Still, your mind was running over hundreds of scenarios in which Jack in some way, shape, or form, disapproved of this outfit. Ridiculous, you reminded yourself.
You tried to focus on pharm. Which main infections are treated by Penicillin G? You tapped your pencil against your notebook, thinking. Strep, definitely, and meningitis… but beyond that you were drawing a blank. You glanced out of the window, but you couldn’t see anyone else in the library.
Focus. Strep, meningitis, pneumonia, gonorrhea…
Maybe he changed his mind, and he found a date last minute. There might be a message waiting on your machine back at the apartment right that second.
You rested your forehead in your hand, hunching over your notes, trying not to glance at the door every five seconds. Strep, meningitis, pneumonia…
But you know what? Screw him if he was going to bail. Kinda shitty, not too crazy, though, for friends. Acquaintances, even. Maybe you were never really as close as you had thought, maybe you were reading into everything because of your stupid, school girl crush. No matter. Since he was just your friend-slash-acquaintance, it wasn’t that big of a blow. You weren’t about to miss out on your studying. It didn’t bother you…
Suddenly, the door burst open, and in came Jack. He was slightly winded, as though he had been running, the tips of his ears and nose pink with cold. He looked a little anxious, and he straightened up awkwardly, with one hand on the silver handle, and one bent behind his back.
“Sorry I’m late!” he panted. “I — I got… caught up…”
He trailed off, looking worried. You glanced at your watch: it was only two minutes past your agreed upon meeting time.
“You’re not late,” you dismissed, “I just get everywhere early.”
“I know! That’s why I wanted to — um, I just didn’t account for…”
He trailed off strangely again, and stepped into the room. He kept his back squarely to the wall, shuffling inside like a crab so as not to reveal to you whatever he was attempting to conceal. As you took him in, you realized he was dressed nicely, definitely nicer than you. He wore jeans, but not his usual, everyday jean with the holes and fading — these were dark wash, and they looked new. On his top he wore a button down, nothing too dressy, but certainly a step up from the usual college attire of t-shirts and hoodies.
This display made you confused; insecure though you now were that your fears of underdressing seemed to be true, you couldn’t help but enjoy his appearance. Most of the time you saw each other, it was under a haze of exhaustion and stress. This was new.
You fiddled with the sleeve of your sweatshirt, unsure whether or not to break the brief silence. Eventually, you decided you should.
“So — do you wanna sit? I can quiz you,” you said briskly, defaulting to your comfortable business tone. “I was just going over antibiotics, but I also wanted to review muscarinic agonists and antagonists.”
He didn’t budge. In fact, it appeared as though his body was tensing more every second. His face turned from pink to deep ruby red, spreading past his cheeks, down his neck, and you knew, despite not being able to see, down his chest. Just that thought had you heating up a bit too.
“Right,” he said. “Yes.”
Unable to handle the tension, you blurted out the first thing on your mind.
“Are you gonna show me what’s behind your back, or are you gonna stand like this all night?”
You hadn’t thought it possible, but his blush deepened even more, and you regretted the bluntness of your words. He visibly swallowed, staring at the floor like he would very much like to sink into it.
You looked away too, hoping perhaps to take some pressure off of him. Your eyes landed randomly on a bit of orange peel someone had left behind. You didn’t even have the time to be annoyed that someone had been sneaking snacks in the library, before there was a rustling and movement out of your peripherals.
Your eyes widened as you looked up and were faced with a large, truly gorgeous bouquet. It was clearly professionally done, beautifully spaced with mainly lilies and tulips, and spotted here and there with sage and little tiny daisies.
Unable to tear your eyes away from the bunch, you muttered, “is this for me?”
“Um, yeah,” he said nervously, letting you take the bouquet carefully, like he was desperate not to let any of his skin touch yours. “I — I wanted to get you carnations, but I couldn’t very well order them from you, that would kinda be counterproductive — besides, I know you don’t even like them —”
You finally broke away from the flowers to look into his cherry-red face.
“How do you know that?”
He blinked.
“You said so,” he said sheepishly.
“I did?” you said faintly, racking your brains.
A hand moved to the back of his neck, and he turned to face the ground so much so that all you could see was the top of his head and the tips of his maroon ears.
“At the start of the semester,” he said quietly, so quietly you had to strain your ears. “When the fundraiser was chosen.”
You remembered then, with his prompting. You had been sitting in the library, complaining loudly with Chelsea and some other friends.
“I mean, can we please be practical?” you had spat. “Flowers are messy, they wilt, they die, they’re expensive.”
“Use fake flowers,” supplied Chelsea.
“That would be disgusting,” you said. “I couldn’t possibly expect anyone to pay money for a plastic flower.”
“Okay, use real ones, then,” said Chelsea.
You groaned dramatically, attacking the calculator you were supposed to be using for dosage calculations.
“Why couldn’t we use, like, candy canes, or something? They do that in Mean Girls!”
“Because that was for Christmas, this is Valentine’s Day,” said your friend Bree. “There’s nothing lovey-dovey about candy canes.”
“I’d still rather get a candy cane then a fucking carnation,” you said. “That’s another thing stupid about this! Carnations! They’re such a boring flower. And red? I mean, be original.”
“People don’t want originality, they want classic romance,” said Sarah.
“I think lilies or tulips would be classic!” you argued. “Classic, familiar, but more elegant. I’m telling you, if everyone just did what I said, we’d have no problems left in the world.”
You were shocked that he recalled that. He had been there, but you didn’t think he’d been listening. He was buried in work, reading a textbook; you didn't know he’d even been aware of that conversation. But he had not only been listening, he’d carried the information, such inconsequential information, for almost a month.
You wanted to tell him how much you loved them, see that easy smile spread across his cheeks, but you seemed too shocked to find the words. You just stared between him and the bouquet, speechless, not that he was looking to notice. At your lack of response, he spoke again.
“I know it’s stupid,” he said. “I’m sorry, I mean, you don’t even have like a — like a vase, or anything, to put them in, and what are you gonna do, hold this massive bouquet when you’re trying to study? I probably should have just brought them to your apartment, huh? But then — I guess showing up on the doorstep with a bouquet is a little too forward — or old-fashioned — or maybe this whole idea was old-fashioned —”
You had seen him flustered on many occasions, where he’d blush, look away, and press on. This was different… you hardly recognized this stammering, jittery mess of nerves before you. It was honestly a good look on him.
“Jack,” you interrupted him, and he quieted at once. “I love the flowers.”
He let out a harrowed breath, looking at least somewhat relieved. His arm fell, though his hands met behind his back and you were pretty sure they were twisting with anxiety.
“Really? I tried to get anemones, I know you love the ones outside the gym, but they didn’t have any at the shop,” he breathed.
“Is that why you were late?” you asked. “You were getting me flowers?”
He nodded regretfully.
You raised your flowers to get a proper whiff of the dreamy aroma. Then, again, with apparent loss of your filter, “Why?”
He struggled for a second.
“I — I guess I —” he cleared his throat, shuffling his feet. “I didn’t want you to go without flowers on Valentine’s Day, just because you were the only one dedicated enough to run the booth.”
You smiled.
“That’s… very nice,” you said, taken aback. “But I feel like I should tell you, working a booth or not, I’ve never gotten Valentine’s flowers.”
“All the more reason,” he said.
You admired them for a few more minutes, while he admired you outside the scope of your vision, then you asked another question.
“What did you mean, ‘too forward’?”
“Huh?”
“Before, you said showing up on my doorstep would be ‘too forward’,” you explained. “Too forward for what?”
What little color he’d lost upon your assurance that you liked his gift came rushing back at that. You saw him glance at the window and then the door, as though hoping someone would come in and save him from your query. When no one did, he took a deep breath, as though steeling himself.
“I was thinking that maybe — if you had the time, of course, and if you had any interest whatsoever — maybe you might want to… go out? With me?”
Your heart, suspiciously tame up until that point, suddenly made itself known, galloping against your chest with a million times its usual power. You brought your bouquet up towards your face again, partially for the calming scent, partially to hide your face.
Jack Abbot was asking you out. Jack. Abbot. In front of you, hands tied, face red. Asking. You. Out. Chelsea’s voice was once again in your head, now screaming I TOLD YOU SO!
Just as Jack opened his mouth, perhaps to take it all back, you spoke.
“Okay, Jack.”
He took a step closer.
“Okay?”
“Okay, I’ll go out with you. I’d love to go out with you.”
You thought he might have melted right down to the floor, the way the tension left his bones. Finally, that favorite smile of yours spread across his glowing face. You matched it.
“I’d invite you over now,” you said, “but I promised Chelsea I’d be out of the apartment until at least eleven.”
“That’s okay,” he said cheerily. “We should really get some studying done, right?”
“Right,” you said giddily as he unpacked his bag, though you really didn’t want to release your lovely gift to hold a pencil.
As you were figuring out how to balance it in the crook of your nondominant arm, yet another thought struck you. If Chelsea was right… all those times, starting over a year ago, she nudged your shoulder, or sent you a look…
You glanced over at Jack as he pulled out the Principles of Pharmacology, and decided you wouldn’t prod him for a timeline. Because perhaps if you did, you’d have to admit that for as long as he’d been waiting to ask you out, you’d been waiting to say yes.
summary - while you and robby were busy falling apart, jack was busy falling for you.
cw - mentions of character death in the past, jack’s wife, cancer, military (nothing specific), pretty vague depictions of depression, ANGST, yearning jack pov
a/n - sorry robby you got voted off, maybe you shouldn’t have yelled at samira idk! but srsly guys this took way too long, and i was going to make it one long part but we didn’t even get to the juicy part yet 🥴 sorry. but at least you get this now instead of waiting right? right??? idk. also, do we like keeping the same pics? that’s what i’ve done for series in the past, but idk i feel like it needs to be more jack centric now. lmk. multiple more parts to come, but don’t worry the one shots will still be in this week, to hold you over for part 3 ig!!! 😚
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Jack Abbot was a simple man. He needed very little to survive. Maybe that was why he had done so well in the army, giving orders, packing his entire life into one green pack, running off of the nutrition bars and what little water they rationed in the field. At home in the states, he had virtually one outfit for each occasion. One for lounging, one for events, and his scrubs for work.
His apartment was nice, but somewhat bare. A few pictures on the wall, housewarming gifts from his family and friends, one throw blanket, two couch pillows, and two bed pillows. His office-slash-guest room had a naked couch that could fold into a bed, though it was rarely ever used, and a desk where he worked. He probably spent more time at that desk than anywhere else in the place.
Perhaps it was this prudent nature that led him to his wife. She was neat as a pin, coming from a military family herself, her dad having helped Jack enlist for the scholarship. See, there were relatively few things a human needed to survive, and companionship was one of them. This was a fact Jack was very much aware of, and a resource he never struggled to find. He and his wife met in high school biology, paired together in a group project about the cell cycle.
While Leanne was quick to divvy up the work into equal weight and responsibility, and complete her portion in one night, the third member of their group was decidedly less invested. Betting, no doubt, on his teammates completing his portion out of annoyance and academic ambition, he decided to leave every task until the night before the project was due; a night he also mysteriously disappeared from home and was unable to answer the phone. Jack and Leanne rushed to the library, grumbling together about their so-called teammate, and bonding over shared dislike for the boy.
Leanne was pretty, smart, sharp, and so unbelievably out of Jack’s league; so, naturally, it took all of one week for him to fall for her. Miraculously, she followed suit.
This was surely it for him, Jack would think, throughout the years that saw their prom photos, letters overseas, first apartment, and engagement. Right on theme, they decided on a courthouse wedding and a small reception in Leanne’s parents’ house, then on to their small but clean and cozy condo. Her love was all that held him over the long tours. On the worst nights, camped in enemy territory, watching soldiers die, Jack would imagine their future together. He would be honorably discharged from the army, get a good job at the respectable hospital downtown, and have a few kids. Or a hoard, with his red curls and Leanne’s gap-toothed smile and dark eyes.
How was he to know that that vision would never come to be?
They had already known his last tour was going to be his last, even before he lost his leg. The transition was hard, but eased by his wife’s steadfast determination and optimism. She was sure that stability was right on its way — and it was, in some ways. He completed physical therapy with a new and high quality prosthetic he got better at using every single day, and his position at the local ER was secured… but then came the diagnosis.
It was quick after that. Limited treatment options were exhausted, and three years later she was gone. Jack never imagined she’d be the one to go. Hell, he’d spent years in a warzone, had too many near misses to count, lost a limb, but there he was at the end of the day, safe at home, packing up her things in an empty house.
He slept on his brother’s couch while his realtor showed people around the property. As soon as it was sold, he was halfway across the coast in Pittsburgh, in a big apartment that used to belong to a friend of Robby’s, an old face from med school. The friend had also left behind an attending position for Jack to fill, and he did. Nights. It suited him better, gave him the day to occupy himself, so he didn’t spend hours in the dark lying awake, falling into his mind’s traps and pitfalls.
Things got better, of course, however slowly. He started therapy and took up running again, something he hadn’t done since before his leg. He had a whole new city to explore, and reluctantly allowed Robby to be his guide, introducing several of who are now Jack’s closest friends.
He found his feet, but it seemed he was determined not to move forward from there. While he watched his brother get married, his sister get her PhD, and met his niece, and then his nephew, he stayed stagnant. He didn’t want to push himself too hard, because it was only recently and delicately he was perched in this nice little pocket of life. Keeping nightmares to a minimum, and his mind focused on work, was really all he thought he could ask for. It was as if he could feel the darkness humming around the edges, just waiting for him to fall back in. But he was stubborn.
Sometimes, though, his therapist, Riley, would venture a question about his love life. Or, lack thereof. He would almost always answer the same way.
“I’ve already had a great love. It’s more than most people get in a lifetime. I just can’t picture myself doing it all over again.”
While this was true for years, he couldn’t stop himself feeling the loss some nights, not just the loss of Leanne, but the loss of companionship. He never admitted it to his therapist, very reluctantly admitted it to himself, but he missed the closeness so deeply, sometimes it left an ache behind. He tried to be okay, but the truth was, even when he was as okay as he had been in many years, each return to his barren, dark apartment hit him someplace soft. He cooked alone, ate alone, slept alone. It took a toll.
Leanne made it clear, near the end, that it was her wish for him to “move on” in whatever way he could, to find love after her, to live the life he had always wanted to. He knew she’d hate how he sequestered himself away, socializing only for work and more work. It was just like her, in her solid, logical way, to instruct him on this, and he wanted to honor her request — after all, she had never steered him wrong before.
