Hiiii I dont know if you still take requests for Park the Shark but I would like to give one!!
I’d love your headcanons or blurb about Park being possessive and jealous over very kind and warm younger!nurse :)
He was enamored by her when she first started at PTMC and everyone was like “wow Park has feelings?” She’s always super kind and warm to him because she didn’t realize he was an intimidating person to everyone else. He’s always concerned about where she is and if she’s okay like when she’s out with her friends because duh she’s drop dead gorgeous and he knows guys will throw themselves at her. And ofc concerned about her while she’s at work :)))
lmao my brain took this and ran with it so this is what i have lmao :) i hope you enjoy!
dr. brendon park x nurse!reader who can't stop talking about him ✿ 1.5k words
summary: you're out getting drunk with your friends and you can't stop talking about brendon. one of them decides to play matchmaker
cw: fem!nurse!reader, alcohol/drinking, reader has two friends named sarah and chelsea who do not work in the ED, reader is a silly drunk and is very obviously in love with brendon
the pitt masterlist
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You don’t understand what grudge everyone seems to have against Dr. Park.
Sorry, Brendon. He gets antsy when you call him by anything other than his first name.
And that’s weird, at least according to everyone you work with. You’d been scared to meet him at first, given all of the warnings and low whispers you’d heard about him on your first few shifts.
‘He’s horrible.’ One of the other nurses had told you with a shiver, her elbows knocking against yours where you lean on the nurse’s station counter. ‘He’s got these eyes and it’s like he can see directly into your soul.’
‘He wants to eat all of us alive.’ Dr. Whitaker had whispered once when Dr. Park had come up as a topic of conversation during surgery. It was enough to make your heart race at any mention of him.
But then… you’d met him. And sure, you can’t argue that he’s not intimidating. His eyes constantly narrowed in suspicion, his jaw sharp and clenched, the tendons in his neck pulsing with every movement of his body. But you understand him, or maybe it’s that no one else looks past the “shark” exterior to see what’s underneath.
The overwhelming desire to be successful, focused, calm even in the worst of storms. The fear of failure, the anxiety that he or someone else might majorly fuck up and he can’t fix it. The vicious growl in his voice that really means he’s scared to let anyone get too close.
You looked at him, and you saw bits and pieces of yourself.
And you think maybe he saw the same in you, because you became his right hand any time he had to consult in the ED. Maybe part of that was against your will, everyone knows that he doesn’t speak down to you the way he does everyone else. You stand beside him like you’ve always been there, predicting his moves before he can even make them. You hand him the right tools at the right time. You move in flow with him, and he always leaves the perfect amount of space right at his side for you.
So, no, you don’t understand what grudge everyone else seems to have against him.
“Wow.” One of your friends, Sarah, finishes off her drink, eyes scanning you up and down from her place across the table as you finish speaking. “Seems to me like you really like this Dr. Park guy.”
You feel heat bloom in your cheeks, your fingers twisting your straw back and forth in your already empty cocktail glass. “It’s not like that, okay? Brendon and I just work well together.”
Chelsea, your other friend, meets Sarah’s eyes and they both grin brightly. “Brendon…” They both repeat his name, a teasing lilt in their voices. You swat your hand at them.
“Stop it!” You shake your head, rolling your eyes as you try to ignore the butterflies erupting in your stomach. You sit up a bit when you realize the waiter is approaching your table, and you send your friends a look. “The waiter is coming.”
“Oh! Let’s do shots!” Sarah suggests despite the slight slur already present in her speech. Chelsea nods excitedly, already leaning over Sarah to tell the waiter, who nods and takes the empty glasses from in front of you. You roll your eyes at them, but you don’t fight when the shots come to the table.
It’s not long before you decide to go to the bathroom, already a little dizzy when you stand up, steadying yourself on the table.
“I’m going to the bathroom.” You announce, pointing toward it. Sarah and Chelsea nod, waving you off as you go. The two of them sit there, debating ordering another round of shots, when they hear a phone ringing.
It’s your phone, left face up on the table. And the name on screen reads Brendon Park.
Sarah gasps, whacking Chelsea on the arm to get her attention, gesturing to your phone. “It’s that doctor! He’s calling her!”
Chelsea’s smile turns mischievous, and her nimble fingers pluck the phone from the table top.
“Wait, Chelsea don’t-" Sarah tries to protest but Chelsea holds up a finger to silence her, raising your phone to her ear.
“Helloooo Brendon!” She greets brightly, her voice only slightly less slurred than Sarah’s.
“Who is this?” A masculine voice answers from the other line. Chelsea covers the microphone with her hand, looking at Sarah.
“He sounds hot!” She whispers, before clearing her throat and continuing, “I’m Chelsea, I’m just answering the phone because she’s not at the table…” All of her words are long and wobbly.
“Where is she?” His voice is almost snappy now, something that makes Chelsea’s face morph into an even more mischievous look. Sarah tries to shake her head, but Chelsea waves her off again.
“Hmm… I don’t know… She hasn’t been at the table for a while…” She watches as you exit the bathroom, leaning away from Sarah as she tries to grab the phone from her hand. “She was pretty drunk though, you should probably come get her!”
Chelsea can already hear Brendan moving a bit frantically around on the other end, presumably getting his things together to come find you. Her thoughts are confirmed when he bites out a clipped, “Where are you?”
Chelsea quickly gives him the name of the bar as you approach the table again, then an “okay, bye!” and tosses your phone back on the table. You sit down, an eyebrow raised as you look between the two of them.
“What? Did someone call me?”
“Oh, just spam, I think!” Chelsea gives Sarah a pointed look, full of meaning you don’t understand. “Right, Sarah?”
Sarah hesitates, looking between you and Chelsea for a moment before agreeing with a slow, “Right…”
You roll your eyes but move on, distracted by chit-chat and the arrival of the waiter again.
Two shots later, you find yourself wondering if you can even stand, head bobbing side to side as you giggle. You jump when you feel a hand land on your shoulder, almost falling out of your chair to squint at the culprit through your blurry vision. Luckily, he catches you before you end up on the floor.
“Brendon?” You blink hazily at him, and his grip on your shoulder tightens just a bit. “What are you doing here?” You’re drunk enough that you don’t notice the giggling of your friends, but Brendon obviously notices, his eyes narrowing a bit at them.
“I heard you might need some help.” He says, eyes returning to yours. Your stomach twists in the most pleasant way, and you can’t stop a drunk grin from taking over your face.
“You came here for me?” Your voice, as slurred as it is, drips sickly sweet like honey.
Brendon eyes you, then your friends, who giggle and whisper between each other, not nearly as sly as they think they are.
“It seems I did.” He steps closer to your chair, and you find yourself leaning toward him, your forehead bumping his hip. He gets a look on his face, one you’d definitely question if you were sober, and says, “I wanted to make sure you were safe.”
You melt, and so do your friends. Brendon has to stop himself from sneering at them, reaching for your hand and encouraging you to stand.
“Let’s get you home.” He tells you, and your body follows him like it’s as easy as breathing. Sarah and Chelsea giggle and wink at you, giving you a silly wave goodbye.
“You should probably take her to your house!” Chelsea calls out behind you as you walk away. Brendon puts his hand on your back to guide you and it makes your knees feel even weaker than they already do. “And probably in your bed too! Just to make sure she’s okay!”
Brendon lets out a huff and rolls his eyes. “C’mon, let’s go to my car.”
He guides you to it, surprisingly close to the bar given how busy everything is. You find yourself wishing you were sober so you could try to find more details of him in the car. You always want to learn more about him.
Your drunk mouth decides to voice these thoughts out loud, and the corner of Brendon’s lips raise.
“Are you really going to take me to your place?” You ask him then, practically giddy to be sitting next to him as he pulls off and starts heading down the road.
He gives you a side eye. “Not while you’re drunk like this.” You pout, and he scoffs.
“We can talk about it more on Monday when you’re sober and not at risk of throwing up. Now, give me your address.”
summary: After being pushed away by Robby, the unthinkable happens, leaving the two of you to pick up the pieces and heal.
a/n: Apparently I love writing angsty stories chalk full of fear. I don't know what that says about me, but here we are. Regardless, this came to me one night when l was listening to Lizzy McAlpine's song 'Doomsday' and (obviously) Ethel Cain's 'Pulldrone'. This is my first short fic so go easy on me! There will definitely be a part two for this. At first, I was just going to post all of it in one go, but I actually think it'll work so much better split up.
wc: 6.7k
tags/content warnings: stalking, psychological terror, violence, descriptions of blood and injuries, reliving trauma, angst, potential medical inaccuracies, reader being put through hell because I'm evil like that, I don't think I described the reader but potential afab!reader undertones, not proofread, hoping I didn't miss any tags
A light buzzing came from the lighting above your hospital bed, solidifying the dread making its home in the pit of your stomach. Everything was too much all at once. The large window replacing a wall to your right. The humming of each machine in your room monitoring any change of how your body was functioning. The muffled sounds coming from beyond the door in the ICU you were residing in. It was all just.. too much. Your body was buzzing, both from unadulterated fear and the remnants of whatever medication they had given you. Then there was your mind. Running amuck, giving you no room to breath as each thought filled you with pure terror. It was constant and loud. Someone was still watching. Someone was still casting a shadow over your shoulder. He was still there. You knew this wasn't true anymore, yet the thoughts still plagued every waking moment you shared with the world.
Movement on both sides of you brought you out of your thoughts. On your left, closer to the foot of your bed, were two police officers. One with dark hair and a bronze complexion, his eyes filled with knowledge only a man who had seen too much could carry - Officer Taylor. He had a file in hand filled with evidence of your terror. The other officer - Officer Lambert - she was ginger haired, green eyes heavy with fatigue, and was the one holding a notepad and pen. On your right, was Michael. Michael Robinavitch. Dr. Robby. The one thing out of all of this that brought solace and some semblance of peace. His brown eyes glimmered with concern. He was studying your face, looking for any sign of a breakdown, a change in your health, anything and everything that he might be able to fix or at least try to. Michael sat in a chair by your hospital bed, elbows on his knees as he was leaning forward slightly. As if he may need to jump into action at any given moment. You couldn't tell if that made you feel better or if that made you feel like a burden.
Officer Taylor cleared his throat, stealing your gaze from Michael's. Your hands remained busy picking at the blanket warming the cold rotting your soul. Everything was cold. Your body shifted every few seconds as though you couldn't sit still. You needed to leave. You needed to get out of here before it was too late.
“I can't imagine how difficult this must be for you. If I could, I would wait to take your statement, but it's imperative that we do this now while it's still fresh.” Officer Taylor stated this with a genuineness that eased your mind, but only just a little.
You nodded your head with tears sitting at the brim of your eyes. This was all too much. This was too much. It is too much.
“If you can start from the beginning, that would be best,” Officer Lambert prompted, “The moment you first noticed him.”
Another nod from you. With your response came a hoarse and shaken voice, clearly still healing from your injuries.
“It wasn't him that I noticed first,” You glanced at Michael before returning your focus to the foot of your bed. “It was the feeling.”
“Feeling?” Officer Taylor encouraged you to go on, sensing a coming pause in your admission.
Another nod.
“It was like- it was like everything shifted. Everything felt different. The walk to the bus, the bus ride to work, even just being at work felt off. And then I would get home or go out with friends or even just go shopping and it was still that same feeling of everything being off.”
A pause.
“The bus used to feel somewhat peaceful. Like a calm before the storm. But at the start of September, it started to feel suffocating. It was like my body knew something was wrong before I did. I kept looking over my shoulder and honestly I don't know why I started to feel like I had to, but that feeling was taking over and I couldn't make it stop.”
Another pause.
“Then things started to go missing.”
You shifted again, this time a little more than the last. What should've been even breathing came a rapid and panicked set of ins and outs. A warmth encasing a small patch of your right arm grounded you. A quick look confirmed that it was Robby's hand on your arm. Despite this, you moved your focus back onto the foot of the bed, refusing to look at anything else.
“At first it was just my spare key. Dennis-”
“Dennis?” Officer Lambert inquired, shaking your thoughts up at the interruption.
“My- my friend and coworker. He used it to grab something my other friend and coworker, Trinity, had left in my apartment. We use each other's spare keys all the time so it wasn't a big deal. But I couldn’t find it when I checked on it to make sure he put it back. He kept telling me he put it under the fake plant by my door, but I figured he forgot to and was just too embarrassed to admit it. So, I just brushed it off. Then my favorite chapstick disappeared. And then my favorite sweatshirt. My favorite-”
This broke you. This next item, the one that made you sick to your stomach just thinking about, broke you. Tears that once threatened to fall were now cascading down your cheeks. A broken sob left your throat and you began to curl in on yourself, but the movement caused a sharp pain in your chest and you were quickly reminded of why you couldn't do that. The hand on your arm squeezed lightly, once more breaking your paranoia. You tried to even your breathing as best as possible, but it took a few seconds before you could continue.
“My favorite pair of underwear,” you sobbed, a slight strain encapsulating your speech, “It was always my favorite stuff. The things I used the most. I kept thinking that maybe work was finally getting to me, maybe I was tired, or maybe it was stress. But I felt like I was losing my mind. Between my things going missing and the constant feeling like something was wrong, I really thought I was losing it. And then-”
Another sob broke through. Your eyes started to search your surroundings, looking for anything out of place, as if someone might jump out and get you.
“After a couple weeks of that, the dreams started. Every night, I would have the same exact dream. One minute I was sleeping, the next I would wake up to someone standing at the foot of my bed. I could never see who it was, but they were just standing there. Watching me sleep. And then I would wake up and it was morning. I started researching sleep paralysis thinking maybe that was it. I really thought I was losing it,” You whispered at the end, not actually wanting to admit that for weeks you thought you were having a mental breakdown.
Another glance at Robby. His hand was still on your forearm, but the other was covering his mouth. A look of reserved fear broke the surface, and you knew that he could finally tell just how bad it had gotten. Maybe he felt a bit of guilt, but most of all you knew he was starting to be equally shaken by everything you were revealing. You looked over at the two officers, nothing standing out other than looks of understanding and concern.
“I thought they were just dreams. But one night, I came home from a hard shift. My head was killing me, probably from how difficult it had been and all of the fluorescent lights. So, before bed, I closed the blinds in my living room and bedroom. There were lights outside that were coming in through the windows, so I just wanted to make everything as dark as possible. My room was pitch black when I fell asleep. And I know- I know- I know I closed those blinds. I know I closed them. I know I closed them.”
You started to rock, sobs escaping your throat every few seconds as you continued to repeat yourself. It was almost a chant at this point, a confirmation to yourself that you were not insane. That this was real, it happened, and you were not insane. Robby shuffled forward in his chair, bringing himself closer to you and bringing your focus to him.
“It's okay. You're okay. He's not here, it's just us. Breathe for me, sweetheart.” Robby cooed, desperately trying to calm you down. A couple minutes of continuous affirmations finally pulled you away from the edge of sheer panic.
“Take your time. When you're ready, you can start from where you left off.” Officer Lambert’s voice had turned soft. It was almost maternal, reminding you of Dana’s when she was worried about someone.
Before you could shut down completely, you forced yourself to spit it out.
“When I went to bed, both blinds were shut, and I had one of those dreams again. But this time,” you shuddered, “When I woke up, the blinds in my room were open.”
It was Robby's turn to shift. His eyes were closed, whether to bring comfort to himself, or because he couldn't bear to look at you. A hand remained plastered to his mouth while the one gripping your arm tightened ever so slightly. Your gaze fell back to the foot of the bed. It was a center point that grounded you, kept you whole, and told you that no one was standing there. He wasn't standing there.
“That's when I knew something was really, really wrong. And part of me knew that I should tell someone, but I was terrified that it was all in my head, that I was just going to be told I was losing it. I couldn't handle that. I didn't want to lose my job or be told that I wasn't in the right mind to keep doing it. It was the only thing keeping me sane at the time. After that night, I stopped sleeping. I mean, every once in a while, after a few days I would collapse in bed from exhaustion, but otherwise I would stay awake for as long as I could. I could usually last four days before I couldn't stay awake any more, but I always made it home before that happened. I knew it was wrong. I knew I was putting myself and patients in danger by not sleeping, but I was terrified. Terrified of telling someone because then it was real. If I told someone, it wouldn't be a possibility anymore, it would just be real.”
The room was quiet, save for the ambience of the hospital.
“The worst part is, I didn't even really keep myself busy to stay awake at night. I just sat on my bed with a knife from the kitchen, and stared at the bedroom door until my alarm went off. My own personal hell for hours on end wondering if that door knob was finally going to turn. But it never did. Which made me feel even more crazy. Like maybe it was just a series of bad dreams. If it weren't for the blinds, I don't think I would've ever known any different.”
The hand on your arm loosened, but the warmth given by those calloused hands never ceased to exist.
“It finally got to a point where I knew I had to tell someone. I'm sure people started noticing anyway, I wasn't myself anymore. I felt like a shell of the person I was before all of this started. As if each time I had one of those dreams or stayed up at night, a part of who I was got leached from me. My next shift-”
The air in your lungs thickened, because this was it. This was the day that would replay in your head until your body was worm ridden six feet in the ground.
“My next shift was on Halloween,” you whispered gently, “So, I told myself that I would tell someone that day. Someone I trusted. But he was so busy and on edge that day. I never got the chance.”
Any movement you made was reminiscent of a body stuck in quicksand. Each step, arm movement, head turn, and even a single intake of air felt slow and heavy. You knew there was no one to blame but yourself, yet that knowledge made it worse. You knew why this was happening, why you felt this way. The reminder sent a shiver up your spine and, almost instinctively, you risked a glance over your shoulder. Nobody there. Just an empty exam room. Looking back at the computer you were charting on, you found yourself hypnotized by the rhythmic blinking of the cursor waiting for text to appear.
The chart was for a simple case of dehydration, causing the afflicted to pass out while grocery shopping. Nothing crazy. Just simple. A round of fluids, a quick lecture on the importance of hydration, and they were on their way. Yet here you were, unable to put pen to paper, or finger to keyboard in this situation.
Despite already being halfway through your shift, time felt as slow as your body did. It was starting to frustrate you. There was a desperation clawing at your mind, reminding you that you needed to talk to Robby. Of course, you were terrified to tell him, but there was always something between the two of you that led you to believe he could be trusted. There was also the hope that somehow, he would protect you. Every time you tried to talk to him a new patient would come in, or his name would be called, or some other random thing caught his attention. Then there was the attitude. He had such a problem with his attitude all morning, and it was starting to piss you off beyond belief. Robby was snapping at everyone, but he was particularly hard on you today. No matter what you did, it wasn't good enough.
You hadn't told Robby your usual morning joke, and even though it wasn't that big of a deal, it was bothering you. What started as a stupid way to break the ice became a beloved routine. At the start of each shift, you would tell him a knock knock joke. It was juvenile, yes, but he seemed to like it. Sometimes, if you forgot to tell him right away, he would ask about it. This morning, however, was different. He hardly even looked your way during the morning report.
“Angel,” Your nickname broke you out of your dazed state, “You have a special delivery!”
Princess stood perched at your side looking more than excited. Her facial expression was almost mischievous, but mostly pleasantly curious. Your brows furrowed at the sentence. You hadn't ordered anything and your parents were back in your home state, so this was not something you were expecting.
“Special delivery?” God you sounded beyond tired, each word coming out slow and drawn out. A flatline cadence compared to the sing-song given by Princess.
“Mhm. It's in the break room lover girl.” Princess practically danced back over to Perlah at the hub, looking back over at you every so often with a glimmer in her eye. Curiosity got the best of you, and you stood slowly from central before dragging your body over to the break room.
It caught your attention immediately as you opened the floor. A giant bouquet of flowers nestled aesthetically into a vase dawning your favorite color. They were your favorite flowers. Each little hair on your body stood up as soon the sight registered in your exhausted mind. A small piece of paper was tucked in-between some of the flowers, a beautiful cursive ink with your name on it.
Something in you told you not to touch it. To not acknowledge its existence, but you did anyway. Picking up the piece of paper carefully, you unfolded it to find a short note.
these smell just like your favorite candle :) enjoy
A chill forced its way across your skin. The candle in question was scented like these flowers, and it was sitting on your coffee table at home. A gasp crawled its way out of your throat before throwing itself into the still air. Without hesitation, you grabbed the vase and note, tossing it into the trash can and ran back to your station. The air had suddenly grown too thick to bear. You were suffocating on the fear that had forced its way into your life almost two months ago. This was too much.
Yet, it continued. An hour later, another delivery came.
“You sure are special to someone, Angel,” Princess giggled as she handed you a bag. You had been monitoring the patient board above the hub, deciding which one you would take over next. Anything to keep you distracted. You looked over at Princess, confusion yet again coming to the forefront of your mind. Confusion that was short lasting. Princess held a takeout bag up towards you. A bag sporting the logo of your favorite restaurant not far from where you lived. Another chill ran through you. You ripped it out of her hands, shaking with both fear and anger this time. Inside the bag was your go to order - and another note.
you haven't eaten yet. you need to eat.
Eyes wide, you ran around the counter at the hub and slammed it into the trash can beside an unsuspecting Dana.
“Jesus, Angel! What're you doin’ that for?” Dana jumped at the intrusive sound. Heat crawled up your neck out of embarrassment, but that fear was still gnawing at you, refusing to let you truly feel ashamed for what you were doing.
Princess was frowning, probably at the waste of good food and at your behavior. She had already confronted you about the flowers being thrown away, but you had refused to budge on the subject. Looking around, you found quite a few eyes on you, one of them being Robby's. You were breathing heavily, a sweaty layer forming over your shaky blanched skin.
Another hour passed. Another delivery appeared. This time it was coffee. This time, it was the last straw.
you look tired
So simply put, yet so haunting. You had decided earlier that you would try talking to Robby tomorrow, that maybe he wouldn't be so grumpy and it would be easier to approach him. But this was too much. Everything was too much. It was too much. Unfiltered panic was causing bile to creep up your throat, threatening to make an appearance at any second. Between suffering from sleep deprivation, hunger, and dealing with a grueling shift, you were starting to lose it. And this completely compounded that fact.
You needed to tell Robby. Something was incredibly wrong.
“Angel,” Dana called out to you from the hub, your chart still remaining unfinished in front of you, “You've got anotha patient in North 4 that needs taken care of.”
One more patient, then you would tell him.
The curtain was already drawn back when you reached North 4, an older priest sitting patiently on the bed. His gentle appearance eased some of the strain you were feeling, but the knowledge that at any moment you might break was still weighing on you.
“Good afternoon, Doctor-” He paused, indicating he was waiting for your name.
“Oh, I'm sorry.” You tell him your name before continuing to apologize for not greeting him right away. It was unlike you to just burst in and not say a word. With Gloria up everyone's ass about patient satisfaction and your natural need to please those around you, not greeting someone with a smile was rare.
“No worries. I can't imagine how tiresome this job must be. You truly are carrying out God's will.” He was oddly cheery for someone with a large gash in the leg. You give a tight little smile and nod at his remark.
“Um. So. I see your leg caught on a broken piece of religious equipment. I'm sorry it took you so long to get back here and be seen. May I take a look?” You took your eyes away from the chart on the screen and over to his wrapped leg.
“Of course,” He waved his hands over his leg as an invitation. You stepped forward and plopped down on the rolling stool to get to a comfortable height, uncaring as to how graceless you are about it. Very gently, you lifted the wrapping around his leg and found yourself looking at a decently sized gash going up his calf. It was swollen, but no clear signs of infection.
“Okay, this looks pretty straight forward. I'm not concerned about any infection right now, but we'll still need to keep an eye on it. Was this religious equipment metal by chance?” You remained solely focused on his wound, determining the best call for action, which was more than likely a fair amount of stitches. Nothing complex, but just enough to keep your mind occupied. The priest chuckled at your question.
“Religious equipment. What a funny way to put that,” You glanced at him apologetically, “Yes, it was metal. One of the altar boys neglected to properly store the thurible stand - it holds the thurible which we use for incense during special Masses. It caught on my leg and, ironically, the cross just about tore my leg up! Slightly poetic if you ask me.” He jested.
This earned a strained laugh from you, though it was gone as quickly as it came. You put the wrapping back over his wound before standing up.
“It definitely looks like you'll be needing stitches, but that shouldn't take long at all. I'm going to grab a suture kit, clean the wound and surrounding area, then inject some lidocaine to numb the site. After that I will be stitching it up and you'll be good to go after a brief period of observation.” The speech you typically give patients getting sutures fell off your tongue easier than ice melting under the sun. Despite your exhaustion, it came naturally. The priest gave a hum of approval and a beaming grin.
You turned on your heel, confidently walking over to the supply cart on the right of the bed. But you could hardly see straight. At this point, the exhaustion was beginning to seep into your bones, carrying you more than you were carrying yourself. So, you overshot and ran into the chair beside the bed. A heat creeped up your neck and you quickly apologized to the man.
“Are you okay?” He had a genuine concern written all over his face, but not a lack of trust in you.
“Yes, sorry.” Embarrassed, you practically yank the suture kit out of one of the drawers and sit back down by his leg. You were desperately trying to focus on what was in front of you, not wanting to slip up again. This task was proving difficult, your vision starting to blur and double in random increments. You clean his calf after stripping the wrapping completely off, making sure you were doing a thorough job the entire time.
“You'll feel a small prick and light burning, but it should go away fairly quickly once the lidocaine kicks in.” It was drilled into you from the very beginning to keep patients in the loop with what you were doing. It builds trust in your abilities, as well as keeps them from feeling like they’re being kept in the dark. It was a routine stitch and yet anything that could possibly go wrong was going wrong. Your hands were slower than your mind, which was impressive considering the circumstances, and his skin kept breaking. A huff left your nose as his skin broke again.
“Is there a problem doctor?” You flushed at the priest's question, humiliated that something so simple was becoming a problem. You shook your head, a desperate attempt at a response and a way to keep your focus on the task at hand. His question must have caught Robby’s attention as he was walking, because suddenly he was stomping over to where you were sitting.
“Is there a problem here?” Robby echoed the priest's previous sentiments. This time, the flush covering your neck and cheeks was from anger. Robby had practically ignored you all day, but the minute someone was potentially questioning your abilities, there he was. Of course.
“No, Robby. It's fine.” You gave him a quick glare before sticking the hook back into the epidermis. The suture broke again.
“Really? Because it looks like you're failing at doing something you were taught in medical school. I expect more from a resident.” Robby's comment made your skin crawl. The heat is settling into every corner of your body at this point. It was one thing to correct or suggest a different approach, but to essentially humiliate you in front of a patient was a line you refused to let get crossed. You set the hook and thread down, looking over at Robby with every ounce of anger you were feeling in that moment. Anger at him. Anger at the fact he had been ignoring you all day. And anger at how scared you were with no one to tell - well, one person, but the fucking sucked at the moment.
“I'm sorry. Would you like to try, because I highly doubt you could do it any better.” You snapped harder than you intended, but it was deserved in your opinion. Robby’s eyebrows shot up at your response, his jaw ticking so subtly only you would notice. Of course you would notice. The priest was clearly becoming uncomfortable, a quick clearing of his throat revealing as much.
“Excuse me?” Robby crossed his arms and tilted his head to the side, a clear indicator that you were pushing the limit.
“You're excused.” You turned back towards the priest's leg and picked your utensils up, shaking in the process.
“You're out of line-”
“Oh, I'm out of line?” Your voice was getting louder at this point. You were over it. Everything was coming to a head and you just couldn't take it anymore. This was too much. Everything was too much. It was too much.
“Angel, either take 15 or go home.” Robby was matching your volume now, his voice ice cold with contempt. As you looked around you, most eyes were widened at the scene playing out. Humiliating.
“Oh go to hell. She's doing just fine. My skin is fragile, sir. Give her a break.” The priest's words caused your head to snap toward him. Shock and fear was written all over your face. You knew his comment was going to set Robby off, but it was also something you weren't expecting at all. A sweet and holy man using words you knew to be believed a sin. It spoke volumes.
“Take 15. Or. Go. Home.” Robby was now pointing his finger at you, face red with anger. Perhaps it was also some embarrassment on his end, but mostly anger. His mouth was in a thin line no longer leaving any room for argument.
You stood up abruptly, the stool you had been sitting on flying backwards, but you paid it no attention. Tears were cascading down your face, a waterfall of suppressed emotion making an unwelcome appearance. Refusing to look back, you stormed out of the north end of the ED, going straight for the ambulance bay. The air in the pitt was thick and viscous - full of nothing but wandering eyes and telephoned whispers.
The doors going out to the ambulance bay were surprisingly empty. Normally, at least two to three paramedics were waiting around for a desperate cry for help, but everyone seemed to be busy at the moment. For you, this was good. It was quiet, but not quiet enough, so you threw yourself out into the brisk October air. Once you found yourself far away from prying eyes, just past the bushes outside the doors, you let yourself completely go. Not a single tear was held back, each sob ripping itself from you as you allowed the shame and frustration to take over.
You were hurt. Robby was someone you trusted deeply, and even more foolishly you allowed yourself to believe there could be more between the two of you one day. He was always there by your side, never once hesitating to guide you in the right direction, so his snappy demands and accusations bruised you to the core. On top of everything else, there was that sickening betrayal you felt that prevented you from telling him that something was wrong. Someone was watching you. Someone was watching you.
“For just a few minutes, I forgot. I forgot that I was being watched. I forgot someone was tracking my movements. I forgot someone was obsessing over my existence. It was both maddening and peaceful at the same time. But the moment I remembered why I was so tired, it all came crashing down.”
The air in your lungs stilled as your tears did the same. Any ounce of fear you may have let go for a brief period of time came back full force, crashing into you like an icy tidal wave. The skin covering your shaking flesh became textured as dread took hold. Not a second went by before you heard it. A heavy thudding of footsteps approaching you from behind, quick and methodical in their movement.
You tried to turn around, you really did, but it was too late. Before a scream could fully slither its way up your throat, arms flew around you with a rag crashing into your mouth. The rag was sickeningly sweet, yet somewhat reminiscent of nail polish remover - the scent itself being a paradox. Both arms tightened around you as you began to thrash around desperately attempting to escape the confines of your attacker. The hand that wasn't on your mouth was wrapped around your waist pushing you against the body behind you. It was so strangely intimate for such a horrific ordeal, the idea of it making you sick.
Your muffled cries started to lose power as the scent of the rag began warping your mind. Whatever was on it was burning your nose and throat, causing your already sluggish mind to slip into a hazy fog of pure disorientation. Any energy you possessed was being put to work by your kicking and thrashing, refusing to let this person win. The intense feeling of dread continued to ripple through your mind. There were so many ways this could go; the first being your untimely demise caused by some depraved individual, the second was potentially being kidnapped and kept hostage for god knows how long, and the third.. well you didn't really want to think about that possibility. You had seen too many SANE’s faces after leaving an exam room to allow yourself to picture being the one in that room.
A swift kick you sent backwards managed to hit the person's shin, a cry of pain leaving their throat. Seeing your chance at getting away, you started to run back towards the doors leading into the Pitt, but your body was moving at such an awkward speed. It was like one of those dreams where you couldn't run fast enough from whatever was chasing you.
“Hel-” Your cry for help was cut short by a hand yanking your head back while clutching your face. Flying back into the body behind you, the both of you collapsed onto the hard ground. All of the air in your lungs was knocked out the second you made contact with the ground, leaving you gasping for some reprieve. That, however, was cut short. Your face had scraped against the exposed aggregate concrete, leaving your skin broken and bleeding. It was evidence of a struggle. Proof that you were fighting to push through and survive the living hell you had been dropped into. A screech broke through your throat as you clawed at the concrete beneath you, trying to gain traction and crawl away back to safety.
It was daunting - the idea of never getting the chance to be greeted by the crisp smell of antiseptic and sweat ever again. Whatever the outcome, the possibility of that being stolen from you caused such a deeply rooted ache and shiver of fear. This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. Not now. Not when you were so close to breaking through the barriers of whatever strength Robby had put between the two of you.
You inched forward, desperately army crawling as the ground beneath stung your torn skin.
“No!” You howled. Couldn’t someone hear you? Fuck why couldn’t someone just hear your echoing pleas.
A bruising grip wrapped around your calf, dragging you back and away from the freedom you clung to with foolish hope. Your body bent at an awkward angle as you were flipped back onto your back, finally revealing the last thing you had wanted to see. The person you tried to pass as a figment of your imagination, the product of countless days filled with sleep deprivation and frigid adrenaline. The moment your widened eyes met his, it all came rushing back to you. The nights you gaslit yourself into believing were just episodes of sleep paralysis contained the haunting image of a man obsessed with the very essence of your being. He had a sickly complexion, one riddled with sweat from either excitement or just sheer adrenaline, but it paled his skin in such a disturbing way. The sweat dampening his forehead caused his blonde hair to stick, a small droplet snaking its way down a strand of hair and onto your bleeding cheek. Under the scrutiny of his pale blue eyes, you were forced to face every emotion he was feeling in that moment, anchoring your soul to him in such a perverse way. They say that eyes are the window to the soul - if this is true, his soul was wretched and warped, shaped poorly to fit his morose essence.
The rag in his hand flew back down onto your face like an anchor thrown into the ocean, settling with a mission to trap and immobilize. Bile filled your throat, the stinging of the chemical soaking your lungs was causing a litany of effects you refused to acknowledge in that moment. You thrashed against him, pushing and pulling every which way to get him off of you, but his weight was more than you had anticipated from such a frail build. One quick elbow movement knocked his hand off of your mouth, sending the rag flying into the bushes beside you. A glimmer of rage flashed across his face which only pushed him further over the edge.
“I don’t want to hurt you! Just let me save you, please.” He cried out in contempt. In a flash, his hands met your throat, gripping like a vice. Dirty nails dug into your skin, his grip instantly bruising as crescent shapes were etched into you with each squeeze. Confusion at his plea crossed your mind for just a moment before your body began involuntarily wriggling around. With each passing second your oxygen supply depleted and the feeling… It was overwhelming. Your face grew hot with strain, a string of drool dripping down your face into your ear, and the world around you was quickly becoming grainy and unstable. Your shaking hands clawed at the ones grasping you. The idea of this being your final moments crept into your mind and gnawed at any piece of hope you had left. A shallow crunch came from your neck as the pressure behind his hands began to peak.
“I love you. Please don’t make me hurt you. I love you so much. I just want to help you. God, just let me take you away from here. I can make you so happy. Please. Please!” Strings of random prayers for your divine mercy came tumbling out of his throat. Such a hypocritical stance to take when one is actively draining someone of life. Despite your world beginning to fade out, you still put every ounce of energy you had left into fighting for your future, fighting for the right to live just one more god forsaken day on this planet. Fighting to, at the very least, say goodbye to Robby.
The man's right hand lifted from your throat, allowing a bit of reprieve and letting some oxygen back into your lungs, and reached down to his front pocket.
“Stop fighting! I don’t want to hurt you!” You ignored him, because no rational individual would tell you they didn’t want to hurt you when they had their hands wrapped around your throat. Your legs were kicking every way possible, at one point kneeing him in the back at an awkward angle. More drool pooled out from the sides of your lips, a disturbing sputtering coming from you as you tried not to drown in the fluid filling your mouth. His face was nothing but a blur in this moment, but what you wouldn’t give to know what he could’ve possibly been thinking. Why you? Why now?
A distant shifting of fabric caught your attention, even more so when you caught a glimpse of a knife heading towards your chest. The tip of his blade caught on the skin directly atop of your sternum, digging in and drawing blood without too far. No man’s land. Your mind went back to PittFest in that moment, a brief glimpse at your lesson on probability of survival based on where a wound was - Mohan sharing your sentiments of confusion as to why you hadn’t already learned about that. You knew it was risky to keep fighting, that the likelihood of this going south because of one small movement was greater than before, but you refused to give up. You refused to let this be the moment you decided you couldn’t keep going. Not now. But of course now.
Your legs continued to throw themselves around, but this time, you took it too far. Your desperate attempts at getting away backfired astronomically. A small miscalculation on your end. Your foot caught on his, pulling it from beneath him, causing his entire body weight to come crashing down onto you.
It was quick. Quicker than you had anticipated at least. And the sound was deafening despite how quiet it actually was. A sickening squelch and crack followed the sudden movement, leaving no room for argument that there was no going back. Then came the feeling - there was no slicing sensation, no distinct feeling of being cut, but rather it felt as though you had been hit in the chest by a piece of scorching hot metal. A searing heat that grew until it completely enveloped you. You gasped at the unwelcome intrusion, but the gasp crackled and faded. Shock widened your eyes, the prior blur to the world clearing and allowing you to face the man above you.
His eyes were as wide as yours, if not more so. A soft whimper left him while he shook, tears gathering on his water line as he looked down at the handle sticking out of your chest. Though his tears stayed obediently on his waterline, yours defied and chose to break loose, cascading down your paling face. A small, strangled sound escaped you, the reality of it all crashing over you, pain becoming the forefront of your truth.
Maybe it was time. If anything, it was time to let go of your preconceived notion of what life had in store for you, because surely this was not part of it. To you, life had started to look like endless days of Robby. Endless days of longing for his touch. Not this. No, never this.
Y/N has been struggling to find the moment to have the big 'what are we' talk with Jack Abbot. The pair have been dating for a good while and things feel like they are growing into something real. An overheard conversation with Dr. Al Hashimi leads to a massive misunderstanding for an insecure Y/N. Y/N begins to question if Abbot was just passing his time with her until a catch like Al Hashimi came along.
Part One of Two
angst, idiots in love, men being clueless, Al Hashimi is innocent, insecurity from Reader. Just angst and two losers sucking at talking about their relationship like reasonable adults. Mentions of past suicide ideation. Discussion of losing a spouse.
The words seem like they should be so simple to say. They dance around in the back of her throat sliding forward to the tip of her tongue not getting caught up on her tonsils or her teeth as she stares up at him.
The words have been rehearsed a dozen times in her head like a recording that she just can’t skip.
She’s thought so much about the words she needs to say to express exactly what she feels for him.
I really like you. I have the best time with you. You make my days and nights seem brighter. You’re all I think about in my quiet moments. You’re the one I want to reach out to when everything feels awful, but you’re also my person when something wonderful happens. I am not seeing anyone else, so I really hope you aren’t either. I know we’ve not discussed labels, but I really would like to. We’ve been out on several dates and have toothbrushes at each other’s places. You’ve seen sides of me that I rarely show another soul. You make me cum harder than anyone has managed to and you make me laugh so hard my ribs hurt. So, I’d like to make things official.
The words should be so easy to say, but life keeps getting in the way.
She’d laid in bed by his side soaking up the afterglow of making love and felt the words form on her lips before dying on her tongue. She’d sat by his side sharing coffee and bagels wanting so dearly to say the words but chickening out worried that breakfast time isn’t entirely a romantic atmosphere. She’d sat across from him at romantic dinners parting her lips to say the words until a waiter interrupted them.