But was he ready? Was he ready to let her go, and let someone else into the spaces only she had ever occupied? Or, was he even capable? It was well known he didn’t love often, but when he did, it was intensely. He didn’t do flings, hadn’t so much as glanced at another woman since Leanne’s passing. He wasn’t sure the opportunity would ever even present itself, that maybe his heart was too damaged and scarred from the loss to ever function normally.
Until he saw you.
God, what a privilege it was, to have seen you. It was a summer’s day, about four years since he started at PTMC, and it was sweltering. Jack had great tolerance for heat, and for cold — really he could make it in all sorts of climates. You, on the other hand? He could tell straight away you were worse for wear.
You had a sheen of perspiration, that you kept wiping away but that really only served to enhance your glow. Baby hairs stuck to your dewy skin, one in your mouth, that you pawed at frustratedly as Dana showed you around. Your chest was rising and falling somewhat rapidly, and you looked annoyed. Still, you nodded along to Dana’s instruction, even smiling at each new face, though Jack could tell it took much effort.
He was covering for Robby, who was running late. It was just as well, as he’d been stuck with the victims of a crash all morning. It was — he glanced at his watch — nine in the morning, just past, and you couldn’t have been at work for much more than three hours, if not two. He allowed himself a grin. Would you last the whole day? Some inexplicable part of him desperately hoped you would.
“Ah, and here’s the night shift attending, Dr. Jack Abbot,” said Dana, and she didn’t sound much more enthused than you looked.
The pair of you strolled up, and with your eyes on him, Jack seemed suddenly unable to keep his on you, though he’d been roving your figure just seconds before. You stuck out a hand, and gave your name.
“Nice to meet you,” you said, with that same whisper of a true smile, but rather bright eyes. He just nodded, shaking it, and attempting a smile of his own. “Night shift, huh? What could have possibly enticed you enough to pull you out of the air conditioning into this mug?”
Dana chuckled.
“If you hadn’t noticed, Dr. Abbot, our air conditioning is still down, and correct me if I’m wrong,” she said, turning to you with a twinkle in her eye, “but I don’t believe our new attending is a big fan of the heat. Can’t blame her, myself.”
Dana’s grey scrubs were lined with sweat, as were, he now noticed up close, your dark black ones. Your eyes flew up and down, appraising him.
“You don’t look very fussed,” you said, shaking your head. “How are you not sweltering in here?”
“No, yeah it’s… hot,” said Jack lamely, then he cleared his throat. “So — new attending. New to the area?”
He could’ve listened to you talk for hours on end. He wanted to memorize your voice along with your words. You grew up in New England, one of four, a dog lover, though you hadn’t had one since your twenties. You’d gone to Harvard for undergrad and medschool, and actually completed a trauma surgery rotation and worked in the OR for a few years before deciding to switch to emergency medicine.
“After doctors without borders, I realized I couldn’t be cooped up in the operating room waiting for patients to be brought up, you know?” you said, as you filled up your water bottle in the water fountain Dana had showed you to. “I really needed to be here, in the chaos. Not that surgery isn’t chaos, of course, just — different.”
“Sure,” said Jack, trying valiantly not to let his gaze linger on your lips. “Must have been tough, though, going back to being a student.”
“As tough as any other aspect of medicine, I suppose,” you said, sipping your water. “I still say it was easier than the first residency.”
As you tipped your bottle back again, a solitary droplet of water escaped and slid all the way past your chin and down your sweaty neck before you caught it. He swallowed thickly, angry with himself, and turned his head away. As he did, his eyes locked onto a familiar frame in the distance, walking closer.
“Hey brother,” said Robby, slapping Jack on the shoulder as he reached the fountain. “Thanks for covering.”
“No problem,” said Jack, though Robby’s eyes were already fixed onto you.
“And you must be the new attending,” said Robby, smiling warmly. “I’m Dr. Robinavitch. Call me Robby.”
The two of you shook hands. Jack used the time to recollect himself. He’d been incredibly pent up, emotionally and physically, for the past eight years, but it hadn’t seemed to have any affect on him until the very second that part of his brain lit up again. And you certainly lit him up.
“So you’re Dr. Abbot’s ticket to get the hell outta here?” you joked, and Robby laughed.
“That’s me.”
You turned to look at Jack.
“Got any crazy plans?”
Jack shrugged, but Robby opened his mouth first.
“Jack’s a workaholic,” he said. “All he ever does is work, sleep, and eat. He’s even worse than me.”
You quirked a corner of your mouth.
“I see,” you said, turning your attention back to Robby. “So I should go to you for the best bars in town, then?”
Robby’s smile widened. Jack felt a flicker of annoyance, but Dana yelled about an incoming trauma, and that was that. You bid him goodbye, as did Robby, and he was able to slink home.
That night he had a lot to think about, and he lay awake to do so, staring at his lazily spinning ceiling fan. Mostly, it was about your smile, and chuckle, and the way your hair fell around you. The bright sparkle in your eyes, and how clearly brilliant your mind was.
He shuffled around, throwing his sheets off of himself. It was inappropriate to be thinking about his coworker in such a way, but he couldn’t seem to help himself. Something about you filled every corner of his brain in an amazing way, a way he hadn’t felt in almost a decade. And it only seemed to be getting worse.
It took him a week to fall in love with his wife. It only took him three days to start falling in love with you.
He started coming in during daylight hours whether or not he was scheduled to work that night, jumping at the opportunity to cover for day shift attendings, and lingering long after seven AM just to be near you. What baffled him most was that the more he learned about you, the more different from his wife you seemed. Leanne was neat, contained, and often stoic. She approached situations logically, and made firm decisions. She was, in many ways, his twin.
You? Couldn’t have been more opposite. You laughed loudly, cried when you needed to, and let your heart have just as much of a say as your brain in leading your choices. Emotions played easily and clearly across your bright face. When tired, your attentions never wavered, but you draped yourself dramatically over chairs and desks, allowing yourself a moment of near comical lamenting before carrying on. You let your work and personal life intertwine and somehow seemed only better for it.
You were full of life, and humor, and feelings so deeply personal Jack sometimes wondered how you didn't explode. You were messy, with your possessions sprawled across the entire work station at any given time of day, but unbelievably put together in issues of the mind and soul. He had seen you put the pieces of each team member back together within the first few weeks of knowing you. You let yourself and those around you fill fully with whatever emotion took hold.
And Jack was mesmerized.
It seemed that it wasn’t the habits of the person, for him, but the core — beneath it all, both you and Leanne had unbreakable morals and pure, strong hearts.
After a month of you, plaguing his every thought, he finally plucked up the courage to mention you to his therapist. Not just how wonderful he found you, but all the qualms of reopening this chapter of his life. Even before love and loss, Jack’s experience with dating was minimal. It was a concept that nearly terrified him.
“Well, you’re careful who you give yourself to,” said Riley during an early morning session. “It costs you something. Casual dating would be your personal nightmare.”
Jack shifted in his seat. He was too old fashioned to stick with online therapy, so the hazy morning light shone on his work scrubs.
“Yeah,” was all he said, eyes on his sneakers. “’M too old to be wasting my time, I guess.”
Riley smiled.
“This woman must be special,” they said. “You rarely have such a reaction to a person.”
He grunted.
“So… maybe you owe it to yourself to see this through?” they said. “It seems like this type of thing doesn’t come your way all that often, does it?”
No, it didn’t. And as time went on, Jack allowed himself to imagine a world where he asked you out and you said yes.
The next time he worked a day shift with you, he spent most of his free time seriously considering the possibility. It was nerve wracking, just the thought of it. He hadn’t asked anyone out since the tenth grade, and surely asking a grown woman to accompany him to a local panera via a note would not be considered socially acceptable.
He watched the clock as it struck seven, then half past, knowing his chance was slipping away when he saw you start packing up. He was just about to dismiss the whole idea when Robby entered his peripherals. Jack turned. Robby was dressed not in scrubs or casual sweats, but in jeans and a nicer bomber jacket. By the looks of it, he’d trimmed his beard, and he smelled like cologne.
“What are you doing here?” asked Jack gruffly, forcing his eyes back down to the pad he was meant to be charting on. “Got a hot date?”
“Yup,” said Robby, and Jack snorted.
“Who, Noelle from upstairs? She’s been hinting at you for about…”
He trailed off. You were stepping up to them, smiling somewhat nervously up at Robby, who smiled softly back.
“Hey,” he said. “You ready to go?”
“All ready,” you said. “Are you ready to tell me where we’re going yet?”
“If I told you, it wouldn’t be a surprise, would it?”
You rolled your eyes, but your smile never wavered. Jack suddenly felt very sick and hot all over, much hotter than he felt on the day he met you. His hands started shaking so badly he had to drop the ipad back into the rack so you wouldn’t notice. He shoved them into his pockets when Robby turned back to him.
“We’re heading out,” he said. “You good here?”
He just hastened out a nod, willing the pair of you to start walking and stop looking at him.
“Oh, and Jack,” you said, and his insides stung with the tenderness in which you said his name, “will you make sure Kiara gets in to talk to curtain three? I don’t want her escaping before we can offer help, yeah?”
Again, he just nodded, and pulled his face painfully into what he hoped was a convincing grin, though keeping his face angled away from you all the same. You and Robby said your goodbyes, and then Robby led you out, giggling, into the night.
“Y’okay, kid?” said Dana, assessing him closely over her glasses. “You look a little flushed.”
He shook his head, trying to move his tongue and finding it very dry.
“Fine,” he said lowly. “Didn’t know those two… were…”
He gestured vaguely after the door you’d disappeared behind. Dana crossed her arms.
“They haven’t been — I mean, not really,” she said. “According to Princess, this is their first date.”
He tried to let this reassure him. A first date could mean anything. Maybe by the end, they’d find they really were better off as friends. Or it could go terribly, and they’d barely speak to each other again. His insides soured with guilt at the thought that that would still be preferred to a date that went excellently, even if you and Robby were his friends.
That night as he climbed into bed, he realized with a pang how much, despite what he told himself, he really had wanted to ask you out.
Though he was itching to, he kept himself from immediately texting Robby the next morning to see how it went with you, lest he get caught giving advice, or else hearing lurid details. He tried to keep his head about him over the next couple of days, but his thoughts kept drifting to you. Both you and Robby seemed perfectly cheerful during hand offs, so he figured it was safe to assume his unfortunate image of the two of you never speaking again wouldn’t come to be.
About a fortnight had passed when he asked Robby about seeing the Penguins game one chilly Monday evening he knew they both had off. Robby’s answer sent a bucket of ice down his stomach.
“Can’t, man, gonna watch it with her,” he said, and Jack knew exactly which her his friend was referring to.
He moved his eyes downward to his fidgeting hands.
“Second date?” he asked.
“Third,” said Robby.
“Nice,” Jack choked out, then, unable to stop himself, “how’s it going with you two?”
Robby’s smile was too giddy for Jack’s liking.
“Really well,” said Robby. “She’s amazing. I’m thinking of taking her up to my grandpa’s cabin next month, over the holiday weekend.”
Jack looked resolutely up at the board, though he wasn’t reading.
“What makes you think you’ll both get the holiday weekend off?”
Robby chuckled, slapping Jack on the back.
“I am the Chief Attending. You’d cover, right?”
Jack chewed his lip too hard, sending the tang of blood across his tongue, and gave a weak smile.
“Sure.”
And he did. And his smiles got more convincing as time went on. Despite himself, he never expected the relationship to last very long. Each time Robby vented to him about a fight you’d had, or he noticed tension between the two of you between shifts, he expected to get invited out for beers with Robby where the older man would drunkenly admit to him about why you broke up.
To be fair, Robby had rarely had a relationship last more than a few months in all the years Jack had known him, and he wasn’t the healthiest individual. But shouldn’t it have made Jack happy that something finally seemed to be working out for his old buddy?
Maybe if he didn’t have to see it so often, he could forget how much it hurt. To see Robby’s hands all over you and wish they were his. To see your warm, loving smile that was never really directed at him. To watch you humming to yourself after Robby dropped you off, delirious with happiness, knowing he would never get the chance with you he wanted.
So, when someone from his army days reached out with a volunteer opportunity for a SWAT medic, he didn’t hesitate to take it. More time keeping busy, less time free to worry about you. The emergency room was one thing, but being back in the field under gunfire where a split second decision could not only save or lose you your patient, but your own life — that left little room in his brain. Which was exactly how he liked it.
He never regretted his decision to join, however risky the job was. Not until he told you and Robby about it at your monthly group hockey nights. The look on your face, eyes so full of anxiety, had him questioning every decision he ever made.
“SWAT? Really, Jack?” you had said, eyebrows pinched tight, open bag of tortilla chips forgotten. “So there’ll be guys shooting at you every week?”
He chewed his lip, feeling immensely guilty and a little stupid, but luckily Robby spoke up before he could.
“Honey, it’s okay,” said Robby soothingly, running a hand down your arm. “Jack’s trained to deal with these situations. He’ll be fine.”
“How could you possibly know that?” you asked incredulously, setting down the bag and crossing your arms. “I mean, I’m not trying to tell you how to live your life, but… wasn’t the army enough danger for one lifetime?”
“Well, he survived, didn’t he?” said Robby jestingly.
You sent him a sharp look, but at that moment, Ellis and Shen yelled at someone in the background, and Robby rushed away to see who had gotten a penalty or a goal.
Jack would very much have liked to disappear into the group as well, shielded by the TV’s roaring crowd, the chatter about the Penguin’s chances for the cup; but you were still standing there, eyes distant, earlier smile long gone, and it was his fault.
He set down his beer and picked up your abandoned chips, continuing to fill the bowl while he waited for you to speak. After a while you heaved a sigh. Then your hand found the crook of his elbow. He shivered. He hoped you didn’t notice.
“Just — please be careful, Jack,” you said softly, staring imploringly into his downturned eyes. “I don’t want Robby to get a call that you’re half dead somewhere with a bullet in your back, or — or you lost another limb, or —”
In a moment of pure impulsivity, his free hand covered yours on his arm, and his gaze met yours.
“I’m not about to let that happen,” he said firmly. “I promise.”
You stood there staring at each other. Then, very slowly, you turned your hand upwards, and your fingers linked with his. Neither of you said a word. Jack’s heart was pounding in his throat, too fast.
“Okay,” you said, hushed.