Working in different departments and lately on entirely different shifts makes it all the more difficult to find the time to say what she has been dying to say. They pass by one another in between opposing shifts with zero moment to exchange more than a rushed kiss and a ‘have a good shift. Be safe’
She’s fallen in love with Dr. Jack Samuel Abbot and every single time she attempts to tell him that she wants whatever has built between them to be serious, life rams its head in and stops her.
She doesn’t think anyone could blame her for falling for Jack Abbot.
When she accepted the offer of an attending physician position in the pediatric ward at PTMC she felt so blessed. She was finally done with her residency, finally done putting in a few years at a tiny little town in Minnesota at a little hospital that hired her and paid her enough to get her student loans down to a reasonable livable amount.
The offer to move to a highly regarded teaching hospital and take an attendant position in her thirties had felt like a dream come true. Even if she’d been shoved on alternating shifts , working both day and night shifts, it still felt like an incredible opportunity.
She’d never anticipated that a trip down to do a consult in the emergency department for a boy with a severe asthma attack would lead her to meeting the man of her dreams.
Abbot had been a flirt right off the bat and though it had felt flattering she’d not paid too much mind to it. She had seen the type before a doctor with an ego and a flirty attitude.
Sure, she’d found him cute and a charmer, but she told herself she was well past the age of schoolgirl crushes on older guys.
A night out with friends from work had changed her initial opinion about Abbot. Some of the staff from the ED had been at the same bar she’d gone to and Abbot and she had chatted over beers and rum and cokes. He’d taught her to play darts. They’d flirted over crappy alcohol, bar nuts, and darts.
He’d taken her to get a greasy breakfast at a 24 hr dinner when the bar had got too hectic and bar nuts and fried pub food seemed less than filling.
He’d asked to see her again and she’d accepted.
A kiss had been shared…more than one kiss and their relationship had led to the bedroom. They each had a drawer and a toothbrush at one another’s places. Their lives felt intertwined.
It felt real.
Jack Abbot was a prince among men; intelligent, funny, compassionate, strong willed, and incredibly patient.
Y/N knew he was a complicated man though…he was resilient.
The resilience had been born out of trauma and loss.
The trauma of war from his time in the army. The loss of his leg from the knee down from an IED. The trauma of that loss and the end of his military career. The trauma of all the horrific things he’d seen during his time as an Army medic. The traumas he’d seen working in the medical field as a civilian. The sudden loss of his wife and the grief he’d endured from her death.
Jack Abbot was a multifaceted man. His kindness joined hands with a sense of loss and pain no human should endure. His compassion was born from suffering. His intelligence bred from sacrifice. His humor learned from coping with grief.
Perhaps due to his complexity Y/N had also been inspired to keep her lips sealed when it came to spilling her heart to him?
He was a sensitive soul who had lived through a lot. She almost feared he’d turn her love away, too afraid to risk exposing her to his traumas.
She was growing sick of holding back though. She’d decided that once she got herself back on her usual schedule and their schedules became more aligned she’d grow a pair and say the words.
Well…she’d been so brave until now.
She’d not anticipated seeing Jack Abbot in full SWAT gear when she came down to the ED for a consult.
He’d of course reassured her he was fine just coming in with a guy from his SWAT crew who’d been shot. The guy would be fine and everything was okay.
Despite the worry she’d felt knowing he’d literally been shot at, she felt a warm sense of adoration wash over her at how reassuring he’d been when he spotted her worry.
He’d taken her aside and so sweetly spoken to her promising her that he was a-okay. He’d reassured her he was planning on cutting back on the SWAT shifts as he knew they worried her. He’d sworn to her that he was just fine.
Even when he’d admitted a bullet had lightly grazed him, prompting her to react accordingly, he’d insisted that she had nothing to worry about.
It was something she adored about him…the man had literally been shot at and he was more worried about her concern over him than his own injury.
That warm sense of adoration felt bitter and sour in her chest as she stood by the nurses station going over some lab orders she’d requested from the ten year old girl she’d been called down to do a consult on.
She listened to Jack Abbot chat with the attending physician who’d be replacing Robby while he took a sabbatical.
Dr. Baran Al Hashimi had seemed kind enough; clearly enthusiastic about the work she’d be doing filling in for Robby.
Y/N had been introduced to the doctor as they might cross paths during Robby’s planned time away.
Al Hashimi seemed polite and perfectly lovely if not a bit too enthusiastic about the promise of AI in the medical field when it came to charting.
Y/N could actually see herself enjoying working alongside the woman if Y/N were to find herself called down to the ED, despite Y/N’s less than favorable feelings about artificial intelligence.
Any sense that Al Hashimi seemed like someone Y/N would enjoy working with faded so quickly as she stood aside clearly able to hear Jack Abbot chatting with Al Hashimi.
Y/N felt bile rise in the back of her throat as she heard Abbot speak his voice far too flirtatious. “We should grab a drink sometime. Swap war stories.”
Although Y/N could not see Baran Al Hashimi’s face a nasty voice in the back of her head snarled that the doctor was probably sending Abbot a flirty smile awestruck by his charm.
How could she not? Abbot was practically the Prince Charming of the Pitt.
Y/N felt her heart sink as Al Hashimi replied with a friendly “Sure sounds great.”
The words taunted Y/N ‘grab a drink, swap war stories.’
Of course…
Her heart felt like it was cracking as it sunk all the further.
Y/N stared down at the iPad in her hand swallowing down her heartache.
She had been so hopeful that all those dates, all those kisses, all the lovemaking, the toothbrushes at one another’s places had meant something.
It had meant something to her…but the flirty tone and drink offer that had spilled from Abbot’s lips directed to a woman who was not Y/N was a clear sign as any that all of those little things that she’d cherished and allowed herself to believe meant something meant nothing to Jack Abbot.
The horrible thing was that Y/N wasn’t even sure she could truly blame him.
Dr. Baran Al Hashimi was in her forties and a bit closer in age to Jack Abbot’s near fifty than Y/N’s thirties.
She was a stunning woman. Intelligent and excited to work in the emergency department.
Her experience in the ED probably meant she would have more in common to discuss career wise with Abbot than Y/N with her pediatric experience.
Al Hashimi had worked in active war zones meaning she could relate to Abbot in that regard given his past as an Army medic.
The horror of war was something Y/N would never fully understand no matter how much she attempted to empathize and relate to Abbot with his trauma.
Al Hashimi more than likely had a deep enough understanding of the hell of war and could truly fully understand what Abbot had lived through.
Y/N felt her heart twist and ache telling herself that of course Abbot would pounce at the opportunity to woo someone like Al Hashimi.
A cruel voice in the back of her head told Y/N that it was only a matter of time until Abbot found a better option than her.
She had simply just been something to entertain him until something better had come along.
Y/N had been too anxious to broach the ‘what are we’ dilemma, but Abbot had not taken the initiative either.
Perhaps he’d not broached the subject because he was just waiting for the chance to let her down gently? Perhaps he’d not asked her for something real because this was nothing to him but some casual fun.
She placed the iPad on the nurses station, turning on her heel wanting to get far from the man who had just destroyed her heart and the woman who was so obviously the better option.
She felt the tears flood her vision as she entered the elevator frantically pushing the close door button so relieved she was all alone.
She rested her head back against the cool metal wall of the elevator, her tears falling rapidly.
She reached up wiping at her face roughly the words spilling out to empty air saying what she so desperately wanted to say to Jack Abbot. “I hate you Jack…I love you and I hate you so much right now.”
She felt her throat grow tight as her cell rang the name flashing across the screen. She picked it up trying to even out her breathing and sound anything less than miserable.
“Robby, sorry. I didn’t get a chance to catch you before I got called back up to peds…but your patient should be good. Her blood sugar is back in range. We can monitor her for a few more hours to make sure it doesn’t plummet again, but I don't think she’ll need to be admitted to my floor.”
She was not shocked by the response she received. “Are you okay? I know Abbot’s an idiot.”
She felt her throat grow tight wondering if he too had witnessed Abbot practically tripping over himself to charm Al Hashimi.
Has everyone noticed? Was this all some kind of big joke on her? Poor Y/N in love with a man and unable to see he doesn’t feel the same, so pathetic.
Her paranoia tampered down as Robby spoke again. “I told him he needs to back off the SWAT hobby, but he’s an adrenaline junkie to his core. I’m sure he’s gonna be fine though. The man survived too much for a grazed gunshot wound to take him out.”
She felt her throat grow tight, almost wishing the source of her pain was that simple…just simple concern over the man she adored…not her heart getting stomped on by realizing that the man she loved clearly did not feel the same.
She spoke knowing her voice was sharp anger easier to grasp on to than sorrow. “I need to let you go. I have to get back to peds”
She ignored Robby’s well meaning reassurances and goodbyes, hanging up her cell and shoving it in her pocket, her stomach turning as she tried to ready herself to return to her own department.
She would make it though the rest of her day and then she’d go home and cry it out with a bottle of wine and some ice cream. She was a grown woman and she could survive this.
She put on a brave face as the elevator doors opening she returning to her own department ready to push back her heartbreak and endure.
She sighed as her cell phone chimed indicating a fresh text message.
She yanked it from her scrub pocket glaring down at the name on the screen, the sight offending her.
Jackie ❤️: You hitting my place after your shift? I’ve got that leftover pizza in the fridge. You’re welcome to it.”
She resisted the urge to toss her phone across the hallway in rage. He was seriously texting her like everything was peachy and as though he hadn’t just asked someone else out on a date?
She gritted her jaw keeping her response short and to the point: Have a headache. Going back to my place. Sleeping it off.
She gritted her jaw all the more at the reply she received.
Jackie ❤️: I could swing by your place.
She typed out her reply angrily: Probably not a good idea. Might be sick.
She felt her heart twist and her anger bloom at the flirty reply she received.
Jackie ❤️: Alright, Sweetheart. Just do me a favor and get plenty of rest. Need my girl to feel better, doctors orders.
She resisted the urge to text by her ideal response ‘Enjoy your drinks with Baran you two timing piece of shit. I hope you get alcohol poisoning.’
She instead shoved her phone back in her scrub pocket practically stomping her way towards the pediatric department.
She took a deep breath reminding herself; survive this shift. Go home, get drunk, eat ice cream, google how to place hexes on shitty almost-boyfriends.
She would survive this hurt. She just had to cry first.
——————
Y/N was avoiding him, that much was clear. The problem was Jack Abbot had zero clue what he’d done to be subjected to the coldness?
He had spent three miserable days and nights rolling through every single interaction he’s had with Y/N over the past week searching for clues on what he could have done to get such chilly indifference from her.
He struggled to place what he may have done to upset her…because clearly she seemed upset.
She was not transparent about her annoyance but instead she seemed dismissive of his attempts to reach out and connect.
He’d assumed that she was in fact just getting sick so he’d done the loving act of ubering soup, juice, Gatorade, and some Tylenol to her apartment.
He’d not received the response he had anticipated. He had almost feared the little care package he’d put together for her had failed to arrive.
So, he’d of course reached out to her, sending a text to check in and see if she got the package.
The only response he’d gotten was a short clipped ‘Yep, thanks.’
Any attempts to prolong the interaction had been met with a simple. ‘I’m exhausted. Going to turn in.’
His adoring ‘Sweet dreams, Hon’ had not received a reply.
Any further attempts to reach out were given the same reaction; short emotionless responses and claims of being tired.
He’d tried to ask if he could drop in on her but was met with insistence it would be a bad idea, she didn’t feel well.
Jack Abbot would be lying if he claimed he did not consider dropping in on her without warning, but had resisted too sure that showing up unannounced would be pushing at her boundaries.
He felt despondent over it all. It was frustrating being so uncertain of what he’d done to be iced out by the girl he’d worked so hard to charm.
He’d not anticipated finding love again, not after losing his wife.
When Anna Abbot had died in a car accident on the way to visit her family out west, it had felt like a cruel joke on Jack Abbot.
He’d lived through so much already, and Anna had been there through it all to hold his hand and offer gentle reassurance.
The world had ripped her away from Jack Abbot without warning. She’d been halfway across the country dying alone on a dark desolate highway because some damn semi driver had fallen asleep at the wheel so determined to meet his destination that he’d driven longer than he was supposed to.
Jack Abbot had wanted to die right there with Anna. He’d watched his beloved wife be lowered into the ground in a closed casket in the family plot her mother had insisted on, the one with no spot for Jack Abbot to rest at his wife’s side.His mother in law had never liked him and had seemed to choose her daughter’s final resting spot to spite him. Anna was catholic and had been buried in a catholic cemetery where her husband who had never converted could be buried.
Looking back Abbot wished he had insisted on choosing his wife’s final resting place, picking somewhere he could be laid to rest at her side. He’d not had it in him to fight her mother on it though. He’d known he’d lost a wife but her mother had lost a child.
The funeral had been awful; he felt numb barely able to even comprehend people’s expressions of sympathy.
He’d stood at her gravesite feeling as though his heart was being lowered into that grave.
Jack Abbot had wanted to throw himself in the ground with his wife. He’d wanted to be buried alive there on top of her casket. Life without her was not worth living.
He’d spent restless nights wishing he’d not gotten rid of his guns after the worst of his PTSD when his therapist and he’d agreed that he should not have access to weapons in his home.
He’d envisioned going out and buying a gun and blowing his brains out. He’d thought of throwing himself off the roof of PTMC.
His sister had been the one who had dragged him out of his thoughts of ending his life. She’d practically moved in with him, she’d taken care of him and slowly but surely he’d been able to see through the fog of depression and grief long enough to reach out to his therapist and seek help.
Jack Abbot had assumed that what he’d shared with his late wife was a once in a lifetime opportunity. He could never replicate the sense of love he’d felt for her. Anna had been an amazing woman. No one could compare to her.
Then Dr. Y/L/N had been hired up in pediatrics and he’d eaten every word he’d ever uttered about thinking loving again was not in the cards for him.
Y/N had walked into his life like a ray of sunshine and he’d wanted to soak up the warmth he felt around her.
Somehow he’d managed to charm her into a date which had turned into several dates and a sense of intimacy Jack Abbot had thought he’d never experience with another soul ever again.
He’d felt more at peace these past months of romancing her than he’d felt in years.
He’d clearly done something to ruin that sense of peace though.
He’d once again found himself locked in an attempt to figure out just what he’d done to wreck everything as he stood at the nurses station in the Pitt.
He did not even notice Robby as he approached him chattering about shift change.
Abbot was finally pulled out of his own thoughts as Robby spoke, giving his shoulder a nudge. “Hey, Space Cadet, you listening to me?”
Abbot raised a brow staring up from the spot he’d been glaring at on the nurse’s station finally meeting his old friend’s eyes. “Sorry, just thinking.”
Robby raised a brow in return, Jack letting out a heavy sigh reluctant to spill his guts right here in the middle of the Pitt so close to the nurses station. He knew Pearla and Princess were notorious gossips and would yap if they overheard his personal business.
He threw caution to the wind deciding his misery was too heavy to carry on his own. “I think I screwed up.”
Robby continued to stare at him one brow raised not replying with any smart responses he was tempted to blurt out.
Abbot spoke again shifting in place the sock he’d put over his residual limb a bit too stretched out that it kept sliding downwards. He knew it would be a pain in the ass later especially if it slid far down enough to allow his prosthetic to rub against the limb and make the sensitive skin and scarring raw.
“I did something to piss Y/N off, the only problem is I have zero clue what I did.”
Robby scoffed at the comment thinking back to the abrupt way Y/N had ended the call. It was a bit out of character for the woman. She was almost as chatty as Abbot. Robby didn’t mind it. He’d grown a little fond of her in her time in Abbot’s life, and not just because she seemed to make the night attendant clearly happy.
Robby dared to say the words knowing it would earn him a glare from Abbot. “It might be that you keep throwing yourself into the SWAT shit. Your hobby involves getting shot at, can’t leave much room for comfort for your girlfriend.”
Abbot shot him the glare Robby was predicting the man quick to defend himself. “I talked to her about it. I’m gonna cut down on the SWAT shifts.”
Robby rolled his eyes ever so slightly fast to point it out. “Pretty sure she’d prefer you to stop it all together instead of just cutting back. You need to pick up a boring hobby, golf or tennis or something that doesn’t involve a bullet grazing you. Shit, pick up paint ball if you like getting shot at so much.”
“I don’t like getting shot at. It was just a graze, just took some patching up. It was nothing serious. Y/N knows that. I talked her down.” Abbot defended himself once again.
Robby shook his head fast to say it. “Just saying, brother. If I was Y/N I’d be pissed that the guy I’m dating thinks a good activity involves picking up SWAT medic shifts. She clearly wasn’t talked down too much if she’s pissed at you. She thought it was serious.”
Abbot let out a deep sigh running his hand along his face, exhaustion painting his features. He’d not slept well by himself. He’d gotten accustomed to Reader being there, or at least knowing she’d be there in his bed even if it happened to be a day where they worked opposite shifts. “Shit, I’ve got to fix it.”
“Buy her some flowers, grovel…I know I’m not the best at giving advice on making a relationship last given my track record, but flowers and apologies are a good place to start.” Robby offered Jack nodding his head his jaw tightening.
He spoke, shaking his head. “I sent her a care package…Ubered it to her place. Thought it would show her I care since she told me she felt ill. She barely replied to me. Pretty sure if I send her flowers I’m gonna get the same response.”
Robby let out a sigh shaking his own head. “Flowers are just a starting point, man. You grovel too. You don’t have to do it right this second. Listen, you got the night off tomorrow, hit the bar with me and a few of the ED crew. We figured we’d take Al Hashimi out and have a get to know me session with a few of the day shift. Take a breath and we’ll brainstorm a way for you to grovel appropriately. You can pick Dana and Al Hashimi’s brains. They can give a woman’s insight, tell you where you might have messed up if it wasn’t the SWAT thing. They might see something you didn’t. The bar is a bit more of an upscale joint, no rowdy drunks. It’s one of those tapa and wine places, Dana suggested it.”
Jack rolled the offer through his head wanting to decline it. He didn’t want to turn his personal romantic life into a team building activity among his coworkers.
He let Robby’s suggestion roll through his head; get a woman’s insight. It wasn’t the worst idea Robby ever had.
Abbot was tempted to say no and storm his way over to Y/N’s place, grovel at her feet and beg for her to tell him what idiotic thing he’d done so he could fix it.
He pushed back the desire though certain with how cold she’d been lately that it would only make things worse.
Besides, wouldn’t admitting he had zero clue what exactly he’d done to upset her just make things ten times worse?
He should probably try to figure out what wrong move he’d made before he tried to grovel.
So, he pushed back his desire to figure this out himself and decided to swallow his pride and accept the offer of someone else giving his relationship woes a shot at figuring it out.
Y/N did not want to be out right now. In fact she wanted to hide away in her apartment like she’d done every single moment she was not at work, ignoring Jack Abbot’s texts and drowning her sorrow in wine and take out.
She was out of wine though.
She decided to forgo her car knowing that there was a decent liquor store in walking distance from her brownstone.
She told herself some fresh air would do her a world of good. She just wished she’d considered the rainy weather before deciding a brisk walk in fresh air would ease her sour mood.
The rain was pouring just enough to make her feel a chill and like the rocket scientist she was, she forgot her umbrella.
She sighed barely managing to dodge a passing car as it splashed dirty water up on the sidewalk almost soaking her.
She moved a little closer to the buildings she was walking alongside the busy area filled with bars and a few small bistros.
The area she’d moved to had plenty of dining options and a few nightlife options, not that she was a big barhopper, not since college. She appreciated the availability though in case she did decide to grab a drink and let off some steam.
She stopped in front of a bar, the rain heavy enough that she decided to seek shelter under an awning near a large window gazing into a more upscale little bar.
She didn’t mean to gawk through the window at the patrons and almost considered stepping into the bar to get a bit dry, but she was sure her sweat pants, a hoodie she’d had since undergrad, and uggs weren’t entirely fit for such a nice little wine bar.
She felt her stomach drop bile rise in her throat as she spotted them.
It was like life was kicking her while she was down and out.
Right there in the center of the bar sitting facing one another each with a glass of wine sat Dr. Baran Al Hashimi and the very man who had put Y/N into such a state of sorrow, Dr. Jack Abbot.
She felt the bile rise so far she almost vomited at the sight. The drink offer, her mind taunted her, Al Hashimi had taken it.
Of course he’d brought her to a romantic little wine bar. The place was so the kind of joint you’d take a woman you wanted to impress.
Jack Abbot had taken Y/N to a 24 hour diner with greasy hashbrowns and a waitress that sounded like she smoked a pack a day, on their first date.
It was clear where on the scale of attempts to impress Al Hashimi and herself sat.
This was just another sign that Jack Abbot was only biding his time with her, Y/N realized.
Why else would he take Dr. Al Hashimi to such a fancy first date?
Y/N had gotten the little diner with sticky tables and runny eggs and Al Hashimi got the fancy bar with expensive wine and pricy tapas.
It was a clear sign as any that Jack Abbot could not take anything he had going on with Y/N seriously, but Al Hashimi was someone he wanted to put effort into.
A more reasonable voice in the back of her head insisted that Jack had taken her to nice places too.
He’d taken her to eat sushi and to have dinner at a nice steakhouse…but a cruel voice told her that of course he’d done that…he had to throw her a bone to string her along.
He was getting his dick wet with her…so he’d probably been trying to keep a good thing going while he could until something better came along.
She clenched her fists tempted to storm into the bar and give him a piece of her mind.
How could he do this to her? He’d laid in bed with Y/N holding her in his arms talking until they were both delirious with sleep, sharing their deepest secrets. He’d told her he felt connected to her, a feeling he’d not had since his late wife.
Was that all bullshit? Was he just feeding her lines she wanted to hear to keep stringing her along and hanging on until she lost her novelty?
If that was the case why was he acting so needy and concerned about her lately? Was this some kind of sick game? Was he just keeping her on the backburner in case Al Hashimi didn’t pan out?
She stepped away from the window despite her desire to march into the bar and scream and yell and demand answers.
She refused to behave like the pissed off crazy girlfriend.
She was certain if she pulled that stunt he’d turn it against her. Wasn’t that what guys who cheated did? They made their partners into the bad guys to justify why they had to seek out affection someplace else?
Was this cheating a voice questioned in the back of her head?
They hadn’t placed a label on it after all.
She bit back the thought telling herself that though they’d not said the words his actions had hinted at it.
She felt her eyes begin to water angry tears clouding her vision.
She spoke, spitting the words towards him though she knew he could not hear her. He had zero clue she’d caught him right in the act. “Fuck you, Dr. Abbot.”
She turned wiping her eyes ignoring the cold chill of the rain, the anger coursing through her too intense for her to focus on any minor discomfort.
If Jack Abbot was going to treat her like this then she was done with him.
He could seek out a better option and so could Y/N.
She was worth more than this.
She would show him that he’d lost the best thing that he could have had, she told herself.
Jack Abbot would learn that there was no fury like a woman scorned.
summary: after a bad fall leaves you with a broken leg, brendon turns your recovery into a full-time mission. no matter how insane he gets about your healing, every moment becomes proof of just how deeply he loves you.
pairing: brendon park + fem!reader
word count: 4.8k
warnings/tags: surgery mention, overprotective!brendon hehe, established relationship, excessive supervision as a love language (but not in a bad way!)
notes: based on this ask from anon, tysm for requesting!
reblogs, likes, and comments are so so appreciated! if you want to read more from me, kindly submit in my inbox !!! xoxo
The first thing you realized after your surgery was that the anesthesia haze was temporary.
The second thing you realized was that Brendon Park being insane about your recovery absolutely was not temporary.
It started in the hospital. The fracture had been bad enough. It was a clean break, the orthopedic resident had explained while showing you the scans, but unstable enough to need surgical fixation after your spectacularly humiliating fall down a rain-slick stairwell outside your apartment building.
You remembered the pain. The ambulance. The sickening crack that had echoed up your leg.
You also remembered Brendon arriving at the ER. That part had honestly been scarier than the fracture.
Because Brendon Park, the notoriously composed orthopedic trauma surgeon who could calmly handle shattered pelvises while every else spiraled, had walked into your trauma bay looking one bad sentence away from committing a felony.
He'd still been in scrubs. Blood on the sleeve, surgical cap hanging around his neck. His eyes had gone immediately to your leg immobilizer, then your face, then the pain monitor.
"Why is her heart rate still that high?" had been the first thing out of his mouth.
Not hello. Not are you okay. Just immediate interrogation.
The ER nurse, who knew exactly who he was and looked vaguely terrified of him even on good days, had blinked.
"She just came back from imaging—"
"She's already been medicated."
"With what?"
"Brendon," you'd groaned from the bed.
His attention snapped to you instantly, sharp and terrifyingly focused. "Did they move you after the X-rays?"
"Yeah."
"Did it hurt?"
"Yes, because my leg is broken."
His jaw had clenched so hard you thought he might crack a molar.
And somehow things only got worse from there. Because apparently orthopedic surgeons became unbearable when the patient was someone they loved.
You found this out over the next forty-eight hours.
Brendon sat through every consult, every update, every medication discussion.
He questioned your surgeon despite literally being able to perform the operation himself (But he couldn't for obvious reasons).
"You're using the locking plate system?" he asked Garcia with narrowed eyes.
She stared at him. "...Yes?"
"What approach?"
"Brendon."
"What?"
"You are not interrogating my surgery."
"I'm verifying."
"No, you're being annoying."
Then came the surgery, which went well.
Too well, actually, because apparently the moment Brendon heard "successful procedure" his brain immediately transitioned from anxious boyfriend to maximum-security prison warden.
The discharge papers had barely printed before he was taking over.
"No weight-bearing for six weeks," he repeated while adjusting your blankets for the hundredth time.
"I know."
"You use the crutches every single time you get up."
"I know."
"You do not try to hop."
"I'm not an animal, Brendon."
"You joke now," he muttered.
The nurse handed over your prescriptions with visible relief. "You're all set."
You thought freedom awaited you. You were wrong. Because the second you got home, Brendon transformed your apartment into what could only be described as an orthopedic dictatorship.
Within an hour, throw rugs were removed, furniture was rearranged, cords were taped down, ice packs were lined in formation inside the freezer, medications were sorted by time and dosage, and your entire life was relocated to the couch and bedroom so you "wouldn't need unnecessary movement."
You watched all this from the sofa with increasing alarm.
"Brendon."
"Hm?"
"You took my coffee table away."
"It has sharp corners."
"It's a coffee table."
"You're on meds and your balance is impaired."
"Baby, I have one broken leg, not a traumatic brain injury."
The first night home, you woke up at two in the morning needed the bathroom.
And normally, this would not have been an issue. You had crutches, you were medically cleared to use them, you were perfectly capable of traveling the astonishing distance between the bed and the bedroom.
Unfortunately, you were dating Brendon Park.
You'd barely shifted under the blankets before his eyes opened instantly in the dark.
"What are you doing?"
You stared at him. "Were you awake?"
"I am now."
"I need the bathroom."
"Okay."
"...Okay."
But instead of going back to sleep like a normal person, he immediately sat up. Then stood. Then reached for your crutches before you even could.
You blinked at him. "What are you doing?"
"Helping you."
"I can use crutches by myself."
He ignored that. You tried to take the crutches from him, but he held them out of reach.
"Brendon."
"I'm making sure you don't slip."
"You cannot stand in here while I pee."
"Yes I can."
"Brendon."
He finally sighed and backed out exactly one step beyond the doorframe. You stared at him in disbelief.
"Why are you still there?"
"I'm supervising."
"You're insane."
"You love me."
Unfortunately, that was true.
And now, it became a recurring issue. If you adjusted position on the couch, his head snapped up from whatever he was doing.
"Brendon, if you ask me one more question I'm going to fracture your leg too."
"You'd need help reaching me first."
Three days into recovery, cabin fever started setting hard.
You were exhauted, sore, itchy beneath the cast and dressings, and so catastrophically bored that you genuinely considered reorganizing your email inbox for entertainment.
Meanwhile Brendon had become worse. Not better. Worse.
There was something about medical professionals witnessing injuries in clinical detail when it happened to someone they loved.
You could practically see the knowledge haunting him in real time every time he looked at your leg.
So instead of relaxing as you healed, he became even more vigilant. He brought you food, adjusted your pillows, timed your medication down to the minute, and hovered. Constantly.
One afternoon you attempted the dangerous and reckless activity of standing to reach for a book on the kitchen counter.
You hand your crutches, you were stable, you were literally fine. Unfortunately for you, Brendon walked in halfway through.
"What are you doing?"
You nearly jumped. "Jesus Christ!"
"You should've called me."
"For a book?"
"You shouldn't be putting pressure on your other leg for prolonged periods."
He crossed the kitchen in seconds, immediately reaching for your elbow like you were seconds from collapsing.
And then he paused, looking at you properly for the first time all day.
Your messy hair. Your oversized shirt that was definitely his. The irritation building behind your eyes.
Something in his expression softened immediately.
"Honey."
"I know you're worried," you said, quieter now. "I know. But I can't just lie there twenty-four seven while you stare at me like I'm made of glass."
His hand slid carefully around your waist.
"You're not made of glass."
"You treat me like I am."
"That's because you snapped your tibia in half."
"Well, technically it was—"
"Do not correct me on anatomy right now."
He looked exhausted suddently and that finally made the pieces click together.
Brendon wasn't hovering because he thought you were incapable, he was hovering because he was terrified.
Terrified of you getting hurt again. Terrified of complications. Terrified of pain he couldn't fix fast enough.
You reached up, touching the tense line of his jaw.
"Hey."
His eyes flicked to yours.
"I'm okay."
His expression did something painful then. Small. Fragile around the edges in a way Brendon almost never allowed himself to be.
"You were screaming," he said quietly.
"When they moved you in the ER," he continued, voice low. "I heard you from the hallway."
You hadn't realized that stuck with him.
"I've seen people in pain before," he muttered. "Obviously. But hearing you—"
He stopped. You stared at him for a second before your irritation melted clean away.
"Oh, honey."
His laugh came out humorless. "Now I sound insane."
"You are insane."
He rested his forehead briefly against yours.
"You scared the hell out of me."
And for a few days after that, he genuinely tried.
Tried not to hover. Tried not to leap upright every time you shifted. Tried not to track your movements like a paranoid mom.
And that lasted approximately forty-eight hours.
Then he caught you attempting to carry your own tea mug while using crutches.
"What the hell are you doing?"
You froze mid-step. "...Transporting tea?"
"You could spill that."
"Yes."
"You could slip."
"Brendon."
"You have one functioning leg."
"I know."
He took the mug from your hands immediately while looking personally betrayed by your decision-making.
"You are unbelievable."
"I survived medical school," you informed him. "I think I can handle tea."
"That attitude is exactly why you fell down the stairs."
You argued for a good ten minutes. And it dissolved into bickering so domestic and ridiculous that by the end of it both of you were laughing too hard to continue.
Still, the hovering remained. Especially at night.
You once woke up around three in the morning to find Brendon gently checking the circulation in your foot.
"...Baby, what are you doing?" you mumbled sleepily.
"Just making sure swelling hasn't worsened."
"In the middle of the night?"
"I woke up."
Another night you caught him staring at your discharge instructions like they personally offended him.
"Honey, I think you've already memorized those."
"There's a typo."
"You are impossible."
But the worst one, the one that nearly ended with you smothering him with a pillow happened two weeks into recovery.
By then you were mobile. You were comfortable on crutches, restless beyond belief, and deeply tired of being supervised every waking second.
So while Brendon was in the shower, you decided to perform one singular independent task.
Make your own sandwich.
That was it! It wasn't anything dangerous, nothing dramatic, it was just a sandwich.
You were reaching into the fridge when you heard:
"What are you doing?"
You nearly screamed. Brendon stood in the hallway dripping wet, hair soaked, shirt barely put on, staring at you like he'd walked in on a crime scene.
"How do you move so quietly?!" you yelled.
"You weren't in bed."
"I was just making lunch!"
"You should've called me first."
You stared at him in genuine disbelief. "Did you just tell me I should request supervision before making a sandwich?"
"No, I'm not saying—It's just that you're still recovering."
"I have a broken leg, Brendon. Not a terminal illness!"
"I know."
The sharpness drained right out of him and he looked tired again. Worn thin around the edges.
"You think I don't know I'm overdoing it?" he said quietly. "I do."
"But every time I look at your leg, all I can think about is what could've happened if you hit your head too. Or if nobody found you right away, or if the fracture had been worse."
He exhaled slowly.
"And I know you're capable, I know you can use the crutches, I know you're not helpess." His mouth twisted faintly. "You're probably the least helpless person I know."
"Then why are you acting like this?"
"Because I love you."
You looked at him standing there. An exhausted surgeon, damp hair dripping onto the floor, eyes shadowed from stress and lack of sleep. You felt your irritation unravel completely.
"You realize this level of hovering is classified as annoying."
"Last time I checked it was called caring?"
You laughed despite yourself. "C'mere, baby."
He stepped closer instantly. You wrapped your arms around his waist carefully, leaning into him while balancing on one leg.
His hands settled against your back with automatic gentleness, like he was afraid squeezing too hard might hurt you somehow.
"I love you too," you murmured.
"I know."
"But if you follow me into the bathroom one more time, I'm filing a restraining order."
"That seems excessive."
He kissed the top of your head to hide his smile. And annoyingly enough?
Even with the hovering, and the overprotectiveness, and the absolute loss of personal autonomy...
You'd never felt more loved in your life.
thank you for reaching until the end! i'd love to know what you thought about this story anddddd if you'd like to see more ;)
summary: jack has been trying to get the pretty pediatric caseworker from upstairs to fall in love with him for weeks now. the only problem is, you have no idea that he's even into you. (4k)
characters: jack abbot / fem!reader, michael robinavitch, dana evans
contents: sunshine!reader, slightly ditzy!reader, friends to lovers, mutual pining, idiots in love, humor, fluff, not proofread :P
FIC #4 / 20 FOR 20
( NAVIGATION ) | ( MASTERLIST ) | ( AO3 )
PEDES CONSULT — CENTRAL 14.
The message scrolls across your pager on the elevator ride down to the bottom floor, where the chaos of the E.D. hits you before the doors have even opened. A monitor wails from somewhere inside the trauma bay. A nurse rushes by with a crash cart rattling violently against the tile. Someone in triage is crying; someone else is swearing. A thousand conversations fill the air until they turn into a dull roaring in your ears.
You enter like a sliver of sunlight breaking through storm clouds, weaving through the chaos with a practiced sort of ease. A pale blue cable-knit sweater bunches around your wrist, while a flowing ivory skirt patterned with delicate forget-me-nots sways around the tops of your sneakers with each step. You’re made of much softer stuff than the sterile brightness of the E.R. — like springtime washing over a war zone.
Robby and Jack stand together outside the closed door of Central 14. Exhaustion sits heavily in the former’s bearded face, weighed down with the regret of not clocking out an hour ago like he should’ve when he had the chance. The latter flips through the chart in his pale hands, scruffy features screwed in concentration until you enter into his eyeline.
He straightens almost instantly, hardly able to stay casual when it comes to you. “Little Miss Sunshine…” he greets with a cool grin, tucking the clipboard under his strong arm.
Your polite smile widens a little at the nickname. “You paged?”
“We’ve got a three-year-old girl. Suspected meningitis,” Robby briefs in a monotone, each word coated in a thick layer of fatigue. “High fever, lethargy, neck stiffness— labs are ugly, too.”
Your features soften instantly. “Oh, poor baby…”
Your eyes dart to the window. You catch only a sliver of the family through the edge of the curtain — young parents, likely in their early twenties, faking teary smiles for their sick baby, who sits in a too-big bed in a too-big hospital gown patterned with so many cartoon puppies.
“Parents are freaking out, obviously,” Jack adds gently, never once taking his eyes off of you. “We thought you could walk them through the admission process before we take her upstairs.”
“Of course,” you nod, with a voice as gentle as you look.
Jack passes the clipboard over to you and allows his calloused fingers to brush your softer ones for a beat longer than probably necessary. Though if you notice it, you make no mention of it as you flip through the thin pages and follow behind Robby into the dim room.
The chaos outside muffles when the door clicks shut behind you.
A young mother — Nia, the form tells you — sits in a chair beside the bed with a wadded tissue clutched in her trembling hands. Her husband, Malcolm, sits on the edge of the hospital bed, wearing the long day all over, as his daughter curls lazily into his side. Ruby Turner is clammy with fever; her round eyes are heavy with it, too. And beneath her chubby arm, is a stuffed animal wearing a lab coat and a stethoscope around its long neck.
“Hi, there…” you greet in a gentle lilt, crouching beside the bed until you’re eye level with the toddler, who eyes your warm smile with a weary suspicion. “I have to say, that is a very serious giraffe you’ve got there, Miss Ruby.”
The girl blinks back at you with sleep-weary eyes; the same dark brown as her mother’s. “Pickles,” is all she can make out through her hoarse throat. The words came out like dry gravel, which rattles harshly in her chest when she coughs hard a second later.
Her dad pats her gently on the back with a wide hand and flashes you a tired smile. “She named him Pickles,” he clarifies.
“Pickles?” you gasp. “I had a dog named Pickles when I was growing up— He looked a little like that one there.”
You motion to the shaggy white dog on her hospital gown. The girl tilts her curly head down and begins pointing at each puppy herself, aptly naming each of them Pickles. It’s the first time the child has been moderately alert, or otherwise has been willing to engage, since she arrived some hours ago. Watching you work feels a little like watching a magic trick.
“Sorry. Hi. I should probably introduce myself,” you laugh warmly and rise to full height again, shaking both of the parents’ hands. “I’m one of the pediatric caseworkers upstairs— My job is basically helping families know what’s happening next. You know, all the boring insurance details, and making sure you guys aren’t going through things alone.”
The mother nods, wiping her nose with the crumbled tissue in her fist. “So what happens now?” she asks, voice teary and trembling.
You nod with a polite smile. “Yeah, so the pediatric unit is gonna start preparing a room for her upstairs, so our doctors can give her the full evaluation she needs— They’ll probably monitor her over the next few nights, too, just to make sure everything’s okay. And you’ll be able to go with her once transport comes, of course, we’ll just need to get everything squared away with insurance while she’s getting tested.”
“So she’s gonna be okay?” the father presses, half-strangled.
You never lie to families. Not ever. It was, as you saw it, the golden rule in any hospital. Jack noticed that about you, too — because he couldn’t help but notice everything about you. But he saw how hopeful you were without ever being dishonest, without ever making promises you knew you could not keep.
“She’s exactly where she needs to be,” you answer carefully. “And she has the best doctors I know taking care of her now. You guys made a great decision by bringing her when you did.”
The mother beside you sniffles. Her exhale leaves her mouth in a quiet sob, which she buries behind her hands before her daughter can see her crying. It’s not quite sad — certainly not as much as it had been earlier that day — but rather it’s a cry of distant relief; the first time all day she hasn’t felt like the worst mother on the planet.
Robby exhales quietly through his mouth behind you — scruffy cheeks puffing, obviously eager to leave. Jack, however, just keeps on staring at you, as you turn back toward the little girl with your voice now lowered in a feigned sort of seriousness.