His eyes flitted between yours. This was perhaps the closest the two of you had ever been, if you didn’t count rushing around during messy traumas. And he certainly didn’t. When he was wrist deep in someone’s chest cavity, he didn’t have time to appreciate the color of your irises up close, or the very light smattering of freckles over your nose, or the one loose eyelash resting on your cheek. His fingers twitched on the chip bag, itching to brush it away.
Suddenly, there was a loud uproar from the small crowd in the living room, and you yanked your hand back. Jack was quickly looking anywhere but at you, hand groping for his beer and taking a large sip, sending a small leak down his chin and onto his white shirt.
You grabbed the newly refilled chips and salsa, and turned back towards the doorway.
“We should probably go see what all the fuss is about,” you said lightly.
“I’m right behind you,” he breathed.
Ten minutes later, when he finally gathered the courage to reenter the fray, you were tucked securely under Robby’s arm while you argued spiritedly with Donnie about the Chicago Blackhawks lineup. As he eased himself into an armchair, you sent him a fleeting, familiarly friendly smile. He smiled back, head still full of you.
Despite your conversation, he was never more sure that joining SWAT was a good idea by the end of the night.
As he worked more and more shifts with them, he spent less and less time out with you and Robby. But consequently, that meant spending less and less time with all his other friends, too.
He hadn’t attended a hockey viewing party since the one where he told you his plans, and he was relieved. Even though each time he cancelled, you texted him something sweet with a heart emoticon. He ached to be near you, yet each time he was, he filled with a different type of sting.
He tried not to let it affect him, make him lonely, if only for the hope that his therapist wouldn’t notice and force him to confront the situation.
One day, about five months into yours and Robby’s relationship, therefore about five months of radio silence from Jack on his “mystery woman”, his therapist dared raise the issue again.
“So…” they started cautiously. “I’ve noticed you haven’t mentioned that woman again. The doctor.”
Jack just squeezed his hand where it was resting against his crossed leg, and shrugged in what he hoped was an offhanded way.
“She has a partner,” he said. “It’s not a big deal. Kind of a relief.”
He could feel their eyes on him, and he forced himself to meet their gaze. They stared at each other for a while, but if Riley sensed something, they kept it to themselves, for which Jack was grateful.
Riley never brought up the topic again, and neither did Jack. He told himself it was okay to keep one secret from his therapist, as long as it was really only one. And it was, he made sure. There was just something about it, something in the way it made him feel, like a pining adolescent, that made it incredibly uncomfortable for him to talk about.
He operated in forced ignorance. He didn’t let himself dwell on you, always kept active and moving, certain that if he slowed down for too long, you would suffocate him. His one comfort was that he was sure neither you nor Robby had any idea of the war that raged within him.
Though he was drawing back a little, you didn’t stop inviting him over, or texting him, or smiling when you saw him. In fact, you were almost more open. You’d pat his hand and say, “Let me know if you ever need to talk,” and he would say, “thanks, doll, but I’m fine.” And he’d smile, and you’d smile back, and he’d be left with that ever inconvenient eruption of flutters in his stomach.
He learned to live with it. Then, one day two years in, he’d heard you were moving in together. Not only that, but you were buying a house. It threw him for a loop, to say the least. Buying a house was a big, complicated, cementing milestone. It wasn’t easy to get out of.
He almost expected Robby to chicken out before they could sign the papers, but when you came in to work one day raving about the perfect house you found, and that you were a shoe in to get it already, he put all expectations aside.
He might have been fine, if it weren’t for the housewarming get-togethers, and the painting parties, and the oh so painfully domestic discussions on house owning you had with Dana about roof tiling, or copper pipes.
He decided to divulge a half-truth to Riley.
“I’ve been thinking, and I think I’m a little lonely,” he said. “But I also don’t like the idea of finding someone to date.”
Riley raised their eyebrows. They looked a little surprised, but they didn’t need to know that the only reason the idea of finding someone to date was distressing to Jack was because he’d already found the perfect woman. He just couldn’t do anything about it.
“Okay,” said Riley. “That’s perfectly understandable. Now, I don’t know how exactly this would work with your schedule, but I remember you telling me about your dog growing up. Daisy, right?”
He nodded, confused. He had mentioned that offhandedly months and months ago. Daisy was a reddish-brown, fat labrador who he worshipped as a kid. She lived for fourteen years, his first and last dog. He remembered crying in a bathroom stall in his sophomore year dorm when he got the news that she was gone.
“Why not try getting another dog?” said Riley. “You know, dip your toes back in the water. Practice cohabitating with another creature. Like a stepping stone. Dogs are great for healing.”
“Healing?” he asked warily.
“Heart, soul, mind, even body. It can be surprising how effectively a dog’s company can help with loneliness.”
Jack flipflopped for a few days, from the logistics, dog’s needs, would they really be happy with him, to, I might die if I don’t have a little puppy in my hands right this second.
As he moved through his apartment getting ready for work one night, he started to picture it. Where the water and food bowls would go, whether or not the dog would sleep with him in the bed, the amount of toys he could fit comfortably into a bin next to the TV stand.
So, the next morning after his shift, without breaking for breakfast, he walked straight over to the shelter. He found himself in an aisle filled with dogs. It was bleak; the lighting and squeaky vinyl flooring were much like that of the hospital, but dingier, like it was in desperate need of an upgrade no one could afford. It was lined with bare stalls closed in with plexiglass windows, so that all the dog could see was shelter workers and the occasional adopter as they strolled past.
Each dog had a low, scratchy looking canvas bed with one blanket and one toy. Jack didn’t like it in there. His heart ached for the poor puppies with nowhere else to go.
He walked nervously up and down the halls, peering into each kennel. Some dogs were right up against the glass, some cowering in the corners, some sleeping, some playing, oblivious to his presence. He was just thinking that maybe it was a bad idea all along, when he spotted Betsy.
She had a dog barking on her right, a dog howling on her left, but she was lying on her bed with her face under a blanket. She was a German shepherd, a big one, with her classic pointy ears poking up from under the cover. Her bed was a little too small; if she didn’t curl into herself, her butt would fall right off the end.
Though her eyes were obscured, her ears were active, and the second she heard him approach, her little face popped up. Maybe he was crazy, but there was something about her big brown eyes that tugged on his heart strings like no other. He took one step closer, hands reaching for a hole in the glass, when a voice very close to him made him jump.
“Hey!” It was a shelter worker, older but tough looking, with equal amounts of smile and frown lines, and a purple streaked poof of curls sitting on top of her head. “I’d be careful with that one if I were you.”
He glanced back at Betsy, who had eased out of her lying position and whose ears were now rather low. He noticed her tail still gave a little wag when this woman showed up, though. But then it was tucked, and Betsy’s eyes were locked on Jack, tracking his every move.
“Yeah?” he said.
“Yeah,” said the woman, Via, according to her name badge. “She’s a retired K9, usually real well behaved, but she’s got a thing about men. Doesn’t trust them. She was dropped here a few months ago, they said she was retired but she’s only about six or seven. If you ask me, she wasn’t treated very well. Something must’ve happened to cause them to dump her for no apparent reason.”
“That’s awful,” said Jack, watching Betsy, still as a statue.
“That’s how it goes,” sighed Via. “I’m glad she’s getting some interest, but I think she’s gonna have to go to a woman-only household.”
Jack rubbed his chin. God, he needed a shave. It should have been that simple. She didn’t like men, he needed one that did. But some inexplicable feeling had him reluctant to leave this girl here.
“Can I just try?” he said pleadingly. “Please? Just — just give her a treat, or something?”
It felt like Via was x-raying him, the way her eyes narrowed.
“Okay, fine,” she said eventually, reaching into her pocket. “Only because she usually would have started shouting like a madwoman by now. Here.”
She handed him a bag of chicken flavored treats. Moving slowly, both out of necessity for his leg and in an effort not to startle Betsy, he crouched down beside the glass door as Via inched it open. He grabbed a treat in one hand, and let it rest in the palm outstretched but low to the ground.
Betsy didn’t move, just watched Jack with great mistrust in her eyes. He didn’t dare move, but after a while, her nose started to twitch, sniffing hopefully at the air. There you go, he thought. She was interested, she had to be hungry, and he had something she wanted. Still, he could tell she was hesitant. Hesitant but considering it.
He got a sudden twinge in his right leg, but was still determined not to upset the delicate situation, and so didn’t move. But in this stand off, Betsy quickly gained the upper hand. Figuring it was probably fine to shift his weight just a touch, to move his heel a centimeter to the right, he tried.
Immediately, his foot slipped and he lost balance, catapulting himself backward onto his ass with a huff. The little stick of chicken fell from his grip and rolled to the middle of the distance between him and the dog.
Instantly, Betsy slunk over and gobbled the treat right up. Sure that he had blown it, Jack tried to sit up, but she didn’t move from this spot some fifteen inches away from him. Via wordlessly handed him a second treat, which he held a little closer to his body than the last one. Via made a quickly stifled noise of surprise when Betsy so quickly reached out her wet little snout to take the treat, even sniffing around him for more, and offering him a few soft licks on the hand.
“Hi, sweet girl!” he whispered, which earned him the smallest of tail wags.
“Well who knew,” said Via with a smile. “Looks like you’re the exception to the rule.”
It wasn’t just as easy as that, unfortunately. Jack took her for a walk, with which she did very well, then came back the next day for an in depth interview where Via and another worker determined he was fit to take care of a dog. There was another play session with Betsy, a house visit, and only then was she officially his.
After a week or two, when Jack felt Betsy was really settled in, he sent you a text.
Hey. Minor life update: I got a dog. I assume you would want to come by and meet her at some point.
It took about point-two seconds for your bubbles to appear.
HEADING OUT NOW
WILL SHOW UP WITH COFFEE
🥰🤩🐶🐶🐶!!!
Well, it was certainly sooner than he expected, but he supposed that was his fault for not anticipating this reaction from you. He had never known you to pass up any pet interaction, even on the street. You’d actually pulled over ten minutes before a movie was supposed to start to ask a woman for permission to pet her baby whippet.
Twenty minutes later, you had buzzed his apartment three times, and moments later had burst through the door with eyes only for Betsy.
“Hi baby!” you squealed, shoving a tray of drinks into Jack’s hands without a glance his way, and getting down on your knees. “Oh, you are such a pretty girl, aren’t you?”
It took even less time for Betsy to bound over to you, tail whipping up a storm, than it did for you to exclaim over her. In seconds you were flat on your back and she was laying on top of you, slobbery kisses covering your face while you laughed.
Jack watched the exchange with a smile as you scratched up and down her back, scattering a shower of dog hairs over your jacket and pants. This was his favorite version of you, giggling and beaming and alight with happiness. He loved your dumb, annoying baby voice and the way your eyes crinkled with the force of your grin.
“Did Robby come?” he asked.
“Parking the car,” you said lazily, stroking Betsy behind the ears. “I couldn’t wait, I had to come up and see this pretty pretty baby.”
Betsy’s swishing tail suddenly stood up straight, her ears perking up, and her head on a swivel. She noticed something before you could even register the sound of footsteps approaching the open door. As Robby stepped into view, she turned straight around, stepping protectively over your supine body, hair on end.
“Hey,” said Robby, none the wiser. “What’s up? You got a dog?”
A low, rumbling growl sounded from Betsy’s chest, causing Robby to stop in his tracks.
“Uh, yeah, this is Betsy,” said Jack. “She’s not too fond of men.”
Robby tentatively stepped over the threshold, then scooched sideways to grab his coffee from the counter.
“But she made an exception for you, huh, Abbot?” you said, pulling yourself up to resume stroking Betsy’s head. “She’s a good judge of character. Yes you are, honey, yes you are, so smart.”
“Babe,” said Robby, sounding affronted. “She hates me!”
“Yeah, makes sense, since you hate dogs,” you said shortly, focusing hard on just Betsy. “Since you’re a dog hater.”
Robby sighed, and it was immediately clear to Jack that this was a well established issue.
“Just because I don’t think it’s a good idea to get a dog right now, does not mean I hate dogs,” said Robby.
You just sniffed, still pointedly not looking at him.
“Why don’t you want a dog?” asked Jack, unable to stop himself.
“We just don’t have the time —”
“We have the time!” you piped. “We can get dog walkers during the day, and it's not like we always work shifts together. Plenty of doctors do it. Look, Jack’s doing fine and he’s just one person!”
“I’m not getting back into this right now,” said Robby, and there was now a note of irritation in his would-be breezy voice. “Not now while this dog looks like she wants to murder me. What do I do?” he asked Jack. “Does she warm up?”
“I don’t know,” said Jack truthfully. “Doesn’t seem to be happening, does it?”
“I mean, she warmed up to you, right?”
“No, she just didn’t do this,” he said, gesturing to her posture.
“Great,” said Robby, and he was definitely irritated now. “Perfect. Why don’t I just go? I think that would make everything easier.”
“Yeah yeah, you go,” you said, coaxing Betsy back into your attention. “Love you, but bye.”
Robby huffed out a laugh. Jack pretended to be very invested in his coffee.
“You’re seriously gonna —”
“Yeah, I’m seriously gonna,” you said, with a steely look in your eye. “Take Jack if you want, I don’t care. I need some puppy time right now, okay?”
“Okay,” said Robby, in a rather convincing voice of forced calm, though he certainly closed the door a little harder than necessary, and his goodbyes to Jack were so low he could barely hear them.
When Jack finally sneaked a look at you, you were glaring at your bent knee on his floor, looking frustrated. Who exactly you were frustrated with, he wasn’t sure. But with Robby out of the picture, Betsy took up licking your face again, which succeeded in getting a smile, even if it wasn’t quite as wide as it was before.
He hated standing in the silence with nothing but the sound of Betsy’s tags clanging together and nails clicking against the hardwood floor. He cleared his throat.
“I’m sorry,” he said eventually. “I shouldn’t have pried. I didn’t mean to cause an argument.”
You smiled wryly.
“You didn’t cause anything. I guess I just wasn’t as over it as I thought.”
Jack still felt guilty.
“Yeah, but still —”
“It’s really not a big deal, Jack,” you said kindly. “We’ll cool off, and then we’ll kiss and make up. It’s fine.”
You picked up the toy Betsy had been chewing before your abrupt arrival, a rope with a squeaker on one end, and started a game of tug-of-war while Jack watched, feeling useless.
“You know you can talk to me, right?” he said gently, taking your chai out of the cupholder and carrying it over to you. You shook your head lightly.
“You’re Robby’s best friend, not mine,” you said.
He shrugged.
“Sure, I’ve known him longer,” he said, sipping his drink. “But you’ve technically known me longer.”