“Now, Miss Ruby, I’m gonna need your professional opinion on this, okay?”
The girl blinks slowly back at you.
“…Do you think Mr. Pickles needs his own hospital bracelet, too?”
Jack sees the young girl laugh for the first time all day when you’re helping her wrap a plastic arm band around the giraffe’s stuffed leg. It’s basically your superpower, the way you make all the terrifying things feel halfway manageable. By the time you’re stepping back out into the hallway, with Jack and Robby at your side, the family is a little bit steadier than they were before you arrived.
Jack eyes you up and down for a moment, before leaning in to nudge your shoulder with his broader one. Your soft sweater grazes his bare arm, and he gets a faint whiff of your pretty perfume before he leans away again.
“When did you get so good at that, huh?”
Your head whips to the side. You blink like an owl up at him “…At talking?”
“Sure, yeah,” he laughs. “At talking people off the ledge.”
“Oh.” You bounce a shoulder in a lazy shrug, then reach to pull the neck of your sweater back up again when it slips off your collarbone. “I don’t know, I just… try not to sound like a hospital brochure, I guess.”
“Hear that, brother?” Jack quips, reaching behind you to clap Robby on the shoulder. “Try not to sound like a hospital brochure next time, yeah?”
The older man says nothing. He just lifts his hand and scratches at his temple with his middle finger, discreetly flipping him off.
You laugh under your breath and head back towards the elevator, pretty skirt swishing around your ankles. “Try not to traumatize anyone while I’m gone, alright?”
“Can’t make promises like that down here, Sunshine,” Robby calls back. “You know that.”
“Yeah, I’m starting to think we should just keep you down here permanently,” Jack says with a lazy shrug. His freckled biceps flex slightly when he crosses them over his broad chest, swaying back and forth on his feet. “You know, just— bring you into every room before the doctors go in. We’ll call you the Emotional Support Coordinator.”
“Oh, would you?” you scoff a faint laugh and hit the button for the upper floor.
The doors part with a soft ding a second later. You step in through the threshold and turn to face him once more, giving him a much better view of the smile on your face.
“I mean, it’d certainly make me feel better,” he jokes.
“Well, you’re not the patient, Dr. Abbot,” you retort with a devilish grin. “I’m pretty sure you’ve got a few more years before your geriatric assessment, right?”
“A few,” he echoes sarcastically, light eyes squinted. “My opinion still counts, though.”
You shake your head at him despite the soft grin still dancing on the edges of your mouth. “You’re funny, Dr. Abbot,” is all you say, as you press the panel on the inside of the lift. The doors whir when they slide shut; your grin remains visible between them until hatch closes just ahead of you.
Jack drops his head with a chest-deflating huff when you’re gone.
Robby tries and fails to choke back his laughter.
“You are officially 0 for 6, brother,” the man jokes. He claps Jack on the shoulder, hard, as his dark eyes squint under the weight of his smiling. “It’s honestly getting a little painful now.”
Jack turns to flash him a deadpanned look. “Shouldn’t you be clocking out now?” he wonders in a monotone.
“Not anymore,” Robby scoffs. “It’s just starting to get fun.”
The pediatric floor was quieter in the mornings, you found, after switching to the day shift some weeks back. It was never truly silent, exactly, but it was still a little bit softer, as the panic from the overnight patients faded into a calmer sort of quiet.
Cartoon reruns play quietly behind closed doors, while lively children’s music can be heard from further in the main area, down the hall to your right. A softer set of lullabies, meanwhile, plays more distantly from the nursery behind the double doors to your left. And, somewhere within the soft sanctuary of it all, a wailing baby is fighting a losing battle against taking their liquid medicine.
It’s all confetti to you, really, from where you sit behind the reception desk with three different charts open on the monitors ahead of you.
There’s a highlighter in your hand, a pen behind your ear, a paper cup of cooling coffee between your teeth, and approximately fourteen unfinished tasks glaring at you from the computer screen.
You have not yet properly woken up — the same way the sun has not quite yet risen over the horizon. Your hair has been haphazardly dealt with, for one. Your cherry-colored sweater is bunched awkwardly at your waist, for another, while the white button-up you wear beneath it sticks out over top of your plaid-patterned bottoms. You vaguely noticed that your socks were mismatched when you slid into your scarlet flats, but were much too tired to bring yourself to care.
You don’t even flinch when the phone rings beside you. You reach for it with your free hand without looking, missing twice before finally plucking the plastic from the hook.
“PTMC—” You falter when you realize you still have the paper cup between your teeth. You scramble to set it back on the desk with the hand not holding the phone. You clear your throat and try again. “PTMC Pediatrics— How can I help you?”
“Morning, Sunshine.”
Jack’s low voice crackles from the other line. You can practically picture him downstairs in the E.D. just now — leaning against the workstation with a computer glowing before him; with his messy silver curls, and his tired blue-green eyes, and that stupidly handsome half-smile he gets every time he talks to you.
You’re smiling at the thought alone before you even realize it.
“Dr. Abbot?” you answer. “Do you need something? What didn’t you just page me—”
“Weren’t you the one who said I can call just to say hi before you switched to the dark side?”
(The day shift, he means.)
You scoff quietly and lean back in your swivel chair. “Well, I guess, that is preferable to getting paged about sick babies, so… I’ll take it.”
“Wow…” Jack croons drily. “You always say the sweetest things to me, you know that?”
“Well, what can I say? I’m very charming before seven A.M.”
“I think you’re very charming all the time, Sunshine.”
You falter for a brief moment, unable to tell if he’s flirting with you or if he’s just being nice and you’re the weirdo for thinking otherwise. So you shake the thought from your head and change the subject entirely.
“You sound tired, old man— Isn’t it almost bedtime for you?”
“Almost…” His sigh crackles through the faint static of the landline. “But unfortunately, there’s this case manager upstairs who won’t stop distracting me…”
You exhale a frustrated huff, utterly oblivious as you begin to gossip with him under your breath. “Is Hastings bothering you, too? Because she’s been hounding me about clearing beds up here since I came in an hour ago.”
There’s a long beat of silence on the other line, filled by the sound of distant chatter from the E.D.
“…I’m talking about you, Sunshine,” Jack clarifies.
“Oh…” you trail off, face burning hot. Your brain scrambles further when the light starts flashing on your desk, another call waiting. “That’s, uh— Sorry. There’s— There’s just someone on the other line.”
“Oh.”
You tuck the phone between your shoulder and cheek, fingers whizzing across the keyboard as you type with practiced (only now slightly anxious) hands. “So if you wanna have a conversation, you’re gonna have to trek all the way up to pedes, unfortunately.”
“Damn…”
“Yep…” you hum absentmindedly. “It’s a real difficult journey. Very treacherous elevator ride.”
“Well, you’re making a pret-ty compelling argument here, Sunshine.”
“Goodbye, Jack,” you lilt with a big dumb grin on your face, that you hope isn’t as audible in your voice.
“See you soon, Sunshine.”
You think nothing of his words when you decline his call and take another. You hardly expect to see him now, not when he’s still wrapping up the long night and briefing the day shift that’s trickling slowly in downstairs. He’s about half an hour shy of going home and collapsing face-first into his mattress — and you’re hardly special enough to lose sleep over.
Jack, however, respectfully disagrees.
And so does Dana, who saunters into the workstation to start her morning, only to find the man hanging up the desk phone with a lazy grin hinting at the edges of his mouth.
“What’s that look for, huh?” she croons in place of a greeting, shrugging off the jean jacket she arrived in and spreading it on the back of her chair before her.
Jack looks up from where he’s shoving the phone back into its cradle. “What look?” he scoffs. “I don’t have a look.”
“Oh, you most certainly have a look,” she argues.
“I have a face, Dana.”
“Uh-huh,” the older woman deadpans, half-distracted, as she logs into the monitor ahead of her, with her glasses sitting low on her nose. “And right now, that face looks like you’re the main character at the climax of a Nora Ephron movie.”
“…What’s a Nora Ephron?” Jack wonders with furrowed brows.
The corner of Dana’s mouth lifts in a crooked half-smile as she peers at him over the top of her clear frames. “Go ask Little Miss Sunshine about it. She’ll tell ya.”
Jack’s light eyes narrow in a smug sort of look as he strolls slowly past her. “Thanks for giving me an excuse to go up there, Evans,” he quips.
“Oh, please,” she scoffs. “You were already on your way.”
There’s a newfound skip in his step, along with a faint limp in his prosthetic from the long shift, as he makes the elevator ride up to the pediatric floor — where he’s greeted instantly by soothing lullabies, children’s laughter, and reruns of old cartoons.
He’s swaddled instantly by the dim lighting and the soft warmth — both of which are rare to find in the cold, sterile chaos of the unrelenting E.D. just a few floors down. It’s like entering a whole new world when he steps out of the elevator.
Jack hears your voice, distant at first, but growing louder the further he treks down the hall. “No, I understand the policy, sir. You don’t have to explain it to me again—”
You exhale an annoyed sigh when the man on the other line prattles on, anyway, talking in a slow monotone as if you hadn’t understood him the first time. Despite your irritation, you perk instantly when Jack enters your vision, still in his black scrubs from the night shift, with a new exhaustion etched across his scruffy face.
He greets you with a tight-lipped smile anyway.
Your chest swells with a funny feeling accordingly.
“Sorry,” you mouth apologetically. “Just— one second.”
Jack waves a hand in your direction. “You’re fine,” he mumbles and turns away, idling awkwardly some feet away with his hands in his pockets, pretending not to hover. He marvels at the paintings on the walls, vivid scribbles from children of all ages, as he shifts on his weight — trying to relieve the distant pressure in his artificial limb.
You return to your phone call some feet behind him: “Yes, I get that. But this is a six-year-old going through extensive leukemia treatment— Delaying authorization for inpatient care would—”
You grumble an annoyed breath and drop your head into your hand when the man on the other line speaks over you once more. Jack glances over his shoulder at you, features softening instantly.
“—No, why should his parents waste their time fighting insurance, which should already be in place, by the way, when they could be spending it with their son? How is that fair?” you continue, obviously angry, but still so soft in your way. There’s a few seconds of silence as the person on the other line responds. You nod wordlessly to yourself at whatever they’re saying. “Yes, I will absolutely call back when your supervisor comes in— and every day until this is handled. Alright? Great. Bye…”
You set the telephone back on the hook with a huff.
“…Asshole,” you grumble around your breath, then get all sheepish again when your eyes find Jack’s. You cower under his softened stare. “Sorry… This insurance company’s trying to deny extended coverage for one of our oncology kids— because apparently compassion is illegal now, so…”
Jack musters a weak smile as he closes the distance between you. “I’m sure it’ll all work out.”
“Hopefully…” you sigh, a little embarrassed now, as you shrink further in your swivel chair. “So, uh... H-How was your shift?”
“Better now,” the older man croons, folding his arms along the countertop ahead of you, and leaning in until you can smell the cologne lingering on his skin — a mixture of leather and sandalwood.
“You’re such a suck-up, Dr. Abbot,” you say with squinted eyes.
His face twists into a look of faux-offense. “Well, that’s not a very nice thing to say to someone trying to invite you out for lunch, now is it?”
You brighten instantly. “Wait, really? That sounds so fun! Are Shen and Ellis coming, too— I haven’t seen them in ages!”
Jack’s smile falters slightly at the edges. “Well… Well, no, ‘cause I.. I thought, you know, it’d be just us. You know, you and me. Like a date.”
You blink owlishly back at him. “Oh…”
“Unless— Unless you don’t want to—” Jack stammers, quickly losing his ground.
“Of course I want to!” you blurt, a little louder and a far quicker than you mean to. “I just… I didn’t— I didn’t realize that you, you know, that you… liked me.”
His brows lower in confusion because, to him, it couldn’t have been more obvious that he was into you. He’d spent months tripping over himself to get your attention, including the time he ran into a crash cart ‘cause he was too busy staring at you to notice that it was in his way.
A chuckle sputters suddenly from his mouth accordingly. “I’ve been flirting with you for weeks! I mean, I’ve been calling up here just to talk to you since you changed shifts!”
“I thought you just liked bothering me!” you giggle in return, face burning hot.
“Yeah, well,” Jack tilts his silver head. “I do like bothering you, actually.”
“I like when you bother me, too…” you murmur sheepishly, struggling to meet the man’s unwavering stare as you swivel anxiously back and forth in your chair. You catch yourself smiling wider than you realize when you tell him, “And lunch sounds great, by the way.”
“Great…” Jack exhales a breath he didn’t know that he was holding, that he feels like he’s been holding in for weeks now. “‘Cause Robby’s kinda been threatening to ask you out for me if I didn’t do it myself, so… Happy to save myself the embarrassment.”
Your eyes widen with a girlish sort of horror. “Wait— Robby knew?”
“Sunshine,” Jack grins. “I’m pretty sure the entire hospital knew.”
Summary: From three positive pregnancy tests to the first heartbeat, first kick, late-night conversations with your belly, and one long, exhausting labor, Brendon is there for every careful, terrifying, beautiful step. Precise, steady, quietly overwhelmed, and completely undone by the first time he holds his baby.
Warnings: pregnancy, pregnancy symptoms, labor and childbirth, birth scene, medical setting, pain, exhaustion, crying, emotional hurt/comfort, supportive husband Brendon, dad Brendon, skin-to-skin, no use of Y/N, reader is Brendon’s wife, baby is unnamed
Author's Note: Brendon’s birth fic is here 🥹 This is the companion piece to Jack’s version, with the same pregnancy-to-birth structure, but very much Brendon’s kind of love: quiet, practical, precise, and absolutely devastating when the emotion finally breaks through.
─── ୨୧ ───
Positive
You had taken two tests.
Then a third.
Then you had sat on the closed toilet lid with your elbows braced on your knees, staring at the bathroom counter like the answer might change if you looked away long enough.
It did not.
Positive. Positive. Positive.
The lines were still there when you looked back. Your hands were cold. Your heartbeat was too fast. The bathroom light felt too bright above you, reflecting off the mirror, the white tile, and the plastic tests lined neatly beside the sink.
You had not meant to line them up neatly.
That part made you think of Brendon.
The thought made something in your chest twist hard enough that you had to press a hand over your mouth.
A baby. Your baby. Brendon’s baby.
For a second, the thought was so large you could not breathe around it.
You heard the front door open a few minutes later.
Then the quiet, familiar sounds of him coming home. Keys placed in the dish by the door. Shoes set aside. Coat hung properly instead of dropped over the back of a chair. The soft creak of the floorboards as he moved through the hallway.
You knew the exact moment he noticed the house was too quiet. His footsteps paused.
“Love?” Brendon called.
Your eyes closed. You tried to answer. Nothing came out.
The silence lasted one second too long.
Then his footsteps changed. Not rushed. Brendon did not rush unless something was actively on fire. But they became purposeful. Sharper. Immediate in a way that told you he had heard everything you had not said.
He appeared in the bathroom doorway a moment later, still in his scrubs, his expression composed except for the tension at the corner of his mouth.
His eyes moved over you first. Your face. Your posture. Your hands twisted together in your lap.
Then he looked at the counter.
He went still. Completely still.
You watched his eyes move from one test to the next.
One. Then the second. Then the third.
For a moment, he did not speak.
That scared you more than anything else.
“Brendon,” you said, and your voice came out small.
His eyes lifted to yours.
“They’re positive,” you said.
Brendon blinked once. Then his gaze dropped back to the tests.
“All three?” he asked.
You nodded. “Yes. I checked.”
His mouth softened by the smallest amount. “Thoroughly.”
A nervous laugh slipped out of you before you could stop it. “I panicked.”
“I gathered,” Brendon said.
His voice was calm. Too calm.
Your chest tightened. You stood before you meant to, one hand catching the edge of the sink when the room tilted slightly around you.
Brendon moved immediately. He crossed the small bathroom in two strides, one hand going to your elbow and the other settling at your waist, steadying you before you could even say you were dizzy.
“Sit down,” Brendon said.
You let out a shaky laugh. “There he is.”
His brow furrowed. “What does that mean?”
“Doctor voice,” you said.
His hand stayed firm at your elbow.
“Husband voice,” Brendon corrected. “Sit down.”
You sat. Brendon crouched in front of you instead of towering over you, his hands careful on your knees.
That almost broke you.
He was close enough now that you could see the controlled line of his jaw, the way his eyes kept flicking to your face like he was checking your breathing, your color, your fear.
You swallowed hard. “Is this bad?”
His expression changed. Not dramatically. Brendon did not break open all at once. But something in his face shifted so quickly, so intensely, that your breath caught.
“No,” Brendon said.
Your eyes filled. “No?”
Brendon’s hands tightened gently over your knees.
“No,” Brendon said again, quieter this time. “Not bad.”
You stared at him, searching his face.
“I need more words than that,” you whispered.
Brendon’s throat moved once. Then he nodded.
“Yes,” Brendon said. “Of course.”
But the words did not come immediately. His eyes moved over your face, controlled and searching, and then something in him seemed to give.
Brendon rose enough to reach you. His hands came to your face, careful despite the suddenness of it, and then he kissed you.
It startled you.
Not because Brendon did not kiss you.
But because this kiss came before the explanation. Before the plan. Before the careful arrangement of thoughts into something measured and useful.
This kiss was the answer his mouth had not found yet.
It was warm and firm and thorough, his thumbs steady against your cheeks even as his breath caught against yours. He kissed you like he wanted there to be no room for doubt, like if he could not find the exact right words quickly enough, he could at least make you feel the truth of it.
A small sound broke in your throat, half surprise and half relief, and your hands found the front of his shirt.
Brendon drew back slowly, but he did not go far. His forehead stayed close to yours. His hands stayed on your face. His breathing was not quite as even as it had been before.
“This is not bad,” Brendon said quietly.
“No?” you whispered.
Brendon shook his head, his thumb brushing once beneath your eye.
“No,” Brendon said. “Not at all.”
You stared at him, searching his face. “What word do you have?”
For the first time since he had stepped into the bathroom, Brendon looked slightly unsteady. His fingers flexed once against your cheeks. Then he looked at you.
“Wanted,” Brendon said.
The word hit you so hard you made a sound you did not recognize. Brendon’s face softened immediately.
“Come here,” Brendon said.
You reached for him at the same time he moved, and then he was there, pulling you carefully against him, one hand cradling the back of your head while the other wrapped around your waist.
You buried your face in his shirt and cried.
Brendon held you. Not loosely. Not politely. He held you like he had decided there was no safer place for you to fall apart than against him. His hand moved slowly over your back.
“I am here,” Brendon said into your hair.
You shook against him. “I’m scared.”
“I know,” Brendon said.
You fisted your hands in his shirt. “Are you?”
Brendon was quiet for a moment. Then his chin brushed the top of your head.
“Yes,” Brendon said. “Very.”
A wet laugh broke out of you. “You don’t sound scared.”
“I am controlling my tone,” Brendon said.
You laughed harder, and it came out half a sob. Brendon’s hand paused on your back.
“Was that funny?” Brendon asked.
You nodded against his chest. “A little.”
“Good,” Brendon said. “I was not certain.”
You pulled back just enough to look at him. His face was still composed, but his eyes were different now. Darker. Fuller. His mouth softened when he looked at you. You glanced toward the counter.
“We’re having a baby,” you whispered.
Brendon followed your gaze. The tests sat there, small and ordinary and impossible.
“Yes,” Brendon said, his voice very quiet. “We are.”
You looked back at him. His eyes were wet. Barely. Just enough that you noticed because you knew him. Your breath caught.
“Brendon,” you whispered.
He blinked once, and the shine stayed there.
“I am happy,” Brendon said before you could ask. “I need you to know that.”
Your tears slipped down your cheeks. “You are?”
His expression softened in a way that made your chest hurt.
“Yes,” Brendon said. “I am happy.”
His hand moved carefully from your waist to your stomach, then stopped before touching you. He paused there, his palm hovering over the fabric of your shirt. The restraint of it made your throat tighten. You covered his hand with yours and guided it down. Brendon’s palm settled against your stomach. There was no curve yet. No movement.
No proof beyond plastic tests, trembling hands, and the way Brendon suddenly looked as if touching you required all the care in the world.
His thumb moved once. You could feel the breath he took. Slow. Measured. Not quite steady.
“Hello,” Brendon said softly.
Your face crumpled again. He looked up immediately.
“What is it?” Brendon asked.
“You’re already talking to the baby,” you said.
Brendon looked back down at his hand. For a moment, he did not answer. Then his thumb moved again, barely there.
“Yes,” Brendon said, his voice softened. “I am.”
You covered his hand more fully with yours. Brendon looked at your joined hands over your stomach, and the smallest, most devastated smile touched his mouth.
“Our baby,” you whispered.
His eyes closed for half a second. When he opened them again, they were wet.
“Yes,” Brendon said. “Our baby.”
You leaned into him again, and he wrapped his free arm around you carefully. The bathroom was still too bright. The tests were still on the counter. Your hands were still shaking. But Brendon was warm against you, steady around you, his palm held beneath yours over the first impossible proof of the life neither of you could see yet.
After a long moment, he pressed his mouth to your temple.
“We will take this one step at a time,” Brendon said.
You closed your eyes. “Okay.”
His hand stayed exactly where it was.
“And for tonight,” Brendon said, “the only step is breathing.”
You let out a shaky breath against him. Brendon’s thumb moved once over your stomach.
“There,” Brendon said softly. “That’s it.”
─── ୨୧ ───
Heartbeat
Brendon read every form twice. You noticed by the third page. He sat beside you in the waiting room, one ankle crossed neatly over the other, one hand resting on your knee while his eyes moved over the clipboard in a careful, practiced rhythm.
Read. Pause. Read again.
His thumb moved once over your knee.
“Do you want me to fill this out?” Brendon asked.
You looked over at him. “I can do it.”
“I know,” Brendon said.
His thumb moved again.
“I asked if you wanted me to,” Brendon said.
Your chest softened. You looked down at the intake form in your lap. Date of last period. Medications. Allergies. Symptoms. Everything about it felt ordinary and impossible at the same time. You handed him the pen.
“Yes,” you said quietly. “Please.”
Brendon took it without comment. He did not make you feel silly for needing help with a form. He only uncapped the pen and started filling in the information he knew.
Quietly. Carefully. With the kind of precision that should not have made you want to cry, but did.
He filled in your name first, then your date of birth, then your address. He wrote down your prenatal vitamin, your allergies, your emergency contact. His own name went on that line without hesitation. Then he reached the symptom section.
His pen moved across the form.
He finished the line, reviewed the page once more, then turned the clipboard toward you.
“Check this,” Brendon said.
You looked down at the form. Your name. Your birthday. Your medications. Your allergies. His name as your emergency contact. Your symptoms, written carefully and plainly, every detail exactly right. Nausea worse in the morning, not limited to mornings. Fatigue. Breast tenderness. Food aversions. Eggs. Crackers.
He had not missed anything. Not one thing.
Your eyes burned. Brendon’s expression changed immediately.
“What’s wrong?” Brendon asked.
You shook your head, but the tears came anyway.
“Nothing,” you whispered.
His eyes narrowed slightly. “Love,” Brendon said softly. “That was not nothing.”
You pressed your lips together. “You got it all right.”
Brendon looked down at the form, then back at you. “Yes.”
Your laugh came out wet. “Of course you think that’s normal.”
His thumb moved once over your knee.
“I pay attention to you,” Brendon said.
That broke you worse. You wiped under your eyes, trying to laugh through it.
“I know,” you said. “That’s the problem.”
Brendon’s face softened. “Noted.”
“Don’t stop,” you said.
His thumb moved over your knee again.
“I won’t,” Brendon said.
You looked back down at the form. Everything was correct. Every small, miserable, strange, tender thing your body had done since the positive test was there in his neat handwriting, remembered by him before you even had to say it. You swallowed hard.
“You still wanted me to check it,” you said.
Brendon’s eyes held yours. “Yes,” he said. “It is your appointment.”
Your throat tightened.
“And your body,” Brendon said.
You nodded once, unable to speak for a second. Then you looked down and checked the form.
“Correct,” you whispered.
Brendon nodded once. “There,” he said softly.
You looked at him. “What?”
“You breathed normally,” Brendon said.
You laughed, quieter this time. “I was not aware you were monitoring that,” you said.
“I am always monitoring that,” Brendon said.
You gave him a look. He blinked once.
“Not in a concerning way,” Brendon added.
You laughed again, and some of the fear loosened in your chest. His hand settled over yours.
“Are you nervous?” Brendon asked.
You nodded. “Yes. Very.”
“I am too,” Brendon said.
Your brows pulled together. “You are?”
“Yes,” Brendon said.
He said it simply. Without embarrassment. Without trying to make it smaller. You looked at his face, at the composed line of his mouth, the steady set of his shoulders, the clipboard resting neatly in his lap.
“You don’t look nervous,” you said.
“I know,” Brendon said.
You almost smiled.
“That’s not an answer,” you said.
“It is the only one I have,” Brendon said.
His fingers tightened once around yours.
“I am trying to be useful,” Brendon said.
Your throat tightened.
“You are,” you whispered.
The nurse opened the door and called your name before he could answer. Your stomach dropped. Brendon noticed that too. He stood with you, one hand steady at the small of your back.
“Ready?” Brendon asked.
You looked at him. “No.”
Brendon nodded. “Then we will go not ready.”
You let out a breath that was almost a laugh.
He stayed beside you through the vitals. Through the questions. Through the careful, kind voice of the nurse asking about symptoms and dates and whether you had any concerns. You did. Of course you did. You had too many concerns to fit in the room. Brendon answered only when you looked at him first, or when your mind went blank and he supplied the practical detail you could not reach through the fog of nerves.
The date. The vitamins. The nausea. The eggs.
You glared at him for that one. Brendon looked back at you calmly.
“It happened,” Brendon said.
The nurse smiled down at the chart.
“It happens to a lot of people,” the nurse said.
You sighed. “I know. I just wanted to keep some dignity.”
Brendon’s hand squeezed yours. “You are very dignified.”
“Even with the eggs?” you asked.
“Especially with the eggs,” Brendon said.
You laughed, and his eyes warmed.
Then the ultrasound tech came in.
The room changed after that. Not visibly. The lights were still the same. The machine was still beside the bed. Brendon was still standing next to you with his hand around yours. But the air shifted.
Your breathing went shallow.
Brendon’s thumb moved once over your knuckles.
“It is still early,” the tech said. “Everything is going to look very small, but we should be able to confirm placement and cardiac activity.”
Cardiac activity. The phrase made your mouth go dry. Brendon’s hand stilled around yours. You turned your face toward him. His expression was composed. Almost. There was tension at the corner of his mouth.
“Cardiac activity means heartbeat?” you asked, even though you knew.
“Yes,” Brendon said softly.
Your throat tightened. “Okay,” you whispered.
Brendon bent slightly closer. “One thing at a time.”
You nodded, trying to hold onto that. One thing. Then the next. Then the next.
The tech started the scan, and the monitor glowed beside you in shifting shades of gray.
You stared at it.
You had no idea what you were looking at. Shapes moved and blurred, shadows appearing and disappearing as the tech adjusted the wand.
Brendon probably understood more than you did. He still did not speak. His hand stayed steady around yours. His eyes stayed fixed on the screen. The tech angled the monitor slightly.
“There,” the tech said. “That little flicker.”
Your heart stopped. Brendon’s fingers tightened around yours. The tech smiled.
“That is the heartbeat,” the tech said.
For a second, you could not move. You could not blink. You could not breathe. There was a tiny flicker on the screen. Small. Almost impossible. Yours.
Then the tech turned on the sound. The heartbeat filled the room.
Fast. Steady. Alive.
A sound broke out of you before you could stop it. Your free hand flew to your mouth.
“Oh,” you whispered.
Brendon did not say anything. You turned your head toward him. He was staring at the screen. Completely still. His face had gone quiet in a way that made your chest ache. Not blank. Not cold.
Quiet.
Like his whole body had gone still so the sound could reach every part of him. The heartbeat kept going. Fast, fast, fast. Your eyes filled.
“Brendon,” you whispered.
He blinked once. His throat moved. “Yes.”
It was barely a word. You squeezed his hand.
“That’s the baby,” you whispered.
His eyes stayed on the tiny flicker. “Yes.”
His voice was lower now. “That is our baby.”
The tech smiled softly from beside the machine.
“Baby is measuring right on track,” the tech said.
Brendon’s head turned slightly.
“Heart rate?” Brendon asked.
The tech gave him the number. He nodded once. You watched him take it in. The doctor part of him caught the data. The husband part of him looked like he had been struck through the chest.
“Is that good?” you asked quickly.
Brendon looked at you immediately. “Yes.”
The answer came without hesitation. His thumb moved over your hand.
“That is good,” Brendon said. “Very good.”
You exhaled hard, tears slipping down your cheeks.
“Okay,” you whispered.
Brendon bent and pressed his mouth to your forehead. He stayed there for a second longer than usual. When he pulled back, one tear had slipped free. Just one. It moved slowly down his cheek before he seemed to realize it was there. Your mouth trembled.
“You’re crying,” you whispered.
Brendon looked at you. For one second, he seemed to consider denying it. Then his eyes moved back to the screen.
“Yes,” Brendon said quietly.
Your tears spilled over again. Brendon’s thumb moved over your hand.
“Yes,” he said again, softer this time. “A little.”
The heartbeat kept filling the dim room. Fast. Steady. Real.
“I kept thinking the tests might be wrong,” you admitted.
Brendon looked down at you then. His expression softened at once.
“All three?” he asked.
You gave him a watery look.
“I know,” you said. “Thorough panic.”
His mouth twitched. The little flicker moved on the screen. Brendon took in a slow breath.
“They were not wrong,” he said quietly.
Your throat tightened.
“No,” you whispered. “They weren’t.”
The tech moved through measurements with gentle efficiency, pointing out things you barely understood but tried to memorize anyway. Brendon listened to every word. You knew he would remember all of it. Every measurement. Every number. Every sentence.
But his hand never left yours.
The tech captured a few images and smiled.
“I’ll print these for you,” the tech said.
Your chest tightened. “Pictures?”
“Yes,” the tech said. “Your first ones.”
Your first ones. The words made you cry again. Brendon looked down at you immediately.
“What is it?” Brendon asked.
You shook your head. “Nothing.”
His eyes narrowed slightly.
“Love,” Brendon said softly. “That was not nothing.”
A watery laugh slipped out of you. You looked back at the screen.
“It just feels real now,” you said.
Brendon followed your gaze. His thumb moved once over your knuckles.
“Yes,” Brendon said, his voice softened. “It does.”
The tech left the heartbeat on for a few more seconds. You listened until the sound felt like it had moved into your bones. Fast. Steady. Alive.
Then Brendon leaned slightly closer to the screen. Not much. Just enough that you noticed.
“Hello, little one,” Brendon said quietly.
Your face crumpled instantly. He looked down at you, concern flickering across his face.
“Too much?” Brendon asked.
You shook your head, crying harder.
“No,” you said. “No, it’s just—”
Your voice broke. Brendon’s face softened.
“I know,” Brendon said.
His eyes moved back to the screen, wet and focused and full.
“I know that I am very glad you are here,” Brendon said to the tiny flicker.
Your hand tightened around his. Brendon’s mouth softened.
“And that you are already making your mother cry,” Brendon added.
A laugh burst out of you. The tech smiled to herself. Brendon looked down at you, the faintest warmth touching his eyes.
“That part seems important to acknowledge,” Brendon said.
You wiped at your cheeks.
“You’re impossible,” you whispered.
“No,” Brendon said, looking back at the screen. “I’m happy.”
Your smile trembled. The heartbeat continued, fast and impossible and yours. Brendon’s thumb moved slowly over your hand. After a moment, he lowered his voice again.
“We are glad you are here,” Brendon said. “Very glad.”
Your tears slipped quietly into your hair. Brendon bent and kissed your forehead again. This time, when he pulled back, he did not try to hide the wetness in his eyes. He only looked at the screen, his hand steady in yours, his voice quiet and certain.
“One step,” Brendon whispered.
You breathed in. Then out. The heartbeat filled the room. You squeezed his hand.
“One step,” you whispered back.
─── ୨୧ ───
Kick
The first time you felt the baby move, you were not entirely sure it was the baby.
You were sitting on the couch with one knee tucked beneath you, a blanket over your lap, and a mug of tea cooling untouched on the coffee table. Brendon was in the armchair beside you, reading through an article on his tablet with the kind of focus that made everything around him seem quieter.
The lights were low. The house was calm. Your body, unfortunately, was not.
You had been uncomfortable all evening, shifting every few minutes, trying to find a position that did not make your back ache or your hips complain. Brendon had noticed every single adjustment, because of course he had, but he had only asked once if you needed anything.
After that, he had let you be. Mostly. His eyes still lifted every time you moved. You pretended not to notice.
Then something fluttered low in your stomach. You froze. It was small. So small you almost missed it. Your hand moved to your belly before you had decided to move it. Brendon’s eyes lifted from the tablet immediately.
“What is it?” Brendon asked.
You held your breath. The flutter came again. Not gas. Not a muscle twitch. Not exactly.
“I think—” you started.
Brendon set the tablet down at once. You looked down at your stomach, your hand pressing lightly over the spot.
“I think the baby moved,” you whispered.
Brendon went still. Then his gaze moved from your face to your hand.
“You felt movement?” Brendon asked.
You nodded slowly. “I think so.”
His expression softened at the uncertainty.
“That can happen around this point,” Brendon said.
You looked up at him.
“I know,” you said.
“I know you know,” Brendon said.
His voice softened.
“I am saying it because you look like you need to hear it from someone else,” Brendon said.
Your throat tightened. You nodded once.
“Maybe,” you admitted.
Brendon stood and crossed to the couch, then sat carefully beside you. His hand hovered for one second near your stomach. He did not touch you without asking.
“Can I?” Brendon asked.
Your heart squeezed. You nodded. “Yes.”
He placed his palm over your stomach, warm and careful through the fabric of your shirt. The two of you waited. Nothing happened. You stared down at his hand. Brendon stared down at his hand. The baby did absolutely nothing. After a few seconds, your mouth twisted.
“I swear I felt it,” you said.
Brendon’s eyes lifted to yours immediately. “I believe you.”
You blinked. “You do?”
“Yes,” Brendon said. “You know your body.”
That was unfairly tender. Your eyes burned. Brendon noticed. His thumb moved once, barely there.
“I also know,” Brendon said, looking back down at your stomach, “that our baby has no apparent interest in cooperating for me.”
You laughed. The sound startled both of you a little. Brendon’s mouth softened. He looked down at your belly with quiet seriousness.
“Little one,” Brendon said. “This is not an ideal first impression.”
You covered your mouth with one hand.
“Are you criticizing the baby?” you asked.
“No,” Brendon said.
You stared at him. His thumb moved once over your shirt.
“I am offering constructive feedback,” Brendon said.
You laughed harder. Brendon looked back down at your stomach. The baby remained still. He waited another few seconds. Then his brows drew together.
“You are very small,” Brendon said to your stomach. “So I will allow some inconsistency.”
You bit your lip. “That’s generous.”
“Yes,” Brendon said. “I thought so.”
Your laughter softened into something warmer. Brendon’s palm stayed steady over your stomach. For a moment, the house went quiet again. The tea sat forgotten on the table. The tablet had gone dark in the armchair. Your hand covered part of Brendon’s wrist, your fingers resting lightly against his pulse.
Then the baby kicked. Not hard. Not dramatic. A tiny, unmistakable tap beneath his palm.
Brendon stopped breathing. You felt it happen. His hand went completely still. His eyes stayed fixed on your stomach, but something in his face opened so quietly it made your chest ache.
“Was that it?” Brendon asked.
His voice was low. Almost cautious. You nodded, tears filling your eyes.
“Yes,” you whispered. “That was it.”
The baby kicked again. His throat moved once.
“Oh,” Brendon said softly.
That was all. One word. Barely even that. But it sounded like something had shifted inside him and would never go back exactly the way it had been. You looked at him. His eyes were wet. Just barely. Enough that your own tears spilled over.
“You felt it,” you said.
Brendon nodded once. “Yes,” he said. “I felt it.”
His palm stayed exactly where it was, like he was afraid the moment might disappear if he moved too quickly. The baby fluttered again, softer this time. Brendon’s mouth parted slightly. Then he looked up at you. For one second, he seemed unable to arrange his face into anything neutral. Your breath caught.
“That is our baby,” Brendon said.
You laughed through a sob. “Yes. That is our baby.”
His eyes moved back down. The baby went still. Brendon waited. Patient. Focused. Completely gone. After almost a minute, you wiped under your eyes.
“I think that might be it for now,” you said.
Brendon did not move his hand. “That is reasonable.”
You smiled. “Reasonable?”
His thumb moved once over your stomach.
“Yes,” Brendon said. “The baby is very small.”
Your smile trembled. “And already very stubborn.”
“Possibly,” Brendon said, looking at your stomach.
You gave him a look. His mouth softened.
“Probably,” Brendon corrected.
The baby moved again beneath both your hands. Small. Brief. There. Brendon’s fingers flexed once against you.
“Hello,” he whispered.
Your face crumpled again. Brendon glanced up immediately.
“What is it?” he asked.
You shook your head, laughing through the tears.
“Nothing bad,” you said.
His expression eased.
“I need clearer categories than that,” Brendon said.
You laughed again. “It’s good,” you said. “It’s very good.”
Brendon nodded, accepting that. Then he looked back down at your stomach.
“Hello, little one,” Brendon said, quieter now.
The baby did not move again. Still, he stayed there. His hand warm beneath yours. His eyes fixed on the place where he had felt the first proof that the tiny flicker on the ultrasound screen had become something strong enough to reach him. After a long moment, he leaned down and pressed his mouth to your stomach. It was not dramatic. Not lingering.
Just a careful kiss through the fabric of your shirt. Your breath caught anyway. Brendon lifted his head.
“You okay?” he asked.
You nodded. “Yes, just emotional.”
His thumb moved once beneath your hand.
“That is reasonable,” Brendon said.
You smiled through tears.
“Thank you for allowing it,” you said.
His mouth twitched. “You are welcome.”
You laughed, and he finally smiled properly. Small. Private. Yours.
Then he shifted closer on the couch, one arm settling carefully behind your shoulders as his other hand stayed on your stomach. You leaned into him. Brendon kissed your temple. For a while, neither of you spoke. The room stayed warm and quiet around you. The tea went cold. The tablet screen stayed dark. Brendon’s hand remained beneath yours, patient in a way that made your heart ache. Eventually, you rested your head against his shoulder.
“I can’t believe you felt it,” you whispered.
Brendon turned his face slightly toward your hair.
“I can,” he said.
You tilted your head enough to look at him. “You can?”
“Yes,” Brendon said. “You felt it.”
Your throat tightened. Then he looked at you, his face soft and serious.
“But I was always going to believe you,” Brendon said.
You stared at him for a second. Then your face crumpled all over again. Brendon sighed softly, but his eyes warmed.