You snorted, a sound like music to his ears.
“You mean those odd thirty minutes before he came into work?” He shrugged again. “Yeah, that really makes or breaks a friendship.”
He sighed. Then he leaned down and grabbed the side of Betsy’s rope that you held, slowly but surely pulling the dog, and so you, towards the living room. You scooted behind them on your butt, and when you were resting against the couch, he slipped off your jacket.
“Jack,” you whined dramatically. “You’re tricking me into a heart to heart.”
“Yes, because I can tell you’re upset,” he said, throwing the coat over the back of an armchair and collapsing on the couch. “Now talk.”
You leaned your head completely back against the footrest so you could shoot him an unimpressed look upside down. He grinned.
“Finally speechless?” he teased. “You’re usually such a yapper.”
“Hey!” you said indignantly, slapping his thigh.
“That wasn’t meant as an insult,” he said. “I love it when you talk… I hate filling silences.”
He took a hefty sip of coffee, which was doing nothing to calm his thrumming heart. You closed your eyes briefly, then hoisted yourself up onto the couch next to him. Betsy followed suit curling up immediately on your lap. Then ensued about three minutes of you cooing at her, of course. Jack leaned his elbows on his knees, towards you, ready to listen.
“It’s… it’s stupid,” you said quietly after a while, eyes remaining, once again, on Betsy.
“If it’s making you upset, it’s not stupid,” he said solidly.
“Well,” you sighed, “The house has a backyard. I’ve wanted a dog for forever, but Robby’s been saying for a year now that the apartment wasn’t right for one. Now we have a yard, I thought maybe he’d be ready. But it feels like he’s making dumb excuses. Like about work, or time, and stuff.”
“Why do you think he actually doesn’t want a dog?” asked Jack.
You huffed.
“I don’t know, maybe he never really liked dogs, and he just pretended because he knew I did,” you said, tucking your feet up under you. “In which case he was lying to me, for like a while. Or maybe” — you took a second before speaking, as though you really disliked what you were about to say — “maybe he doesn’t want to commit to a pet with me.
“And I know, I know that’s so stupid, I mean we’re literally buying a house together, and we’ve talked about marriage” — now it was Jack’s turn to take a breath — “but maybe he’s just saying these things to placate me, and he’s still waiting for someone better to do all these other things with, like maybe getting out of a mortgage and splitting finances is easier than dividing custody of a dog, and —”
“Woah, woah, woah, slow down, sweetheart,” he said, placing his coffee on the couch side table and scooching towards you. “I think you’re catastrophizing, just a little bit.”
You smiled slightly, rubbing your hands into your eyes tiredly.
“Is that a term you learned in therapy?”
“Yes,” he said. “And I think you need to take a deep breath. Come on.”
You did a couple rounds of measured breathing, and Jack could tell from the slight shake in your exhales that you were fighting tears very hard. He wanted to wrap you up in his arms. Instead, he rested a friendly hand on your shoulder.
“That’s just your anxiety talking,” he said soothingly. “I’m not in Robby’s head, but I’m willing to bet everything I’ve got that that’s not it. I’ve — I’ve never seen him so happy as he is when he’s with you. Do you get that?”
You nodded, blinking rapidly.
“I just wish he was better at communicating,” you said, and Jack accidentally let a chuckle slip.
“Sorry,” he said, “sorry, but — that’s the Robinavitch experience. I’m pretty sure he communicates more with you than with anyone else.”
You tried to laugh with him, but the thought seemed to slightly dishearten you. You rested your chin on your hand, your elbow on Betsy, who offered you a few more kisses.
“Sometimes…” you started so quietly Jack had to lean further in. “Sometimes it feels like I’m trying twice as hard as he is on the emotional side of things. And then I hate myself, because — well, everyone’s different, right? One hundred percent looks different for me than it doesn’t for him. Right?”
He knocked his knee into yours.
“Is that something you picked up from your therapist?”
The small smile that you granted him was finally genuine, however quickly stifled.
“Yes,” you muttered.
You looked into his eyes thoughtfully, and he felt glued to the spot, like he couldn’t break contact even if he wanted to. Even after years, the color of your eyes struck him the same way they did upon your first meeting. They had a quality of glittering in the light, like jewels.
“Why couldn’t I have just fallen in love with you?” you whispered.
There was a moment of ringing silence. Even Betsy stopped cleaning her paw like she knew something just happened. You looked shocked at yourself, perhaps even more shocked than Jack. Jack, whose brain was short circuiting. Then you snapped back to reality.
“Oh my god,” you said, and Jack was sure he could feel the heat of the blood rushing to your face from the fifteen inches in between you. He shuffled backwards on his cushion. “I didn’t mean that! I swear, I really didn’t, Jack — don’t tell Robby, please don’t, it —”
You looked so genuinely distressed, and closer to tears than ever. He wanted to help, but he was feeling rather fuzzy in the mind at the moment.
“I don’t want him thinking that was true, I was just upset, that’s all — I mean, I say that sort of thing to Cassie all the time, I think — I think I just forgot where I was…”
You were standing now, slipping on your jacket. Betsy jumped down from your lap, wagging her tail as if she was going with you.
“Doll, it’s okay,” he said. “I know you didn’t mean it —”
“— I really, really didn’t!”
“I know,” he said calmly, as calmly as his voice would go, and smiling. “I mean, it may be different from Robby’s, but I have plenty baggage of my own. Doubt you’d be much better off.”
You laughed nervously at his joke, smoothing your hands over your hair like you always did when you were flustered.
“I know! Everyone has baggage, and living with someone is always hard,” you said sternly. You were speaking out loud, but Jack had a feeling you were reprimanding yourself. “But I love him, more than anything. And he loves me.”
Jack was spared answering by the sound of your ringing phone. You scrambled for it, and Jack could see Robby’s face smiling up at you. He was wearing a pair of what he recognized as Dana’s sunglasses, lined with rhinestones. He looked so different from the man who had stormed out of the apartment not fifteen minutes ago. You clicked the green button.
“Hello?” you breathed, anxious as though your boyfriend might have somehow heard what you said. “Yeah. I’m — I’m with Betsy and Jack. Listen, I’m sorry about before. I don’t want a dog if you aren’t ready for one… yes, I’m sure… I’m not upset anymore, I promise… I love you, too. So much.”
Jack let your voice fade a bit as you wandered back towards the door to put your shoes on, heart pounding. Betsy trotted obediently behind you. He waited until he heard you say goodbye, with many more “love you”s, before rising and following you into the small entryway right off the kitchen.
“Don’t forget your chai,” he said, holding it out for you once more.
“Thank you,” you said absently as you tied your laces. “Really, Jack. For everything.”
He just smiled back, somewhat superficially though you didn’t seem to notice.
“Don’t mention it,” he said.
You leaned down for a lengthy goodbye with Betsy.
“I’ll see you soon, baby girl!” you said softly, cracking open the door. Then you turned back to Jack, looking unsure. “We’re good, right?”
“Perfect,” he said, and you smiled a relieved smile.
Then you were gone. He waited until the sound of your footsteps faded from the stairs before heading straight back to the couch to collapse. Betsy sat whining at the door for a while. When she finally understood that you were gone, she eeyored back towards Jack, looking for answers.
“You really like her, huh?” he said, scratching behind Betsy’s ears. “I get it. She’s great, isn’t she?”
He laid back against your side of the couch, and he could smell your intoxicating shampoo. You smelled like chamomile and lemon. For a second, he allowed himself to press his nose into the upholstery, inhaling you… then he realized how creepy that was and sat bolt upright.
Betsy, unaware of his troubles, jumped up to occupy the recently vacated spot on the couch. Maybe she could smell you, too. She rested her soft chin on Jack’s hip, and he gave her shoulders a scratch.
“I miss her too,” he sighed.
And somehow, the sting was lessened by her warm, steady presence at his side. Maybe the answer was to move on. Find someone else. Maybe it was only then that he could start to forget you. And you could just be Robby’s partner, and his, Jack’s, coworker and friend. And he could hang out with you and not feel hollow when you left.
So when the cute neighbor one floor down asked for his number, his first thought was how do I get out of this. His second was fuck it.
***
Leading up to the Saturday night date, Jack had a series of highly unusual and nightsweat-inducing dreams. Most of them included a lot of kissing you, blissful happiness, and then losing it all in one ice cold, terrifying moment he remembered Robby existed. Robby’s expressions of outrage and betrayal were enough to wake Jack three hours before his alarm and keep him up. In one particularly upsetting one he had just before the date, he asked you out before Robby had, and you were living in a nice house outside the city. Everything seemed perfect until he was bombarded by the image of you, sitting across from Robby, saying why couldn’t I have just fallen in love with you?
Seeing as he spent the hours between five and seven PM going over it as he got ready to go out with another woman, he was banking a lot on this date. In an ideal world, Amanda from downstairs would absolutely enthrall him in just one night, driving you from his head completely. Did he realistically think that that was about to happen? No, but it never hurt to hope.
Amanda was a perfectly nice woman, and perfectly boring. She suggested the small Italian place they sat at, and it was fine. Plain. The food was just okay. Jack wasn’t really tasting it, more focused desperately on not letting the silence sit for too long. It wasn’t too hard; he just had to ask Amanda a question about herself.
She could talk as long as you could, almost, but he found himself zoning out during Amanda’s long winded stories, a stark difference from the rapt attention he always seemed to have a never ending supply of for you.
Her voice seemed a little grating after a while. Still, it was better than the silence. He picked at his pasta. She kept leaning over and stroking his arm with her fingers as she laughed. He was good at faking smiles, but his chuckles were weak at best. She didn’t seem to notice.
Around the end of the meal, while Jack cursing the waiter for taking his sweet time to clear their plates, and praying to whatever god was out there that Amanda didn’t want desert, she shifted in her seat and in doing so, knocked the point of her heel against his right leg.
“Oh, I’m so sorry!” she said.
“What? Oh,” he said, about to dismiss it, but something else came out instead. “It’s a prosthetic leg.”
He lifted the pants a little to show her the metal. Normally, he wouldn’t dream of disclosing this on a very first date, scared of judgement or pity. He found, however, that he didn’t really care what Amanda said about it. Her eyes widened slightly, her eyebrows shooting up under her bangs.
“Oh, I’m sorry!” she said, looking a little embarrassed. “How did — I mean, if you don’t mind me asking —”
“I was in the army,” he said. “Field medic.”
“Wow,” she said, looking so genuinely awed that he had to leave the last few bites of pasta left in his bowl. “Thank you for your service.”
I need to get out of here.
He forced out a painful smile, drinking deeply from his glass of water. Oh, how he hated when people thanked him for doing something he’d never do again. He was young, and easily talked into the grand idea of serving his country while getting a free education. His parents didn’t have any money, and Leanne’s father made it sound amazing. Real amazing.
He was one of the lucky ones, who had a home to go to after getting discharged. He wasn’t serving anyone but billionaires when he was in the army.
So sure he was that he would never speak with Amanda again, he allowed himself to lie about lactose intolerance to get out of going to get ice cream. Before she could propose an alternative, he asked to walk her home.
Though he had been worried it would have so clearly been the brush off she’d get upset, the offer seemed only to entice her further. Just as she had smiled gooily when he insisted on picking up the bill; apparently chivalry really was dead, seeing as they quite literally lived in the same building. He’d have had to go out of his way not to walk her home (a tempting idea).
As they approached the front door, it suddenly struck him that she might expect an evening kiss. Quickly, he brought up a topic sure to kill any romance.
“I feel like I should tell you,” he said, “I was married.”
To his dismay, Amanda didn’t look surprised, nor put off by his words.
“I figured,” she said, pointing to his left hand. “Why else would you wear a ring? I would’ve asked you out ages ago, but I thought you had a wife. Then I noticed you never walked in or out with anyone, and you never mentioned her.”
Taken aback by the amount of attention this random neighbor had apparently paid to him, he struggled to speak for a moment.
“Right, well,” he said, clearing his throat, “I feel obligated to tell you that this is the first date I’ve been on since she passed away.”
For maybe the millionth time that night, Amanda gave a phony gasp, and brought her hands to her chest.
“She’s dead?” she breathed. “I’m sorry, I figured it was a nasty divorce, or something. How did it happen? Was she… also in the army?”
“No, no,” he said, almost amused. “It was, uh, cancer. Glioblastoma.”
Amanda let out a horrible simpering noise, and laid a hand on his bicep. Far from the intended effect, she now looked even more interested in him than ever.
“That’s awful,” she said.
They reached the steps. Surely, surely, she couldn’t expect anything now. Could she?
Deciding it was better to take awkward elevator rides than to string her along, Jack was steeling himself for a quite unpleasant conversation.
“Listen, Amanda, you’re a great lady,” he said, and she smiled shyly. “And I had a gr — good time on the date. And I really thought I was ready to move on, but I don’t think I am. I’m sorry.”
Amanda’s face fell.
“Oh,” she said.
“Yeah,” he said awkwardly. “I just wanted to tell you, it has nothing to do with you. This is my issue.”
“I understand,” she said. “And — I appreciate that.”
“It’s only right,” he said with a sad smile that she mirrored. “Thanks for the night.”
Once inside, she got in the elevator, and he took the stairs at a deliberately slow pace. Only once he was sure she had passed did he dare move on to his floor, and he let out a heavy, pained breath as he closed the door behind him.
Betsy perked up as he entered, then came bounding over to greet him. He gave her some scratches.
“Hey, girl. Hey. Wanna go on a run?”
She was certainly better company than Amanda, Jack thought. Although, the more time grew between him and the date, he started to question his own memory.
Was she really that awful, or was she just not who he wanted her to be? She was pretty, a nice dresser, and intelligent. She was a college professor at UPenn, which had to be both lucrative and interesting. She must have told some stories; he couldn’t remember. No, he decided, he hadn’t given her a proper chance.
And with you on his mind, he realized, he couldn’t have. Not Amanda, not anyone. With a strangely empty feeling in his stomach, he decided the only thing that could possibly help the situation, or else the only thing left to try, was distance. A you detox.
So he pulled back, seriously this time, but carefully. The last thing he needed was you catching on, and asking uncomfortable questions.
He didn’t pick up day shifts if you were on; the slight reduction in volunteer hours he had when Betsy came home turned in the other direction, and he was now working the equivalent of a part time job with his team; he continued hanging out with Robby, but made points to choose activities he knew you didn’t like, such as football games instead of hockey, or bars for foosball, a game you for some strange reason couldn’t seem to get the hang of and which led to so many meltdowns as a kid that you banned it for yourself.
He saw movies he knew would freak you out, and got pizza at the place you thought tasted like puke, and read books by authors you didn’t like so you wouldn’t have anything to talk about. And no one batted an eye, because no one expected him to know the intimate details of your likes and dislikes as well as he did. Coincidence, it must have been.
It was helped by his working more and more, limiting his time outside of work anyway, so it wasn’t just you he was cutting back on time with.
When Robby started struggling, Jack was starting to feel sure the detox was working. You finally fell out of his head, replaced by rampant worries, and he almost wished to switch back.
That was probably why he didn’t notice the strain on you. Why he didn’t reach out to you like he did to Robby.
When you showed up in front of his apartment late one night with a packed bag and a flood of tears, it seemed obvious. He had gotten so good at blocking out the things you did that made him dizzy that he hadn’t realized when they stopped. And it felt like all the progress he’d made fell apart upon the sight of your pretty features so warped with anguish and grief. But he stopped caring in that moment, because you needed him — you needed him, so it didn’t matter how you made him feel. He opened his arms, and fell into them.
And though his stomach raged with guilt and disgust at himself, Jack couldn’t help but bring back an echo of your words as you sobbed into his shoulder…
Why couldn’t you have just fallen in love with him?
---
hope you enjoyed! would appreciate any feedback on the pictures! xoxo
i just finally watched everything everywhere all at once and ke huy quan has officially jumped right to the top of the list of male fictional characters/celebrities that i (as a lesbian) am in love with. HES TOO FCKING CUTE SO PEETA MELLARK CODED I CANT I WOULD MARRY HIM SO FAST BROOOO
also the movie destroyed me but we all saw that coming.
hii!! i love your works and i’m so terribly sorry if that was already asked but i was wondering if we’re still getting pt 2 to my moon, my man 👀
omg that’s so funny it’s next on my list! it might take a couple days, it’s going to be looooong but i’m so fucking excited 🥰 angsty angst from jacks pov AH 💕💕💕
GUys this is still so totally happening im just so picky bc part two has to be perrffeccct. im 5k words in and not even close to done, but hopefully it’ll be worth it? i know i said this would be next but at this rate im thinking i should get a little one shot out to hold u over. what would y’all be most interested in? vote
You should make another part of the aces universe where everyone meets Izzy!
y’allllllll dw this is otw AGH I HAVE TOO MANY IDEAS QUEUED UP but yes this adorable scene should be coming relatively soon and it’s also gonna be the sex reveal for everyone bc we need to gloat in robby’s face abt the bet for a sec ofc 💘
Robby req- so I think it would be interesting If he wasn't with someone in the medical field. Someone who hasn't been jaded by seeing so many awful things on the day to day. I was thinking about what if his wife was pregnant, not seeing the bad but the good of a home birth. Obviously he knows all to well what exactly could go wrong so he's like 'great idea but naur' when she asks not in a dick way but a "I love you but this is something I will put my foot down on". So he compromises on a birth center, one that is super equipped advanced etc etc. reader has a pretty good birth maybe she has a slight panic/anxiety attack as it gets near to push and he has to get her off the ledge. Since birth centers don't offer epidurals she doesn't have the option to have one. However post partum she may have a slight difficulty in delivering the placenta but the birth center is on it. Which impresses Robby with how they handled it in such a calm manner.
i thought perhaps this could be good for the les fleurs universe 🤔 what do y’all think?
hii!! i love your works and i’m so terribly sorry if that was already asked but i was wondering if we’re still getting pt 2 to my moon, my man 👀
omg that’s so funny it’s next on my list! it might take a couple days, it’s going to be looooong but i’m so fucking excited 🥰 angsty angst from jacks pov AH 💕💕💕
ok it is officially finals week so if you catch me on here posting, troll me off! however i did want to tease what i have planned for afterwards. get ready for med school!jack abbot!!! i’m actually so excited.
“He better have been using that to get me some chunky baby rolls.” - this is a MOOD. I had a planned c-section at 39 weeks and I still feel this on a deep level. Omg the last few weeks were miserable. I loved this fic! You captured the anxiety and excitement really well.
omg tysm!!! 🥰 i hope you and your baby are doing very well <3 getting positive feedback from readers who have actually been through birth means so much to me you have no idea 🫶
a/n - ok i get rlly into births i actually think they're rlly fucking interesting, like just yesterday i learned about paravaginal births and??? why is that an option??? but dw it doesn't happen here. i had to include the miss congeniality easter egg, bc i started this yesterday (apr 25th) benjamin and shawn are my sister wives. samira doesn’t leave the pitt, she just leaves the day shift, obv. i had a lot of fun with this, and i hope you do too!!! time to find out if it's a ronan or isadora! phoebe or phoebo! <3
♡♡♡
Your nursery colors were green and yellow. It was calming, and neutral but not gray. There were little dragonflies embroidered into the curtains, and flowers on the rug, and vintage children's book art hanging on the walls. Jack kept his nephew’s first ever hockey stick leaning against the bookshelf, barely two feet long, determined to get your little baby out on the ice as soon as possible.
You liked it in there. It was nice. You could sit in the cushy armchair with your feet up, breeze blowing in through the open window, making the dragonflies fly. It was a right side better than suffocating on your back in a sweltering bed under the weight of your baby. And sometimes, on hard days, you looked over into the empty crib and pictured a little red haired infant, fast asleep under the galaxy mobile.
Jack often found you asleep in there. Sometimes he found you awake, and you would say, “Oh, hun, now that you’re here, mind folding these hand me downs we got from Dana?”
But not anymore. The nursery was done, painted, dried, decorated, and stocked with anything you could need. The cot in your room was set up, along with a cart of midnight postpartum essentials, of which you got a list from every childbearing woman in your life. You had pounds of frozen meals ready in the freezer. You had decided on names. You had deep cleaned and decluttered the entire apartment from head to toe. You were absolutely ready.
In every way but the physical, of course. Every appointment you had, it was firm, undilated cervix, sitting high, and perfectly healthy. You were incredibly grateful the baby was healthy, but by week forty, you would have been almost as grateful to hear any note of progress.
But nada. Zip. No action.
You tried to stay positive, to remind yourself how lucky you were to be making it to term. Hadn’t you seen dozens of preemies in your line of work, who needed extensive, invasive care or worse, who didn't make it at all?
No matter how guilty it made you feel, though, you couldn’t quite help the annoyance that crept into your brain more and more with each day you spent still pregnant. You were truly becoming the stereotype of the angry pregnant lady, waddling around with a scowl, complaining about sweat, and not being able to see your toes.
“I hate this,” you said, two days after your due date. “The baby is healthy, the baby is ready, I’m certainly ready, so what’s the fucking hold up?”
You had had your forty week check up just that past Wednesday, where Jill was too happy to report that your cervix was wide, thick, and hard as a rock.
“I’m sorry,” said Dana, looking up from her charts. “Sometimes the baby just comes on their own damn schedule. You better get used to that.”
You grunted, pulling at your scrubs. Dana’s lips quirked in sympathy.
“Why don’t you head home?” she said. “There’s only an hour left in the shift, and you can start your maternity leave at forty weeks, can’t you? I’m sure Gloria couldn’t fault you for that if she got a look at you.”
“No way,” you said, slamming your computer keys harshly. “Jack’s taking twelve months off when the baby comes, only three of those are paid, and I need to save.”
“You’re fine,” Dana dismissed. “Jack has spent the last decade and a half making doctor money, taking overtime, and never taking a day off. He buys the same t-shirts and jeans every few years, toiletries, food, and that’s pretty much it. I know that guy’s got savings.”
“Yeah, I know, but I still —” you cut yourself off with a sharp gasp.
Your muscles were tightening, cramping more than you’d ever felt before. Dana took off her glasses.
“Woah,” you said, as the pain spread from the front to your back. “That’s new.”
“Braxton hicks?” asked Dana cautiously.
You shook your head.
“I don’t think so,” you breathed, rubbing your belly. “No, this is — worse.”
Dana rolled her chair right up next to yours, swiveling you to be knee to knee. She had an excited glint in her eye.
“Do you think, possibly, it could be…?”
You tried not to smile too wide. The pain was worse than it had ever been, but you could still talk through it.
“I don’t know, maybe,” you said. “D’you think?”
“Why not?” she said. “Start timing them!”
You pulled out your phone, fingers shaking slightly in excitement.
“Sixty-two seconds,” you said when it was done. “It lasted sixty-two seconds.”
“Good start,” said Dana, patting your knee. “Keep track of ’em, and who knows. The betting board might be cleared by this time tomorrow.”
It took everything in you not to squeal from pure excitement. You rested your phone open next to your computer, trying to focus back on work. Your eyes frequently flicked over to it, checking the time. It was five, ten, fifteen minutes before anything else happened. The same clenching pain, spreading from front to back, rolled over you.
“Another minute,” you said happily to Dana when that too had passed. “Sixty-four seconds, that time.”
“Want anything, kid?” she asked. “Heating pads, tylenol?”
“No thanks,” you said. “They’re not too bad yet.”
By the third contraction, Jack was walking through the door.
“Jack!” you said loudly, attempting to jump up, getting halfway through the motion, and sitting back down. “Jackie, a contraction!”
His face changed instantly from warm fondness, to worried shock. He picked up his pace, hurrying around the partition to kneel in front of you. His eyes were wide.
“Are you sure?” he asked. “How long?”
“One minute, with fifteen in between,” you said, showing him your phone. “What do we do? Should I go home now?”
He took your phone, thinking.
“Why don’t I give you a ride,” he said finally. “You can shower and eat, in case this is the real thing. How’s that sound?”
You thought it sounded good, starving and grimy as you were, so you gave everyone your excited goodbyes, loaded into his car, and went home. It took some convincing to get Jack to leave you. You had to remind him that he was scheduled to work in about fifteen minutes, and Robby wouldn’t be happy if he wasn’t there for shift change, before he kissed you goodbye.
You almost relished in the ache as you started your shower, positioning your phone right outside the door. You were so desperate for this pregnancy to end, you could work through the pain. As you were rinsing conditioner from your hair, another contraction started to hit. But as you reached through the glass door to document it, you saw that the timer read twenty minutes and counting.
Twenty minutes. The contractions had gone from fifteen minutes apart, to twenty. That wasn’t that unusual, was it? Things could be irregular in the beginning, but it would even out, right? But as you heated up some pasta for dinner, the increments between episodes became longer and longer. When a whole hour had passed without one, you knew it had been a false start.
Your heart was sinking as you texted Jack.
Contractions slowed down :( I don’t think it’s happening
His bubble popped up almost immediately.
I’m sorry honey. Want me to bring you waffles from Rosie’s in the morning?
You smiled.
You know me too well
You went to bed that night disappointed, but determined. You were starting to second guess your assessment that the cramps weren’t braxton hicks, but whatever they were, it was a first. It meant progression.
The next day at work you did some home remedy research. Castor oil was a no go, for obvious reasons, but there were still plenty of non medicinal measures that couldn’t hurt to try.
“Spicy foods, curb walking, uphill sprints,” Javadi read over your shoulder as you showed the list to Robby. “Dates, raspberry leaf tea…”
“You don’t really think any of these work, do you?” said Robby skeptically.
You glared at him.
“Until you have to start wearing adult diapers because you pee a little every time you bend down, kindly keep your opinions to yourself, Michael,” you said, and Javadi tried to stifle her snort. “That just cost you lunch. I require one extra hot jalfrezi with chicken.”
He didn’t dare argue, just snapped his mouth shut and went to make the order with his tail between his legs.
After your eye watering meal, one bite of which had Robby red as a tomato and wheezing into a straight mug of creamer, you decided to take a trip outside. You took Victoria with you, partly because the possibility of falling down and not being able to get back up was high, but also because the terror in her eyes every time you wobbled was slightly amusing.
You walked along the curb in the ambulance bay for as long as you could justify being away from the hub. By the end of it, you were panting, exhausted, and didn’t feel any closer to labor. You huffed and puffed your way slowly back inside, Javadi trailing awkwardly behind you.
“Any luck?” asked Dana.
You could only shake your sweaty head.
“Not yet,” you said, texting Jack, “but you never know.”
Please get dates!!!
A few hours later, when he was awake, he responded.
The fruit?
You rolled your eyes.
Obviously the fruit
He sent you back a thumbs up.
No one was convinced at the efficacy of your little tricks, but they all wished you luck as you waddled out to Jack’s truck. You could tell, as you updated him, that Jack had doubts of his own, but he was smart enough to stay silent while you munched on your dates.
“They’ll work,” you said. “They have to.”
Sure enough, later that night as you bounced on your yoga ball, you felt a now familiar sensation at the base of your belly.
“Fucking finally!” you said to no one in particular, perhaps Romeo where he lay snoozing on the couch.
You called Jack, and he answered on the second ring.
“What’s up?”
“Tell Robby he’s an idiot,” you said smugly. “Guess what I’m having right now?”
“A contraction?” he said. “Really?”
“Really,” you said. “It’s only the first one, but I just wanted to let you know to keep your phone close.”
But it seemed you sounded the alarms a bit too soon. The same contractions, now two minutes long, still fifteen apart, kept you up until one in the morning. They were helped by some nasty heartburn, no doubt from your ambitious spice level at lunch, but soon enough, they began to subside.
You groaned as you texted Jack.
Don’t say anything to Robby, the contractions have stopped >:(
He’s still an idiot though
At the very least, you had the day off. The last thing anyone needed was you, forty weeks pregnant, and running on five hours of sleep. By the time you woke up, Jack was beside you, snuffling snores.
The third night you felt contractions coming on, you were hardly as excited. You had Jack time them, but, as you expected, they fizzled out around midnight.
Each night, around seven or eight, contractions would start. Then, like clockwork, between the hours of twelve and one, they stopped. You wanted to pop a pill and go to bed, not bothered tracking something that was surely temporary, but Jack insisted.
“You never know when it could be the real deal!”
But it wasn’t the real deal, night after night. You were a zombie at work, snappy and grouchy, so much so that by the time you were forty weeks and five days, you were kicked out.
“You’re gonna regret this, Dana,” you growled as Jack pulled you towards the parking lot. “You’re gonna rue the day!”