“I am learning that everything I say tonight makes you cry,” Brendon said.
You laughed through it, wiping at your cheeks. “It’s not my fault,” you said.
“No,” Brendon agreed, looking back down at your stomach. “Apparently it is theirs.”
You laughed harder. Brendon’s mouth softened as his palm rested warm and sure over your belly.
“Already very disruptive,” Brendon said quietly.
You smiled against his shoulder. “Already very loved,” you whispered.
Brendon’s thumb moved once. “Yes,” he said. “Very.”
─── ୨୧ ───
Voice
By the third trimester, the baby had become most active at night. Brendon had a theory about it. Of course he did.
“They are responding to periods of rest,” Brendon said one night, his hand resting lightly on your stomach while the baby rolled beneath your skin. “You are more still, so you notice the movement more.”
You stared at him from your side of the bed. “I said the baby is bullying me.”
“Yes,” Brendon said. “And I offered a medically reasonable explanation.”
You gave him a tired look. “That is not emotionally supportive.”
His thumb moved once over your shirt.
“The baby is bullying you,” Brendon said.
You smiled despite yourself. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” Brendon said.
The baby shifted again, a firm pressure low on one side of your belly that made you inhale sharply. Brendon’s expression changed immediately.
“Pain?” he asked.
You shook your head. “No, just uncomfortable.”
His eyes stayed on your face for another second, checking. Then he nodded.
“Okay,” Brendon said.
You were propped against what felt like every pillow in the house, one hand tucked beneath your belly and the other resting over the top of it. Your back ached. Your hips hurt. Your ribs felt crowded. You were tired in a way that sleep did not seem to fix anymore. Brendon sat beside you with one leg bent on the bed, his tablet abandoned on the nightstand because the baby had started moving hard enough that you had made a sound.
Not a dramatic sound. A small one. Apparently that had been enough. Now his hand stayed warm and careful over your stomach, tracking the occasional movement with quiet attention.
The baby kicked beneath his palm. Brendon’s brows lifted slightly.
“That was unnecessary,” Brendon said.
You laughed softly. “Tell the baby that.”
He looked down at your stomach. “That was unnecessary,” Brendon repeated.
You laughed harder. The baby kicked again. Brendon went still for half a second.
Then his mouth softened. “I see.”
You tilted your head. “What?” you asked.
“They disagree,” Brendon said.
You smiled, exhausted and fond.
“They have a lot of opinions for someone who has not arrived yet,” you said.
Brendon glanced down at your stomach. “That does seem inefficient.”
You laughed softly. “Inefficient?” you asked.
“Yes,” Brendon said. “Usually complaints are easier to address when the person making them is present.”
You stared at him. His hand moved slowly over your stomach.
“Though I suspect this one will still be difficult to reason with,” Brendon said.
You smiled despite yourself. “Because they’re my child?”
“Because they are ours,” Brendon replied.
The baby moved again, slower this time, a long roll beneath his palm. Brendon’s thumb stilled.
“Hello, little one,” he said quietly.
Your throat tightened. The baby shifted beneath his hand. Then settled. For a moment, the room went very quiet. You watched Brendon watching your stomach. His expression did not change much. It never did, not all at once. But his jaw loosened slightly. His eyes softened. His hand became almost impossibly gentle.
“They know your voice,” you said.
Brendon’s eyes lifted to yours. You saw the exact moment the words landed. His breath caught in the smallest possible way.
“You think so?” Brendon asked.
You nodded. “Yes. I do.”
His gaze dropped back to your stomach. The baby had gone quiet beneath his palm. Brendon did not move.
“Because they stopped,” you said softly.
His thumb moved once. “That could be coincidence.”
“It could be,” you said.
Brendon looked up at you. You smiled. “It isn’t.”
His mouth softened by the smallest amount.
“You sound very certain,” Brendon said.
“I am,” you said.
The baby shifted again, softer this time, like they were settling beneath his hand. Brendon looked down immediately. His face went quiet. That was the only word for it. Quiet. Overwhelmed, but not outwardly. Touched, but holding it carefully. After a moment, he leaned a little closer.
“Are you listening?” Brendon asked your stomach.
You pressed your lips together. The baby did not move. Brendon’s thumb brushed lightly over the curve of you.
“That is good,” Brendon said. “Listening is important.”
You laughed under your breath. “Are you parenting right now?”
“Yes,” Brendon said.
You smiled. “Already?”
His eyes stayed on your stomach.
“Yes,” Brendon said. “It seems appropriate to begin early.”
Your laugh softened into something that wanted to be tears. Brendon noticed. His eyes lifted to your face.
“What is it?” he asked.
You shook your head. “Nothing bad,” you said.
His expression shifted faintly. “That category is still too imprecise.”
You smiled, your eyes burning.
“It’s good,” you said. “It’s just good.”
He studied you for a moment. Then his face softened.
“Okay,” Brendon said.
The baby kicked once more beneath his hand, firmer this time. You winced slightly. Brendon’s attention snapped down.
“Rude,” he said.
A startled laugh broke out of you. Brendon looked at your stomach.
“I said listening was important,” Brendon said. “I did not say kicking your mother in the ribs was encouraged.”
You laughed harder, one hand covering your mouth. Brendon’s mouth twitched. Then he leaned down, closer to your stomach, his voice lowering.
“It is late,” Brendon said. “Your mother is tired. You have made your point.”
The baby shifted. Brendon paused. You watched his face. He looked so serious. So composed. So entirely himself. And then the baby stilled. Completely. Your breath caught.
Brendon did not move. His eyes stayed on your stomach. For several seconds, neither of you spoke.
Then you whispered, “See?”
Brendon swallowed. His hand stayed warm and unmoving over your belly.
“Yes,” he said quietly.
His voice was different. Softer. A little unsteady. “Yes, I see.”
Your eyes filled. Brendon looked up at you. A faint line appeared between his brows.
“You’re crying,” he said.
You gave a wet little laugh. “You’re surprised?”
“No,” Brendon said. “Concerned about the frequency.”
You laughed harder, and a tear slipped down your cheek. His hand left your stomach only long enough to brush it away with his thumb. Then he returned his palm to the baby, exactly where it had been.
“They really know you,” you whispered.
Brendon looked back down. For a moment, he said nothing. Then he lowered himself carefully, shifting until he was lying on his side beside your belly, one arm draped lightly around your hips and his mouth close to where the baby had settled.
“You know me?” Brendon asked softly.
The gentleness of it broke something in you. You threaded your fingers into his hair. The baby did not move. Brendon’s eyes closed briefly, as if he was listening for something no one else could hear. Then he opened them and looked at your stomach.
“I’m your father,” Brendon said.
Your face crumpled. The words were quiet. Not tentative. Not dramatic. A fact.
A promise.
Something placed carefully into the room between you. Brendon went still after saying it, as if he had only just heard himself. Your fingers paused in his hair. He looked up at you. His eyes were wet. Barely. Just enough.
“You said it,” you whispered.
“Yes,” Brendon said, his voice low. “I did.”
Your mouth trembled. “How does it feel?”
Brendon looked back at your stomach. He took a careful breath.
“Large,” he said.
A laugh broke through your tears. “Large?”
His mouth softened. “Yes,” Brendon said. “Too large for one word, probably.”
You stroked your fingers through his hair. “What other words?”
He was quiet for a moment. The baby stayed still beneath his hand.
“Terrifying,” Brendon said.
You nodded, tears slipping into your hair. His thumb moved once over your stomach.
“Wanted,” Brendon added.
Your chest tightened. He looked up at you then.
“Very wanted,” Brendon said.
You pressed your lips together, trying not to sob.
Brendon shifted up carefully, bracing one hand beside your hip so he could kiss you. It was soft. Slow. Thorough in the way Brendon kissed when he needed you to understand something without forcing you to answer immediately. When he pulled back, his forehead rested close to yours.
“You are doing very well,” Brendon said.
Your laugh came out watery.
“I am lying in bed crying because the baby stopped kicking when you talked,” you said.
“Yes,” Brendon said. “And doing very well.”
You smiled through your tears. The baby shifted again beneath his hand. Brendon looked down instantly.
“There you are,” he whispered.
The baby stilled. His thumb moved over your stomach. For a while, he stayed exactly like that. His cheek near your belly. His hand warm over the place where the baby had settled. His voice low and even in the quiet room. He told the baby small things. That nighttime was for sleeping. That you were tired. That they would have plenty of time to make their opinions known later. That you were taking very good care of them. That he was very glad they were there.
You listened with your eyes closed, your fingers resting in his hair, your body still uncomfortable but quieter now. The baby stayed calm beneath his hand. Eventually, your breathing evened out. Brendon noticed that too.
“You are almost asleep,” he said softly.
“No, I’m not,” you whispered.
His mouth brushed your stomach. “You are.”
You opened one eye and looked down at him. “You’re smug.”
“I am effective,” Brendon said.
A tired laugh slipped out of you. Brendon lifted his head and shifted carefully back up beside you, one hand still remaining over your stomach until the last possible second. Then he settled beside you, close enough that his arm could rest around you and his palm could return to the curve of your belly. The baby did not move. You relaxed into him.
“Brendon,” you whispered.
“Yes?” he asked.
“Don’t stop talking,” you said.
His arm tightened slightly around you. For a moment, he was quiet. Then his mouth brushed your temple.
“All right,” Brendon said.
You closed your eyes. His hand rested over your stomach. His voice lowered in the dark.
“One step,” Brendon whispered. “Then the next.”
The baby stayed quiet. You drifted against him, heavy and warm and held. Brendon kept talking, soft and steady, until you fell asleep.
─── ୨୧ ───
Here
By the time you started pushing, you were too tired to be afraid in any organized way.
Fear still moved through you. It came in flashes. A monitor beep. A shift in pressure. A nurse adjusting something near your leg. The doctor’s calm voice between contractions. Brendon’s hand wrapped around yours.
But mostly, there was the work. Breathing. Holding. Pushing.
Trying to come back into your body between each wave, even when your body no longer felt like something that belonged entirely to you.
Brendon stayed beside you through all of it. Not hovering. Not crowding. There. One hand in yours, the other braced carefully behind your shoulders whenever you needed help curling forward. His voice stayed low near your ear. Not rushed. Not panicked. Never too loud.
“One breath,” Brendon said. “Just this one.”
You shook your head against the pillow. “I can’t,” you sobbed.
“You are,” Brendon said immediately.
Your eyes squeezed shut. “No, I can’t, I can’t—”
“You are,” Brendon said again, firmer this time. “You are doing it right now.”
A contraction climbed fast and brutal through your body. Your grip tightened around his hand. Brendon leaned closer.
“Look at me,” Brendon said.
You tried. You really did. But your eyes kept squeezing shut as the pressure took over.
“Love,” Brendon said, his voice steady beside you. “Open your eyes.”
You opened them. Barely. His face was right there. Composed. Focused. Eyes dark with feeling he was refusing to let spill into the room because you needed him steady more than you needed him undone.
“There you are,” Brendon said.
You cried harder. “I’m so tired.”
“I know,” Brendon said.
His thumb moved over your hand.
“I know you are,” Brendon said. “You have been working so hard.”
The nurse adjusted her hand near your knee.
“With the next contraction, we’re going to push again,” the nurse said.
You made a broken sound. Brendon’s fingers tightened around yours.
“Only the next one,” Brendon said.
You looked at him through tears.
“Only this one,” he said. “Nothing after it yet.”
Your breathing shook. “Okay,” you whispered.
His eyes stayed on yours. “Good. That is enough.”
The contraction started low, then rose hard and fast. Your body curled forward before you could think. Brendon moved with you. One hand behind your shoulders. One hand still locked around yours.
“That’s it,” the nurse said. “Deep breath. Hold it. Push.”
You pushed. The world narrowed to pressure and sound and Brendon’s voice counting softly beside your ear.
“One,” Brendon said. “Two. Three. Four.”
You sobbed through it.
“Keep going,” the nurse said. “You’re doing so good.”
You collapsed back against the pillows, sobbing. Brendon’s hand moved to your hair.
“Breathe,” he said softly. “In.”
You sucked in a shaking breath.
“Out,” Brendon said.
You let it go.
“There,” he said. “Again.”
You looked at him, dazed and wet-faced.
“Is the baby okay?” you asked.
Brendon looked at the monitor, then at the nurse. The nurse smiled.
“Baby is doing well,” the nurse said. “Tolerating labor beautifully.”
Your face crumpled with relief. Brendon looked back at you immediately.
“Baby is okay,” Brendon said. “You are okay. I have you. Both of you.”
Something about that broke through the pain for half a second. You stared at him.
“You say that like it’s a threat,” you whispered.
Brendon’s mouth softened. “It is a promise.”
You laughed once. It sounded half hysterical and half like a sob. Brendon’s eyes warmed for one second. Then the next contraction rose. Your smile vanished.
“No,” you cried. “No, no, I can’t do another one.”
“Yes,” Brendon said, calm and certain. “You can.”
The doctor looked up from the foot of the bed. “You’re moving baby down beautifully. A few more like that.”
A few more. The words felt impossible. You looked at Brendon in panic. He must have seen it, because his hand came to your cheek.
“Do not go past this contraction,” Brendon said.
His thumb brushed beneath your eye.
“Stay here,” Brendon said. “With me.”
The contraction hit. You pushed again. And again. And again. Time stopped making sense. You cried. You cursed once, sharp and broken, and Brendon did not flinch.
He only leaned closer and said, “That is also reasonable.”
The nurse laughed softly. You would have laughed too if your body had not been splitting itself open around the effort of bringing your baby into the world. Then the pressure changed. It became sharper. Lower. Too much.
Your eyes flew open.
“Brendon,” you cried.
“I’m here,” he said immediately.
You shook your head, panic taking you hard.
“No, something’s different,” you sobbed. “Something’s different.”
The doctor’s voice stayed calm. “That’s baby moving lower. You’re doing exactly what you need to do.”
You sobbed, shaking your head.
“I know,” Brendon said, his mouth close to your temple.
Your hand crushed his. Brendon pressed his mouth briefly to your temple.
“You only have to do the next breath,” he said.
The nurse leaned closer. “Next contraction, we’re going to give it everything. You’re so close.”
You were crying too hard to answer. Brendon’s forehead touched yours for one second.
“Listen to me,” Brendon said.
You dragged your eyes to his. His face blurred through tears.
“You are safe,” Brendon said. “Baby is safe. Everyone in this room is watching you both very closely.”
You made a broken sound.
“And I am right here,” Brendon said. “I am not going anywhere.”
Your mouth trembled. “Don’t let go,” you whispered.
Brendon’s expression changed. The control did not leave his face. Not completely. But something cracked behind his eyes.
“I won’t,” Brendon said. His fingers tightened around yours. “Not for a moment.”
The next contraction came. You pushed with everything you had left. Brendon counted. The nurse encouraged. The doctor’s voice sharpened with focus.
“That’s it,” the doctor said. “That’s it. Keep going.”
You sobbed and pushed again. The pressure became unbearable. Then impossible. Then suddenly different. A rush. A release.
A cry.
Thin. Furious. Alive.
The room changed around it. You froze, chest heaving, every part of you shaking. For half a second, you did not understand.
Then the doctor smiled.
“It’s a girl,” the doctor said.
Your mouth opened. Nothing came out. Brendon stopped breathing beside you.
The cry came again. Louder this time. Angry and real and here.
Your face crumpled. “A girl,” you whispered.
Brendon’s hand tightened around yours. He looked wrecked. Completely, quietly wrecked.
“Our daughter,” Brendon said.
The words came out so softly you almost missed them. Then the doctor lifted her just enough for you to see. Small. Wet. Furious. Perfect.
Your sob broke loose.
“Oh my God,” you cried. “Brendon.”
“I see her,” Brendon said.
His voice broke on the last word. “I see her.”
Then she was on your chest, warm and slippery and crying against your skin. Your arms came around her with shaking disbelief. The world shrank instantly. Her weight. Her sound. Her tiny face turned toward you. Your baby. Your daughter.
“Hi,” you sobbed.
Brendon leaned over both of you, one hand still holding yours and the other hovering near the baby like he was afraid to touch her wrong.
“Hi,” you whispered again. “Hi, baby.”
The baby cried harder. You laughed and sobbed at the same time.
“She’s mad,” you said.
Brendon’s mouth trembled. “She has had a difficult day.”
A broken laugh came out of you. Brendon looked down at her, his eyes wet and wide and helpless in a way you had never seen before.
“Hello, little one,” he said softly.
The baby cried against your chest. Brendon’s face crumpled for one second before he controlled it again. You saw it anyway.
“You’re crying,” you whispered.
“Yes,” Brendon said.
He did not deny it. He did not make a joke. His eyes stayed on your daughter.
“Yes, I am,” he said.
The nurse moved around you, brisk and gentle, rubbing the baby’s back, checking her color, guiding the blanket over both of you.
“She looks great,” the nurse said. “Strong cry.”
Your entire body sagged with relief.
Brendon looked at the nurse. “She’s okay?”
“She’s okay,” the nurse said warmly. Then she smiled at him. “Dad, do you want to cut the cord?”
Dad.
The word hit him visibly. His throat moved. His eyes closed for half a second. When he opened them again, they were wet.
“Yes,” Brendon said.
He looked at you first. You nodded, crying too hard to speak.
“Yes,” he said again, quieter this time. “I do.”
The nurse guided him. Brendon’s hand was steady when he took the scissors. Mostly. You noticed the faint tremor anyway.
“I am not nervous,” Brendon said.
You let out a watery laugh.
“I didn’t say anything,” you said.
“You were about to,” Brendon said.
Then he cut the cord. His breath caught afterward. As if that one small act had made something permanent. As if it had drawn a bright, impossible line between before and after. The baby shifted against your chest. You looked down at her and sobbed again.
“She’s here,” you whispered.
Brendon returned to your side immediately.
“Yes,” he said, his hand careful over the blanket. “She is here.”
The doctor continued working, calm and gentle between your knees. You were aware of it distantly. The pressure. The cramping. The strange, unfair continuation of pain after the baby was already on your chest. You winced, your arms tightening around your daughter.
“I thought it was over,” you said.
Brendon looked at your face at once. “I know.”
Your eyes filled again. “It’s not fair,” you whispered.
“No,” Brendon said. His thumb brushed across your temple. “It is not.”
The agreement loosened something in your chest. You did not need him to explain it. You did not need him to tell you it was normal. You knew it was normal. You just needed him to admit that normal did not mean easy.
The baby fussed against you. Brendon’s eyes dropped to her instantly.
“We’re going to take her over to the warmer for just a few minutes,” the nurse said. “We’ll get her weight, check her over, and bring her right back.”
Your arms tightened before you could stop them. Brendon noticed. So did the nurse.
“Just right over there,” the nurse said gently. “You’ll be able to see her the whole time.”
You nodded, but tears filled your eyes again. The nurse lifted the baby carefully from your chest. The second her warmth left you, panic opened wide beneath your ribs. She cried immediately. You turned your head toward the sound.
Brendon turned too. For one second, he looked torn in half. His body angled toward the warmer. His hand stayed wrapped around yours. You looked at him through tears.
“Make sure she’s okay,” you whispered. “Please. I need to know she’s okay.”
Brendon understood at once. Not permission. Need. He bent and kissed your forehead.
“I will be right there,” Brendon said. “You will be able to see both of us.”
You nodded, crying. “Go,” you whispered.
His eyes searched yours. You tried to smile.
“Go, Dad,” you said.
Dad hit him again. Harder this time. His face changed. He nodded once, like speech had briefly become unavailable. Then he forced himself to move.
“I am going,” Brendon said.
He looked back once. Then again.
“I see you,” you said, because you knew he needed to hear it.
His mouth softened.
Then he went to your daughter. You watched him lean over the warmer, tall and careful and utterly undone. The baby cried beneath the bright light, small fists waving. Brendon placed one finger near her hand. She caught it. His entire body went still.
“Oh,” he whispered.
You saw his shoulders rise with a breath. Then fall.
“I know, little one,” Brendon said softly. “You are all right.”
She cried harder. He nodded.
“Yes,” Brendon said. “That is understandable.”
A laugh escaped you from the bed, exhausted and teary. Brendon looked over at you immediately.
“She has your tolerance for inconvenience,” he said.
You cried and laughed at the same time.
“She’s okay?” you asked.
Brendon looked back at the nurse. The nurse smiled. “She’s doing beautifully.”
Brendon turned to you. “She is okay. She is doing very well.”
Your face crumpled with relief. “Okay,” you sobbed.
“She is loud,” Brendon added.
You laughed again.
The nurse wrapped her in a blanket after the checks were done, then looked at Brendon.
“Dad, do you want to do some skin-to-skin while we finish up with Mom?” the nurse asked.
Brendon’s hand froze where it rested near the edge of the warmer.
He looked at you.
Always you first.
You nodded, crying too hard to speak.
“Yes,” you whispered. “Hold her.”
His throat moved. Then he nodded. “Yes,” Brendon said.
The nurse smiled. “Go ahead and take your shirt off, Dad,” she said.
The word still hit him. You saw it in the way his eyes closed for half a second, the way his mouth tightened like the word had found a place in him he had not known was empty.
Then he moved. Carefully. Practically. Brendon pulled his shirt over his head and sat in the chair the nurse brought close to the bed. He looked composed, almost clinical in the way he arranged himself, but his hands gave him away.
They were not shaking badly. Only enough that you noticed.
The nurse placed the baby against his bare chest.
Brendon stopped breathing. Completely.
Your daughter settled against him, tiny and warm and furious, her cheek turned against his skin, one little hand tucked beneath her chin.
Brendon’s arms came around her slowly. Carefully. Like he was receiving something sacred.
“Oh,” he whispered.
That was all. One small sound. But his face changed around it. His eyes filled at once, and this time he did not try to blink it back. The baby cried once against him, smaller now, her whole body tucked against the steady warmth of his chest. Brendon looked down at her.
“Hello,” he said softly. His voice broke.
He swallowed, then tried again. “Hello, little one.”
You cried silently from the bed. The doctor was still working, the nurse still moving around you, but all you could see was Brendon holding your daughter against his skin like the entire world had narrowed to that single point of contact. Her breathing. His breathing. The careful curve of his hand over her back. The stunned, helpless look on his face.
“She’s right there,” you whispered.
Brendon nodded once, but he did not look away from her. “Yes.”
His thumb moved once over the blanket at her back. “She is right here.”
The baby made a tiny sound against him. Brendon’s mouth trembled.
“I know,” he whispered. “I know. This has been a great deal.”
A broken laugh slipped out of you. Brendon looked up immediately.
“She is okay,” Brendon said, clear and steady, because he knew what you needed before you asked. “She is doing very well.”
Your face crumpled with relief. “Okay,” you sobbed.
He shifted carefully in the chair so you could see her better.
“There,” Brendon said. “You can see her.”
You reached out with trembling fingers. Brendon leaned in at once, bringing the baby close enough that you could touch the blanket near her shoulder. Your fingers brushed her.
Small. Real. Yours.
Brendon watched your hand touch her, and another tear slipped down his cheek.
“You’re a dad,” you whispered.
Brendon looked down at the baby on his chest. His mouth trembled once.
“Yes,” he said.
He took a careful breath.
“I am.”
The baby shifted against him. Brendon bent his head closer.
“I will learn,” he whispered to her.
Your chest cracked open.
“Brendon,” you said softly.
He looked at you. His eyes were wet and focused and full.
“I will,” Brendon said, as if you had questioned it. “I will learn everything.”
You reached for his wrist. He shifted closer at once, letting you hold onto him while he held her. The three of you stayed like that while the room moved around you. Your daughter tucked against his bare chest beneath the warm blanket. Brendon’s hand careful over her back. Your fingers around his wrist. His chair close enough that your knees brushed his leg beneath the blanket.
After a while, the nurse helped settle the baby back on your chest. Brendon moved with the same careful focus, guiding the blanket, watching her head, making sure you had her before he let go. The second her weight returned to you, your whole body softened.
“There,” Brendon said.
His hand covered yours over the baby’s back. “There she is.”
Your daughter made a small sound against your skin. You looked down at her, then up at him.
“We have a daughter,” you whispered.
Brendon’s face softened in a way that made him look almost unguarded. “Yes,” he said.
His thumb moved once over your hand. “We have a daughter.”
You stared at him through tears. “I can’t believe she’s here.”
Brendon looked down at the baby between you. Then back at you.
“She is here,” he said.
His hand stayed over yours. “You brought her here.”
Your face crumpled. “We did,” you whispered.
Brendon shook his head. “No,” he said softly. “You did.”
You sobbed again. He leaned in and kissed your forehead, then your temple, then the damp corner of your eye.
“You did,” Brendon whispered. “And I am so proud of you.”
Your breath broke on another sob.
Brendon stayed close, his mouth near your temple, his hand warm over yours on your daughter’s back.
Then his voice softened even more.
“You are a mother,” Brendon said.
Your entire face crumpled.
The words hit differently coming from him.
Not sweetened.
Not decorated.
A fact.
A reverent one.
You looked down at the baby on your chest.
“I’m a mom,” you whispered.
Brendon’s thumb moved once over your hand.
“Yes,” he said. “You are.”
The baby shifted beneath your hands. Brendon looked down at her instantly. Of course he did. You laughed through your tears.
“You’re already watching her breathing,” you said.
“Yes,” Brendon said.
He did not look embarrassed. Then his eyes flicked to your face. “And yours.”
You smiled, exhausted and wrecked and happier than you knew how to hold.
“Always monitoring,” you whispered.
Brendon’s mouth softened.
“Not in a concerning way,” he said.
A laugh broke out of you. His smile warmed. Small. Private. Yours. Then he looked down at your daughter again. His hand stayed over yours, holding both of you as carefully as he could.
“I have her,” Brendon said softly.
His eyes lifted to yours.
“And I have you,” he said.
Your breath caught. Brendon looked back down at the baby, his thumb moving once over your hand.
Summary: The Pitt's quietest nurse is pregnant, and no one can figure out who the baby's father is. Fluffy and short.
A/N: I wrote this half awake at 3 in the morning. Maybe a little ooc for everyone considering I know the Pitt gossip goes crazy and this would have been figured out in two seconds, but my tired brain was going wild thinking of this so here it is.
Paternity
You were a fairly private person.
You never really spoke about your life outside of the hospital. You were friends with your fellow nurses, certainly, but you had that ability to have conversations without revealing too much about yourself that infuriated your colleagues, (Princess and Perlah especially) and that was how you liked it. You didn’t need everyone to know your business.
So when you revealed your pregnancy, whispers flew around the hospital. Who was the father? Were you even seeing someone? Was this a one night stand situation?
When Princess finally asked the question on everyone’s lips, tentatively, trying not to offend you, “who’s the father?” And you answered with a simple “Dr. Robby”, like it was the most obvious thing ever, no one believed you.
You were joking, obviously. Dr. Robby.
Sure, you and Robby got along well, just like any other colleagues in the hospital. But there was no way he was the father of your baby. No way the two of you were dating, or even just hooking up. You were never anything but professional with each other in the ER.
So when you went into labour earlier than expected, gripping the counter of the central hub with white knuckles as a contraction washed over you, no one thought anything of it when Robby hurried over, helping you into a wheelchair and into a room. He was just being Dr. Robby, the good doctor they all knew him to be. They had seen him take off running multiple times when one of their own was injured on the job; of course he would stay with you while an OBGYN team came down to check you out.
And when the baby was born, and everyone came to visit the Pitt crew’s newest addition, maybe there was some surprise to see Robby holding your baby in his large hands, cradled against his bare chest, a blanket over one shoulder. But it made sense, you clearly didn’t have anyone else in the picture — you were doing this on your own — why wouldn’t he give your baby some skin to skin while you rested? You were all family in the Pitt, at the end of the day.
And when Robby told everyone you and your baby were settling in nicely at home, everyone was happy to hear it. They were happy for you and the baby, and why wouldn’t Robby know how well you were doing? They had all watched him wheel you out of the hospital, knew he helped place the carseat in the back of your car. He had even driven you home.
It wasn’t until you came to visit nearly a year later, carrying your baby, when everyone realized that maybe, they had misunderstood the situation.
You stood with Dana and Perlah at the central hub, smiling as your round faced, happy looking baby waved a chubby hand at Jesse juggling for them, when Robby turned the corner, stopping short.
“My favourite person in the world” Robby crowed happily, and you watched as your baby’s face lit up at the sound of his voice. You set them down, letting them waddle as fast as they could over to Robby, who crouched low to catch them.
And it was only when Robby stood up, holding your baby close in his arms that everyone came to a very sudden realization.
Robby and your baby had the same brown eyes, the same nose, the same tilt of the head when someone spoke to them. But it was only when your baby scrubbed their tiny hand down their face the same way Robby did on particularly rough days and there was an incoming trauma, that Perlah shot a look at Princess, who looked at Dana, who looked at Jesse, who looked at Mateo.
Thankfully, the only thing incoming was nap time.
“It’s about that time” Robby said quietly, glancing at his watch.
“We should get going” you said, reaching out to take your baby back, but they stubbornly held on to Robby.
“I’ll come to the car” Robby said, and with a happy wave, you said goodbye to everyone in the Pitt, following along as Robby led the way outside. Your baby rested their head on his shoulder, their brown hair the same shade as his.
Your colleagues watched you all walk away, an awkward silence hanging over them before slowly turning to the security office.
Summary: From three positive pregnancy tests to the first heartbeat, first kick, late-night conversations with your belly, and one long, exhausting labor, Jack is there for every second of it. Terrified, overjoyed, completely wrecked, and already wrapped around his baby’s tiny finger before they're even born.
Warnings: pregnancy, labor and childbirth, birth scene, medical setting, pain, exhaustion, crying, emotional hurt/comfort, supportive husband Jack, dad Jack, no use of Y/N, reader is Jack’s wife, baby is unnamed
Author's Note: The Jack birth fic is finally here 🥹 This one follows little moments through the pregnancy before getting to the delivery room, so it’s very soft, emotional, and very much Jack being absolutely destroyed by becoming a dad. Also, for everyone who wanted Brendon too: his version is next. His will have the same pregnancy-to-birth structure, but with his own very Brendon kind of quiet, precise, emotionally devastating support.
─── ୨୧ ───
Positive
You had taken three tests.
One because you were late. One because the first one was positive. One because your hands had started shaking so badly you convinced yourself you had read the first two wrong.
All three sat on the bathroom counter now, lined up beside the sink like evidence.
Positive. Positive. Positive.
You stood in front of them in one of Jack’s old T-shirts, barefoot on the bath mat, staring until the little lines blurred in front of you. Your heart had been pounding for so long you could feel it in your throat, in your wrists, behind your ribs.
A baby. Your baby. Jack’s baby.
The thought hit so hard your breath caught.
Downstairs, you heard the front door open and close.
“Sweetheart?” Jack called from below.
Your stomach flipped.
You turned toward the bathroom door, then back to the tests, then to your reflection. You looked exactly the same as you had twenty minutes ago. Messy hair. Tired eyes. Jack’s shirt hanging loose over your body.
But everything was different.
“Up here,” you called, and your voice cracked around the words.
There was a pause downstairs. Then Jack’s footsteps started up the stairs. You heard the change in them halfway up. The pace quickened. The casual rhythm vanished. Jack appeared in the bedroom doorway a few seconds later, still in his jeans and jacket, keys in one hand, brows drawn together.
“What’s wrong?” Jack asked.
You tried to answer. Nothing came out. His face changed immediately.
Jack dropped his keys onto the dresser and crossed the room toward you.
“Baby,” Jack said, softer now. “What happened?”
You stepped back into the bathroom without meaning to.
Jack followed, then stopped beside you. For one second, he looked at your face. Then his eyes dropped to the counter.
The room went impossibly quiet.
Jack stared at the tests. One. Then the next. Then the next.
You watched him process it in pieces. The confusion. The realization. The sudden stillness that took over his whole body. His mouth parted slightly.
“Are those—” Jack started.
“Positive,” you said.
Jack’s eyes lifted to yours. You nodded before he could ask.
“All of them,” you whispered.
His gaze moved back to the counter. For a moment, he didn’t say anything. Your chest tightened.
“Jack?” you asked.
He blinked once.
Then he looked down at your stomach. There was nothing to see. Nothing different. Nothing visible. Nothing that could explain the way the entire world had just tilted beneath your feet.
But Jack looked anyway. Like something sacred had already started there.
“Holy shit,” Jack whispered.
You swallowed hard, your hands twisting tighter in the hem of his shirt.
“Good holy shit or bad holy shit?” you asked.
Jack’s face broke. Not in a bad way. Not in fear.
In wonder.
He moved so fast you barely had time to breathe before his hands were on your face, warm and familiar and trembling.
“Good,” Jack said. “Baby, good.”
Your lips trembled. “Yeah?” you asked.
Jack nodded quickly, his thumbs brushing over your cheeks.
“Yeah,” Jack said, his voice rougher now. “Yeah, sweetheart. So fucking good.”
Then he kissed you. Not carefully. Not softly.
Jack kissed you like the joy had hit him too fast to do anything else with it, like he needed somewhere to put the fear and the relief and the impossible, overwhelming happiness flooding through him. His hands held your face, his mouth pressed to yours, and for one breathless second, you forgot the panic.
You forgot the shaking.
You forgot everything except Jack laughing against your lips, wet-eyed and overjoyed, kissing you again before you had even fully caught your breath. A sob slipped out of you, muffled against his mouth.
Jack pulled back immediately, his forehead resting against yours.
“Too much?” Jack asked, breathless and worried all at once.
You shook your head, crying harder now.
“No,” you said, your hands gripping the front of his jacket. “No, it’s just—”
Your voice broke.
Jack’s face softened. “I know.”
You laughed through a sob.
“We’re having a baby,” you whispered.
Jack let out a sound that was almost a laugh and almost something broken.
“Yeah,” Jack said. “We are.”
You pulled back just enough to look at him. His eyes were wet. That undid you worse than anything else.
“You’re crying,” you said.
Jack huffed, but it came out rough. “No, I’m not.”
You gave him a look through your tears. His mouth twitched.
“Fine,” Jack said. “Maybe a little.”
You laughed, and he smiled then, soft and stunned and completely wrecked. His gaze drifted back to the counter. Jack looked at the tests again, like he needed to see them one more time to believe it. Then his brows drew together.
“You took three tests?” Jack asked.
Your laugh came out wet and embarrassed. “I panicked.”
Jack looked back at you, his mouth softening again.
“Yeah,” Jack said quietly. “I can see that.”
You wiped at your cheek with the heel of your hand.
“I thought maybe I read them wrong,” you said.
“All three?” Jack asked, his brows lifting.
You gave him a weak look. “I said I panicked.”
Jack’s mouth twitched. “Efficient panic.”
You gave a watery laugh and swatted lightly at his chest. He caught your hand before you could pull it away and kissed your knuckles. Then his hands slid from your face to your waist, pausing there like he wasn’t sure what he was allowed to touch. You saw the hesitation. Your chest ached.
“Jack,” you whispered.
His eyes flicked to yours. You reached for one of his hands and guided it lower, settling his palm carefully over your stomach. There was nothing there yet. Not really. No curve. No kick. No proof beyond the tests on the counter and the impossible hope opening between you.
Jack knew that.
He was a doctor. He knew better than anyone.
Still, the second his hand rested there, his whole face changed. His thumb moved once over the soft cotton of his shirt.
“Hey,” Jack whispered.
You started crying again. Jack looked up at you, alarm flashing across his face.
“What?” Jack asked.
You shook your head. “Nothing,” you said, laughing through it. “You’re already talking to the baby.”
Jack looked back down at his hand. “Yeah,” Jack said quietly.
His throat worked once. “Yeah, I am.”
You covered his hand with yours.
For a long moment, neither of you moved. The tests sat on the counter beside you.
Positive. Positive. Positive.
Jack bent and pressed his mouth to your forehead, lingering there as his hand stayed warm beneath yours. When he pulled back, his eyes were still wet, but his voice was steadier.
“You feeling okay?” Jack asked.
You laughed softly. “There he is.”
Jack frowned. “What?”
You smiled up at him. “Doctor Jack.”
His frown deepened, but his thumb kept moving over your stomach.
“Husband Jack also wants to know if you feel okay,” Jack said.
Your smile wobbled.
“I’m scared,” you admitted.
Jack’s expression softened immediately. “Yeah. Me too.”
“You are?” you asked.
“Sweetheart,” Jack said, his hand still warm beneath yours. “I’m terrified.”
A laugh broke out of you, startled and watery. Jack smiled, but his hand stayed careful over your stomach.
“But I’m happy,” Jack said. “I need you to know that part first. I’m scared, and I’m overwhelmed, and I’m probably going to say at least six stupid things in the next ten minutes.”
“You already said holy shit,” you said.
Jack’s mouth twitched. “That one was warranted.”
You laughed again. His thumb moved over your stomach.
“But I’m happy,” Jack said, quieter now. “I’m so happy I don’t know what to do with it.”
Your face crumpled. Jack pulled you in again, wrapping both arms around you this time, careful but firm.
“I love you,” Jack said into your hair.
You closed your eyes.
“I love you too,” you said.
Jack held you for another long moment before he drew back just enough to look at you. Then he looked back down at your stomach, wonder stealing over his face all over again.
“Our baby,” Jack said softly.
The words settled into the bathroom, warm and terrifying and real. You covered his hand again.
“Our baby,” you whispered.
─── ୨୧ ───
Heartbeat
Jack was trying very hard to be normal.
You knew this because he had not stopped talking since you checked in.
Not loudly. Not obnoxiously. Not enough that anyone else in the waiting room would have noticed. But he had been narrating small, useless things under his breath for the better part of fifteen minutes, one hand resting on your knee while his other thumb worried at the edge of the appointment card they had given you at the front desk.
“The chairs are better here than the ones in the ER,” Jack said.
You looked over at him. Jack glanced around the waiting room like he was making a professional assessment.
“Not great,” Jack said. “But better.”
You gave him a look. “You’re reviewing the chairs?”
Jack’s mouth twitched. “I’m distracting you.”
You blinked at him. Jack’s thumb moved over your knee.
“And myself,” Jack added.
Your chest softened. You reached for his hand, lacing your fingers through his. Jack looked down at your joined hands, then squeezed once.
“Nervous?” he asked.
You nodded. “Very.”
Jack’s face softened immediately. “Yeah.”
“You?” you asked.
Jack looked at you. For half a second, you thought he might make another joke. Then his smile faded.
“Very,” Jack said.
The honesty settled between you, quiet and steady. You leaned your shoulder into his. Jack leaned back. Neither of you said anything for a minute. Across the room, someone’s toddler dropped a toy onto the floor with a sharp plastic clatter. A nurse opened a door and called another name. The TV mounted in the corner played a muted cooking segment no one seemed to be watching.
Jack’s hand stayed warm around yours. When your name was called, your stomach dropped so fast you almost forgot how to stand. Jack stood with you immediately.
“I’ve got you,” Jack said quietly.