With your newfound freedom away from the hospital, you kept up with your activities. Though, not the spicy food. That you’d learned your lesson from. Your days were filled with curb walking, dates, and teas. At least two hours a day you sat on your ball and pumped. You had even had sex every night, though it was hardly sexy. You couldn’t really move, so Jack had to prop up your hips with two pillows. It was helped, however, by Jack himself. You’d never seen the man so insatiable as when you were pregnant.
By the time you made it to your forty-one week appointment, you were itching for progress. You kept your fingers crossed tightly, hoping against hope as Jill performed her exam.
“You’re about one centimeter dilated,” said Jill apologetically.
You let out a helpless cry. Jack rubbed your shoulders.
“It’s still an improvement,” he reminded you.
“And you’ve softened a bit,” said Jill. “Most importantly, you’ve still got a good amount of amniotic fluid, so baby’s okay. I would like to do an NST, just because you’re past due. I’d also just like to offer you induction. It is typically recommended at this point—”
“No thank you,” you said firmly. “I’ve only heard horror stories, uterine ruptures, infection, hemorrhage —”
“I know you know how unlikely those things are, so I won’t tell you,” said Jill gently. “I figured you would say that, but how do you feel about a membrane sweep?”
“Great, amazing, do it now,” you said, and she chuckled.
The membrane sweep was certainly uncomfortable, but not exactly painful. Once it was over, you were strapped in for an NST and Jill tried to reassure you.
“It’ll probably be any day now,” she said. “Hopefully things will progress quickly from here, but if they don’t there are things you can do to help.”
“Curb walking? Spicy foods? Sex? Dates? Yeah, we’ve done them all,” you sighed. “Just tell me — how do I tell the difference between prodromal contractions and real contractions?”
Jill looked regretful.
“Oftentimes, you can’t,” she said. “You just have to keep monitoring, and wait for them to get closer together.”
All in all, it was a blue sort of afternoon. Even a big cookie from your favorite bakery wasn’t able to cheer you up. Upon returning home, you draped yourself over Jack on the couch. He practiced his braiding on you while you watched Law & Order, snacking on dates. You were beginning to become sick of them.
As planned, contractions started rolling in around nine. At first, they were average, easily breathed through. Then, they started to pick up. Not in duration, but in severity. Jack pulled your new braids away from your face as you hunched in on yourself, tense and unfortunately moist.
“Honey?” he asked. “Tell me what you’re feeling.”
“Bad,” you gasped. “Worse.”
“Okay,” he said, stroking your forehead. “Do you want to sit on your ball?”
You managed a nod, so he helped transfer you over to the blue ball. You started moaning, rolling your hips in great circles while he clutched your hands from his seat on the coffee table. As the clock struck half past one, he dared to speak.
“You know, if it’s this bad,” he said quietly, “maybe —”
“Don’t say it,” you snarled. “Don’t even think it.”
You were past the point of foolish hope. Without at five hours of clear, worsening contractions that reached five minutes apart, you weren’t even considering it a possibility. It wasn’t feasible to prepare every single time.
You were proven right, at nearly three in the morning, when the contractions once again quieted down. You could tell that Jack was struggling. The pain in his eyes was hard to ignore as he watched you curl in on yourself in agony. Hopeless, was the word, and it wasn’t helped by his being a doctor.
“Seven days,” he whispered into your hair as you drifted in and out of sleep. “Can’t be more than seven days.”
It definitely felt like more. You were becoming nocturnal, kept awake by contractions that never led anywhere, and sleeping it off well into the afternoon. It was like being back on night shift, but instead of patients, you got debilitating cramps and sweating.
It appeared that the membrane sweep really hadn’t helped, at the next appointment only three days later. You were still only one measly centimeter dilated. You cried all the way home out of pure exhaustion.
Jack did everything he could to try and help. He drew warm baths, gave foot rubs, always had the kettle ready for a hot water belt. But even food was becoming uninteresting to you, with nausea and fatigue plaguing you most of your waking hours.
You tried to stay positive when you started losing the mucus plug, even more so when it appeared bloody. You called Jack into the bathroom and shoved your dirty underwear in his face.
“The bloody show?” you said.
“I think so,” he replied.
It was exciting. You tried to let it be exciting. But some part of you must have known deep down that it wasn’t the time quite yet, and the days crept on. Jack finally decided to start his sabbatical when parting in the evening coincided with your cramps. He couldn’t stand to leave you folded over the kitchen table, swaying side to side in a futile attempt to work through the pain.
He had you drinking protein shakes and walking in circles around the apartment, just to get the bare minimum out of the way so you could spend the rest of the time sleeping. You were more like a zombie than a person at that point. You would wake, but you were never alert. You went through the motions, the routines, but without Jack, you wouldn’t have been any more active than a garden snail.
“Jill, you gotta give me something,” you said at your next appointment, just one day before the forty-two week mark.
You looked horrible. Bags under your bloodshot eyes, unwashed hair, barely able to stay upright for exhaustion. Jack wasn’t great either, mostly from pure stress at watching you being put through the wringer. He looked at Jill imploringly. She sighed sympathetically.
“Unfortunately, I believe the only thing I can offer at this point is Pitocin,” she said. “In fact, I think I need to highly recommend it.”
You leaned back against Jack. He swept your hair back and rubbed your shoulders.
“Do you think you’d be open to that now?” he said in a hushed tone.
You huffed weakly.
“I don’t know,” you said. “I — I don’t like it, but I can’t spend another day like this, I really can’t.”
Jack buried his nose in the crown of your head, trying not to lose it.
“How about this,” said Jill delicately. “We make an appointment for tomorrow evening, give you guys the whole day, and if nothing happens, you come in. You’re almost three centimeters, you have made progress this past week, which means the drip probably won’t do anything drastic. We need to speed you along. How does that sound?”
You weren’t ecstatic, but you agreed. You knew it would be dangerous for both you and the baby to stay stagnant for much longer. Still, it wasn’t exactly what you imagined as you ate your last meal in the afternoon the next day. You expected to wake excitedly in the night, and rush to the hospital. That period of “I think this is it” extending into “this is really happening right now.” All elements of surprise were zapped out of your trip to the ward. You weren’t excited, more morose, as you stared gloomily out of the window.
Jack was clearly excited, under the surface. He gripped your leg tightly on the drive, other hand tapping anxiously on the steering wheel. He tried not to show it, though, for you.
“I know this isn’t what you had in mind,” he said as he pulled you out of the car. “But just remember, we’re meeting our baby soon. Right? And then all the pain can be over.”
You took a heavy breath. He loaded up with all the bags. That was at least one good thing about having a planned birth; you could prepare.
“I don’t know,” you said in a glum voice, taking glum steps towards the glum side entrance. “I know he has to come out at some point, but it doesn’t feel real. I think I’ve stopped allowing myself to accept it, after all the false starts.”
You had gone right back to referring to the baby as “he” the past few weeks. Jack didn’t want to talk too much about it, just settled in resolutely to being a boy dad. You had stopped believing in another possibility as well, but it didn’t really bum you out the way it did him.
Jack pressed a kiss to your plump cheek.
“I know,” he said. “But try to believe it, baby. He’ll be in your arms before you know it.”
You grumbled while he let you through the familiar door.
“He better come out fat.”
Jack smiled.
“Yeah? How come?”
“Because he’s gotten so much extra time!” you exclaimed. “He better have been using that to get me some chunky baby rolls.”
Jack just chuckled as the two of you made your slow, painful way through the entrance to the ER. You figured you’d be better to cut through to the staff elevator rather than go in through the civilian entrance up on the OB floor, and you might as well say a quick hello-goodbye to the sorry plebs stuck working.
Indeed, you received quite the strong reaction from the hub as you toddled up.
“Look who it is!” said Dana, immediately encircling you in her arms. “Mom and Dad!”
You snorted as the others gathered round, fussing.
“Look how big you are!
“Can you believe today’s the day?”
“Think pink! Baby Princess is almost here!”
Princess squished your belly carefully, looking intense. After a while, she nodded smugly.
“That’s at least an eight-pounder,” she said happily. “Just like I predicted!”
“Well I should think so,” you said. “Two extra weeks of stealing my nutrients should do that.”
Robby stepped forward, looking exhausted, but he offered you a polite cheek kiss anyways.
“Looking stunning as always, Nurse Abbot,” he said, with a hint of jest in his tone. “The glow is overpowering!”
You fixed him with an unamused stare, and at least a week’s worth of sleep gunk in the corners of your eyes.
“Do you want something from me, Robinavitch?”
“Of course not,” he chided.
“What’s your bet?” you asked suspiciously. “Are you counting on me holding out for another three days or something?”
“Oh, no, no one expected you to go this long,” he said. “However, if the baby comes out with your hair, nine pounds, and a boy, I’ll be very happy.”
You rolled your eyes, and Jack started ushering you away from the mob.
“Goodbye Robby, I hope you lose!” you called behind you.
“Good luck!” said Dana.
“You can do it!” said Mel.
“Bring us a baby girl!” said Princess.
You could only wave halfheartedly as the elevator doors closed.
It was easy to be playfully annoyed at Robby downstairs, or sassy in the car, but the second you stepped into your reserved room, your delivery room, the panic took over. There was a large bed, and a convertible chair for Jack to sleep on, just like you pictured. But they wasted no time in hooking you up to a CEFM, and within the hour, a nurse had shoved a suppository up your vagina. You didn’t feel much like laughing at anything.
“And that’s —”
“Dinoprostone,” the nurse answered your boyfriend, while you tried to adjust. “0.3 milligrams. We’ll start the Pitocin in an hour or two.”
You let out a sigh as she left, pulling at your gown. You weren’t happy. Sitting there, sans underwear, on a Chux pad, waiting with anticipation for what would probably be the most painful, agonizing experience of your life, you felt the walls closing in a bit.
You glanced at the clock above the door. It was almost eight o’clock. Robby and Dana were probably just leaving, and Shen and Samira would be taking over. You soured at the thought that they’d probably be cozy in bed again before you had your baby. Hell, the way things had been going so far, you wouldn’t be surprised if you were barely five centimeters by that point.
“You wanna watch a movie, honey?” Jack asked quietly, watching your sullen face.
You rolled your head to the side so you could see his, though it looked much sweeter. You stroked a hand over his scruff.
“Yeah,” you said forlornly. “Miss Congeniality?”
He nodded diligently and extracted his laptop from one of the bags, setting it up in record time. To both of your surprise, you promptly opened your arms for him to join you on the bed. He did so, moving carefully so as to not upset your gown, or your monitor, or you. You weren’t at the point where you were cursing him or hated the sight of his face. In fact, you quite liked him at that moment. Better to take advantage of it before things progressed and he got the luteal phase side of you.
“I love you,” you said.
He sounded a little taken aback in his reply.
“I love you too, baby.”
You fiddled with the hem of his t-shirt.
“I just needed to remind us both, before I start hating you,” you explained.
“Of course,” he said.
You sat in the quiet for a while, half watching the movie you knew like the back of your hand. Within a few minutes, Jack’s gentle touch and steady breaths coaxed your eyes closed. On the brink of sleep, only one thing nowadays could really bring you back.
“Contraction,” you mumbled, as Gracie threw Matthews into a headlock.
“Do you want to move?” he asked.
“No,” you breathed, letting the now familiar discomfort wash over you. “Just stay.”
“Okay,” he said, pecking your forehead. “I’m right here. You know who else is here for you?”
“Who?”
“Benjamin Bratt,” he said. “Benjamin won’t let you down.”
You hummed, a hint of a smile on your lips as you forced your eyes open. Benjamin Bratt was your lifelong celebrity crush, and your friends had wasted no time pointing out some similarities between him and the father of your child when you’d revealed it.
“Of course he won’t,” you said, stroking a finger down his face on the screen.
As the usual contractions passed, you couldn’t help but feel a bit foolishly disappointed. Some small illogical part of you hoped that the prostaglandins would be enough of a push for your body to ramp it up on its own; but the pains were no different than they had been all week.
At a quarter to ten, Jill came in and checked you.
“Just about three centimeters dilated,” she said, to your agitation, “but about ninety percent effaced, so, progress.”
You huffed. Even your TV husband couldn’t distract you from the fact that you weren’t getting anywhere, no matter the positive spin Jill tried to pull. She didn’t seem to want to mention that you were also “just about three centimeters” the last time she saw you, over twenty-four hours previous.
“So now you start the drip?” you asked, and Jack squeezed your hand.
“Yes, now we start,” she said, while a nurse prepared the bag to hang. “Just a low dose, and then if nothing happens, we can gradually increase it. Sound good?”
“Sounds great,” you said, through gritted teeth.
She provided you with a peanut ball to put between your legs and then you were left in wait. Jack rubbed your back and instructed your deep breathing, while you tried to focus on the screen and not the pain.
To your brief respite, the pitocin didn’t intensify the contractions the way you expected them to. After an hour of absolutely zero action, Jill upped the dosage. Still, while they grew closer together, they felt no different. You could breathe through them quite well, and even talk if you felt determined. Maybe you had a high threshold, maybe you were desensitized after all the sleepless nights, maybe it was a bit of both, but what ended up nagging you the most was the hunger.
“Jackie,” you whispered between contractions, around midnight.
“What, baby?” he whispered back, though you were alone in the dark room.
“Can you go get me a soft pretzel?”
He stopped sponging your sweaty forehead, eyes narrowed in amusement.
“A soft pretzel?”
You nodded innocently.
“With plenty yellow mustard, please.”
He rang the washcloth out over the basin, looking half humorous, half distressed.
“Honey, I don’t think —”
“And a hotdog!” you interjected, eyes going wide. “Just get one of every condiment, actually. And I’m picturing a soft serve in a hat. Chocolate vanilla swirl. Okay?”
He wiped his damp hands off on a clean towel and cradled your face.
“Sweetheart, I will get you all of that and more,” he said earnestly, “just as soon as this baby’s outta you.”
“Oh, okay,” you sniffed. “So you don’t love me anymore. I get it.”
It was such a ridiculous notion, he couldn’t help laughing. You tried to smile back, but your face was suddenly crumpled in discomfort as another contraction hit you. Jack checked his watch, then the monitor.
“Five minutes,” he said desperately. “They’re getting closer together, honey. We’re moving.”
“They’re fine,” you hissed. “They’re only, like, double the pain of a bad period. It’s no big deal.”
Jack sent you a look you couldn’t see.
“Your periods get this bad?” he asked in horror. “Even half this bad? How do you get anything done?”
You couldn’t answer, just shook your head, as if to say what are you gonna do?
There wasn’t much, but damn it if Jack wasn’t going to try.
“You wanna try some massages?” he asked. “Some from lamaze class?”
You shook your head again.
“Okay… how about the birthing comb Perlah gave you?”
You didn’t immediately dismiss it, so he quickly dug into the bag and pulled it out. You opened your hand and he lined the teeth up with the crease of your palm. You squeezed hard. He watched you closely.
You took some deep breaths, massaging the bamboo tines into your tissue. Jack allowed himself some breaths as well, seeing the line between your brows soften a bit. He’d never dare complain after the weeks you’d had, but his brain felt a bit like a wrung out sponge. He could deal with sleep deprivation, he almost thrived on sleep deprivation, but seeing you, in agony, so exhausted you could barely eat a full meal? That was wearing down on him.
“Wait, what time is it?” you said suddenly. “Is it past midnight?”
Jack glanced at his wrist again.
“Closer to one,” he said, “why?”
Your lips turned down a bit.
“Nothing,” you sighed. “It’s just that… Ronan is a Scorpio.”
Jack glanced at his phone with befuddlement.
“Is that bad?” he asked. “Wait, aren’t I a Scorpio?”
“Yes,” you said. “Which is fine, it’s great, but now you’re both Scorpios. Scorpio men.”
He waited for you to explain, but you didn’t, so he just gave you a confused apology kiss.
When the contractions got to be three minutes apart, Jill came in to have a look.
“How are we holding up?” she asked, snapping on gloves, while Jack helped you place your feet in the stirrups. “Contractions manageable?”
“Oh, yeah, they’re great,” you deadpanned. “I’m loving how they’re basically back to back now. Real fun.”
“Well,” she said, looking sorry, “you’re still only almost five centimeters, and we’d like you to be closer to seven.”
You guffawed.
“Of course I am,” you croaked, rubbing your tired eyes. “Not even five, almost five, for fuck’s sake.”
“We are moving, hun, just slowly,” she said, patting your knee. “We’re going to break the waters now, though, and things should pick up after that.”
You nodded flatly, unconvinced, at that point, that anything could possibly speed things up. It was mildly uncomfortable as Jill stuck the amnihook up to your sore cervix, but a second later, you felt a small pop and a sudden gush of fluid. You craned your head up to peer over your bump.
“Is that it?” you asked. “It’s broken?”
“That was it,” said Jill, handing the soiled hook and pads off to a nurse. “Now, you’ll probably continue to leak as the baby moves, so we’ll keep this Chux here under you, and don’t be surprised if things pick up quick. Most times mothers start pushing within hours of the amniotomy.”
“Bet I’m an exception to the rule,” you muttered darkly.
However, despite your pessimistic attitude, things did pick up. Quickly, and painfully. In comparison, the early labor felt like child’s play once you had experienced the stabbing sensation that trapped you now. You watched the sunrise from the window, bent at a ninety degree angle with your arms on the sill. You were no longer cracking jokes; you let out rhythmic moans, while Jack squeezed your hips together.
“Let it out,” he said quietly. “You’re doing so good. So, so good, baby.”
You still clutched the comb in your hands, but any effect it had had earlier was now lost. You were slick with sweat and shaking. As the contraction leveled out, you took great, heaving breaths.
“I think I’m gonna puke,” you breathed, and Jack jumped up.
He guided you back to the bed so your weak knees could collapse, and held a bag up to your mouth. You spit into it, that familiar metallic taste flooding your tongue as you prepared. It was mostly bile that came up as you retched, with no food left in your rumbling stomach. When you were done, you sat back on your bum and braced your arms in front of you.
“I’m never… doing… this again,” you panted.
“Okay, love,” said Jack, adjusting your hair where he had tied it back the first time you’d vomited. “You never have to.”
Did he want more kids? Yes. But more importantly, he wanted you happy and safe. If you said you were done, you were done. Besides, he’d be lying if he said he would be up to seeing you in this much pain again. He kissed your warm cheek.
“I need the epidural,” you said. “Can we get that?”
Jack had never moved faster in his life. Once Jill was free, and you were back in position, she checked you.
“Seven centimeters,” she said. “Very good.”
“Yes,” you gasped. “Thank you universe.”
Jack all but crushed your hand between his.
“She was wondering about the epidural —”
“Certainly,” said Jill. “We can absolutely get anesthesiology in here, but I should remind you, it could very possibly slow down your progression. Is that a trade you’d be willing to make?”
They both looked at you. You felt about ready to cry. You were finally getting somewhere, would an epidural be setting you up for another twelve hours?
But in the end, you knew, you wouldn’t be able to get through birth without a couple hours of good sleep under your belt. So, you agreed to see the doctor.
It was definitely the right choice, you thought, once the drugs kicked in. Feeling the numbness spread through you was like going to sleep after a double, or sinking into a hot bath in winter time. The relief was palpable.
“Oh my god,” you moaned. “Oh my god, I had forgotten what it was like to not have contractions.”
Jack was relieved too, watching you munch on ice chips, eyes closed.
“You should get some sleep,” he said, stroking your forehead between your eyes. “You need rest.”
“So do you,” you said. “Hey — have you taken your leg off at all since we’ve been here?”
He thought. He had been far too preoccupied with you to notice the dull ache radiating up his right knee. He shrugged, but you were already back to your sass, however sluggishly.
“It’s almost been twenty-four hours, Jack Abbot,” you reprimanded. “Take it off and get in bed.”
“Yes ma’am,” he said lovingly.
He had to admit, it was a relief in its own right, removing the leg and the socks. He hadn’t even realized how much it had been bothering him, but you had always been on top of those things, the things he let fall to the back burner. Just like how he reminded you to eat on stressful days, or prepared hot water bottles when you were on your period. You looked out for each other.
Pulling his other shoe off, he carefully crawled into bed next to you, engulfing you in his arms. You weren’t sure how long you slept. All you knew was that upon waking, Jill was between your legs for a check.
As she covered you back up with the blanket, she could barely contain her smile.
“Ten centimeters. Are you ready to have a baby?”
♡♡♡
You’d thought, somehow, foolishly, that the pushing would be easy compared to the weeks of torture. Especially with the epidural keeping you almost completely numb, how could it be worse?
But now you were approaching your third hour of pushing, and they still couldn’t even see the baby’s head. The pain was barely an afterthought, but every upper muscle in your body was tense and tight from repeated use, and you were running out of energy.
You had Jack holding up one leg, a nurse holding the other, and a third person out of sight was wiping your forehead. You had had to ask, or scream at, someone to remove the ticking clock from above the door. Your eyes kept drifting towards it, and your heart filled with more and more despair as the minutes slid by.
“C’mon, honey, one more push,” Jack was chanting next to you, holding your thigh flush against your chest. “One more, you can do it!”
You fell back against him with a harsh cry as the contraction subsided. Perspiration was dripping down your flushed face, and you were panting like you’d just finished a sprint.
“I can’t,” you gasped. “I can’t do this any more. It’s not working.”
“The baby is moving,” said Jill from the other side of your bump. “They’re taking their time, but you’re doing really, really well, okay? Keep going, we should be seeing a head soon.”
“Did you hear that?” said Jack soothingly. “It’ll be over soon. You’re so close.”
You felt so close to slipping into sleep, and yet possibly less comfortable than you ever had been before. You felt your eyes beginning to sting. Maybe it was a good sign; throughout everything, you still hadn’t shed a tear. Could the cracks in your exterior mean this was almost at an end? Or were you really ready to give up?
“Here comes the next contraction,” said Jill. “Ready?”
“Big breath,” said Nurse Marta. “Chin to chest — good…”
You bared down with all your might, and the pressure was building.
“Hard, hard hard hard!” said Jill. “Good job, mom! I can just barely glimpse the head.”
Jack pressed a flurry of kisses to your knee, and if your eyes were open you would have seen his already beginning to tear.
“Oh my god,” you muttered as that contraction too passed.
“Can I see?” he asked cautiously. “The head, can I try to see?”
“We lost sight when she relaxed,” said Jill, eyes glued to the monitor. “But on the next contraction, we should begin to crown.”
“Okay,” he said breathlessly. “Okay, one more, and we find out who wins, Robby or Princess, right?”
“Better be Princess,” you grumbled.
You ran a limp hand over Jack’s curls.
“You’ll catch him, right?” you said. “When he comes out?”
“Yeah, baby, of course, I’ll be right there,” he said. “I promise. I mean, I love Jill, but —”
You almost laughed, or got as close to it as you possibly could with how winded you were. Jill spoke up, smirking slightly herself.
“Okay, about twenty seconds to the next contraction,” she said. “And I need you to really push hard, okay? Hard as you can.”
“What do you think I’ve been doing?”
“Alright,” she chuckled, “ready? Go.”
You pushed, and pushed, and pushed. All the blood rushed to your head, and your grip in Jack’s hair only tightened, accidentally bumping his chin against your knee, but he didn’t say anything. It was kind of funny — you were usually in a very different place when you did that.
“You’re so good, you’re so so good, honey,” Jack muttered quickly, unable to keep himself from peering over to watch. “Good, good, you’re so strong, you” — his breath stuttered — “I see the head! Oh, it’s red, the hair — Ronan —”
You let out a strangled sort of sound, half laugh, half cry.
“We’re crowning, I’m gonna need you to stop pushing,” said Jill. “Okay, stop pushing, and breathe, alright? Pant, deep and fast —”
You began to feel a bit lightheaded as you followed her instructions.
“Okay, now push again — good — and relax.”
You groaned, arms shaking and jumping all over the place. Hesitantly, you removed a hand from Jack’s hair.
“Can I feel?”
“Of course,” said Jill. She took your trembling hand and guided it down. “Feel the hair?”
That was it. That was the little push those tears needed to begin leaking from your eyes. It was the most bizarre feeling, not being able to sense touch against your own legs, but knowing that the head you felt was part of you this second. And the next, it would be separate. A whole little human.
“There’s a lot, huh?” said Jack in a wavery voice.
“Jack, if you want to catch, now’s the time,” said Jill, holding out a packet of sterile gloves. “You ready?”
He snapped them on in record time, though was reluctant to leave your immediate side.
“I’m right here,” he said, both for you and for him. “I’m still here next to you.”
“I know,” you said, taking up the hand of the nurse that replaced him.
“Push, mama, push,” Jill chanted from over Jack’s shoulder, watching carefully as he cradled the emerging head.
“You’re doing amazing!” said Jack, fully crying now. “Keep going!”
You did. By the end of the minute, the head was all the way out.
“I see him, I see him!” said Jack frantically. “He’s coming! One more push, just one!”
“Tell me what’s happening, okay?” you asked. “I wanna know.”
“Okay, honey.”
Your nurses pushed you up. It was time for the final contraction. Or, what would hopefully be the final contraction.
“Push!”
You put all your remaining strength behind that last push, tears now joined in the sweat running down your cheeks.
“Here come the shoulders,” said Jack. “Good job! Okay, great job, honey, they’re coming — okay, one, and — c’mon, Ronan, you can do it — c’mon — okay, yes! Yes, yes, yes, so good, okay, and the little arms, and the belly, and —”
There was a sudden release of pressure, and almost immediately, a sharp, strong cry rent the air. You were sobbing in earnest now, but still Jack held onto your baby while they wailed. You couldn’t see them, but you could see his face, transfixed, unmoving. You didn’t like the look. Worry began to creep in.
“What?” you asked wetly. “What’s wrong? Is he okay?”
“It’s” — Jack’s breath caught in his throat — “it’s a girl! It’s a baby girl.”
Your anxiety cleared, and you sighed in relief, a full body shudder as he gingerly lifted the little baby, your daughter, to your chest. Your eyes were as wide as his were, staring in awe at the little creature on your bosom.
“Hi,” you whispered, while Jill rubbed her vigorously with a cloth. “Hi, baby. You’re here.”
Jack, now gloveless, and hysterical, wrapped his arms around the both of you. Her whole tiny head was covered in sticky but unmistakable dark red hair. And it seemed Santos was right — she did have her dad’s nose. His everything, really.
“Isadora,” Jack said reverently through his tears. “You’re perfect.”
“You got your girl,” you said to Jack, eyes not parting from your Izzy for one second.
“Everyone’s gonna freak,” he said, stroking her head.
It wasn’t until later, with the cord clamped and cut, the placenta delivered, and the postpartum room moved into, you realized.
“Wait,” you said, watching Isadora curl sleepily into her father’s bare chest. “I just remembered something.”
“Way to go, Izzy,” he said. “First hour on earth, and you’re already beating Uncle Robby’s ass, huh? Atta girl. Just wait til you play him at hockey. He sucks.”
Your eyes, which had never fully dried, were beginning to tear up again. You knew it was to be expected with your hormones out of whack, but he was just holding her, for christ’s sake.
“C’mere,” you said lazily, beckoning him towards your bed. “You wanna call him up? Gloat in his face? I kinda do.”
“Nah,” said Jack calmly, settling in at your side. “I think for now it should just be me and my girls.”
You were sent home the next day, with an appointment for Izzy in the books and relatively minimal soreness, considering. Izzy was quickly proving herself to be a good eater, and a good sleeper.
“There we go, honey,” Jack cooed at her, setting her down in your arms. “All fed, all burped, all changed.”