You nodded, but your fingers tightened around his anyway. Jack did not let go. He stayed beside you through the walk back. Through the nurse taking your vitals. Through the questions that made everything feel both routine and terrifyingly real. Date of last period. Any spotting. Any cramping. Nausea. Medications. Allergies.
Jack stayed mostly quiet, answering only when you looked at him or when the nurse asked something he knew you were too nervous to remember. His thumb kept moving over the back of your hand.
Steady. Steady. Steady.
By the time the ultrasound tech dimmed the lights, your heart was pounding again. Jack noticed. He shifted closer to the exam table, his hand still wrapped around yours.
“You okay?” Jack asked.
You swallowed hard. “Ask me after.”
Jack’s jaw tightened for a second before he nodded.
“Fair,” Jack said.
The tech smiled gently as she adjusted the machine.
“We’ll take a look,” the tech said. “It’s early, so everything is small, but we should be able to see what we need.”
Small. The word made your throat tighten. Jack’s hand squeezed yours once. You stared at the ceiling while the tech started the scan, trying to breathe normally, trying not to read every tiny shift in her face.
The screen glowed beside you. Gray shapes moved and blurred.
You had no idea what you were looking at.
Jack probably did, at least more than you, but he did not say anything. He only watched the screen with an expression so focused it almost scared you. Then the tech angled the monitor slightly toward you.
“There,” the tech said softly. “That little flicker right there.”
Your breath stopped. Jack’s hand went still around yours.
The tech smiled. “That’s baby’s heartbeat.”
For one second, the room went silent.
Or maybe you did. Maybe everything in you went so still that the rest of the world fell away. Then the tech turned on the sound.
The heartbeat filled the room. Fast. Steady. Impossible.
Your hand flew to your mouth.
“Oh my God,” you whispered.
Jack did not move. Not at first. You turned your head toward him and found him staring at the screen, his mouth parted slightly, his eyes already wet.
The sound kept going. Fast, fast, fast. Proof. Life. Your baby.
“Jack,” you whispered.
He blinked once. A tear slipped down his cheek before he seemed to realize it was there. You squeezed his hand. Jack let out a rough, disbelieving laugh.
“That’s our baby,” Jack said.
The tech smiled from beside the machine. “That’s your baby.”
Jack’s face crumpled for half a second. Then he looked down at you, and the look on his face nearly broke you.
“Sweetheart,” Jack said, voice wrecked. “That’s our baby.”
You nodded, crying now. “I know.”
Jack huffed another laugh, but it shook on the way out.
“I know you know,” Jack said. “I just—”
His voice broke. He looked back at the screen. The tiny flicker moved. The heartbeat kept filling the room. Jack wiped quickly at his face with his free hand, then seemed to realize there was no point pretending.
You laughed through your tears. “Still not crying?”
Jack looked down at you. His eyes were red and wet and full.
“Oh, I’m absolutely crying,” Jack said.
You laughed harder, and the sound turned into a sob. Jack bent down and kissed your forehead, his mouth lingering there while the heartbeat raced on beside you.
The tech pointed gently at the screen. “Baby is measuring right on track.”
Jack lifted his head, his face shifting just enough that you could see the doctor part of him catching the words.
“Good?” you asked quickly.
The tech nodded. “Very good.”
Jack squeezed your hand.
“Very good,” Jack repeated, softer, like he knew you needed to hear it from him too.
Your eyes stayed locked on the screen. The tiny flicker was so small. Too small, almost, for how much it had already changed.
“I can’t believe that’s inside me,” you whispered.
Jack’s thumb moved over your hand again.
“Yeah,” Jack said. “I’m having a little trouble with that too.”
You turned your face toward him. Jack smiled down at you, wet-eyed and stunned.
“What?” you asked.
He shook his head. “Nothing.”
You gave him a look. Jack’s smile deepened, but his voice came out soft.
“I just keep thinking about the tests,” Jack said.
“The pregnancy tests?” you asked.
Jack’s mouth twitched. “The very efficient panic tests, yeah.”
You laughed through your tears. His eyes moved back to the screen.
“They were real,” Jack said quietly.
Your chest tightened. You looked back at the monitor too. The heartbeat filled the dim little room again. Fast. Steady. Real.
You squeezed Jack’s hand.
“They were real,” you whispered.
Jack bent down again, pressing another kiss to your forehead. When he pulled back, his eyes stayed on the screen.
“Hey, kid,” Jack said softly.
Your mouth trembled.
The tech smiled to herself, but Jack did not seem to notice.
He was still looking at the flicker. At the tiny impossible proof of the baby you had both been too scared to fully believe in until that sound filled the room. Jack’s thumb moved over your hand.
“You’re already scaring the hell out of us,” Jack said quietly.
You laughed softly. “Jack.”
He glanced down at you, his face open and ruined.
“What?” Jack asked. “It’s true.”
You smiled through fresh tears. Jack looked back at the screen, and his voice softened even more.
“But we’re really happy you’re here,” Jack said.
Your face crumpled. Jack squeezed your hand again.
“So fucking happy,” Jack whispered.
─── ୨୧ ───
Kick
The first time you felt the baby move, you were on the couch with a half-empty bowl of cereal balanced on the curve of your stomach.
It was late enough that dinner had come and gone on one of Jack’s nights off, but pregnancy had apparently decided that cereal tasted best sometime after ten at night. Jack had not questioned it. He had only looked at the bowl, looked at you, and asked if you wanted the big spoon or the normal spoon.
You had chosen the big spoon.
Jack had called it a solid medical decision.
Now he was in the kitchen, putting away the rest of the dishes while you sat curled beneath a blanket, one hand resting lazily over your stomach and the other digging through the cereal bowl for the marshmallow pieces.
The baby had been quiet all day.
Not that you were far enough along to feel regular movement yet. You knew that. Jack had reminded you of that. Your doctor had reminded you of that.
Still, you had been waiting.
Listening to your body in a way that made everything feel both exciting and impossible to trust.
Then something fluttered low beneath your hand.
You froze.
The spoon stopped halfway to your mouth.
For one second, you wondered if you had imagined it.
Then it happened again.
A tiny, strange little tap from the inside.
Your breath caught so hard Jack heard it from the kitchen.
“What?” Jack asked, his voice immediately sharper.
You did not answer. Your hand pressed more firmly against your stomach.
The baby moved again. Small. Quick. Real.
“Oh my God,” you whispered.
Jack appeared with a dish towel still in his hands.
“What?” Jack asked again.
You looked up at him, eyes already filling.
“The baby moved,” you said.
Jack went still. The dish towel lowered slowly in his hand.
“What?” Jack asked, softer this time.
You laughed, startled and wet.
“The baby moved,” you said again. “I felt it.”
Jack dropped the dish towel onto the back of the couch and crossed the room so quickly he nearly clipped the coffee table with his shin.
“Where?” Jack asked.
You grabbed his hand before he could hover uselessly over your stomach.
“Here,” you said, guiding his palm to the spot low on your belly. “Right here.”
Jack lowered himself onto the edge of the couch beside you, his hand spread wide and careful over your stomach.
The two of you waited. Nothing happened.
Jack looked at your stomach. You looked at Jack. The baby did absolutely nothing.
Your mouth twitched.
“I swear it happened,” you said.
Jack’s eyes flicked up to yours immediately.
“I know,” Jack said.
“You don’t have to say that,” you said.
Jack frowned. “I’m not humoring you.”
You smiled softly. “You’re humoring me a little.”
“No,” Jack said, his thumb moving once over your stomach. “I believe you.”
Your chest warmed. Jack looked back down at his hand.
“I also think this kid has terrible timing,” Jack said.
You laughed. Jack leaned closer to your stomach, his brows drawing together.
“Really?” Jack asked your stomach. “You’re ignoring me already?”
You stared at him.
“Are you arguing with the baby?” you asked.
Jack glanced up at you.
“I’m negotiating,” Jack said.
You laughed harder, one hand pressing over your mouth.
Jack looked back down at your stomach with exaggerated seriousness.
“Listen,” Jack said, his palm still careful against you. “I know we haven’t met formally yet, but I’m your father, and I would appreciate a little cooperation.”
Nothing. The baby stayed perfectly still.
You bit your lip. Jack narrowed his eyes.
“Oh, you’re stubborn,” Jack said.
You tilted your head. “Wonder where that comes from.”
Jack looked at you.
“Not me,” Jack said.
You gave him a look. Jack’s mouth twitched.
“Fine,” Jack said. “Maybe a little me.”
The baby kicked.
Not a flutter this time. A real, unmistakable little thump beneath his palm.
Jack froze. Everything in him went still at once. His hand did not move. His face changed so quickly it stole the smile right off yours.
“Was that—” Jack started.
“Yeah,” you whispered.
Jack looked down at his hand. His mouth parted slightly.
“That was the baby?” Jack asked.
You nodded, tears slipping down your cheeks. “That was the baby.”
Jack’s throat worked. He stared at your stomach like the entire universe had just shifted under his hand.
Then the baby kicked again.
Jack sucked in a breath.
“Holy shit,” Jack whispered.
You laughed through a sob.
“That one was for you,” you said.
Jack looked up at you. His eyes were wet again.
“Yeah?” Jack asked.
You nodded, smiling so hard your cheeks hurt.
“Yeah,” you said. “I think so.”
Jack looked back down at his hand. For once, he did not have a joke ready. He only sat there with his palm spread over your stomach, his thumb barely moving, his face open and stunned and softer than you had ever seen it.
“Hey, kid,” Jack said quietly.
Your face crumpled. Jack leaned closer, his mouth near your stomach, his hand warm beneath yours.
“Hi,” Jack said. “It’s me.”
“They probably know your voice by now,” you said.
Jack looked back down, and something fragile moved through his expression.
The baby kicked again.
Jack’s laugh broke out of him, rough and disbelieving.
“Oh,” Jack said. “Okay. Maybe they do.”
You slid your fingers into his hair, brushing it back from his forehead as he stayed bent close to your stomach. Jack did not move away. He pressed a kiss to the cotton of your shirt, right above where his hand rested.
Your breath caught. Jack’s eyes flicked up to yours.
“You okay?” Jack asked.
You nodded, even though you were crying. “Yeah.”
His hand shifted carefully over your stomach.
“You sure?” Jack asked.
You smiled through your tears.
“I’m happy,” you said.
Jack’s face softened.
“Yeah,” Jack said. “Me too.”
The baby moved again, lighter this time, a tiny flutter beneath your skin. Jack looked back down immediately. His voice dropped lower.
“There you are,” Jack said.
You stroked your fingers through his hair again. Jack’s thumb moved slowly over the curve of you. Your throat tightened.
The baby went quiet again.
Jack waited another few seconds, hopeful and still, before he finally looked up at you.
“I think I won,” Jack said.
You blinked at him. “Won what?”
Jack’s mouth curved.
“The negotiation,” Jack said.
You laughed, the sound watery and tired and full. Jack grinned, but his eyes were still damp. Then his expression softened all over again as he looked down at his hand.
“Our baby kicked me,” Jack said.
You smiled.
“Technically,” you said, “our baby kicked me.”
Jack looked offended.
“I was involved,” Jack said.
You laughed again. Jack shifted closer on the couch, careful of your bowl, and wrapped his free arm around your shoulders. You leaned into him.
His hand stayed on your stomach.
For a long while, neither of you moved.
The TV played softly across the room. The dishes sat half-finished in the kitchen. Your cereal went soggy in the bowl on your lap. Jack did not seem to notice any of it. He kept his palm on your stomach, waiting patiently for another kick, his thumb moving in slow, absent strokes over your shirt.
Eventually, you rested your head against his shoulder.
“They’re really in there,” you whispered.
Jack turned his face into your hair.
“Yeah,” Jack said softly. “They really are.”
You closed your eyes. Jack’s mouth brushed your temple.
“And they already listen to me,” Jack said.
You opened your eyes and turned your head just enough to glare at him. Jack smiled against your skin.
“They kicked you,” you said.
Jack’s smile widened.
“Twice,” Jack said.
You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling too. Jack looked back down at your stomach, his face impossibly tender.
“Good job, kid,” Jack whispered. “Keep doing that.”
─── ୨୧ ───
Voice
By the third trimester, the baby had developed strong opinions about bedtime.
Specifically, the baby seemed to think bedtime was an excellent opportunity to practice whatever complicated acrobatics were apparently necessary at midnight.
You were propped against the pillows with one hand on your stomach and the other pressed over your eyes, trying not to cry from sheer exhaustion.
Jack came out of the bathroom a few minutes later, toothbrush still in his mouth, and stopped at the sight of you.
His brows drew together. He pulled the toothbrush from his mouth.
“What’s wrong?” Jack asked.
You dropped your hand from your face and looked at him.
“Your child is doing parkour,” you said.
Jack blinked. Then he looked at your stomach.
“My child?” Jack asked.
You pointed at your belly.
“This feels like your side of the family,” you said.
Jack’s mouth twitched around the toothbrush.
“I’m going to rinse,” Jack said. “Then I’m going to defend myself.”
You waved weakly toward the bathroom.
“Please do,” you said.
Jack disappeared for a few seconds, and you felt another firm roll beneath your ribs.
You groaned.
When Jack came back, he crossed to your side of the bed and sat carefully beside your hip.
“Still going?” Jack asked.
You nodded, exhausted and miserable. “Still going.”
Jack’s face softened immediately. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to your temple.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” Jack said.
You closed your eyes.
“I’m so tired,” you whispered.
“I know,” Jack said.
His hand settled over your stomach, broad and warm, moving slowly until you guided him to the spot where the baby had been pushing. Jack’s palm stilled. The baby kicked against him almost immediately. Jack’s eyes widened.
“Oh,” Jack said. “Yeah. That was rude.”
A laugh slipped out of you despite yourself.
“Rude?” you asked.
Jack looked down at your stomach.
“That was very aggressive,” Jack said.
The baby kicked again. Jack’s eyebrows lifted.
“See?” Jack asked. “Aggressive.”
You laughed again, softer this time. Jack’s thumb moved gently over your shirt.
“Hey,” Jack said to your stomach. “It is very late.”
The baby shifted. Jack leaned closer, his mouth near your belly.
“Your mother needs to sleep,” Jack said.
You watched him, your chest aching. The baby kicked beneath his hand. Jack paused. Then he looked up at you.
“They’re not listening,” Jack said.
You smiled tiredly. “Shocking.”
Jack looked back down with mock offense.
“We talked about this,” Jack said to your stomach. “Cooperation. Basic respect. Reasonable hours.”
The baby moved again, a slow roll under your skin. Jack’s face changed. The joke faded a little. His hand softened over you.
“Hey, kid,” Jack said, quieter now.
Your throat tightened. The baby stilled beneath his palm. For a moment, neither of you moved. Jack looked down at your stomach like he was trying to understand how something so small could already have so much of him. Then the baby shifted again, softer this time. Your breath caught. Jack’s thumb brushed over the curve of you.
“Yeah,” Jack whispered. “I’m here.”
You looked at him. His eyes stayed on your stomach. The baby settled under his hand, the wild kicks fading into smaller movements, then quiet. You swallowed hard.
“They know your voice,” you said.
Jack lifted his eyes to yours. The look on his face was so open it nearly undid you.
“You think so?” Jack asked.
You nodded, tears prickling hot behind your eyes.
“I think so,” you said.
Jack looked back down at his hand. His jaw worked once.
“Shit,” Jack whispered.
You laughed softly. “That’s your response?”
Jack glanced at you, eyes wet and stunned.
“I’m having a moment,” Jack said.
Your smile trembled.
“I can see that,” you said.
Jack bent and pressed his mouth to your stomach, right above where his hand rested. Your breath caught. He stayed there for a second, his eyes closed, his palm warm and steady over the baby. When he pulled back, his voice was lower.
“Hi,” Jack whispered to your stomach. “It’s Dad.”
Your face crumpled. Jack looked up immediately.
“What?” Jack asked.
You shook your head, crying before you could stop yourself.
“Nothing,” you said.
Jack’s expression softened.
“That is very clearly not nothing,” Jack said.
You wiped quickly under your eyes.
“You called yourself Dad,” you said.
Jack went still. Like he had not realized. Like the word had slipped out of him before he could decide whether he was ready for it. Then his face broke into something small and overwhelmed.
“Yeah,” Jack said.
His hand moved once over your stomach.
“Yeah, I guess I did,” Jack said.
The baby stayed quiet beneath his palm. You took your first full breath in what felt like hours.
Jack noticed.
He shifted carefully, sliding down until his head was near your stomach and one arm was draped gently around your hip.
“You comfortable?” Jack asked.
You nodded. “Don’t move.”
Jack huffed a quiet laugh.
“Yes, ma’am,” Jack said.
You threaded your fingers through his hair. Jack rested his cheek lightly against your stomach, careful not to press too hard. The room settled around you. The lamp on his side of the bed cast everything in warm gold. The blankets were twisted around your legs. Your back ached, your hips hurt, and your whole body felt stretched and heavy and strange.
But the baby was still.
Jack’s voice had done what your pleading, shifting, and deep breathing had not. You looked down at him.
“Jack,” you whispered.
His eyes opened. “Yeah?”
Your fingers moved through his hair. “Thank you.”
Jack’s face softened. “For what?”
You looked down at your stomach, then back at him.
“For being you,” you said.
Jack stared at you for a second.
Then he shifted up carefully, bracing one hand beside your hip so he could kiss you.
This kiss was softer than the one in the bathroom months ago. Slower. Quieter.
Jack kissed you like the whole house had gone still around the three of you, like he was careful not to wake the baby he had just somehow talked into sleeping.
When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.
“You’re doing so good,” Jack said.
Your eyes filled again. “Don’t make me cry.”
Jack smiled, brushing his nose lightly against yours.
“I think we both know that ship sailed a while ago,” Jack said.
You laughed wetly. Jack kissed your forehead, then lowered himself back down, settling beside your stomach again. His hand returned to the curve of you.
“Okay, kid,” Jack whispered. “You and me. Quiet hours.”
The baby did not move. Jack smiled against your shirt.
“Good talk,” Jack whispered.
─── ୨୧ ───
Here
By the time the nurse told you to push again, you were certain there was nothing left in you.
Not strength. Not breath. Not courage.
Nothing.
Your hair was damp against your temples, plastered there with sweat. The hospital gown clung to your skin and twisted beneath you every time you shifted against the pillows. Your throat hurt from crying. Your jaw ached from clenching. Your whole body trembled with a kind of exhaustion that felt deeper than tired, deeper than pain, deeper than anything you had words for anymore.
Jack stood at your side with one hand wrapped around yours and the other braced behind your thigh, helping hold your leg when your own muscles started to shake too hard to do it yourself.
He had been there the whole time.
Through every contraction. Every position change. Every check. Every moment where you had cried into his shoulder, snapped that you couldn’t do this anymore, apologized for snapping, then cried harder when he told you there was nothing to apologize for.
His sleeves were pushed to his forearms now. His hair was a mess from how many times he had dragged a hand through it. His jaw was tight, and his eyes were fixed on your face with the kind of focus that would have looked calm to anyone who didn’t know him.
You knew better.
Jack Abbot was not calm.
Jack Abbot was holding himself together with both hands because you needed him to.
The doctor shifted at the end of the bed.
“Okay,” the doctor said. “With the next contraction, we’re going to push again.”
A broken sound slipped out of you before you could stop it.
Jack’s hand tightened around yours.
“I know,” Jack murmured near your temple. “I know, sweetheart.”
You shook your head weakly, tears slipping down the sides of your face.
“I can’t,” you whispered.
Jack leaned closer.
You turned toward him, breath hitching.
“Jack, I can’t,” you said, your voice cracking. “I can’t do it anymore.”
His expression broke.
Only for a second.
Only enough for you to see the pain flicker through his face before he tucked it away and bent over you like he could shield you from the whole room.
“Yes, you can,” Jack said, his voice low and rough. “You are.”
You squeezed your eyes shut.
“I’m so tired,” you said.
“I know you are,” Jack said.
His thumb moved over the back of your hand, slow and steady, even as you crushed his fingers in your grip.
“I know,” Jack said again. “You’ve been working so hard, baby.”
Another sob tore through you.
“It hurts,” you cried.
Jack reached for the cool cloth from the nurse’s hand without looking away from your face.
“I know,” Jack said.
He wiped your forehead carefully, dragging the cloth over your hairline, down your cheek, along the damp curve of your neck. His touch was gentle, but his hand trembled once when you whimpered.
He saw you see it.
Jack swallowed.
“I’m right here,” Jack said. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Your lips shook.
“I don’t want to do another one,” you whispered.
His face softened, and somehow that was worse. Somehow his tenderness made you feel even more undone.
“I know,” Jack said. “I wish I could do it for you.”
You opened your eyes at that.
Jack bent closer, his mouth brushing your temple.
“I would,” Jack said quietly. “If there was any way for me to take this from you, I would.”
Another tear slipped into your hair.
“But I can’t,” Jack said. “So I’m going to stay right here, and we’re going to get through the next one together.”
You tried to breathe, but the air came in shallow and panicked.
Jack saw it immediately.
“Look at me,” Jack said.
You shook your head.
“Baby,” Jack said, firmer now. “Look at me.”
Your eyes fluttered open, unfocused and wet.
Jack’s face came into view above you, close enough that you could see the shine in his eyes and the strain around his mouth.
“There she is,” Jack murmured.
Your face crumpled.
Jack brushed his thumb across your cheek.
“There’s my girl,” Jack said.
A laugh broke out of you, thin and miserable.
“Don’t make me cry more,” you said.
Jack’s mouth tugged into something that almost became a smile.
“I’m trying not to,” Jack said. “I’m just proud of you.”
You shook your head, your face crumpling all over again.
“I’m trying so hard,” you whispered.
Jack’s eyes filled immediately.
“I know,” Jack said, his voice rough. “I know you are.”
The contraction started low in your body, a slow, brutal tightening that made your entire spine go rigid.
Your breath caught.
Jack shifted instantly, one hand still locked around yours while the other moved more securely beneath your thigh.
“I see you,” Jack said. “I see how hard you’re trying.”
The contraction rolled through you, heavy and brutal, stealing the last of your breath before you could find it.
The nurse stepped closer to your other side.
“Okay,” the nurse said. “Deep breath in. Chin to chest. Push into that pressure.”
A strangled sound tore out of you.
Jack leaned down immediately, his mouth close to your ear.
“With me,” Jack said. “Take a breath with me, sweetheart.”
You tried.
The inhale shook on the way in, broken and thin, but Jack nodded like it was exactly enough.
“That’s it,” Jack said. “Good. Now push.”
You pushed.
Your whole body curled forward with the effort, pain and pressure blooming so sharply that the room blurred at the edges. Your fingers clamped around Jack’s hand hard enough that somewhere distant in your mind, you knew it had to hurt.
Jack did not flinch.
“There you go,” Jack said, his voice low and steady beside your ear. “That’s it. That’s my girl.”
The nurse started counting. “One. Two. Three.”
Jack counted with her, his grip sure around your hand, his other arm braced behind your thigh.
“Four,” Jack said. “Five. Keep going, baby.”
A sob broke through the push.
“I can’t,” you cried.
“You are,” Jack said immediately. “You’re doing it right now. Six. Seven.”
Your body shook violently.
Jack’s jaw clenched, but his voice stayed steady.
“Eight,” Jack said. “Nine. That’s it. Almost there.”
The nurse’s voice rose with encouragement.
“Ten,” the nurse said. “Good. Breathe.”
You collapsed back against the pillows, gasping, trembling so hard your teeth nearly chattered.
Jack lowered your leg carefully, then shifted closer, his hand still wrapped around yours.
“Breathe,” Jack murmured. “In and out. Just breathe for me.”
You tried to follow him, but the breaths came out ragged and wet.
“I can’t keep doing this,” you whispered.
Jack wiped your forehead again with the cloth, slow and careful, his thumb brushing away the tears at your temple.
“I know it feels like that,” Jack said.
You shook your head weakly.
“No,” you cried. “No, I can’t. I can’t keep doing this.”
Jack bent over you, blocking out some of the light, some of the room, some of everything that was too much.
“Listen to me,” Jack said. “You don’t have to do all of it right now.”
Your lip trembled.
“You just have to do the next one,” Jack said.
You stared at him, exhausted and scared and hurting.
His eyes were wet, but his voice did not move.
“Just the next one,” Jack said again. “That’s all I’m asking.”
The doctor looked up from the end of the bed.
“You’re moving baby down beautifully,” the doctor said. “We’re getting close.”
Close.
The word should have helped.
Instead, it made another sob tear up your throat.
Jack saw it instantly.
“I know,” Jack said softly.
You squeezed your eyes shut.
“I’m so tired,” you whispered.
“I know, baby,” Jack said.
“I don’t want to hurt anymore,” you said.
Jack’s face twisted before he could hide it.
He kissed your forehead, lingering there with his eyes closed for half a second.
“I know,” Jack said against your skin. “I know.”
His mouth brushed your temple.
“I’m right here,” Jack said. “Every second.”
Another contraction began to gather, low and merciless.
Your hand tightened around his.
Panic rose so quickly you could barely breathe around it.
“Jack,” you said, voice cracking.
“I’ve got you,” Jack said immediately.
Your eyes flew open.
“Stay with me,” you begged.
Jack bent closer, his forehead nearly touching yours.
“I’m here,” Jack said, his voice rough but steady. “I’m right here.”
The contraction climbed hard and fast, stealing whatever breath you had managed to gather.
You made a broken sound and tried to curl away from it, but there was nowhere to go. Your body was already moving, already bearing down, already demanding more from you than you knew how to give.
Jack moved with you.
His hand stayed locked around yours while his other arm braced firmly behind your thigh, holding you steady when your muscles started to shake.
“Okay,” the nurse said. “Deep breath. Push right into it.”
You shook your head, tears spilling hot down your cheeks.
“I can’t,” you cried.
Jack’s face was right there, close enough that he was the only thing you could focus on.
“You can,” Jack said. “You’ve got me. Push.”
The nurse started counting. “One. Two.”
You pushed with everything you had, a raw cry tearing out of your throat.
Jack did not look away from you.
“Three,” Jack said. “Four. Good, baby. That’s so good.”
Your fingers crushed his.
“Five,” Jack said, his voice breaking around the edge of the word. “Six. Keep going.”
“I can’t,” you sobbed.
“You are,” Jack said immediately. “You’re doing it. Seven.”
Your whole body trembled violently.
“Eight,” Jack said. “Nine. Come on, sweetheart. Almost there.”
The nurse’s voice rose beside you.
“Ten,” the nurse said. “Good. Good push.”
You fell back against the pillows, gasping, your chest heaving as you tried to drag air back into your lungs. Jack lowered your leg carefully, then reached for the cloth again. He wiped across your forehead, then your cheek, then the corner of your mouth where tears and sweat had gathered together.
“You did so good,” Jack said.
You shook your head weakly, too exhausted to argue, too tired to believe him.
Jack saw it anyway. He always saw you.
“Hey,” Jack said softly.
Your eyes shifted to his.
“I know,” Jack said. “I know you don’t feel like you’re doing good right now.”
You swallowed hard, another tear sliding into your hair.
“But you are,” Jack said. “You’re doing everything right.”
The doctor looked up from the end of the bed, and something in her expression changed.
“Okay,” the doctor said. “That was really good. Baby is right there.”
Your breath hitched.
Jack went still beside you.
The doctor smiled, calm but focused.
“A couple more like that,” the doctor said, “and you’re going to meet your baby.”
For a second, the room seemed to tilt.
Your baby.
After all these months, all those tests, that heartbeat, those kicks beneath Jack’s hand, the little body that settled whenever he spoke in the dark, the words still felt too big to hold.
You turned your face toward Jack.
He was staring at the doctor, lips parted slightly, eyes bright and stunned like the sentence had hit him somewhere deep.
Then he looked down at you.
The expression on his face nearly broke you.
“Jack,” you whispered.
He blinked once, and a tear slipped free before he could stop it.
“I know,” Jack said, voice wrecked.
You started crying harder.
He bent down immediately, pressing his mouth to your forehead.
“I know,” Jack whispered against your skin. “We’re almost there.”
“I’m scared,” you admitted.
Jack pulled back enough to look at you.
His eyes were wet. His face was pale with exhaustion and fear and love, but his voice stayed steady because you needed it.
“I know you are,” Jack said.
Your fingers tightened around his.
“I’m scared too,” Jack admitted quietly.
Something in your chest split open.
Jack brushed his thumb over the back of your hand.
“But you’re not doing this alone,” Jack said. “Not for one second.”
The nurse adjusted the monitor near your belly, then gave you an encouraging smile.
“You’re doing beautifully,” the nurse said. “Baby’s tolerating everything well.”
Jack’s shoulders dropped by a fraction.
You noticed.
Even half-delirious with exhaustion, you noticed.
He looked at the monitor, then back at your face, his thumb still moving over your knuckles like he could soothe both of you with the same touch.
“The baby’s okay?” you asked, voice small.
“Baby’s okay,” the nurse said.
Jack leaned closer.
“Baby’s okay,” Jack repeated, softer now, his mouth near your temple. “You’re okay. I’ve got you both.”
You closed your eyes, trying to hold onto that.
You’re okay. Baby’s okay. Jack’s here.
The words barely settled before the next contraction started to build.
Your eyes snapped open, panic flooding through you again.
Jack saw it before you said anything.
“I’m here,” Jack said.
You shook your head, whimpering. “I can’t, Jack.”
He shifted back into position, one hand wrapped around yours, the other moving beneath your thigh.
“Yes, you can,” Jack said. “Just this one.”
The pressure grew sharper, lower, impossible to ignore.
The doctor leaned forward slightly.
“Okay,” the doctor said. “This is the one. Big push when you’re ready.”
You let out a sob.
Jack bent close, his voice rough in your ear.
“Give me this one,” Jack said. “Come on, sweetheart. Bring our baby here.”
The contraction crested, and your body folded into it.
You pushed with everything you had left.
The sound that tore out of you was raw and broken, dragged up from somewhere deep in your chest, and Jack moved with you like he could keep you from shattering through sheer force of will.
“That’s it,” Jack said. “That’s it, baby. Keep going.”
You squeezed his hand so hard your fingers ached.
Jack did not flinch.
“Good,” Jack said, voice breaking. “Fuck, you’re doing so good.”
The nurse counted beside you, but the numbers blurred together until all you could hear was Jack.
His voice. His breath. His mouth near your temple.
“Keep going,” Jack said. “You’re right there. You’re right there, sweetheart.”
“I can’t,” you cried.
“You are,” Jack said immediately. “You are. Come on, baby. Come on.”
The pressure burned white-hot.
Your body shook violently, every muscle straining, your throat tight around a sob you barely had the strength to make.
Then the doctor’s voice changed.
“That’s it,” the doctor said. “There we go. Baby’s head is crowning.”
Jack went still beside you.
His hand tightened around yours, but his voice stayed low.
“You hear that?” Jack asked, his mouth close to your hairline. “You’re doing it. You’re almost done.”
You fell back for half a second, gasping.
“I can’t,” you whispered again, but there was no force behind it anymore.
Only exhaustion. Only fear. Only the awful, impossible need to be finished.
Jack wiped your face with his free hand, brushing sweat and tears from your cheek with a tenderness that made you want to cry harder.
“You can,” Jack said. “You’re so close.”
The doctor looked up at you.
“Okay,” the doctor said. “One more push.”
You made a desperate sound, your fingers locking around Jack’s.
“No,” you cried. “No, I can’t.”
Jack leaned over you, close enough that his forehead touched yours.
“You can,” Jack said. “I know you can.”
You shook your head, crying harder.
“I don’t have anything left,” you said.
Jack’s eyes filled.
“You do,” Jack said, voice rough. “I know it doesn’t feel like it, but you do.”
The contraction rose again, smaller but sharper, and your entire body tensed beneath it.
Jack braced you carefully.
“Look at me,” Jack said.
You opened your eyes.
His face was the only clear thing in the room.
“There you are,” Jack whispered.
Your lip trembled.
“I’m scared,” you said.
“I know,” Jack said. “I’m right here.”
“Don’t let go,” you begged.
Jack’s hand locked around yours.
“Never,” Jack said, voice rough and absolute. “Not a fucking chance.”
The nurse’s voice softened beside you.
“Okay,” the nurse said. “When you feel that pressure, give us one more.”
You sobbed once, nodded, and pushed.
For one suspended second, there was only the pressure.
The pain.
Jack’s hand in yours. Jack’s voice breaking against your temple.
“That’s it,” Jack said. “That’s my girl. That’s it.”
Then suddenly, all at once, the pressure changed.
Released.
The doctor lifted their hands.
And a cry cut through the room.
Small. Furious. Alive.
You fell back against the pillows, stunned, shaking so hard you could barely breathe.
Jack went completely still beside you.
For one breath, nobody spoke.
Then the doctor lifted the baby just enough for you both to see.
“It’s a girl,” the doctor said.
A girl.
Your daughter.
Your mouth opened, but no sound came out.
Jack’s hand tightened around yours so suddenly that you turned your head toward him.
His face had gone completely unguarded.
All the steadiness, all the control, all the strength he had forced into himself for your sake cracked open at once. His eyes filled, his mouth parted, and the breath he let out sounded broken.
“Oh my God,” Jack whispered.
Your daughter cried again, red-faced and perfect, her tiny arms moving angrily in the air.
A sob ripped out of you.
“Jack,” you cried. “She’s here.”
Jack nodded, but his eyes never left her.
“She’s here,” Jack said, voice ruined. “Baby, she’s here.”
The nurse brought your daughter up to you, and then suddenly she was on your chest, warm and slippery and impossibly real.
Your hands came up on instinct, trembling as you touched her tiny back.
“Oh,” you sobbed. “Hi. Hi, baby.”
Your daughter cried against your skin, tiny and furious, and you started crying harder.
Jack bent over both of you, one hand still wrapped around yours, the other hovering for a second like he was afraid to touch something so small.
Then he laid one careful finger against your daughter’s back.
The baby shifted beneath his touch.
Jack broke.
His head dipped, his shoulders shaking once as he pressed his mouth to your damp hairline.
“You did it,” Jack said, crying now. “You did it.”
You looked up at him through tears.
“We have a daughter,” you said.
Jack laughed, but it came out shattered.
“Yeah,” Jack whispered. “We have a daughter.”
Your hand spread protectively over her back.
“She’s so tiny,” you said.
Jack looked down at your daughter like the entire world had narrowed to that small, warm body against your chest.
“She’s perfect,” Jack said.
“She’s loud,” you said, laughing through a sob.
Jack smiled then, tears still slipping down his face.
“That too,” Jack said.
Your daughter gave another angry little cry, and Jack looked so overwhelmed by it that you almost laughed again.
He bent closer, his mouth brushing your temple.
“I am so proud of you,” Jack whispered. “I don’t even know what to do with it.”
Your eyes closed for half a second, exhaustion pulling at every part of you.
Jack’s hand covered yours over your daughter’s back.
“I love you,” Jack said, his voice ruined and soft. “Both of you. So fucking much.”
The nurse gave you another minute with her before she shifted closer, careful and gentle.
“Dad,” the nurse said softly, smiling at Jack. “Do you want to cut the cord?”
Jack looked up like he had forgotten anyone else was in the room.
Dad.
The word moved through his face before he could hide it. His eyes dropped back to your daughter, then to you.
“Yeah,” Jack said, voice rough. “Yeah, I do.”
He bent and kissed your forehead first, his mouth lingering against your damp skin.
“I’ll be right here,” Jack murmured.
You nodded, crying too hard to answer.
The nurse guided him, and Jack followed with the kind of careful focus you knew so well. He had steady hands. He always had. But when the scissors were placed in his hand, his fingers trembled. You saw it. Jack saw you see it. A broken little laugh left him.
“Don’t start,” Jack said softly.
You laughed through a sob. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You were thinking it,” Jack said.
“I was thinking you’re crying,” you whispered.
Jack looked at you, tears still slipping down his face. “Yeah,” Jack said. “I am.”
Then he looked back at your daughter, swallowed hard, and cut the cord with careful, reverent concentration. The moment it was done, his eyes found yours again. You didn’t know why that undid you more. Maybe because he had not stopped looking for you, even with your daughter right there between you. The nurse adjusted the blanket over the baby’s back, keeping her tucked against your chest.
“We’re going to let her stay right here for a minute,” the nurse said. “The doctor is just going to help you deliver the placenta, okay?”
You nodded, but you barely heard her.
Your daughter was warm against your skin. Real. Here.
Jack moved back beside you immediately, one hand finding your hair, his fingers smoothing carefully over the damp strands at your temple.
“You okay?” Jack asked.
You let out a watery laugh, because it was an impossible question. You were exhausted. Shaking. Sore. Split open in every way a person could be split open. And your daughter was lying on your chest.
“I don’t know,” you whispered.
Jack’s face softened. “That’s fair.”
The doctor said something gentle from the end of the bed, and your body answered with another cramp, duller than before but still enough to make your face tighten. Jack saw it instantly.
“Hey,” Jack said, bending closer. “Breathe.”
You winced, one hand spreading more carefully over your daughter’s back.
“I thought the hard part was over,” you whispered.
Jack’s mouth twitched, but his eyes stayed soft and wet. “I know. I’m sorry.”
The contraction eased. The doctor’s voice stayed calm, the nurse’s hand steady near your shoulder, the whole room moving around you with quiet purpose. But Jack stayed fixed beside your face. Not watching like a doctor. Watching like your husband.
“You’re doing great,” the doctor said. “Placenta is delivered.”
You nodded, exhausted enough that the words floated around you instead of sinking in.
Jack brushed his thumb along your hairline. “Almost done.”
You looked down at the baby. Your daughter’s crying had softened into tiny, breathy sounds against your skin. Her cheek was turned against your chest, her little mouth open, one fist tucked beneath her chin.
“She’s so small,” you whispered.
Jack looked down too, and his entire expression changed again. Like he had forgotten and remembered all at once.
“Yeah,” Jack whispered. “She is.”
You glanced up at him. His eyes were still wet. “Are you okay?”
Jack let out a breath that almost became a laugh. “No. Not even close.”
You laughed, then winced slightly. Jack’s hand moved to your cheek.
“Sorry,” Jack said.
“You didn’t do it,” you whispered.
“No,” Jack said, his thumb brushing beneath your eye. “But I hate seeing you hurt.”
Before you could answer, the nurse shifted closer again. “We’re going to take her over to the warmer for just a few minutes,” the nurse said gently. “Get her cleaned up, check her weight, all of that. Dad can come with us.”
Your arms tightened around your daughter on instinct. Jack saw it. So did the nurse.
“Just right there,” the nurse said softly, pointing across the room. “You’ll be able to see her the whole time.”
You nodded because you understood. Because you trusted them. Because you knew it was normal. But when the nurse lifted your daughter from your chest, your whole body seemed to ache with the sudden emptiness of it. A small, wounded sound slipped out of you before you could stop it.
Jack heard it. So did your daughter. She cried harder as the nurse carried her toward the warmer, small and furious and impossibly loud for someone so tiny. Jack turned toward the sound before he seemed to realize he had moved. It was instinct. Immediate. His shoulders shifted. His head snapped slightly toward the warmer. One foot angled like he was already about to follow her across the room.
Then he stopped.
You saw it happen. The pull of it. Your daughter crying across the room. You shaking in the bed. Jack’s whole body had gone tense with the need to be in two places at once. He looked at the warmer, then back at you, his face torn open with it. His hand found your cheek again, warm and unsteady, like touching you was the only thing keeping him from splitting down the middle.
“She’s okay,” Jack said, but his voice was rougher now. “Baby, she’s okay. They’ve got her.”
Your eyes stayed locked on the warmer. Your daughter cried again. Jack’s jaw tightened. His gaze flicked back toward her, fast and helpless, then returned to you like he was forcing himself to stay planted. You reached for his wrist with what little strength you had left.
“Make sure she’s okay,” you whispered.
Jack’s eyes snapped to yours. For a second, he looked like he wanted to argue. Not because he didn’t want to go. Because leaving your side, even for ten feet, felt impossible.
“Sweetheart,” Jack said, voice low and wrecked.
“Please,” you whispered, tears slipping into your hair. “I need to know she’s okay.”
Jack stared at you. Then understanding moved through his face. Not permission. A request. A need. You could not get to her. So he had to. His mouth trembled once before he pressed it into a line.
“Okay,” Jack said.
He bent and kissed your forehead hard, lingering there like he had to make himself let go.
“I’ll make sure,” Jack said against your skin. “I’ve got her.”
You nodded, crying too hard to answer. Jack kissed you once more, then lifted his head, his eyes moving between you and the warmer.
“I’ll be right here still,” Jack said, his voice rough but steady. “You hear me? I’m still here.”
You nodded again. “I know.”
Even then, he hesitated. Of course he did. Your fingers slipped weakly from his wrist.
“Go, Dad,” you whispered.
Jack froze. The words hit him so hard you saw it. His face changed completely, his eyes filling all over again as he looked down at you.
“Fuck,” Jack whispered, voice breaking.
You gave him the smallest smile you could manage. Jack swallowed hard, nodded once, then stepped away from the bed. He moved toward the warmer, but he looked back at you twice before he got there, like every step away from you cost him something.
When he reached your daughter, the nurse shifted aside enough for him to see. Jack stopped dead. All the conflict on his face softened into awe. Your daughter lay beneath the warmer, red-faced and furious, her tiny mouth open around a cry that seemed far too big for her little body. Jack’s hand hovered above her for a second. For all his steady hands, all his years of knowing exactly where to touch and how much pressure to use, he suddenly looked terrified of doing it wrong.
The nurse smiled gently. “You can touch her. She knows your voice.”
Jack swallowed hard. Then he lowered one careful finger and brushed it against her tiny foot.
“Hi,” Jack said, his voice so gentle you barely recognized it. “Hi, baby girl.”
Your daughter cried harder. Jack let out a broken little laugh, tears still wet on his face.
“Yeah,” Jack murmured. “I know, sweetheart. I know.”
He bent closer, his broad shoulders curling toward her like he could shelter her from the whole world.
“It’s been a hell of a day for you too, huh?” Jack whispered.
Your daughter’s tiny foot flexed beneath his finger. Jack froze like she had reached up and grabbed his heart with her whole hand.
“Oh,” Jack whispered.
You started crying again from the bed. Jack glanced back at you immediately, alarm flashing across his face. You shook your head before he could move.
“I’m okay,” you mouthed.
Jack stared at you for another second, torn all over again. Then you pointed weakly toward the baby. He huffed a wet little laugh, nodded, and looked back down at your daughter.
“There you go,” Jack whispered to her. “Mom’s already bossing me around again.”
Your daughter hiccuped through another cry. Jack smiled, utterly ruined.
“Yeah,” Jack said softly. “You’ll get used to it.”
The nurse dried your daughter beneath the warmer, murmuring softly to her while she cried like she had complaints about every single person in the room. Jack stood beside her, close enough to be there but careful not to get in the nurse’s way. One of his hands rested on the edge of the warmer. The other hovered near your daughter’s tiny foot, like he still could not quite believe he was allowed to touch her.
“Good strong cry,” the nurse said.
Jack nodded, his eyes fixed on your daughter. “Yeah.”
“She looks great, Dad,” the nurse said.
Dad.
Even from the bed, you saw the word hit him. Jack swallowed hard, his shoulders rising and falling with one careful breath.
“She’s okay?” you called weakly.
Jack turned immediately, like your voice had pulled him by the chest.
“She’s okay,” Jack said, voice rough but steady. “She’s perfect.”
The nurse called out her weight, her length, all the tiny perfect details, and Jack listened like every number was being carved directly into his heart. Then they slipped a little diaper on her, eased a soft hat over her head, and wrapped her in a warm striped blanket.
For a second, Jack just stared. Your daughter was still crying, red-faced and furious, swallowed by the blanket and hat until only her tiny face showed. Jack’s mouth parted.
“Oh, sweetheart,” Jack whispered.
Your chest ached. The nurse smiled up at him.
“Dad,” the nurse said gently. “Are you ready to hold her?”
Jack looked at the nurse. Then he looked at your daughter. Then he looked at you. Of course he did. His eyes were wet again, and his face was so open it made your throat tighten. You nodded, crying before he even said anything.
“Hold her,” you whispered.
Jack let out a shaky breath.
“Yeah,” Jack said, looking back down at your daughter. “Yeah, I’m ready.”
The nurse shifted the baby carefully in her arms.
“We can do skin-to-skin if you want,” the nurse said. “Just take your shirt off, and I’ll help get her settled.”
Jack froze. Not because he didn’t want to. Because he wanted to so badly it seemed to knock the air out of him. Then he nodded once and reached for the back of his T-shirt. You watched him pull it over his head with hands that were not quite steady, leaving his hair even more of a mess than it already was. He dropped the shirt onto the chair behind him without looking at it.
The nurse stepped close with your daughter, and Jack held his hands out like he was receiving something sacred.
“I’ve got her,” Jack said.
His voice almost broke on it. The nurse placed your daughter against his bare chest, then guided his hand over her back. Jack’s palm looked impossibly large against her, wide and careful, covering almost all of her tiny body as the nurse tucked the warm blanket around them both.
For one second, Jack did not move. Did not breathe. Then your daughter’s cheek turned against his skin, her little body settling beneath his hand.
Jack’s face crumpled. “Oh.”
It was barely a sound. It broke you anyway. Your daughter quieted slowly against him, her angry cries fading into small, breathy hiccups. Jack looked down at her like he had never known the world could make anything that small.
“Hi, baby girl,” Jack whispered.
Your hand flew to your mouth. Jack bent his head, careful and slow, until his lips brushed the top of her hat.
“Hi,” Jack said again, voice trembling. “I’m your dad.”
You started crying harder. Jack looked up at you immediately, alarm flashing through the awe. You shook your head, smiling through it.
“I’m okay,” you whispered.
Jack’s eyes softened. He looked back down at your daughter, his thumb moving once over the blanket at her back.
“She’s warm,” Jack said, like it mattered more than anything.
You laughed through your tears.
“She should be,” you said. “She’s on you.”
Jack huffed a wet little laugh, then looked at you again.
“She’s so little,” Jack said.
“I know,” you whispered.
Jack’s jaw trembled.
“I don’t know how to do this,” Jack admitted quietly.
Your heart squeezed. You reached toward him with what little strength you had left. Jack stepped closer immediately, careful not to jostle the baby. You touched his wrist, your fingers weak against his skin.
“Neither do I,” you whispered.
Jack looked from you to your daughter, then back again. A small, broken smile pulled at his mouth.
“We’ll figure it out,” Jack said.
Your daughter made a tiny sound against his chest. Jack looked down at her instantly.
“Yeah,” Jack murmured, softer than you had ever heard him. “We will.”
The nurse adjusted the blanket over your daughter’s back, tucking it around Jack’s chest so only the top of her little hat and the curve of her cheek showed.
“There,” the nurse said softly. “Nice and warm.”
Jack nodded, but you weren’t sure he had really heard her. He was staring down at your daughter, his hand spread wide and careful over her back, his chest barely moving beneath her tiny body. His hair was a wreck from pulling his shirt off. His eyes were red. Tear tracks still cut through the exhaustion on his face.
You had never seen anything more beautiful in your life.
The nurse glanced toward the chair near your bed.
“Dad, why don’t we get you sitting down?” the nurse said. “Right over here, so Mom can see both of you.”
Jack’s head lifted immediately. His eyes found yours before he moved.
“You okay?” Jack asked.
You gave him the smallest nod you could manage. “I’m okay.”
The doctor was still at the end of the bed, checking you with calm, practiced hands, and your body still felt too heavy, too open, too exhausted to fully belong to you yet. The doctor glanced up with a gentle smile.
“You’re doing great,” the doctor said. “I’m just checking everything and making sure bleeding looks good. You’ll be able to hold her again soon.”
You nodded, your throat tightening as your eyes moved back to your daughter. Soon felt like too long. Jack saw that too. He shifted carefully as the nurse guided him toward the chair, every movement slow and deliberate, one hand supporting your daughter’s head while the other stayed broad over her back.
“I’m right here,” Jack said, lowering himself into the chair beside your bed. “We’re right here.”
You turned your head on the pillow so you could see them better. Jack sat close enough that if you reached out, you could touch his forearm. So you did. Your fingers found his wrist, weak and trembling. Jack looked down at your hand immediately, then back at your face. His expression softened so much it hurt.
“Hey,” Jack said quietly.
“Hi,” you whispered.
His mouth curved, exhausted and broken at the edges.
“Hi,” Jack said back.
Your daughter made a tiny sound against his chest, not quite a cry, more of a breathy little complaint. Jack looked down instantly.
“Hi to you too,” Jack murmured.
You laughed, but it came out wet. Jack glanced back at you, alarm flickering across his face. You shook your head before he could ask.
“I’m okay,” you whispered. “I just—”
Your voice broke. Jack’s thumb moved once over your daughter’s blanket-covered back.
“I know,” Jack said.
You stared at them. Your husband, shirtless in a hospital chair, one huge hand covering almost your daughter’s whole back. Your daughter, tiny and warm and tucked against him like she had always belonged there. The doctor said something to the nurse, quiet and routine, and you barely heard it. The room still moved around you, but for the first time in hours, it did not feel like it was swallowing you whole.
It had narrowed instead. Jack. Your baby. The place where your fingers rested against his wrist.
“She’s really here,” you whispered.
“Yeah,” Jack said. “She is.”
Your daughter shifted, her cheek rubbing slightly against his skin. Jack went completely still. You watched his entire face change.
“What?” you asked softly.
Jack swallowed, eyes fixed on the baby. “She moved,” Jack whispered.
Your chest squeezed. You smiled through fresh tears.
“Babies do that,” you said.
Jack looked up at you, his eyes wet and stunned. “I know that.”
You gave him a look, weak but fond. He huffed a shaky little laugh, then looked back down at your daughter.
“I know that,” Jack repeated, softer this time. “It’s just different when it’s her.”
The doctor’s voice came gently from the end of the bed.
“Everything looks good,” the doctor said. “We’re just going to finish getting you cleaned up and settled, okay?”
You nodded without looking away from Jack and the baby. “Okay,” you whispered.
Jack’s hand shifted over your daughter with impossible care. “You’re okay.”
You weren’t sure if he was talking to you, the baby, or himself. Maybe all three. Your fingers tightened weakly around his wrist.
“So are you,” you said.
Jack looked at you then. For a second, he looked like he might argue. Then his face crumpled just a little, and he nodded once.
“Yeah,” Jack said, voice low. “I’m okay.”
Your daughter made another tiny sound, and Jack bent his head toward her.
“Yeah, sweetheart,” Jack whispered. “We’re okay.”
You closed your eyes for half a second, exhausted beyond anything you had ever known.
When you opened them again, Jack was watching you.
Not like a doctor. Not like someone assessing. Like your husband. Like the man who had held your hand through every push and was now holding your daughter against his heart.
“She’s going to come back to you in a minute,” Jack said softly.
You nodded, tears sliding into your hair. “I know.”
Jack’s thumb moved over the blanket. “But I’ll keep her warm until then.”
Your mouth trembled. “Okay.”
Jack looked down at your daughter, then back at you. His eyes were red and wet and full.
“I’ve got our girl,” Jack said.
You pressed your lips together, trying not to sob again.
Jack gave you a small, ruined smile. “And I’m still right here.”
Requested: a quiet reader who's maybe a nurse, doctor, or any part of the hospital staff, and they're with Brendon Park (you can choose if they're dating, engaged, or married). Maybe the staff tries to figure out who she's with, or set her up, or any situation you come up with. By @jmw87
The first clue should have been the lunches and not because they were extravagant, you didn’t seem like the type for extravagant anything, but because they were consistent. The same way a child’s school lunch is.
Every day around noon, a neatly packed lunch appeared in the break room refrigerator with a small sticky note attached. Everyone saw it, everyone talked about it, yet very few actually knew who placed the lunch you were eating in the fridge.
Don't forget to eat today. -B
Protein. You've skipped breakfast three days in a row. -B
Or everyone's personal favorite: If you trade these vegetables for coffee again, I will find out. -B
"Who writes threatening vegetable notes?" Santos asked one afternoon, holding up the latest message while the rest of the residents crowded around.
"A spouse," Whitaker said confidently.
"An overbearing spouse," Santos corrected, pointing at him.
"An attentive spouse," Javadi argued with a shrug. "Honestly, it's kind of sweet."
Santos narrowed her eyes, “you're only saying that because you've never dated anyone who monitored your diet.”
”Correction Trinity, I have never dated anyone… ever,” Javadi said back, stating the last word quietly as she realized that was not the comeback she initially thought it was.
Santos simply rolled her eyes in response.
Just outside at the nurses station you sat quietly charting, seemingly oblivious to the debate raging on the other side of the break room door. The thing the residents didn’t know is that you were far from oblivious to the situation, you simply chose not to acknowledge it.
Which, according to the well seasoned nurses of the Pitt, only made things more fun.
"It has officially been seven months," Princess announced during a lull in the ER. "Seven months since the new crop of residents arrived, and none of them know who our favorite sweetheart's mystery husband is."
Perlah looked up from stocking supplies and shook her head, “pathetic.”
Dana, sitting at the charge desk, didn't even bother hiding her amusement, she had a smirk that said everything she didn’t.
“It's not pathetic,” Whitaker protested, his tone laced with offense, “she literally never talks about him.”
“Or her,” Santos added, “could be a wife.”
"True," Javadi agreed.
Dana laughed without looking up from the work she was focused on.
“Oh, you think that's funny?" Santos said immediately, “you all know, don't you?"
Dana carefully sipped her coffee, "I know lots of things,” she shrugged, “I’ve been working at this nursing station longer than you’ve been alive.”
"That means yes," Whitaker whispered.
Princess grinned, "Dana's known for years."
"You know?" Santos demanded.
"I might,” Princess shrugged casually.
"Who is it?" Javadi deadpanned.
"Nope,” Perlah and Princess said at the same time.
"Come on!" Santos said with a huff.
"No,” Dana said.
"Please?" Javadi begged with a fake pout.
"Absolutely not,” Dana said.
Whitaker looked betrayed, "I thought we had a mentor-mentee relationship.”
"We do,” she said casually.
"Mentors share information,” he said, narrowing his eyes.
Dana smiled pleasantly, “not other people’s personal information.”
By the end of the week, the betting pool had begun, as it did with every class of residents.
Technically, the experienced nurses had been running it for years. Every new class of residents eventually became obsessed with discovering the identity of your mysterious spouse.
The rules were simple. One guess per resident. No cheating. They had one more week to put in their final guesses, and if there is any cheating, the residents have to buy the nurses dinner.
The winner gets free dinners for a week, courtesy of Dana, Princess, and Perlah.
The catch? Nobody has ever guessed correctly.
"Firefighter," Santos declared confidently with her arms crossed thoughtfully.
"Why?" Javadi asked, pursing her lips.
"Because she's calm in a crisis, organized, and way too good at lifting patients. Firefighter spouses rub off on people,” Santos said matter of factly.
Whitaker frowned, “that's not science. Those are also all qualities of a good trauma doctor."
Santos shrugged again, "it's vibes."
"My guess is professor," Javadi said. "Maybe literature."
Everyone stared at her.
"What?" she asked defensively.
"Why literature?"
"She says things like 'that's an interesting perspective' when she's angry. That's someone married to an academic. Plus she’s super calm and probably likes to read books," Victoria said, defending her thesis.
"Okay," Whitaker said. "I think it's another doctor."
The nurses exchanged looks and Dennis noticed immediately.
"Oh my God,” Dennis said as his eyes widened.
"No," Dana said instantly, shaking her head in indifference.
"Your face did something,” he said pointing towards her.
"My face did not do something,” she deadpanned.
The investigation intensified after that.
Santos began casually asking questions while the two of you sutured a laceration together or when you let her perform certain tests and procedures under your supervision.
"So," she said casually, "what does your husband do?"
You glanced up, "he's actually a surgeon."
Santos nearly dropped the forceps, she mumbled an apology to the patient who was now concerned. "WHAT KIND?" She whisper-yelled over the limb.
You smiled innocently, “surgical."
"That's not an answer,” she said, rolling her eyes.
You shrugged your shoulders, not looking up from the incision in front of you but biting back a smile.
Santos groaned in frustration.
Javadi tried next.
"How long have you been married?" She asked innocently as you held up the X-ray images in front of her.
"Eight years,” you said, keeping your eyes on the broken femur in front of you.
"Children?" She asked innocently.
You nodded, “a dog."
"Name?" She continued, seemingly catching you in one of your chattier moods.
"Lily,” you said sweetly, finally peeling your eyes away from the tablet and looking at her.
"Awww I love dogs, do you have any pictures?” She asked, testing her luck.
You immediately brightened and pulled out your phone, proudly showing off approximately three hundred photos.
To her disappointment, not one included your husband. And she had to sit there and watch you scroll through photos for eight whole minutes and left with no information.
Whitaker resorted to espionage and failed spectacularly.
He happened to be standing beside you at the front desk when your phone rang.
The screen lit up: Husband ❤️
Whitaker practically launched himself sideways trying to see more.
You bit back your laugh and answered anyway.
"Hi, honey."
Pause.
"No, I remembered lunch."
Pause.
"Yes, I actually ate it."
Another pause.
You sighed, "I ate it all."
Whitaker mouthed husband Santos across the department while slyly pointing to where you sat on your phone.
You looked over slowly, moving the phone away from your ear, "Dr. Whitaker."
He froze, "yes?" Trying to cover up his nosiness with a polite smile.
"You know eavesdropping is generally considered rude,” you said simply.
"I wasn't eavesdropping,” he said, still smiling.
"You are basically hanging upside down over the desk,” you pointed out.
He removed himself from the uncomfortable position he hadn’t even realized he had folded himself into while trying to listen. He mumbled an apology, took his chart, and sulked away. Once he was gone, you put the phone back to your ear.
When he approached Trinity she was already bent over laughing, “real smooth.”
Months later, no one was any closer and that made the nurses even more insufferable.
"At this point," Santos complained, "I'm starting to think you all made him up."
You looked genuinely offended, "I assure you my husband exists."
"Prove it,” she quipped back.
You considered it for a moment, even pursing your lips in thought, “no.”
The reveal happened completely by accident. The Pitt was beyond its natural state of chaos. Every room was full, EMS kept rolling in, and you hadn't stopped moving for six straight hours.
The bets were currently in: Whitaker - Doctor names Ben, Santos- undecided named Brian, Javadi - vet named Bobby.
Dana had all her money on Whitaker getting it right, while Princess and Perlah stood firmly on the side of no one getting it.
Dana finally cornered you, “take ten minutes.”
"I'm fine,” you huffed.
"That wasn't a suggestion,” she said.
You sighed, “yes, Mom. If I take ten, you take ten.”
Dana pointed toward the lounge, “go. I’ll meet you in there.”
Five minutes later, a tall orthopedic surgeon walked into the emergency department carrying a takeout bag.
Several heads turned.
Mostly because Dr. Brendon Park from Ortho rarely ventured into the ER unless someone had broken something particularly impressively, and even then he usually sent a resident down to consider whether it was worth his time.
"Hey, Dana," Brendon said, “she around?"
Dana looked up from the desk and a slow smile spread across her face.
"Oh, this should be fun,” she said slyly.
Santos, Whitaker, and Javadi all looked over, but unable to hear Dana amidst all the commotion.
Brendon frowned, but ignored the stares, “heard it’s been rough down here today.”
Dana nodded towards the break room door, “she's in the lounge.”
"Thanks,” he tapped the counter in acknowledgment before heading in your direction.
The residents all followed him with their eyes as he disappeared into the break room.
Whitaker frowned.
Two minutes later, you emerged from the lounge carrying coffee, smiling in a way no one in the department had ever seen before.
Brendon followed behind you, but the catch was… he was almost smiling. The tips of his ears were slightly pink, and he almost looked happy.
You both stopped outside the door and faced one another. Without hesitation, he reached over, tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear, and pressed a kiss to your forehead.
"Try to sit down for at least ten minutes," he said.
"I will,” you said.
"You said that yesterday,” he said back with a sigh.
"I mean it this time,” you said quickly.
"You also said that yesterday,” he murmured.
You smiled sheepishly, "I love you."
"Love you too,” he said quietly.
Brendon finally noticed everyone staring. "...Why is everyone looking at us?"
You looked around then, meeting Dana’s eyes and immediately giving her a knowing smirk.
"Dinner's on you three for the next week,” Dana said pointing at all the residents.
Santos looked like she'd been struck by lightning, “how is this cheating? He cam down here.”
Whitaker's mouth had actually fallen open, “I was at least somewhat close. In my defense, I thought his name was Shark.”
Javadi simply whispered, "orthopedic surgery. Of course."
You blinked, "oh."
You looked between everyone, “were you all still trying to figure out who my husband was?"
"STILL?" Santos shrieked.
You looked genuinely confused, "I thought it was obvious."
The nurses dissolved into laughter. Dana wiped tears from her eyes, “tonight I would really like that Chinese place with the eggrolls.”
Then she turned to you. "Sweetheart, you've been married eight years and half this department wasn't convinced he was real. The other half still doesn’t know."
You considered that, “huh.”
Beside you, Brendon smile, “to be fair, she's very private and quiet.”
"You're one to talk," Dana shot back.
Brendon looked offended, "I talk."
Princess snorted without looking away from the triage board, "you speak exclusively about bones and your wife."
You quietly slipped your hand into his and Brendon immediately relaxed.
"Oh my God," Trinity whispered. "They're adorable."
"Disgustingly so," Dana agreed.
And somewhere in the distance, Perlah was already planning the next betting pool.
୨ৎ summary .ᐟ.ᐟ dr. brendon park had earned the notorious title ‘park the shark’ for reasons besides his chiseled facial structure and razor sharp eye contact. his bites aimed to make his victims bleed without warning or apology. everyone awaited his retribution to come. the last person he expected to humble him was his do-good third-year resident.
୨ৎ tags/warnings .ᐟ.ᐟ female reader, no use of y/n, no physical descriptions, grumpy x sunshine trope, hurt/comfort, slowburn, work-place tension, park being a bully & ass (but he's hot), park being territorial/possesive (if you squint hard enough), night shift (because I love them!!), competence kink, blood/gore & other reoccurring medical topics in 'the pitt', medical inaccuracies (i've only graduated from google med school),
୨ৎ authors note .ᐟ.ᐟ y’all i genuinely foam at the mouth every time a shark fic on this app. there’s nothing that brings me more joy than fantasizing about dr. brendon park, so here’s my interpretation of this sexy man. also this is inspired by the song 'kill me' by hayley williams !! (i love that woman soooo much y'all)
୨ৎ word count .ᐟ.ᐟ 13.6 K
If you were in the comfort of your own apartment and bed, wrapped in the sheets you had personally endeavored yourself to splurge on, you would probably be in a better mood. Even though you had racked up enough student loan debt to achieve the satisfaction of ‘following your dreams’ to the point of living scraping by, you’d consider your bed a prized possession.
If they had warned you about the lack of commodities as a resident while working an overnight shift, you may have reconsidered your career choices.
While this wasn’t your first night shift, it was definitely the roughest one yet. Lack of energy, constant back pain, and absolute discomfort in the resident on-call room did nothing to satiate your grumpiness.
You no longer could count the times you had tossed and turned on the bed. At the end, you had resorted to sitting on the office chair, with your head thrown back. It did nothing for your back, but it was less annoying than attempting to lay on the sad excuse of a bed. You caught a couple of hours of sleep, with your sweatshirt providing some comfort, but not enough to pass as high functioning.
Right as you had fluttered your eyes close; there was a ping from a phone. You shook awake, flustered and alarmed from the noise.
Shit. You stared down at the watch. 7:23 AM.
You immediately jumped from the chair, tripping over your own feet to your backpack placed by the corner of the bed. Your hands fished for the phone in the side pocket, and when the screen illuminated your face, your blood pressure dropped.
SULLY 1 min ag0
The shark is looking for his next meal.
Where the fuck are you?
There was no hesitation. Your hands moved like lightning. Backpack, water bottle, random protein bar you scavenged from the resident lounge. Slipping out of the on-call room, everyone saw you jogging down the hallways, towards the resident lounge where no doubt, Dr. Park was expecting you to hand-off the night shift.
Your futile attempt to reverse the dark spot under your eyes landed you right in the middle of the ocean. The ‘Jaws’ theme song played in your mind, and you knew he could smell your blood pumping from across the hospital. It was a sixth sense of his, able to detect a puny resident from a mile away.
The thumping of your heart rose to your throat, like a boulder you couldn't swallow down. Your breathing was caught each time you tried to pull it down to your lungs. You were a dead man walking. That much was certain when you saw the wide eye stare from Sully, your senior resident. The two of you had bonded from being your attending’s personal meals.
‘Park the Shark’ was how you all had met him when onboarding the PTMC’s orthopedic surgery program. It didn’t make sense to you how the simple mention of a name could make everyone’s back shiver, until you tried to introduce yourself, hand out a stretched and wide smile to the hunk of muscle of your attending.
“This isn’t kindergarten. Don’t waste your breath on first impressions. To be clear, there’s nothing you can do to impress me.” Park deadpanned, staring down at you as he brushed past, leaving your hand floating.
The same frown must have crossed your face as you halted, fixing your badge into the waistband of your plum scrub pants. Holding your breath, you tossed your backpack to the nearest available chair, dragging your hands down your face. Time to face the music.
Your senior resident sat at one of the workstations, eyebrows raised as recognized the unease of your shortcomings. Sully leaned forward, arms crossed as he stared at you. “Where the hell were you?”
“Trying to catch some sleep so I don’t snore my way through the rest of my shift.” You gritted back, tucking your stray hairs away. There wasn’t time to doll yourself up in a mirror and you were praying that you didn't appear as restless as you were.
This was the second double shift you were pulling, and your third year had just started. If you were being honest, you didn’t understand why you were the one doing it.
Park had come up to you during one of your lunch breaks a couple of weeks ago, and dropped a physical copy of the newly printed schedule. In the colored blocks, you found your name under two of the 12-hour blocks. You had stopped chewing the sandwich in your mouth, looking up at your attending with wide eyes.
“There’s been some changes. Your cooperation is assumed, so memorize the changes.”
You barely uttered a word until he stalked off as if this was scutwork he was dreading to get done. Safe to say, you weren’t pleased with the sudden change of schedule for the month.
Right now, you are suffering the repercussions of it.
“You should be glad Dr. Park got distracted by Walsh’s morning jabs.” Sully scoffed, standing up with a smug slump. “He’s feeling particularly hungry this morning and Walsh is only going to make it worse for the rest of us.”
You shrugged menially, rushing over to the fridge in the room, digging for the collective energy drink collection. The crack of the seal echoed in the room. “It’s about time Park dishes what he eats.”
Earnestly, you got along with Walsh—and most of the other surgical attendings and residents. You had worked around enough of them to garner a likable reputation, but working under Dr. Park worked against your favor socially.
It was different in the night shift without Park. There wasn’t a certain tension when answering consultations or in the operating rooms. Albeit, everyone was a bit looser during the nights, but it opened a space where you could take charge more freely without worry of consequence or doubt in your decisions.
“And you think Walsh is the one to do that?”
The bass in the voice was unique to one person only in which everyone in the surgical department recognized from the other end of a call or down the hallways. Unamused in his tone that never changed while his lips remained stiff and straight.
You almost choked on the acidic liquid you had started gulping down. Whipping your head to the point of stabbing into your muscles from the speed, Dr. Park stood at the doorway with his arms crossed. If you were a bigger idiot than you were now, you would’ve pretended he didn’t hear what you said.
To try to spare yourself, you quickly shook your head. “Dr. Park—“
“Save it, pipsqueak.” Park dismissed, barely paying you any mind as he stared down at his watch. With his head bowed the reflection of the gel-cast over his light brown hair shined right in your eye. Perfectly combed back, chiseling his piercing bone structure. “You missed pass over. I had to hear from a second year resident.”
Glancing at Sully, he shrugged his shoulders, eyebrows down turned. Quickly recovering, your hand gripped onto the can tighter. “Jones? He’s a bit overzealous—“
“Which in your case, wouldn’t hurt.” Park dryly interrupted, staring at you with hooded eyes. The ‘clean shaven’ look he typically had pronounced every twitch in his mandible and the other parts of his jaw. It was a good way of telling when Dr. Park had lost his patience.
You blubbered, your fingers numbing from the cold can as you refused to let it go. “I don’t want to see you dragging your feet.”
“Of course not—“
“Don’t tell me.” Park dismissed, stalking passed you over to the fridge. He occasionally stole from the resident stock; everyone assumed it was a test to see who would stop him.
No one dared.
He didn’t have to finish the saying for you to get the message. He needs to see it. As of now, you weren’t helping your case as you tried coming up with deflections of your mistake. If there was something Park hated more than mere incompetence, it was weaponizing it with the false hope it worked on someone as sharp as him. Acting a fool and being a fool were two different things, and regardless of what angle you chose to play, it was always a lose-lose situation for yourself.
And you still needed to survive another 12 hours around him.
You should’ve known you weren’t going to last the day. If accidentally sleeping through your alarms and missing hand off told you anything, it should’ve been a sign things were going to go astray.
While pushing through a pair of double doors, having scrubbed out of an open tibia-fibula fracture surgery, a yawn escaped you. Shaking your head and rubbing your eyes, you hardly noticed what was coming ahead. Head bowed and senses incoherent, you only lifted your head once you ran into a form of mass, sending you tripping backwards.
When you looked up, the heavy stare of Park shadowing over your entire body, you shrank into yourself more than you already had earlier. It was a miracle that Sully roped you into the surgery, long enough to endure half your shift and to avoid Park the Sharks current disfavor of you.
Sully did not intend to stay once his residency was up. He knew he didn't have the courage to battle up against Park over executive decisions, even if Park carried the ‘Chief’ title. He had other goals to look forward to that didn't include staying at PTMC.
You, on the other hand, were yearning for an attending spot. Upon matching into Orthopedic Surgery, especially at a trauma-1 hospital like PTMC, you knew you would fight vigorously to outperform the others. What you didn't expect was to be soul-crushed by an attending like Dr. Brendon Park.
In the three years you had worked under him, you had seen enough residents fizzle out with time. Half of them moved across the country for fellowships and attending positions, while the other stayed just far enough to refrain from having to mutually work with him again. No one dared curse his name, but he was the type of person you only wanted to meet once in your life.
Your plans of moving into a lively city like Pittsburgh and settling into the comfortable life of an orthopedic surgeon no longer felt like an achievable dream, and you were falling into the conveyor-like cycle as the rest of his former residents.
When you finally closed your slack mouth, you registered something clattered against the linoleum floor. Your eyes darted to the ground noticing his phone had fallen from his grasp. Immediately, your body bent down, examining the phone with anxious precision before holding it out again.
“I am so sorry, Dr–”
“ER needs an ortho consult.”
His words clipped your sentence again, the apology ignored. He brushed past you, and the cold brush of his arm brought shivers to your exposed skin. You stood dumbfounded, unsure how to interpret his stoic statement. Spinning in your heels, you watched his taunt, muscular back walk further from you.
He pushed the double doors with his back, sticking his phone in his pocket. The subtle sigh he let out didn’t go amiss. “What did I say about dragging your feet?”
You dashed over in his direction, pushing the door back as Park let it fall toward you.
The elevator ride down was nothing short of awkward. Park was never one for small talk. He found it a waste of air, especially when he considered most pleasantries as disingenuous. While standing behind him, your hands fiddled in front of you; grasping and releasing your fingers with easy rhythm, you chewed the inside of your cheek. You weren’t a talkative person necessarily, but you were now silently reminding yourself to request for some elevator music for ambiance later.
As soon as the elevator halted, Park wasted no time, briskly exiting the elevator once the sleek doors split open. You followed in his suit to Trauma 1 in the ED, slipping in behind Park.
When you first walked in, you saw the small bustling group of nurses and ED staff surround a gray-haired African-American woman. You could make out that much from the corner of the room as you stood back and watched. Although you had been in this room many times, you didn't always make yourself known while Park was around. Why would anyone trust a thing to slip out your mouth with someone like Dr. Park present?
With the fogginess of the lack of sleep and the last surgery you barely made out of, you hardly noticed the debrief occurring anyways. Words about the patient's vitals and chief complaints were being tossed from a resident off to the side. You were internally imploring Park to not dismiss him as he had you practically the entire morning.
Your hands fell in their customary position in front of you, folding into a ball as a form of self-soothing. Briefly closing your eyes, taking in a deep breath, you tried to call upon some energy to hit you like a wave. You still had the second half of your morning shift to go, and you barely got through half the energy drink you cracked open to sustain you. Don’t get in his way, and maybe he won’t sink his teeth into you–
“I see you dragged one of your pups, Park.” A deep voice ribbed from the opposite end of the room.
Dr. Robby stood with his arms crossed at the foot of the gurney, staring back at you with no shame. He cocked his head to one side, glazing at you with amusement, hiding in the corner like some meek fish. Some of the other doctors had finally noticed you, sparing you a smile that came off more like a grimace.
Your attention drifted to your attending, who glanced over his shoulder, back at you. So much for not being noticed. Your entire body tensed up, and the bored expression from Park secured another stamp of his disapproval.
“What does the X-ray show?” Park questioned, his tone even and bass-y while echoing in the sterile room.
Eyebrows lifted with a quick hum coming from you was the only sound that came from anyone breathing in the room. His piercing blue eyes didn't move from you, and you weren't sure whether to keep looking or to turn to somebody else he might have referred to.
Someone called your name in the distance. As if on a swivel, your head moved toward the direction of the call. Dr. Langdon scratched the side of his head, subtly nodding his head to the X-ray machine.
Suddenly aware the question was directed to you, a cold chill ran down your spine. Embarrassment and fear of reprimand for acting like an idiot while being a third-year resident clouded your mind as your feet shuffled to the machine. Peering down at the screen, your eyes distinctly measure every inch of the image.
Lifting your head, you looked to the side. A front-view of the patient, an older patient dressed in khaki capri pants and a blue, flowery blouse. She sat uncomfortable, and you noticed her left leg, shortened and externally rotated. Based on the current needles poked in her, she was sedated from feeling most of the pain she should be experiencing.
“What’s your name ma’am?” You asked politely, with a soft smile.
She let out a shaky breath, mustering up a quivering smile. “Mrs. Perry.”
“It’s lovely to meet you, Mrs. Perry.” You mused, straightening your posture and walking over to Dr. Park’s side, leaving enough space to not brush against one another. From up close, you could see Park pressing the hip area on the left side of her body, arms flexing with the movement. She’d visibly flinch, but withheld from yelping. “How did this happen?”
“I tripped over my living room carpet.” She scoffed, annoyed from the incident while shaking her head. Park removed his hands, reaching down to hyper-extend her leg. The reaction then was a hiss. “I should’ve listened to my daughter when she told me that old things might kill me.”
There was a slight grumble released beside you. When peering from the corner of your eye, Park was stretching his neck uncomfortably after finishing a physical examination he’d typically have his resident perform. His words ringed in your ear. Don’t tell me.
Turning your body to face him, you awkwardly avoided his pointed stare. “X-ray shows a displaced femoral neck fracture. Based on the pattern, a Hemiarthroplasty might be necessary.”
You saw the slight twitch in his face. Moving around you, he advanced towards the machine, needing to see the images himself. You filled the void he left as Mrs. Perry bedside. Smiling down at her shaken expression glued onto Dr. Park, you leaned forward to capture her attention. “The surgery is a very common one. Mostly recommended in cases like this. You’ll have a greater likelihood of being able to stand and move after 48-hours.”
“What is the healing process like?” She asked, the slight tremor in her voice resonating too deeply within you.
Carefully reaching over the gurney, you grabbed her cold frigid hand resting on the edge. She sucked in a breath, staring at your eyes as if they held in some precious jewel for her to find. “You’ll probably need physical therapy afterward, possibly at an inpatient rehab facility. Mrs. Perry, many patients before have recovered beautifully from this, with mobility returning to their standard before this injury.”
You noticed the brimming of tears in her eyes, nodding her head vigorously along with your words. Her frail hands found strength to squeeze yours, and you couldn't help but beam wider at her. You could hear Park speak with Robby and the other doctors, but you didn’t pay them much mind.
“Thank you.” She whispered, the air hitting your face. She lifted her other hand to grasp at her chest, as if you lifted a weight from her. “Bless your soul, sweet girl.”
“We will book the OR for the procedure.” Dr. Park spoke louder, stopping at the foot of the bed. When you turned your head in his direction, he nodded to Robby. “We’ll need blood work and an EKG done to plan accordingly.”
“Already on it.” Robby nodded, he glanced from Park to you. He tried to hide the subtle skeptical look in his eye after listening to you speak with Mrs. Perry with tenderness.
You certainly didn’t learn that from Park the Shark.
Park didn't utter anything more as he sauntered behind you. The snapping of his gloves as he pulled them off concluding your business in the ED. You spared Mrs. Perry one last look, before ushering yourself out of the trauma room. When the door sealed shut, Park had already pressed the up arrow for the elevator. You halted a couple of feet behind him, standing to the side like some kid in trouble.
Clearing your throat, you rocked on the balls of your feet. “Was I right about the Hemiarthroplasty?”
If you were Sully, or any other resident with much more confidence in their diagnosing skills, you’d assume you made the right observation. But you weren’t—especially with Park present—and with a patient's life on the line, you didn’t pretend to be either.
The elevator dinged, doors opening wide for the two of you. Park who settled himself in the center of the elevator box while you slipped around him. Once the button lit up for the surgical floor, the box rattled to move up, forcing you to grasp onto the railing.
“Do you really have to ask?” He asked, not concerned to see your reaction. His voice seemed almost annoyed by the need to ask.