He perched on the arm of your nursing chair. For once, it was exactly as you pictured. The breeze through the open window making the dragonflies fly, Jack by your side, and a little red haired baby resting in the green and yellow nursery.
i think season 2 of the pitt was shit compared to the first and i was pretty disappointed. in MY OPINION this is why. i genuinely believe that noah wyle was a nostalgia hire above everything else. this isn’t to say he isn’t a talented actor, or even an ok writer, but his biggest benefit was to be a hook. unfortunately it can be needed when a show covers such controversial material and has a truly diverse cast, bc media like that is often ignored. and it worked! but the thing is, noah seems to have a giant fucking ego, and when he started getting attention again and reliving his er glory days, he couldn’t stop himself from taking over. watching season 2 i was exhausted with his story because on top of it feeling like they were saying the same things over and over again, they were cutting other character’s (specifically women of color) stories out to give noah more screen time and essentially just award bait monologues. season 1 was developed with time and intention, and if they had moved on from robby for the next, focused on another character like mohan, maybe it could have worked. but to be honest, and i know a lot of ppl will disagree and that’s okay, robby’s disgusting behavior this season had me completely detached from his storyline. i genuinely didn’t care what happened to him. i knew they weren’t going to kill him bc then he wouldn’t be the star anymore, so there was no substance, and yet his storyline took up all the time. and to make matters worse, his behavior was never truly addressed and is excused in interviews with the writers, so it’s no longer commentary or criticism - it’s just a poorly developed character written by the same type of man who always has to be the flawed but beloved hero.
i’ll probably watch season 3 for ellis, but i’m wary and very disappointed in this show i loved so much. i think a lot of ppl are. the creator of the show said that “robby hasn’t hit rock bottom yet” and honestly? i’m not super interested in sticking around just to watch him be a self destructive dick to his coworkers and friends for 15 hours, wondering whether or not he’s gonna go to therapy like a grownup. being depressed does not warrant such behavior, coming from someone who has been down in the gutters of depression and anxiety and burnouts many times. robby needs to face the consequences of his actions. what with them cutting women of color from the show for no apparent reasons, excusing robby’s diabolical behavior, and the writing we saw for season 2, my hopes for season 3 are not high.
if they had done the bridgerton thing where they focus on a different character every season? i’m fucking sat. but noah wyle just had to make it the noah wyle show. GIVE US HALLOWEEN NIGHT SHIFT🫵
LOL. noah wyle wasn't a nostalgia hire, because they didn't hire him.
the pitt was made because noah wyle sent an email to the showrunner of ER, proposing a sequel to ER. from the start it was going to be a character study about john carter post-COVID, centering around his PTSD. the negotiations for the use of ER characters fell through, so gemmil, wells and wyle spun that same core idea into an original universe, and so it became a post-COVID character study on dr robby. that's the series they're making.
so, i'm sorry, but you've been watching the noah wyle show from the very start of it, and without noah wyle the pitt would not exist. robby had less lines in season 2 than season 1, surmising that season 1 gave him even more screen time. from the very start it's been created around his lead role as the only lead character, and this fact will not change, so you're probably better off watching another series.
that's not to say that it is only made by him. scott gemmil is the creator + showrunner and it's executive produced by both wyle and wells. they have a full writers room with a lot of woc. he's not an omnipotent ruler of all things.
season 2 has gotten great reviews if you look outside the tumblr bubble!
lmao alright maybe less lines, more shots of him crying from every angle 🤷♀️ i’m sorry, im just not willing to overlook ignoring every other character.
javadi was indecisive about her placement, shaken by ice, and after ignoring her for two episodes they have her decide on emergency psychiatry, which fine, but how did they set that up? that one patients sister at the beginning of the season, then bam she’s decided on her life’s path? she could have had some satisfying wrap up with her overbearing parents. the last thing we get is her asking robby if he think she can do it.
samira seemed to finally be finding her footing at the end of season one, realizing she belonged in the er despite robby’s complaints (and lack of support, and hypocrisy). then we come back with almost the exact same problem like nothing changed. robby doesn’t seem to have learned at all from his bad behavior towards her, he only gets worse, and how is it that in the end, samira apologizes to robby? after being toxic asf and belittling her in front of all her coworkers for having the same struggles as he does? absolutely not. not to mention the fact that they worked it up and then cut all samiras scenes (aka character development) in the last two, but they last minute decided not to bring her back!!! and i’m just saying that i know lots of people, even outside the “tumblr bubble,” would be more interested to see her story play out than robby doing the same thing for 15 more hours.
after breaking several rules last season by fudging the measurements to get the teen her abortion, or not reporting langdon for stealing drugs and putting patients in great danger, robby wants to push dana and be a dick about her alleged take down of the pt who assaulted emma.
of course there’s dr al-hashimi too. explain to me how it would ever be plausible that the last conversation she had with robby he revealed the langdon situation (dismissing her valid concerns along the way) and she’s horrified and suggesting changes that are reasonable and that he doesn’t like - and then the next time they talk one on one? she’s sharing an extremely vulnerable part of her and says she respects his opinion. like ??? how tf did we get there? and the way he takes it as confirmation that he was right, she’s not fit to run the er, no one can do it but him, and she’s a danger to patients he has to report? compared to saving langdons ass. he is such an insane control freak.
i didn’t like how santos’s SH was forgotten about, either. she has a history, she’s been having a shitty day, and she literally grabs a scalpel with clear intent. then what? she goes karaokeing with mel and she’s fine?
and instead of focusing on any of these compelling characters, they actually brought in a whole new character just to give robby someone to talk about himself with. like duke is getting horrible news about his health, and instead of having a heart to heart about how that makes him feel, they end up talking about robby again?
and if it’s true that noah has less lines this season, which i can’t find anything to say so (pls cite your sources), the focus is still on him! everyone else is talking about him all the time, worrying. jack and dana’s only real interaction was about him. abbots last big speech is about him. samiras last line is about how the pitt needs him. al-hashimi had a scene in the car where she calls her ex husband to watch their son before she breaks down that they cut, before that it’s her fight with robby. we can’t escape him.
and as for noah starting the show, that actually makes a lot of sense. and he was the main character, but season 1 was still mainly an ensemble show more than anything. season 2 is less so, it couldn’t be more obvious. and if you’re gonna do that, fine, at least do it well. but they didn’t. everything enjoyable about the season was anecdotal, nothing came to a satisfying head like last time. i liked the ending scene with mel and trinity, i liked the interactions btw trinity and whitaker, and the exploration into mel and becca’s relationship. there were good things about it, but it was shapeless.
it’s not just the writing itself, but the writers and the production. cutting women of color, making lame excuses, explaining away robby’s sexism, none of this bodes well for the show. noah wyle himself is problematic, reportedly verbally violent and racist to at least one woman on the set of er (vanessa marquez, nurse wendy), and signing a letter in support of israel and the war, behavior which shouldn’t have a place on a show as “progressive” as the pitt is supposed to be.
so yes. if this continues, they will lose me as a viewer and many others. i’m not saying noah is the end all be all for script decisions, but being the face of the show and the cash cow will grant him power over what goes and what doesn’t. he has a lot of influence, and it seems like he and gemmil have similar ideas. btw, i know a lot about production bc i have a lot of close family members in the field and let me just clarify - having woc in the writing room is great and important, but writers have barely any power. its the showrunner who decides in the end, so you can put forth all the ideas you want, but an old white man is still calling the shots. it’s fine if you liked it, but my reasons are valid.
here's the data for for the line comparison: https://www.reddit.com/r/ThePittTVShow/comments/1so42rw/season_2_recurring_staff_lines_distribution/
i was pointing out how silly it is to claim that a series that comes from noah wyle's idea hired him for nostalgia. like no, he literally hired himself.
you're watching a series centered around an old male jewish doctor's mental health struggle and complaining that it's centered around an old male jewish doctor's mental health struggle. i have criticism for the series as well, but i'm well aware of what i've chosen to watch.
ok i understand that, and i didn’t know the email thing. but the issue is the difference between seasons. the pitt hooked me by covering important and relevant issues and having outstanding characters, none of whom are perfect ofc. they demonstrated themselves how a proper ensemble is done by making the side characters rich, complicated, unique and giving them real growth. that was missing from this season, and without it the show was bad imo. i just think it’s irresponsible as creators to do that to their characters. and they seem tone deaf, ignorant to the impact robby’s behavior really did have, like the problems weren’t on purpose. a lot of issues were handled poorly. and a lot of it centers noah wyle. i think it’s fair to be disappointed, i feel like you’re making it seem like season 2 was the same as 1, just because it had the same main character. and as a show that marketed itself as “woke” seeing the harmful patterns is concerning and disheartening. i expected more.
i think season 2 of the pitt was shit compared to the first and i was pretty disappointed. in MY OPINION this is why. i genuinely believe that noah wyle was a nostalgia hire above everything else. this isn’t to say he isn’t a talented actor, or even an ok writer, but his biggest benefit was to be a hook. unfortunately it can be needed when a show covers such controversial material and has a truly diverse cast, bc media like that is often ignored. and it worked! but the thing is, noah seems to have a giant fucking ego, and when he started getting attention again and reliving his er glory days, he couldn’t stop himself from taking over. watching season 2 i was exhausted with his story because on top of it feeling like they were saying the same things over and over again, they were cutting other character’s (specifically women of color) stories out to give noah more screen time and essentially just award bait monologues. season 1 was developed with time and intention, and if they had moved on from robby for the next, focused on another character like mohan, maybe it could have worked. but to be honest, and i know a lot of ppl will disagree and that’s okay, robby’s disgusting behavior this season had me completely detached from his storyline. i genuinely didn’t care what happened to him. i knew they weren’t going to kill him bc then he wouldn’t be the star anymore, so there was no substance, and yet his storyline took up all the time. and to make matters worse, his behavior was never truly addressed and is excused in interviews with the writers, so it’s no longer commentary or criticism - it’s just a poorly developed character written by the same type of man who always has to be the flawed but beloved hero.
i’ll probably watch season 3 for ellis, but i’m wary and very disappointed in this show i loved so much. i think a lot of ppl are. the creator of the show said that “robby hasn’t hit rock bottom yet” and honestly? i’m not super interested in sticking around just to watch him be a self destructive dick to his coworkers and friends for 15 hours, wondering whether or not he’s gonna go to therapy like a grownup. being depressed does not warrant such behavior, coming from someone who has been down in the gutters of depression and anxiety and burnouts many times. robby needs to face the consequences of his actions. what with them cutting women of color from the show for no apparent reasons, excusing robby’s diabolical behavior, and the writing we saw for season 2, my hopes for season 3 are not high.
if they had done the bridgerton thing where they focus on a different character every season? i’m fucking sat. but noah wyle just had to make it the noah wyle show. GIVE US HALLOWEEN NIGHT SHIFT🫵
LOL. noah wyle wasn't a nostalgia hire, because they didn't hire him.
the pitt was made because noah wyle sent an email to the showrunner of ER, proposing a sequel to ER. from the start it was going to be a character study about john carter post-COVID, centering around his PTSD. the negotiations for the use of ER characters fell through, so gemmil, wells and wyle spun that same core idea into an original universe, and so it became a post-COVID character study on dr robby. that's the series they're making.
so, i'm sorry, but you've been watching the noah wyle show from the very start of it, and without noah wyle the pitt would not exist. robby had less lines in season 2 than season 1, surmising that season 1 gave him even more screen time. from the very start it's been created around his lead role as the only lead character, and this fact will not change, so you're probably better off watching another series.
that's not to say that it is only made by him. scott gemmil is the creator + showrunner and it's executive produced by both wyle and wells. they have a full writers room with a lot of woc. he's not an omnipotent ruler of all things.
season 2 has gotten great reviews if you look outside the tumblr bubble!
lmao alright maybe less lines, more shots of him crying from every angle 🤷♀️ i’m sorry, im just not willing to overlook ignoring every other character.
javadi was indecisive about her placement, shaken by ice, and after ignoring her for two episodes they have her decide on emergency psychiatry, which fine, but how did they set that up? that one patients sister at the beginning of the season, then bam she’s decided on her life’s path? she could have had some satisfying wrap up with her overbearing parents. the last thing we get is her asking robby if he think she can do it.
samira seemed to finally be finding her footing at the end of season one, realizing she belonged in the er despite robby’s complaints (and lack of support, and hypocrisy). then we come back with almost the exact same problem like nothing changed. robby doesn’t seem to have learned at all from his bad behavior towards her, he only gets worse, and how is it that in the end, samira apologizes to robby? after being toxic asf and belittling her in front of all her coworkers for having the same struggles as he does? absolutely not. not to mention the fact that they worked it up and then cut all samiras scenes (aka character development) in the last two, but they last minute decided not to bring her back!!! and i’m just saying that i know lots of people, even outside the “tumblr bubble,” would be more interested to see her story play out than robby doing the same thing for 15 more hours.
after breaking several rules last season by fudging the measurements to get the teen her abortion, or not reporting langdon for stealing drugs and putting patients in great danger, robby wants to push dana and be a dick about her alleged take down of the pt who assaulted emma.
of course there’s dr al-hashimi too. explain to me how it would ever be plausible that the last conversation she had with robby he revealed the langdon situation (dismissing her valid concerns along the way) and she’s horrified and suggesting changes that are reasonable and that he doesn’t like - and then the next time they talk one on one? she’s sharing an extremely vulnerable part of her and says she respects his opinion. like ??? how tf did we get there? and the way he takes it as confirmation that he was right, she’s not fit to run the er, no one can do it but him, and she’s a danger to patients he has to report? compared to saving langdons ass. he is such an insane control freak.
i didn’t like how santos’s SH was forgotten about, either. she has a history, she’s been having a shitty day, and she literally grabs a scalpel with clear intent. then what? she goes karaokeing with mel and she’s fine?
and instead of focusing on any of these compelling characters, they actually brought in a whole new character just to give robby someone to talk about himself with. like duke is getting horrible news about his health, and instead of having a heart to heart about how that makes him feel, they end up talking about robby again?
and if it’s true that noah has less lines this season, which i can’t find anything to say so (pls cite your sources), the focus is still on him! everyone else is talking about him all the time, worrying. jack and dana’s only real interaction was about him. abbots last big speech is about him. samiras last line is about how the pitt needs him. al-hashimi had a scene in the car where she calls her ex husband to watch their son before she breaks down that they cut, before that it’s her fight with robby. we can’t escape him.
and as for noah starting the show, that actually makes a lot of sense. and he was the main character, but season 1 was still mainly an ensemble show more than anything. season 2 is less so, it couldn’t be more obvious. and if you’re gonna do that, fine, at least do it well. but they didn’t. everything enjoyable about the season was anecdotal, nothing came to a satisfying head like last time. i liked the ending scene with mel and trinity, i liked the interactions btw trinity and whitaker, and the exploration into mel and becca’s relationship. there were good things about it, but it was shapeless.
it’s not just the writing itself, but the writers and the production. cutting women of color, making lame excuses, explaining away robby’s sexism, none of this bodes well for the show. noah wyle himself is problematic, reportedly verbally violent and racist to at least one woman on the set of er (vanessa marquez, nurse wendy), and signing a letter in support of israel and the war, behavior which shouldn’t have a place on a show as “progressive” as the pitt is supposed to be.
so yes. if this continues, they will lose me as a viewer and many others. i’m not saying noah is the end all be all for script decisions, but being the face of the show and the cash cow will grant him power over what goes and what doesn’t. he has a lot of influence, and it seems like he and gemmil have similar ideas. btw, i know a lot about production bc i have a lot of close family members in the field and let me just clarify - having woc in the writing room is great and important, but writers have barely any power. its the showrunner who decides in the end, so you can put forth all the ideas you want, but an old white man is still calling the shots. it’s fine if you liked it, but my reasons are valid.
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