You fumbled on words, mouth agape as you considered how to redeem yourself without sounding overtly desperate for his approval. He slightly shook his head, squaring his shoulders. “Next time I ask for you to do your job, I assume you won’t dally like you did now.”
You weren’t dallying.
If anything, you were trying to comprehend what injury Mrs. Perry had. Apart from the X-ray, there were still elements you could learn talking to the patient. Maybe your teachers in med-school were too ‘soft’ for Dr. Park's animalistic taste, but you found the traditional-method worked.
You furrowed your brows. “It’s all for the sake of patient-care.”
“Reacting promptly and avoiding delay is patient-care.” Park corrected, you saw the slight maneuver of his chisel jaw, now able to see your figure from over his shoulder. “I shouldn’t have to teach my third year residents this.”
If you were paid every time he threw that insult, you’d have your student debt paid two-times over. There weren't enough fingers on your hands to count the amount of times he directed those words to you. It was profoundly glued into every fold of your brain, haunting you even in your sleep. The utter lack of gratification you gave him as his resident didn’t need words with the way he’d dismiss you like a prey not worth the hunt.
It wasn’t like you didn’t try. You’d be wasting your time and his if you sat around lulling, but sometimes the insults bordered on cruel.
“It’s his teaching methods. Be glad he even addresses you by name.” Sully painfully attempted to remedy the slight heartache you had a couple of months ago—sulking over the fact Park had ripped you a new one.
What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, or whatever Nietzsche said.
Except, you weren’t sure that philosophy helped anyone who worked under the control of Dr. Park.
That much was assured once Mrs. Perry was moved into an OR after her necessary tests were conducted almost three hours later. You were half hoping you wouldn’t have to perform the surgery, finally running to your wits end after the double shift. There wasn’t anything to liven the zombie-like shuffle of your feet down the halls through consultations and pages. Your body was running on autopilot, and the connectivity with your brain no longer attached.
You hadn’t realized you fell asleep while supposedly “resting your eyes” from documenting patient charts. Without much thought, your brainpower fizzled and shut off at the first taste of silence and peace. You were only thankful there wasn't anyone else trying to cram in charting time.
With your body succumbing to the small grace, you hadn’t a clue of your surroundings and the last thing you expected to disrupt your REM cycle was the booming sound of a door slam shut. You shook awake, turning your head in either direction to find the source of the noise. When your eyes shot open in the direction of the door to the dictation room, you saw a grouchy Dr. Park standing at the doorway with his hands on his hips.
You tried to act like you hadn’t been sleeping, blinking reverently to shake off the drowsiness. Dr. Park wasn’t convinced. Humming you braced one hand on the desk, spinning the chair slightly. “Were you looking for me?”
“You’d know that if you’d answer your pages.” His stolid stare of your face was aware of exactly the position he caught you.
Your hands wandered to the pager on your belt. When you saw all the unanswered responses, you groaned, too aware of the fact you had managed to fail your attending, again. Refusing to lift your head, you shut your eyes in defeat. “I’ve been trying to catch up on—“
“Sleep?” Park interrupted, bracing his arms over his chest.
Blinking at him like a dog with its tail between its legs, you could see something beyond general annoyance over you sleeping on company time. You hadn’t exactly expected him to handle it nicely, but a pit was forming in your stomach. It felt like awaiting a death sentence.
Park ticked his head to the side, snarling like a shark tempted by insatiable fury. Too wild and ferocious to wait for his next meal to come. That didn’t make him forget his control, staring at you with the starching glare. “Mrs. Perry is ready for surgery.”
His hand gripped open the door, stalking out as quickly as he came in. You sat there frozen, unsure what to make out of the reaction. He wasn’t the type to yell. His icy demeanor and hooded stare said enough without an elevation in vocal volume. Yet, he didn’t elaborate more on the obvious inappropriate state he found you in.
Could it be a dream? Maybe your brain hasn't fully booted to life. There was no way Dr. Brendon Park would let your mishap slide, right?
After surgery, you walked around with less eagerness than you did before (if you had any). You downed half a pot of coffee you found in the break room before scrubbing in. It was no shocker Dr. Park had led the entire operation up until the end, where he left you alone to finish up the entire procedure after he removed the hip-ball to replace it with something durable,
When you left the surgical wing, you noticed you put in over an hour of overtime. Sully was more than likely settled at your shared apartment. When you glanced at the lock screen of your phone, you noted the missed message.
SULLY 1 hr ago
Bought thai and dessert. I know you’re going to need it after tonight.
The exhale that left you might’ve sounded like you had received the best news of your life. In hindsight, it was as luxurious as your life got.
You were mostly grateful you had managed to avoid Park since finishing the surgery. Some part of you dreaded that he’d be waiting out the double doors to hand you the list of all your faults within the one shift. When you found the halls empty, you thanked whatever higher authority there was that it wasn’t the case.
As you stood in the desolate, quiet elevator, your hands hovered over the buttons. You were desperate to run out of the hospital and forget the shift like a bad nightmare. Instead, your finger reached for the post-op floor.
Maybe it was in everyone’s nature to linger instead of pulling away without turning back.
You didn’t think the hospital could get any colder. You tugged your fleece jacket to wrap over your body as you walked over to where most of the patients were sedated and asleep. The nurse at the desk recognized you, waving her hand at you before turning back to the paperwork she was attending to.
Mrs. Perry's room was diagonal from the desk, even with her face turned away, you knew her from afar. Quietly pulling the door open, you slipped in, gauging her body for any sudden movements of her shifting awake. When you saw the soft fall and rise of her chest continued without lapse, you grabbed the marker on her patient-board.
She was a lovely lady overall, resembling a grandmother from childhood. You scribbled a small note to tell her surgery went well and wishing her a speedy recovery, finalizing with your name. When you slipped out, you made no more delay, hurrying to the directions of the elevators, typing away in response to Sully’s message.
You didn’t lift your head up when the door slid open, side stepping to the panel to click to the floor to the hospital parking garage. Too busy staring at your phone, awaiting a response from your roommate; you didn’t acknowledge the presence lingering behind you. Just another hospital staff trying to make it home.
The buzz of the elevator filled the silent atmosphere. You hummed lightly to a song you had stuck in your head, watching the three dots light up the opened message.
“How’s the patient?”
You jumped back, your head turning ninety degrees in an impossible speed that would leave a kink in your neck no doubt. The grip on your phone was ironclad as you stared wide-eyed at Park, leaning against the railing with one arm. Staring at him with a frightened look, no doubt the same look of surprise from earlier, your mouth clamped shut.
He raised his eyebrows at you, and with a careful step, back you nodded. “Mrs. Perry is resting in post-op. I’m sure she’ll make a nice recovery with some therapy.”
Park only gave you a firm nod. He didn’t need you to reaffirm that thought. He had looked at all the pre-op tests and results. She was an ideal patient for her age, low-risk of infections and complications. He knew everything about his patients. Therefore, his nonchalant and dispirited expression reminded you of that.
You peeled your eyes away, hoping the elevator would somehow move faster, so you didn’t die of shame. As the elevator continued to descend, you grimaced, choosing your next words carefully, “I’m sorry about missing the pages. There is no excusing my ignorance of my responsibilities. I just—“
Your words fell flat. How were you supposed to excuse the fact you fell asleep while charting, especially to an attending like Dr. Park? Anyone would have a better time wrestling an actual shark then to be forgiven by Dr. Park.
“All residents should be able to adapt to their schedules.” Park reminded you, like you were an intern who had yet to learn to struggle on a shift. You had worked double and overnight shifts before. Today just happened to be one of the tiring ones yet. “Do you think a patient wants you drooling over them while in surgery?”
He shook his head, which was the most you had seen him emote. After the face you had made some mistakes you should've grown out of. “I gave you one task today, and somehow you were incapable of managing that.”
You shrunk within yourself, hands clamming around your phone. The sharp inhale must have caught in your throat from the constricting chords. It was as if the air had thickened with the rising density of Park’s sudden reprimand. Of course, you couldn’t save yourself from drowning into the depths of the ocean, where most of the curious sharks lived. You were bound to be another fallen soldier in Park the Shark’s list of students who fell too short of the expectation.
“I need competent third-year residents on my staff. Ones who don’t need me to hold their hands and coddle them their entire way through this program.” He took one-step closer, and you wondered what was taking the elevator so long. “I won’t risk my patient’s life for your irresponsibility.”
The elevator dinged and the metal doors slid open. You held your breath the entire time Park stared down at you, like scum under his shoe. Without uttering another word, he walked out the doors, placid and unfazed by the confrontation, compared to you. Feet glued to your stationary position and blood running cold over your entire body.
Was that how Park saw you? Some liability he tried to tolerate, even when he preferred you separated from the patient with a ten-foot pole. The shaky breath you finally let out shook your core. Maybe all he saw you was the ‘pipsqueak’ of the group. Too mousy and self-deprecating unlike the rest.
God, you were a fool thinking you could impress anyone with your confident persona, impersonating a skilled ortho-surgeon instead of training to be one.
You stuck your hand through the sliver between the closing doors, activating the sensor once more. Stepping out into the fresh breeze, you caught the headlights of some luxury car flash in your direction. With one hand hovering over your eyes, you traveled to the side, remaining close to the edge away from the pathway. Right as the car passed by, you caught a glimpse of Park speeding away without turning back.
It sounded naïve to hope you could change his opinion of you. Didn’t mean you’d stop trying. He could stir the waters into a whirlpool, but you made your travel home planning to fight against it. If there was something you wanted Dr. Park to recognize most was you weren’t going to stand for the tyranny—even if he was the living impersonation of an apex predator in your habitat.
Some animals were made to be preyed on, and you’d climb the food-chain if you had too.
The animosity from Dr. Park had stopped in the shifts after. You made an effort to be assertive. Taking charge of consultations while instructing the interns. You weren’t doing it just to earn Park’s respect, but to also prove to yourself what you wanted to be capable of. If he happened to change what objective opinion he had settled on about you, then that was just a plus.
Thankfully, it had worked well enough to have Park only mutter the tame sarcastic remarks, which announced to everyone he wasn’t a fan of redundancy. He nodded at you when he ‘liked’ what you had to say about a patient and their diagnosis. Never cracking a smile, but whenever he'd examine you up and down once exiting a patients room, you knew he had no critiques.
It was nearing the end of the day shift. You had paid your farewells with most of your closest colleagues. Sifting through the fridge in the break room, you heard the door click open. Lifting and peeking around curiously, you assumed other residents were packing to leave.
Instead, Dr. Emmick, the night shift attending that relieves Park, greeted you with a casual smile. You had worked with her previously, enjoying her calm, playful nature. She had her black hair tied in a braid, framing her face. You always admired her youthful look, tanned color and clear skin.
She smiled at you while holding her packed lunch. The sweet ring of your name followed as she approached, “it’s nice seeing you around.”
“Likewise,” You mused, extending a hand out as you politely put the container into the fridge. She gratefully handed it to you, mouthing a small ‘thank you.’ Before closing the fridge, you grabbed the last of your energy drink, tapping the seal.
“I hope Dr. ‘Shark’ is treating you well.” She joked, and you caught the playful chaste in her words. She flashed a grin as she spun around towards the kitchenette.
You scoffed, shaking your head with a nervous smile. “As well as he treats all of his residents.”
She laughed at that, her cheeks swelling as her smile widened. She moved around, grabbing a mug from the cabinet. She rustled around the sweeteners and sugar for a minute. “I find it hard to believe you haven’t charmed your way into his cold heart.”
Squinting your eyes at her, you chuckled awkwardly, gripping the can tighter. “What do you mean?”
You froze as she poured the warm liquid in her mug. She moved around casually as if what she said hadn’t been news to you. While she shook her head, you continued to stare at her back with a crinkled nose. “I haven’t met a single person who didn’t have a single good thing to say about you.”
She shortly paused to take a brief sip of the coffee before she rustled with more of the sugar packets. “You have been monikered the most liked resident of the entire hospital.”
“That’s a lie.” You countered. When the tone came out more combative than intended, you retracted your head a bit, pressing your lips together.
“Don’t believe me?” she mused, glancing over her shoulder as she mixed the coffee with a stirrer. The grin on her face made you feel like you shouldn’t have doubted the observation.
‘Most liked’ must have been an exaggeration. Of the entire hospital? Impossible. Sure, you played nice with the surgical attendings and the doctors down in the Pitt, but they couldn’t have all thought that way. Not when Park found a way to rip up your efforts every shift. It is unbelievable that any of the attendings could like you if Park found flaws.
“Which begs the question as to why you stay on the day shift.”
When you lifted your eyes to level at her face, she was leaning back onto the counter cradling the mug. One foot crossed over the other and she smiled sincerely. “I know many here on the night shift who would appreciate you a little more. I know I would.”
“I could use a resident with your maturity.” She shrugged, pushing off the counter. You continued fiddling with the can, trying to ground yourself as she continued finding new ways to praise you. “Would take a lot off my plate.”
You hadn’t realized how silent you were until she raised her eyebrows at you expectantly. Shaking your head, you waved one hand in dismissal. “I’m sure you’re just saying that. I know most of my co-residents are moving once they finish residency and the hospital is in need of some positive turnover.”
She narrowed her eyes at you, like your observation was a point-of-view she hadn't been exposed to. With the slight shake of her head, she blew out a sigh, eyebrows raised. “Truth is it’s a lot harder to stay than it is to get in. It’s definitely not for lack of trying. But, I think if anyone has a solid chance, it's you.”
Before you could politely disagree, the sound of a phone ringing bounced off the wall. Reaching into her scrub pocket, Dr. Emmick pulled out her on-call phone, skimming the ID. She lifted her head, offering an apologetic smile. “Just consider it, at least.”
She swiftly answered the call, announcing her name. You waved her a small goodbye, which she returned, before you excused yourself out. Dr. Emmick was a good mentor from the times you had worked the night shift. She was swift with an edge of personality people felt Park lacked with all his glaring. She played music roulette while doing surgery, remaining the champion of the ongoing ‘guess that tune’ game.
It was hard to deny her forwardly when she charmed everyone with such ease.
You walked down the halls, towards the elevator where Sully stood by waiting, scrolling through his phone. He glanced up when he heard the footsteps, “What took you so long?”
“I was talking with Dr. Emmick,” You sighed out, leaning over to press the down arrow button. He stared at you skeptically, noticing the small shrug of your shoulders. “She tried to convince me to move to the night shift.”
He scoffed, stuffing his phone and hands in his pockets. He bounced on his feet, staring up at the ceiling. “Wouldn’t be the worst idea.”
Your head spun to stare at him with down turned eyebrows and pursed lips. He stared down at you with a puzzled expression, “What? You’re not a morning person, whatsoever, and you hate working with Park.”
“I don’t hate working with Dr. Park.” You neglected, offended by the insinuation. ‘Hate’ was a strong four-letter word you disliked using.
‘Hating’ Dr. Park insinuated the one thing you didn’t want to relent to: that he was under your skin. If he was able to obliterate the part of you that made up the person enduring his personality, then you’d have to resign. There was no way you could objectively work with him—or anyone similar—without it affecting patient care. It wasn’t a justifiable means to an end; it was a disservice to the patients.
Sully mockingly nodded his head, pretending to believe your words. You noted the small eye roll as he scoffed, “Either way, I won’t be here to cover for you next year, and you could use someone like Dr. Emmick in your corner.”
When the doors opened to the elevators, Sully slipped in first, holding the door open for you to follow. You bowed your head, still fiddling with the tab of your energy drink, no longer needing to satiate the craving. All you felt was the small shake of the elevator as it began its descent. Sully stood diagonally, watching you stare at your feet.
His small huff caught your distracted attention, “If you're so determined on staying here, you better learn to play offensive with Park. Don’t the big sharks always dominate the small ones?”
You refrained from laughing, dropping your gaze to hide the crack in your expression. Once Sully got over the shark-induced fear, he played around a lot more than he should’ve. The others thought it was like dropping his blood in a tank of sharks. Sully had read up on all the shark facts he could, and during every hand-off while Park was present, he’d share it with him.
He swore that Park patted him in the back once, hiding the small curve on the corner of his lip.
“Wouldn’t turning over to the night shift just confirm what he already thinks of me?” You questioned, rolling your head to the side as the words rang in your head again. All you were was incompetent and juvenile anyways.
“Maybe,” Sully shrugged, readjusting the singular strap of his backpack hanging off his shoulder. “Or maybe he won’t care at all. If he feels that strongly about you, then why should it matter to him?”
Sully was usually right, which was why they titled him chief resident. He had made the last three years with Park more than bearable. If you hadn’t gone to introduce yourself to him in the parking lot, he probably wouldn’t have chosen you to assist him throughout most of his cases. He always noted that you were smarter than the rest. When they’d all make performances of them kissing ass, you’d do it in silence, without the need of recognition.
You thought he was being nice when he offered his spare bedroom. In reality, you were the only one he could fathom spending time with outside the hospital.
When the elevator halted, Sully gave you a grin. “I hope I wasn’t wrong about you, pipsqueak.”
“Seriously?” You groaned, dragging your feet through the lobby as you two wandered out the doors as all the other day-shift staff.
Sully led the way with more energy than when he came in. You didn’t know how he wasn’t drained from the work, or the bustling of Park pushing him in every direction. He was meant to be the right-hand man, after all. When the two of you made your way out, the sun was close to gone.
There was a chilly breeze and you shivered as it kissed your cheeks. “What is that supposed to mean anyway?”
“I just hope that all the hints I’ve been dropping Park isn’t for nothing.” He shrugged, trotting up steps to the parking garage elevator.
“What do you mean?” You pushed, letting out a sigh once the two of you made it to the elevator. Your hands landed dramatically to your sides, head tilted as you stared expectantly.
He shrugged first. Once he caught wind of your raised eyebrows, he chuckled. “Look, I get we’re friends, roommates, and honestly, we work on more cases together than with Shark combined.”
“Get to the point.”
He raised his hands, as a form of retaliation, while you deadpanned him. “But, you are more than a decent resident.”
Scoffing with an offended and jarred gaped mouth, you prepared to fire equally backhanded remarks. Sully put his hands on your shoulders, guiding you into the elevator first, leaning into your ear. “I’m messing with you.”
He let go once inside, and clicked the fourth floor. He turned to you with a sincere smile, crooked and charming. You had lost track of the amount of times other residents asked if he was single or in a relationship with you. “But, I don’t think I’ve seen Park so interested in anyone as much as he is with you.”
Throwing your head back gently, it thumped the elevator wall, trembling as it glided upward. “People say the same about you.”
“My point is if I see it, so does Park.” Sully redirected with a casual smile. Professional and honest, in the same manner he talked to patients. “So give him reasons he needs to be wrong.”
“And If it doesn’t pan out, I’ll hold you a spot in Chicago.” He winked at you and as if on cue, the elevator dinged and the doors revealed the dark parking garage .Walking backward, he widened his smile, all teeth. “Then he’ll regret ever doubting you, shark pup.”
You tried to keep Dr. Emmick and Sully's words in mind. It had started to feel like an omen you meant to keep an eye on. It never occurred to you that some people had formed strong opinions about you. Dr. Emmick had asked subtle questions about your consideration of the last conversation the two of you had. Sully had noticed, and even began to inquire about your next steps.
It had never dawned on you that the invitation was serious.
Not until you worked the next night shift block on your schedule. You had walked into the dictation room, zipping on your fleece sweater when you ran into Dr. Emmick. She looked up from her watch, stating your name with a smile. “Didn’t realize you were scheduled tonight.”
You nodded politely, offering a closed mouth smile in return. “I switched with another resident. It was a last minute thing.”
“Well, happy to have you here.” She somehow smiled wider. You tried to hide the sudden tightness in your chest. It was weird to be openly invited and welcomed into your shift by an attending. Park would have barely looked in your direction if this were the day shift.
She stood with her hands in her pocket, examining you up and down. “Have you done the hand off yet?”
“Just got back from that,” You point your thumb behind you, motioning to the door you came in from seconds ago. “Seems like a manageable workload.”
“For now,” Dr. Emmick chuckled, readjusting the pager on the waistline of her scrub pants. “Give it a few hours to liven up. The next trauma is yours.”
You should’ve known by now to take her words seriously.
While assisting her in a surgery that was when the call came in from the charge nurse. Trauma via ambulance. Motorcycle accident. Left leg deformity with obvious bone exposure. Dr. Emmick only hummed as she glanced at you from across the surgical table.
That’s what landed you in the elevator, gloves and gown doffed while now only sporting your scrub cap. When you landed on the basement floor, walking straight off the elevator and looking into Trauma-2, you saw the chaos within the glass. Pumping hand sanitizer and pushing the door open with your back caught the attention of most in the vicinity.
Walsh lifted her gaze across the room, a small smirk on her face as she announced your name amusingly. “Dr. Park’s shark pup. You finally turned to the dark side?”
You shook your head, grabbing a pair of gloves from the wall. “Hello to you too, Dr. Walsh.”
Approaching the gurney, your eyes immediately went to the splint holding his left leg in place. That when you saw the exposed bone from an open wound on the anterolateral shin. An intern was sitting, irrigating the debris into a pan. You then looked up to see the young, male patient, sedated on the bed. He was scattered with other wounds in his face.
“Present, please.” You proposed, eyes darting to the staff wearing black scrubs.
“A please? Are you sure you're one of Park’s?” Jack hummed from beside you leaning over the patient as he and Walsh worked on putting a chest tube and alleviating some internal bleeding near the liver. When you looked at him, you scoffed, shaking your head.
“Motorcycle accident. Flew almost ten meters away from the crash per paramedics. No knee fracture or joint surface misalignment.” Nazely spoke up from your other side, continuing to irrigate gently, looking much smaller as she donned her gown.
“Jesus” You mumbled, hands behind you back as you leaned in to examine the open wound with precision. “Did he come in unconscious?”
“Morphine and fentanyl will do that for you.” Walsh mumbled as she began to stand up straight. She tossed the small strands of hair that fell around her face back looking in your direction.
She watched as your hand traveled along the bone in his knee, then lowered as you felt the tissue. Nazely had retracted her hands, looking around anxiously as you stared at the leg like some prey on the hunt. “Keep irrigating. It’s looking like a subtype B and we don’t want to risk infection.”
“Subtype B?” Nazely questioned softly, looking up at you with her widen sunken eyes. She glanced around to try to understand the silent understanding everyone else had.
You nodded at her, a soft smile as you made your way around to where she was, stopping close enough to brush against her arms. “Gustilo-Anderson Type III.”
“Good old Ramon and John.” Walsh joked, shaking her head with a small huff. Jack glanced at her, an amused smile on his face.
The movement continued as you examined the patient in silence. Nazely kept cautiously peeking at you from the corner of her eye. She was paranoid of whether she was doing it correctly, adjusting her arms rhythmically. Your mind and body acted on your training, sensations alarmed from the previous cases you can recall that imaged the patient’s current situation.
When you turned to Nazely, she tensed up a bit, suddenly alarmed. “Was his upper leg always this swollen?”
Her eyes followed where you were pointing nervously. She furrowed her eyes, a bit panicked while shaking her head. “It looks worse than when he came in.”
“Before the medication he was in severe pain, even with passive stretching.” Jack informed, now stoic as he followed what you and his intern were concerned. He moved around the nurses and techs to assist with other continuous care in his upper extremities. “Felt numbness in his toes and pain continued up to the ankle.”
“Can I see imaging?” You called out, retracting yourself to step over to the machine where the radiologist tech stood with the blue vest still on. Peering down, you drowned out the sudden rise of noises.
Voices followed with consistent reports of heart rate and pressure, moving into a position that was no longer safe for comfort. Even while focused on your area of expertise, you could recognize the plan of care Walsh and Jack were announcing. Ischemic. Stiffness, swelling, and pain in the left leg. Tibia fracture.
“Acute compartment syndrome.” You called out, turning your head over to Jack and Walsh.
The trauma surgeon tsked as she busied herself with Jack looking over her shoulder. She lightly jerked her shoulder, pushing Jack back to block space between them. Jack lifted his head over Walsh, looking at the small intern sitting on the stool, attempting to shrink impossibly smaller. “What are the four compartments, Nazely?”
She blinked rapidly, pausing with her mouth open as her attending addressed her. While shutting her eyes, she took a deep breath out. “Anterior, Lateral, Superficial, and Deep posterior.”
“500 to Dr. Toomarian.” You joked, walking back to her side. She gazed up at you offering a trembling smile as she gathered her bearings again, focusing on her one task. You sighed, shaking your head. “He’s going to need a fasciotomy and reconstruction if we can salvage all the compartments. Hope he doesn’t lose his leg.”
“Any attending’s available in ortho?” Walsh questioned, finally taking a step back to speak directly at you.
You ripped off the gloves you were wearing, tossing them in a bin before sanitizing. While rubbing your hands you sighed, “Dr. Emmick will be stuck in a spinal surgery for the next couple of hours. I will proceed as primary ortho after checking in with her.”
“Without supervision?” Walsh clarified, an eyebrow raised. You could tell she had reservations, not of the work, but the ethicality of the procedure.
You shrugged, before crossing your arms and holding her attention. “You’d rather the patient lose his leg, Dr. Walsh?”
Jack snickered from across the trauma room. He shook his head, “Now I see it.”
Walsh followed your previous actions, doffing the PPE attire. Once she ripped off the gloves, she clapped her bare hands, an amused smile on her face. “You’re up, shark pup.”
When you finally scrubbed out of the surgery, it was nearing sunrise. Before walking into the OR, you kept repeating the case in your head, going over the steps you had done previously before. You weren't exactly secure until stepping into the sterile environment. Standing at the surgical table, along with Walsh and the other surgical techs, it was coming to you as easy as breathing.
Taking control of the entire narrative in a different capacity felt strange. There wasn’t the lingering presence of Emmick or Park, who typically didn’t refrain from giving direction, guiding your hands like molding clay. There was steadiness in your hands you didn’t think would be present without either attending.
You could hear Park’s constant reminders not to get too conceited. Cockiness never suits a wide-eye resident still learning to stand; he huffed out after assisting in your first major reconstruction surgery. He had surprisingly relied mostly on your directive than his own, asking questions and staring at your work.
There was still a buzzing sensation throughout all your nerves, like an adrenaline rush you didn’t want to come down from. It didn’t help that when Dr. Emmick did step into the OR, to check in with how the operation was progressing, she gave no criticism. The nod and approving hum that escaped her while wearing the mask, listening intently to you break down the steps you’ve taken, made it hard to not be proud of yourself.
Instead of gloating though, you sat in the break room, nibbling on the lunch Sully had prepared for you two for the week. You leaned back in the plastic chair, scrolling through your phone. You heard the door click open, but made no effort to turn your head to the sound.
When you saw a figure move around from where you were sitting, you caught Walsh looking down at you, much cleaner from the last time you saw her. She grinned at you, stopping across the table, “The patient was moved to the ICU for monitoring. Good job back there.”
“Thank you.” You replied, putting your phone down gently. Sitting up straighter, your braced both hands on the seat, smiling coyly. “Is it bad to say I was afraid of messing it up?”
“Don’t let Brendon hear you say that.” Walsh snickered, turning her back to scavenge the fridge. She pulled out a gray can, immediately cracking the seal and gulping down the cold liquid. “He’d have a gall if he knew you did the operation with no attending supervision.”
“You were there.” Your chin motioned to where she stood, one hand now braced on the kitchenette counter.
“I’m not your attending.”
Her grin widened as you playfully rolled your eyes. There was a beat of silence as you finally sensed the temptation to steal another nibble of your food. Walsh stared at you, taking another swing of her drink. “I heard you’re bored with the day shift. Is Park not living up to the hype?”
With down turned brows and a shaky laugh, you tipped your head to one side. “What are you talking about?”
Walsh looked back at you as if she had shared a secret she wasn’t supposed to let slip. Readjusting her back, she pursed her lips. “Marla said you were moving to the night shift with the rest of us nocturnal mammals.”
Dr. Emmick. Ardent to assume one good half-shift was enough to have you turning your current schedule upside down. Although, you could say pretty confidently you had never been as validated as you had this shift than any day shift, you still were considering the proposition. It wasn't entirely a decision you could rationally make with this one experience. You had yet to find out what struggling with the night shift entailed.
“I’ve yet to decide on such a big change.” You corrected, earning a hooded look from Walsh. “I promised her I’d consider it.”
Walsh booed, rolling her neck to glare at you with amusement. The playful grimace on her face eased the small worry in your chest. Has it really been that big of a disappointment?
She pushed herself off the counter, sauntering in your direction. “Here I thought I’d be able to rub in his face how we stole his greatest protégé.”
There was that word. Along with the ‘shark pup’ nickname some of the residents had heard a handful of times answering consultations. They were meant to learn from the quiet, calculated Dr. Park, and find some way to honor him with their skill, but Park wasn’t the type to look at that. He didn't care much for individuality either, but he preferred neither of you to paint yourself in an image that only suited him.
“Why do you guys keep saying that?” You questioned genuinely. Walsh stopped in her tracks, raising her eyebrows at your question. “I’m nothing like him, and if anything, he probably has a scroll full of things I could work on.”
For a minute, you thought Walsh might actually pull you into the insider information that every surgical staff knew–except you. A part of you wondered whether Park was secretly feeding into the ongoing perception as well. Walsh scoffed, the corner of her lips curling upward, pronouncing her cupid's bow. “I’m not going to spell it out for you. Takes away the fun.”
“Besides, if it keeps you from coming over to nights, I don’t think I want to.” She admitted, leaning in closer to come off as mischievous. You only nodded, defeated that you were left out.
She sighed, “You’ve got potential. I’d hate for ‘Park the Shark’ to be the reason you don’t explore that.”
She rolled her eyes at the title Park had been known for since you joined. Now you understood why Park always seemed to have a scowl after talking with Walsh. If she jabbed at him in his face as much as she was right now, that would explain everything. She straightened herself, sparing you one last smile.
“See you around, daredevil.”
To say Dr. Park was a tough person to impress was an understatement. You didn’t expect him to sing your praises the following shift after Dr. Emmick had prematurely gloated on your behalf. The only reaction you got was a huff of some sort, his head tilting to the side as he saw you checking in on the patient and mutterings of ‘doing your job.’
By that point, you knew Park was grateful the patient had survived long enough to offer you his gratitude.
It did get him off your back a bit.
He still picked on you to accompany him on the major trauma surgeries, but he stopped hounding over you. Most consultations in the ER were yours to attend, with the junior residents to teach and guide. The word must have traveled, because even a hunk of a chief like Dr. Robby had respected your professional opinion.
They knew to trust your opinion when packed under the pressure of a MVA, including up to five vehicles and six pedestrians. Some of them were as young as 12, just riding their bike on the sidewalk by a park, blindsided by the speeding cars. It was chaos in the ED, and the trauma alarms up in surgery didn’t go missed by anyone.
Gowns and gloves flew on with quick ease and stained with the crimson blood of those involved just as quickly. Right as you were working on the hip fracture of a 72-year-old woman, a passenger to one of the affected vehicles, Park had immediately switched you out with Sully to stabilize a 32-year old man's leg.
You had done the same procedure alone. When you watched Park walk out to dictate another surgery, a sigh of relief escaped you. It was hours before the hospital found a steady rhythm. Most of your shift had passed by with the blink of an eye, and patients transferred in and out like a manufacturing company. Now, most of the interns and second-years were attending to follow calls about surgery while you sat in the dictation room to finish charting.
Sully sat across from you, speaking quietly as he recounted the steps of his pelvic stabilization of a 45-year-old patient, waiting to follow up with the acetabular reconstruction. You preferred to type your way through the chart, even if you could barely keep your eyes open enough to see the words.
What did liven you up was the sound of your pager beeping. You groaned lightly, earning a scowl from Sully who didn’t falter with his words. When you glanced down at your pager, you read the room number feeling some sort of dread following.
The last thing Sully heard was the scraping of the chair as you walked out the dictation room.
You wandered up to the post-surgery wing, wandering towards the room number with alerted ears. Right as you were approaching the sliding doors, you halted as nurses were pushing the patient bed out of the room. Pushing yourself aside by a wall, you watch with slight horror as Jones, the small blonde second-year resident, walks out like a wounded puppy, followed by an infuriated Park.
Despite being the least expressive person in the entire hospital, there was an eerie distinction between his typical crabbiness and his frenzied authoritative side. This was the latter.
When Park’s eyes landed on you, he scoffed. The disgust was evident when he brushed past you with little acknowledgment. You tried to ask a question that fell short when Dr. Park finally spoke up with his back turned to you. “Nice of you to finally act upon your responsibilities,”
With a huff, you followed closely behind him, eyeing at Jones who departed down a desolate hallway. “What happened?”
“Your lack of concern for patient care is what.” He retorted, and from the angle, you caught him in, it was as if he was snarling his teeth with a low grumble. “Mr. Stevenson was your patient, and your lack of consideration for him has resulted in compartment syndrome.”
You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. From the trauma interventions, the lack of fuel keeping you standing, and the endless work you still had yet to finish in the last two hours of your shift had all blurred together. The patients handed off from the night before had been lost in your memory, and when Park uttered his name with the sharp punctuation, it was like the thought was aimed straight for the center of your brain.
“Jones agreed to cover while we attended the incoming MVA patients.” You said breathlessly, now matching his pace. He still didn’t bother to look at you, which should’ve been the least of your concerns, but right now, it made you feel insignificant. Undeserving of a moment of his precious time.
“So I heard,” he reported sourly, shaking his head. The nurses lead the hospital bed in the direction of the elevator and if your body weren’t caught off guard, you would’ve realized exactly where they were heading in the first place. “I’ve already reprimanded him for his dismissal of the nurse's report of his increased pain after the intramedullary nailing and refusing to consult with a senior staff member.”
He paused, turning to stand right in your tracks. You stumbled back with a startled expression, craning your neck back to look at him. The bones in his jaw ticked as he clamped down. The shadow over his eyes made his crystallized stare sharper, like a pair of knives pointed straight at you. You finally had a moment to catch your breath, but hardly anything was traveling to your lungs.
“But with your seniority, it was your responsibility to supervise his actions and your patients, regardless of everything else going on.” He affirmed a finger point at your chest as he emphasized his point. “You learn to accept the workload. Do you think they care whether you’re tired or busy with their limb on the line?”
His voice was echoing now through the halls. The last thing the nurses saw was his muscles contracting under his plum scrubs before the elevator doors sealed shut. It left you in shallow waters, helpless under the unrestrained hunger of his wrath. You stood with both hands resting at your side, eyes fluttering with every stab of his words.
It was your responsibility, and you stupidly pushed it aside like scutwork.
“Now he might lose his leg.” Park pointed behind him, motioning to the elevator box the patient disappeared too. That reality was dawning on you with the emergency-surgery taking place.
Your body deflated; mouth agape as you attempted to reel in some courage to face him with dignity. The last thing you needed was for him to bully you over your lack of thick skin. That didn’t stop the wetness accumulating on your waterline. Accept the consequence of your inaction, god dammit.
“I can scrub in.” You pleaded, like a last attempt to beg for some form of life saving intervention. A boogie, life jacket, floating ring, something to pull you out of the depth of your despair.
With a flat palm right in your face, he snarled. “Don’t be an idiot. Don’t you think you’ve done enough?”
“I will fix your mistake for you, since you appear too absorbed by other duties.” His detached and swift examination of your diminished position tossed aside any ounce of consideration he had for you. The match he struck on you overturned all the micro-trivial actions you confused for tokens of his appreciation. Now, he was turning away as you burned and fizzled alone.
“Word of advice? Don’t waste my time if you don’t plan to take every challenge this program entails seriously.” The lash of his words didn’t need to be filled with profanities to make an impact, nor the heighten of volume like some may assume.
He was filled with quiet precision. A sniper with a scope and steady aim. “I’m not going to waste my time teaching a resident whose absurdity gets the best of them during dire moments. It’s not worth my effort and you’re not worth the aggravation.”
You were stunned, stapled into your position in front of him. It was like watching a bad accident unfold. Park was intact, emotionally stunted, but able to move on with his life without having to rerun the event. You were coming from the wreckage with all types of breaks and fractures. Your stability wiped from under you and recovery was a concept you were not sure could happen with due process.
Therefore, when Park turned around without so much of a glance in your direction as he stood alone in the elevator. You swore you saw the interaction slide off him, taking literally the last thing he muttered to you.
You’re not worth the aggravation. A third-year resident who needed to be coddled and instructed step-by-step on how to do their job properly, like you were a med student. Reprimanded and shunned all at once.
It was an embarrassment to yourself when you locked the door to the private bathroom, leaning against the door with a shaky hand covering your mouth. Truth was, you were frightened Mr. Stevenson would lose his leg after you incautiously neglected him. Not only would you have ruined an innocent man's life (along with yours), but Dr. Park might’ve used it for grounds of terminating your participation in the well-accredited program.
It wouldn’t have been unjustified, but you would never recover.
When you crawled back to the dictation room, night shift was making its way in. You looked around for Sully. Something familiar and safe to fall on to. As you were walking in, Dr. Emmick was walking out, alongside a night-shift resident. She smiled when she caught your eye. If she noticed the hesitation in your response, she didn’t mention it out loud, but she did furrow her brows in question.
Sully lifted his gaze, slight alarm when his eyes peeled from the desktop to the sudden sunken look in your face that was beyond the exhaustion of the shift.
“What happened?” He questioned, hands braced on the desk to push himself up.
You made your way over to him, sinking in the chair beside him. He turned to lean his body toward you, ear burning with anticipation. The subtle shake of your head and the wobble of your chin. He knew exactly what look that was.
Before he could ask a follow up, you sighed, “You’re right. I hate Dr. Park."
A week had passed. You let the dust settle for a week. You weren’t the idiot Dr. Park assumed you were. It didn’t settle because you were overly upset. Refusing to cry in your place of work, you saved the self-pity for your couch, a rom-com too sad to be comedic, and a tub of ice cream in the dark to self-indulge. It worked, because you came in for your next shift, coherent enough for Sully to understand you.
You let it settle to think clearly of the decision you conferred with your roommate about.
It only took you a week to decide with profound confidence because you didn’t want to cave into Dr. Park’s not-so-subtle mark of inferiority for you. Giving in to his brashness meant letting him win. If there was one thing you had decided against was losing the opportunity to prove yourself.
That’s what had you walking down the hall with the sheer determination of someone scorned. At least, you were pretending to be. Steadying your breathing and keeping your chin held high, you were confident enough to confront the current source of your uneasiness.
It was the end of your shift, hand-off concluded and Sully was currently waiting for you in his Prius. He had offered to stick around for moral support, but this was one challenge you had to endure alone.
As you rounded the corner, where most of the offices were, you felt the air thin too short to breath. You couldn’t turn back now—certainly not ten feet away from where Dr. Park was. So mumbling the affirmations, you spoke two feet from the mirror in the morning; you knocked on the door of the office.
“Come in.”
When you pushed open the door, Park sat in a comfortable office chair, desktop resting on a polished, and dark oak wood desk. His finger hovered over the keyboard, and when you met his eye, there was an unmistakable twitch from his nose.
Somehow, his gel combed hair shined brighter under the office light than that of the fluorescence in the OR and the ED. It was a visible recall of discipline and order. Nothing went unnoticed by him and he acted appropriately per his standard.
In the past week, he couldn’t ignore the fact you acted passive compared to your usual friendly demeanor. The very few consultations the two of you wounded up in, you were curt in your evaluations. You no longer sweet-talked conscious patients, and suddenly your reports were too concise. It was as if you were trying to wrap up any form of conversation with him as rapidly as possible.
He knew better than to assume the monologue he gave you hadn’t stung. That was the intention, after all.
You closed the door behind you, opting to respect him and your professional relationship to not blow this into departmental news to gossip about. Hands folded in front of you, it was like being in elementary school all over again. Addressing a teacher or principle with the dignity of an adult, that at the age of 12, was a foreign concept.
Clearing your throat, you offered a tight smile. “I wanted to tell you I have made the decision to transition to night-shift until the end of my residency.”
The glare he spared in return was still razor sharp, but once the words left your mouth, you instinctively searched for there to be something to deceive him. He peeled his arms away from the desk, folding them in his lap. “Admin will want a formal address as to why.”
“Dr. Emmick specializes in spinal and musculoskeletal orthopedics. She’s agreed to mentor me in those sub-specialties.” You explained with no hesitation. Once it landed, you noticed how rehearsed the statement sounded. You tried to seal it with a shaky smile, despite the stiffness in your posture betraying you.
Park examined you. His eyes narrowed and you silently pleaded he’d just accept the lame excuse, tell you to leave, and never have to face him again until the rare chance you’d have to work the dreaded day shift again. The last thing you expected was for him to stand, coming to stop on the other end of the desk. He sat on the edge, bicep muscles curling as he folded his arm over his chest.
If he weren’t so insufferable, you could see yourself drooling over them like some of the nurses did.
“You aren’t interested in spinal or musculoskeletal orthopedics.” He spoke directly. As if he had the faintest idea what you were interested in. You almost opened your mouth to derail his confident theory, before he shook his head. “You love pediatrics. You told Sullivan that in the first week.”
It was scarily true. The first pediatric case you worked on was a scared 7-year old girl who was going to need an amputation. She had strangely accepted the fact she would be missing part of her leg from above the knee and lower. That is what sold pediatric orthopedics for you. Except, Park hadn’t worked that case. He remembered that.
“Is this about last week?” Park sighed out, slight dismay in his tone.
You pursed your lips, hardening your stare. “If it was?”
“I’d tell you not to act so immature.” He remarked, like he was astonished by the fact you even asked the question. “You messed up. It will happen. I will chew you up about it. Grow up and just accept it.”
You dryly laughed at that. Grow up. What a concept?
Had you not matured in the three years from working under his supervision? He molded you under his guise, so much, so the other attendings only saw him in your image. Even with the tenderness you held on to. Meanwhile, he was stubbornly trying to beat it out of you, like a bad habit.
“What’s so funny?” He questioned, although he knew the laugh wasn't amusement. He wasn’t sure he had seen this reaction from the furrow in his brows. Somehow, his eyes were more hooded than before with that tick.
“Everyone seems to mistakenly think I’m your protégé or as they endearingly call me ‘shark pup’” You air quoted the last part, and the various voices utter that name brought upon a distaste in your mouth.
The name was a bag of weights resting on your shoulders. Without intending to, they constantly reminded you of who you were meant to be serving, as if patients weren’t the top priority. It had you running in circles, finding some way to remain impressive and shine enough to be memorable. Dehumanizing the charity of your work for the sake of appeasement.
“Like I want to follow in the footsteps of ‘Park the Shark.’”
Park scoffed. He had never approved the name per se, but he didn't discourage the usage. You saw pride in the shimmer of his eyes as people used it to praise him. All it did for you was remind yourself how negligible you were in his shadow.
You sighed with resignation, your body tired from the neglect on your own behalf. The backpack hanging on your shoulder weighed heavier. “I’m going to be frank Dr. Park; I want to be nothing like you.”
“Is that so?” He proposed, barely flinching from the implication.
“Yes.” Your breathy voice trembled, but you nodded with assurance. “All I want is to be someone honorable enough to treat the people who come in here during their worst moments.”
“I can’t do that with you disparaging me with every mistake or browbeating me around every corner.” Your hands motioned out to the very hospital Park reigned. With his designated office and cushy salary, he’d always terrorize your waters. “Especially when you don’t trust my skill as your resident.”
Maybe this was giving in. You were aspiring to have the same pride in yourself that Park did swimming into the ED or any surgery he led. If you were meant to fail to become great, why did it always feel like Park worked only in perfection?
“I happen to like to connect with my patients as much as I want to treat them and see them recover positively.” Your hand pointed to yourself, emphasizing the obvious difference between his bite and your heart.
The tiny sadness in your eye made Park shift uncomfortably. With his attitude, he must have made dozens of female residents cry. He probably went home satisfied if he crashed and burned the dreams of his students with the daunting reality that life could always get tougher.
“I don’t need you invalidating that method because you’d rather we operate in mechanical-like processes, like we are all just cogs in the machine.”
There was a beat of silence. You wholeheartedly awaited him to laugh in your face. Tell you this was ridiculous, you were too emotional, or even that you just weren’t cut out for the medical profession at all. That was everything you had heard in med-school and more. Yet, here you stood barring yourself clean, no life preserver to fish you out.
“Being emotional costs patients’ lives.” He stoically retorted, as if it had been obvious.
“I don’t see it that way.” You shook your head, lips forming a thin line. This was the final act of whatever the two of you had going on. Whether he appreciated you in silence at all or not, it couldn’t make up for the moments that ruined the illusion of his knowledge.
Too brilliant to apologize.
“Which is why I cannot have you as my attending,” You concluded, as if the argument was always clear.
He straightened his posture, shoulder falling back like a soldier hearing his command. He must have felt some way. Rejected by a resident must have been first, not that it was some record to feel proud of accomplishing. You had mixed feelings. It was all wrong, yet, there was comfort in knowing you had enough of a spine to say something.
Your hands brushed away the small hair tickling your face, “I’m afraid your judgment may hinder mine, and I need to trust in myself if I want to be good enough to be considered for the next attending position.”
That did it. You’d never outwardly said that you sought out an attending offer once your residency was up. If you had, maybe Park would’ve been much harsher than he already was. That certainly would’ve had you considering withdrawing all together.
Park's hands moved to the edge of the desk, gripping on to it as he pursed his lips slightly. Sourness or disbelief in a future where you were making the executive decision matched what you saw in his eye. “We will have to work together. Regardless if you leave the day-shift and especially if you apply for any attending position at PTMC.”
“Together. As colleagues.” You clarified, “Equals. Where I am not just some student you’re expecting to roll over at every word and waiting upon a treat blessed by you.”
There was something snarky in the comment. His nose flared lightly as he bit his tongue. For once, he was speechless, in a way that was aware, you had a score to settle, and he was at a disadvantage. Your hands fell to your side, lightly hitting your thighs. “I’ve already spoken with the program and staffing coordinator. This was mostly a courtesy.”
Then, one curt nod. No fondness of a goodbye, no devastation of your tender disappointment, or resentment for finding some unique way of disappointing him once more. It was bittersweet to terminate what you had come to know, even if it was your form of preservation. This would be your test on whether you could survive without the oh-so-wise knowledge only Park somehow had.
Maybe you could be a good surgeon without him yet.
With one hand on the door, you nodded, as if he spoke enough with his silence. Turning your body slightly, you paused with the door ajar. When you turned halfway, you offered him a tight smile, “I hope by then, you will have accepted I’m not like you, Dr. Park, nor will I ever be.”
When the conversation concluded with a click of the door, a relief shored into your chest. Your muscles released its iron-stiffness that weighed like stones in your pockets. You worried you’d regret the decision, but, how would you know who you are if you weren’t acting as you?
When you peeled your hand away from the handle, you finally noticed the small tremble gone. It was the calm after the storm, huddling in shelter as your world rattled around you. There was work needed to be done to find stability and normalcy again, but you started favoring the future more and more.
Sitting under your own tree and basking in the fruits of your own labor. Sighing in the idea of no longer standing under a man impersonating a territorial shark on dry land. And you’d finally outgrow the ‘pup’ term, once and for all.
it’s one thing after another with robby lately. first it was the cancelled date despite the fact you’d been looking forward to it all week, then it was the bitching about the new attending all evening and never once asking about your day, which was shitty by the way. robby’s married to his work, and you knew this when you got into this with him. it doesn’t make it that much easier.
“i don’t think i can do this anymore,” you tell robby on the phone, after he tells you he can’t pick you up from the airport because he has to stay late at work again. “you’re never here. it’s like i’m dating a ghost. even my parents are asking if you’re real, do you know how embarrassing that is? you can’t even make the time to get lunch with them.”
“sweetheart, it’s just busy—“
“it’s always gonna be busy, michael. there’s always gonna be lives that need saving, and i know your work is important. i would never ask you to choose between your job and me. but the thing is, it’s destroying you. it makes you miserable.”
robby looks up at the night sky on the roof of the PTMC, letting your words sink in.
“i really like you,” you say, but there’s a hint of remorse in your tone. “but i don’t like how you’re making me feel.”
before he can say anything else, try to argue his case and win you back, the phone line goes dead.
It was just a normal morning.
An overworked, emotionally exhausted single father snapping at his daughter.
A stubborn, defensive teenage daughter snapping back.
Three words that should have never gone unsaid remaining unspoken.
Just a normal morning - until a boy brought a rifle to school.
Part 1 | Part 2
Words: 10,3k
Content: School shooting, Hurt/Comfort, Gun violence, injury, single dad!Robby, Reader!daughter, No major character death, suicidal ideation (it's Robby after all)
No use of Y/N
Read on Ao3 or below the cut:
A/N: I know nothing about medicine, so if you do, please squint at the medical bs I wrote based on sleep-deprived research and ended up sounding halfway decent to me :D
Jack burst through the doors of the ambulance bay. The wheels of the gurney he pushed along at a merciless, break-neck pace squeaked under the assault. A shrill, high-pitched tone that his brain latched onto because thinking about the girl bleeding out beneath his fingertips was just too cruel-
Robby shouted your name.
A sound made up of guttural heartache and pure, unfiltered, raw grief.
Jack had never seen the man run so fast. He almost collided with the gurney. His trembling hands found your face, brushing away sweat-drenched strands of hair sticking to your skin and wiping tears off your cheeks while his own tears dropped down on you.
“She grappled for a gun with the shooter.” Jack hissed through teeth clenched so tightly he was surprised they hadn’t shattered yet.
Baran rushed into the trauma room, listening intently to the report of the paramedics while Jack stopped just outside the trauma room doors, grabbing Robby less than gently to hold him back.
Jack's hands were covered in your blood. There hadn’t been time for gloves.
“She’s my daughter!” Robby snarled, trying to tear free.
“Exactly!” Jack hissed back. “You can’t treat family! I didn’t stop you when you worked on Jake's girlfriend, when I should have! I knew I should have, but I didn’t, and look what it did to you! I am not going to let you do this to yourself! Baran’s got her, Robby!”
Robby deflated. The fear of the day demanded its tribute as he sagged against Jack. Dana brought over a chair for him. He sat there, long limbs folded awkwardly, more reminiscent of a wet tissue than the usually so headstrong man Jack knew.
Once Jack was convinced he would get up again to rush into the trauma room the second he turned his back, Ahmad standing on the side ready to step in should he try to anyway, Jack took Dana aside.
He stared at his bloody hands - your blood. Jack had to squeeze his eyes shut against the thought and the nausea it came with - and set his helmet aside.
“Robby jr got her nipples pierced."
“What?”
Jack gestured for Dana to not interrupt him. He could barely string two thoughts together, he didn’t need interruptions or distractions right now.
“Robby doesn’t know. He doesn’t need to find out like this.”
“When did she- How do you know?”
Jack shot her an exhausted, wry smirk. “Because the kind of piercer who accepts the obviously fake ID of a sixteen-year-old isn’t the kind you want to do your piercing. It got infected. She asked me for help. Just- he doesn’t need to find out like this, and she… daughters deserve to have some secrets from their fathers, no? Just- she’ll feel horrible enough once she’s better and realises she’s been naked in the ER. Just- can you take them out for her?”
He found a chair and dragged it over to Robby, too exhausted even to pick it up. He slumped down next to his best friend and watched the coordinated chaos of the trauma room.
“The asshole who shot her is dead.” He said coldly. No emotion coloured his voice. He had no regrets. “I shot him.”
“Good.” Robby replied.
They sat next to each other, outside the trauma room they’d ruled for the past twenty-odd years as the new attending they'd known for less than three months fought for your life, forced onto the sidelines because suddenly their love for you had become a liability.
“What are you doing here?”
“Working.” Robby huffed without looking up from his tablet. There was a gaping, bleeding hole in his chest where his heart used to be - where you used to be.
“We’ve got it under control, Michael.”
He bristled at the sound of his given name off Dana’s lips.
“Go be with my daughter.”
“And how, pray tell, am I supposed to be with her when she is lying in a goddamn OR while Garcia is cutting into her, huh?! Because three fucking bullets-” Robby slammed his hands down on the counter and hung his head, desperately trying to force some air into his lungs.
He felt like you were already gone.
Like you had already died but the universe in its endless cruelty was just dragging this out. Perhaps it was punishment for everything Robby had ever done wrong in his life. For all his weaknesses and shortcomings.
You’re just like your mother!
The words echoed through his head again and again and again. An endless loop of torment custom-tailored for him. His own personal hell.
Baran had to shock your heart twice. You were given twenty units of whole blood. Esme was still cleaning your trauma room. Robby couldn’t bring himself to look at it.
He looked up at Dana, who wore her disapproving mom-face that always unnerved Robby.
“I’m about as useful as a limp dick up there, Dana.” He rasped, pleading silently with the charge nurse to not call Jack, who had left to debrief with his SWAT team who were still at the school. Another wave of patients had arrived while Robby paced the waiting room upstairs, being slowly driven crazy by his own spiralling thoughts and the feeling of your necklace in his hand.
The chaplain had tried to talk to him. Jefferson tried to talk to him. Dylan sat with him for a while, but Robby sent him away to help Kiara, who was still with the families of the students and staff in the cafeteria.
“The last critical patient just went up.” Dana said after a moment of silent consideration. “We’re still giving oxygen and fluid to some kids as we observe them, but no more GSWs.”
Robby nodded. His eyes were glassy, his gaze distant. Dana lowered her clipboard.
“Why don’t you sit with her friends?”
He shook his head. “And tell them what, Dana? I- I- There is nothing I can do. My daughter may be dying right now, and there’s nothing I-” He buried his face against his arm, fighting to not let the sobs bubbling up in his throat fall from his lips.
“You don’t have to do anything right now, Robby.” Dana said firmly. “Your daughter is in critical condition. You aren’t her doctor, and you don’t have to be one right now. You can just be her dad.”
“I should have said it.” He croaked, his voice finally failing him.
“Said what?”
Robby wiped his eyes roughly, berating himself in his head for ever letting them leave his eyes, and straightened up. “Doesn’t matter. It doesn’t fucking matter anymore.”
“She’s not dead, Robby.”
He forced a bitter, tight-lipped smile and walked away without another word. What did Dana know?
You’d been doomed the moment you had been born, and Robby held you in his arms for the first time.
Robby didn’t get to keep the people he loved.
Garcia found him an hour later, doing CPR on a college student in the same trauma room you’d been coded in. The same trauma room where Baran broke your ribs trying to keep you alive. Where Langdon cut into you. Where Crus shoved a tube into your chest and your blood splattered onto the ground.
“Should you be working?” She asked with that derisive, sneering tone Robby couldn’t stand when it was directed at him. He didn’t stop giving compressions. Didn’t talk.
He didn’t want to look at Garcia.
If he didn’t look at her, if he didn’t slow down or stop, she couldn’t drag him to the family room and tell him the news. And if she didn’t tell him the news, then a part of him could continue to delude himself into thinking everything was fine.
You were just at home. You were doing your homework or cooking or lounging on the sofa with one of your projects you had rarely ever finished since you taught yourself how to crochet during Covid.
His grandmother would have loved to see you with her old crochet hooks… how dear they were to you, how dear all her handcraft tools were…
Robby had forgotten to add Jack into his consideration. With all the detached effectiveness of a soldier, Jack, who still wore his tactical clothes albeit without the body armour (clothes soaked in your blood. His baby’s blood. His little girl’s blood), he had Baran taking over and was steering Robby towards the family room.
He relented only because he knew Jack was not above throwing him over his shoulder.
The ER watched, as if Robby was a condemned man being led to the gallows.
“She was too unstable to tolerate the anaesthesia for long.” Garcia began as soon as the door closed, sparing Robby the humiliation of asking him to sit - something they both knew he would not be doing. “We managed to fix the biggest bleeders for now. Her intestine was nicked, but we got that taken care of and washed out her abdomen. We started her on a full course of antibiotics. Her right kidney took some more damage. We don’t yet know if she will lose it, but we are carefully optimistic. The third bullet miraculously missed all major organs and blood vessels. We could remove all three. We didn’t close her up at this time. We want to give her 24 to 48 hours to rest and hopefully stabilise further before we go back in for the beauty treatment. She’s in the surgical ICU now and as stable as we can hope for at this time.”
Some of the tension Garcia always held herself with eased. She didn’t go soft, exactly - Robby doubted Garcia was even capable of that, but she softened ever so slightly around the edges.
“She’s a real fighter, Robby. I’ve seen patients pull through worse. And she’s young. Teens always bounce back quicker than adults.”
Jack asked a few follow-up questions, about the surgery and her care from here on out until the next surgery, all the questions Robby should ask but couldn’t.
Not that he absorbed any of the information.
His torture would continue.
That was all he could take away from this.
The universe had decided he had not suffered enough. It would continue to dangle you in front of him like a carrot, waiting for the right moment, the moment he allowed himself to hope before tearing you away right when it would hurt most.
“Where are you going?” Jack held Robby back when he tried to follow Garcia.
“I have patients.”
“You don’t.” Jack hissed. “You have your daughter-”
“Don’t make me.” Robby pleaded through a broken sob. He could not bring himself to look at Jack. He stared at the dried patch of blood on his pants and pretended it wasn’t yours. “Don’t make me sit there and watch her die.” He pressed his lips together to trap the next sob already crawling up his throat.
“She isn’t dying.”
A bitter laugh broke through Robby’s defences.
“She is not dying, Michael!” Jack placed his hand over the side of Robby’s neck and forced him to look up. “She’s not. You heard Garcia. She’s a fighter. And she needs her dad right now.”
“I can’t.”
“But you will.” Jack said firmly. “Because she is your daughter and you’ve always done what you could to be there for her. You never stopped when things got difficult. You won’t start now. I won’t let you.”
The walk towards the elevator felt like marching through hip-high molasses. The elevator was too tight, too quiet and yet far too loud. The hallway into the SICU, past the nurses’ station where pitying looks already waited for Robby, seemed endless. A nurse whose face he did not see through the fog clouding his brain brought him a chair so he could sit next to your bed.
You were drowning in tubes and IV lines.
His little girl.
He could barely stand to look at the tube coming from your mouth, knowing just how far that shit went down your throat to reach your lungs.
His sweet, innocent little baby.
Emergency medicine was brutal and barbaric, and he never, never thought he’d one day have to look at you and be punished with the knowledge of just how much trauma you were put through in the name of saving you.
And for what?
They would not save you, he knew, he felt it in his bones, so what was this all for? Why were they putting you through all this agony when he already knew it was all for nought?
Robby reached for your pale hand resting on top of the blanket and cradled it in his, careful, terrified of hurting you despite knowing exactly how he could touch and manipulate your body without causing harm. He ran his thumb over your knuckles, back and forth, eyes locked onto the sight of your small hand disappearing beneath his own.
Someone cleaned the blood off your skin.
You looked so delicate and small… so terribly fragile, and he didn’t know how to handle any of it. Jack sat down next to him, seemingly fighting with the same wave of suffocating emotions. He put his hand on Robby’s knee and gave it a little squeeze - maybe to ground Robby, maybe to ground himself. He couldn’t tell.
Maybe Jack couldn’t either.
The machines breathing for you whirred. Monitors beeped. Fluids ran through the IV lines and into your body.
Robby tried not to look at your abdomen, tried not to think about the gauze shoved into your body cavity and the medical-grade plastic wrap keeping your intestines from bulging from your body. His little girl, cut open like a pig about to be butchered and haphazardly wrapped in plastic wrap like you were some leftover deli sandwich while machines kept your body alive because you were not strong enough to do it yourself.
How long until he would have to pull the plug like he had to for Adamson?
How long would the universe torture him with this sight this time around?
“She’s a fighter.” Jack whispered, voice raw and quiet, lacking all its usual strength and perhaps that terrified Robby most of all. “She’ll pull through.” He put his free arm around Robby’s shoulder, who simply sagged into the warmth of the embrace, head tilting to the side and coming to rest on Jack’s shoulder. He brushed a fleeting kiss to Robby’s temple.
“She’ll pull through.”
Robby wondered idly what the greater torture was, his hopelessness, or Jack’s hope…
Perhaps it was witnessing his hope knowing it was futile and wasted, because you were doomed to be loved by Robby and Robby never got to keep those he loved.
He wondered how long it would take the universe to take Jack from him as well…
Jack had fallen asleep. Running towards the sound of gunfire and death demanded its tribute after a while, even for one Jack Abbot, Robby supposed.
The SICU quieted down further with the setting sun.
Visitation hours had ended a long time ago, but not a single nurse had made any effort to send Robby or Jack home.
The dim light illuminating the nurses’ station fell through the glass separating your room from the hallway. The machines you were hooked up to beeped and whirred, a ceaseless ambient noise that made it impossible to ever forget just how close to death you were.
Robby tried not to look at your body. He tried not to think about how vulnerable and exposed you were under the blanket, your torso cut open and only held together with plastic wrap.
Your skin looked pallid, ghostly already despite the machines forcing your body to stay alive a little while longer, even through all the trauma it had to endure and would continue to be put through.
“I love you.” Robby whispered and carefully, terrified or hurting you, smoothed down the blanket over your chest. “I love you for everything you are. I love your mischief and the grey hairs you’ve caused me, and I love your courage, your heart, and all your kindness…”
A nurse walked by your door. He didn’t look into your room. Nobody could look at Robby. As if he’d become something terrible, something infectious. As if looking at him would make his misfortune spread to others.
He could not blame them.
“Thank you for being- being all that you have been. For coming into my life when I needed you most. For being the only light at the end of the tunnel I could see most days. Thank you for existing and loving me despite everything.”
Robby hadn’t been able to do this with Adamson. Between a lack of time and the atmosphere of the improvised Covid ward, he just didn't have the chance - though that was just an excuse.
He didn’t have the strength to say goodbye to his mentor.
He was a coward.
But you deserved better.
“Forgive me for not being a better father.” He lifted your hand off the bed and pressed his trembling lips to your cool knuckles. “I forgive you for leaving me.”
You were back on the operating table two days later. Two days of sitting in a corner of your room like a wraith, waiting. Robby felt as if someone had hollowed him out. He was an empty shell keeping vigil over the remains of his daughter.
A body he could barely recognise as yours at this point.
He managed to ask a nurse for a hairbrush late during his first night at your side. He carefully brushed the knots and tangles out of your hair and braided it loosely. ICU patients with longer hair often suffered from severe matting after a stay, and you liked your hair so much… you were seventeen, of course you did.
He would not claim it was an act of hope. He didn’t have any, just fatherly affections that suddenly had no place to go anymore.
Like phantom pains leading to muscle spasms.
He couldn’t control it, couldn’t stop it, couldn’t make his treacherous, failing body realise that this - this thing lying in the ICU bed - wasn’t you.
Not anymore.
You were gone or about to be, but his muscles remembered caring for you, doting on you, and they refused to stop.
He adjusted your blankets and made sure your socks were neat, brushed the hair from your face. He ran his knuckle over your cheek in a feather-light touch while whispering soothing and encouraging words you probably couldn’t hear anyway.
Social workers and chaplains kept pestering them, but Robby eventually learnt ignoring them led to such uncomfortable silence they usually left.
Kiara and Dylan were more persistent, but not by much.
Only Dana and Jack he couldn’t drive away.
Robby sat in a corner of the surgical waiting room with a cup of shitty hospital coffee in his cold hands, his feet drawn up on the uncomfortable plastic chair in a way that made his lower back sting and stared blankly at the wall.
Your friends were here, waiting with him and yet giving him space.
Just two units trapped in the limbo that was hospital waiting rooms.
Robby remembered sitting in one of these sterile, cold, empty rooms when he was a kid, after his grandmother had a heart attack. The nurses were nice, bringing him snacks and drinks and just being there with him without making him perform his fear and grief for it to be taken seriously. His grandmother was fine, but the end result never quite made the hours in the waiting room hurt less.
Robby had lost bits and pieces of him along the way before.
The five-year-old boy who died on his first shift in New Orleans, so worried about getting in trouble until the second his little heart gave out, took a big chunk. You hadn’t been born yet then - you hadn’t even been a thought Robby played with in the dead of night without ever allowing himself to really want.
If you had already existed, Robby was sure that death would have broken him.
Every patient he lost since, every patient he couldn’t help, every case of domestic abuse where the victim went home with their abuser despite everything he tried to get them help, every patient suffering from substance abuse disorder he couldn’t get to go to rehab - he had worked at PTMC long enough now to see them all coming back, one by one, dropping like flies - took a piece of him with them.
His grandmother dying. Your mother leaving. Messing up with Janey.
Everything carved chunks out of him until Robby was a moth-eaten tapestry of misery he barely recognised when he looked in the mirror in the morning.
You were the best part of his life.
The only part that still made sense besides the medicine, and as he sat in the quiet, suffocating waiting room, Robby could not even make sense of that. It ran through his head endlessly, treatment courses and numbers and tracking the progression of the operation in his head, unable to stop his mind from picturing you laying on that table - alone, naked, vulnerable - and he couldn’t stop picturing all the hands that would be inside you, the surgeon, fellows, residents, interns observing from the sideline while his whole life lay beneath their eyes, cracked open like a goddamn lobster.
He barely felt the tear rolling down his cheek and disappearing in his beard. He held onto the cup in his hands as if it were a lifeline and didn’t look up when the waiting room slowly started to fill at shift change.
Jack and Dana sat down on either side of him. Perlah and Princess, Jesse, Donny, Ahmad.
All the people who watched you grow up between stretchers and toys built out of tongue suppressors and cotton balls - some of which had been keeping watch over central for almost a decade now.
They had all come to watch you die with him.
You had to learn to be independent far too quickly.
Another thing he owed you an apology for.
Robby tried his best, he knew he did, even if he doubted it was never enough, but when the Pitt was drowning, he couldn’t just leave because he had a kid. You learnt to sleep on the couch in the breakroom or the on-call rooms even when the ER around you was drowning in noise. You helped Dana pass out sandwiches or juice to patients waiting for hours. You sat with lonely seniors and listened to their stories, or asked them to read your books with you. You played with the kids of patients. You sat on Doc Adamson’s shoulders and bossed him around.
Monty loved you.
He loved you as if you were his granddaughter, and Robby would never forget how you sobbed when Robby had to tell you he died. He was staying away from you as much as he could at home, always wearing a mask in shared spaces and otherwise keeping to his bedroom and ensuite bathroom. He was terrified of seeing you end up in the Pitt, of you getting sick.
Robby had lost much of his faith over the years, but he hoped wherever the thing that made a human more than a meat sack filled with organs went after the body stopped working… he hoped Monty would look after you.
Not that you’d be alone for long.
When she dies, don’t you dare talk me down from the edge, he’d told Jack two days ago, who merely looked at Robby with those sad puppy eyes Robby could never endure looking at long.
He knew Jack would have his ass on a 72-hour hold the second something happened to you.
Waiting had never felt so unbearable.
At first, Robby thought his mind was playing tricks on him. He could not even remember the last time he had a proper night’s sleep, much less a nap not taken while sitting in the chair next to you with his back bent awkwardly and his head resting on the mattress next to your hand.
He could only stare, blinking as if to chase away the hallucination that attached itself to his retinas, but the more he came to himself, the more he realised he wasn’t imagining things.
You were waking up.
You were waking up!
“Shh…” Robby was out of his chair, and by your side so quickly he knocked the piece of uncomfortable furniture over. “It’s okay, sheifale. I’m here. You have a tube in your throat to help you breathe. I know it hurts, but just try to relax and not fight it.” He brushed the hair from your face, both of his hands framing your head, fingertips hovering just above your skin, barely touching you.
“I know, I know…” He whispered and wiped a tear from the corner of your eye with his thumb. “Oh, my brave girl… it’s okay. It’ll be okay. I’m here. You’re okay. Don’t speak- wait, let me get you a pen.”
He couldn’t begin to imagine how terrifying it must be to wake up with a foreign object in your throat, to have a machine breathe for you even when you were conscious, not be able to speak or advocate for yourself.
“Here.” Robby carefully closed your fingers around a pen and held the little notepad for you. You struggled at first to find enough strength to drag the pen across the paper, but after a couple of attempts you managed to scrawl out a barely legible you stink.
“Mayn gonif.” Robby chastised you affectionately, biting back his tears. He didn’t want to fall apart in front of you, not when you were being so strong and brave. “Someone had to go and get herself shot, excuse me if personal hygiene wasn’t my priority.”
You scribbled again. Robby had to fish his glasses out of his pocket before the strain on his eyes left him with a headache he really didn’t need right now.
I’m sorry.
“You have nothing to apologise for, princess.”
I love you.
Tears burnt in the back of Robby’s throat.
“I love you too. I love you so much. So much, sheifale.” Robby swallowed a thick, pathetic sob and bent down to press a gentle kiss against your forehead. He wiped away more tears slipping from your eyes.
The pen scraped across the paper.
Scared.
“I know.” Robby whispered and smoothed down the blanket across your chest. “I know. Me too. It’s okay. You’re safe now. It’ll be okay now.”
Hurts.
He felt his heart shattering in his chest and had to close his eyes to fight off the wave of emotions crashing into you.
“I’ll get a nurse. We’ll set you up with a morphine pump you can control yourself, yes? Is it okay if I leave for a second? Blink twice for yes.”
You blinked twice. Robby could tell you were already getting tired and struggled to make your muscles move.
“I’ll be right back, princess.”
He rushed out of the room and towards the nurses’ station. He wanted to be back by your side before you fell asleep again. He loomed behind the nurses, technicians and doctors coming in to assess you with crossed arms, scrutinising every motion, every little way they touched you, ready to jump in should he feel like they were not careful enough with his little girl.
You were given a VidaTalk to communicate and a morphine pump, the remote placed directly in your hand. You pressed down on the button immediately, and he felt his heart break a little bit more. You were in pain. You were in pain, and he could do nothing to take it away.
“Looks like I finally found the topic for my college admissions essay.” The robotic voice of the VidaTalk announced into the whirring and beeping of all the monitors and machines surrounding you. Your eyes were tired, but Robby saw that mischievous sparkle in them that always lit up your eyes when you smiled.
“Let’s focus on you getting better first, sweetheart.”
“I thought you were going to write about your personal hero, Uncle Jack!” Jack appeared in the door, a crooked grin plastered across his lips. “Look at you… I don’t think you need any of these doctors anymore, huh? Lookin’ strong.”
“Lame.”
“If you can give me cheek then you’re feeling better for sure.”
Your finger tapped rapidly against the touch screen. “I feel like a tank ran me over. Can this thing swear? Fuck.”
Your eyes sparkled.
“How about we cut back on the swearing and get some rest?” Robby said softly.
"Party Pooper."
A low chuckle bubbled up in his throat despite himself. The sound felt foreign in his mouth. He’d already surrendered to never feeling it again, and now here you were, looking at him, talking back even if you couldn’t talk - things could still go wrong. One little complication could still tear you away from him, but how could he let himself think about your demise for a single second while you were messing around with your godfather, as if you hadn’t been fighting for your life every day for two weeks?
“I’m tired.”
“That’s normal.” Robby murmured and ran his knuckle over your cheek. “Your body is using all its energy for your recovery, there isn’t much left over for insulting your old man with a tablet.”
“I’m sorry I was a bitch, Dad.”
“Shh, don’t say that. It’s not true. It was just- it was just a silly fight. Let’s just leave that in the past, yes? How would you put it? It was never that deep?”
“Ew.”
Robby scowled at you, but its effect was severely undermined by the pure, unadulterated joy crinkling the corners of his eyes.
“I’m the one who owes you an apology. It was awful of me to say that to you. I’d like to say that I didn’t mean to hurt you, but I honestly don’t know. I’ve been pretty messed up.”
“I forgive you, Dad. I love you.”
“You do remind me of your mom.” He whispered. Your brows dipped, forming an angry crease between them. Robby smoothed it down with his thumb immediately. “People aren’t black and white, princess. What she did is unforgivable, and I’ll never stop wishing that she talked to me instead of just running away and putting you in such danger. But before that… unhappiness and despair that drove her to do something so horrible, she was also a woman who would have cackled at you putting violet syrup in my coffee as revenge. She would have adored your sense of humour and your courage and the strong, unapologetic young woman you are becoming. She is a part of you… all her good sides are in you, just as you have to live with all my bad sides.”
“You’re not bad.” The monitor’s emotionlessness was only offset by the hurt in your eyes. “I’m proud to be your daughter.”
Robby swallowed down another rush of tears gathering on his waterline. “I’m proud to have you as my daughter, sweetheart.”
“Will you promise me to go home when I’m asleep?”
“Nah, I’m staying right here.”
“Please, Dad. You have to take care of yourself too, not just others.”
His shoulders dropped. “Okay. Okay, I promise.” He said because he could not bear to argue with you, not when he could see how much you struggled to just stay awake. He knew you wouldn't back down anyway.
“Shower, sleeping in a real bed for at least eight hours and eating a proper meal, Dad.”
“When did you become the parent, huh?”
“We’ve always taken care of each other.”
The expression in your eyes made him falter.
“Okay okay. I promise. Whatever you say.”
“Will you stay until I’m asleep?”
“Yes.” Robby pressed a kiss to your forehead. “I love you, sheifale.” He kept stroking your hair, standing over you while your eyes started to slowly fall shut, not moving an inch until you were deep asleep.
Robby went home.
He didn't want to, but what was he going to do? Break his promise to his little girl?
He washed the hospital grime and fear-sweat off his body, drowning out the smell of antiseptic embedded deep into his skin by now in Old Spice and tried not to cry.
Crying in the shower. How pathetic would that be?
He did cry.
Dry, silent, heaving sobs that shook his whole body, a mixture of all that he didn’t let himself feel while keeping vigil over you and stone-cold sober relief.
He checked his phone as soon as he was out of the shower. Jack sent him an update every ten minutes. A picture of you and your latest vitals. Jack understood Robby wouldn’t have been able to leave without knowing someone was watching over you the same way he would have been watching over you.
He pulled one of the mini lasagnas you cooked in bulk and froze in aluminium dishes for easy dinners out of the freezer. While that was in the oven, he gathered some things from the apartment. The SICU had strict rules, and you wouldn’t be allowed to have any plushies or blankets from home, not yet, but he could bring you some pictures, the charger for your phone, your spare earbuds since he had no idea where your main pair was now.
Entering your room and being greeted by your familiar scent drove new tears into his eyes. The body spray you used that morning still hung in the air, and the crop top you'd gotten into a fight over lay crumpled on the bed.
He picked it up gingerly, meaning to fold and tuck it away in your wardrobe, but he ended up sitting on the edge of your bed, clutching the piece of fabric to his chest as he cried.
The timer for the lasagna sounded through the empty apartment, and Robby almost didn't manage to get up.
He also packed your Nintendo Switch. You would be tired and barely able to stay awake for longer than a few minutes at a time in the coming days, but that would change, eventually.
He hoped it would.
He checked his phone again and ate in silence.
In silence and alone.
No phone being shoved in his face, far too close for his ageing eyes to make out anything more than blurry colours - because you’ve waited all day to show you this video, Dad. Just for that one video to devolve into twenty, and Robby started worrying just how much time you spent on TikTok. No bordering-on-snide back and forth between you two that always ended with you doubling over in laughter. It was usually the first time after a shift that Robby felt like he was not drowning. Seeing you happy and bubbly, chewing his ear off with all that you’ve waited all day to tell him… it was the only joy he had in life. The greatest joy he had.
You were the only reason he didn’t go on that three-month-long motorcycle trip he’d been thinking about, the one where he’d just drive until his luck ran out, but how could Robby challenge his luck to run out when you were back in Pittsburgh, staying with Jack while you waited for him to come back?
Some days, Robby thought you’d probably be better off without him. Jack would take care of you, he knew that. You loved Jack. Jack had figured out a way that got him out of the darkness that had its claws embedded so deeply in Robby he sometimes wondered if he’d ever see light again - but then he came home and was greeted by you singing along to one of Robby’s old mixtapes from college while making dinner in the kitchen…
Robby was a selfish, greedy man.
Robby wanted to be a part of your life, of your joy and happiness, and he wanted to see your smile when you spotted him in the doorway every day, and he wanted the way you jumped into his arms despite the fact you were inching towards maturity and Robby towards the grave - at least that was what his aching bones and bad back were telling him.
He knew he would only drag you down. He knew he had nothing to offer you but sad smiles he no longer felt reverberating in his chest, and he knew didn’t reach his eyes anymore.
But he was selfish.
So he stuck around and you… well, you had nowhere else to go, did you? Robby’s mother had disappeared decades ago. His grandmother was dead. You had never met your maternal grandparents. Maybe once you went to college you would realise you had no reason to be around Robby anymore. That he was a mess. That you could do better.
Robby knew you deserved better.
He didn’t think he’d be able to find any sleep, and he didn’t in his own bed. He tossed and turned, his mind assaulting him with the memory of you coding, of your blood on the ER floor, of the sounds of your ribs breaking he didn’t hear through the thick doors of the trauma room but still heard because he’d heard it a thousand times.
His desperation brought him back to your room. He knew he couldn’t go back to the hospital yet. He’d promised you he’d sleep. He curled up in your bed like the pathetic old man he was, clutching your pillow that smelled like your shampoo and that overnight keratin treatment you made him shell out far too much money for every time it ran out to his chest. He stared at the picture frame on your nightstand through teary eyes. It showed you huddled in a towel, your hair hidden beneath the towel, sitting on Robby’s lap in the backyard of Jack’s old house, the one he sold when his wife died. You were holding a popsicle that was melting down your fingers and grinned at the camera in that endearing grimace-smiling all six-year-olds did when asked to smile for the camera.
You were so little…
Robby looked at the picture and every time he closed his eyes, he saw you in the SICU, tube down your throat, feeding tube in your nose, old blood stuck in your hair, so pale as if you were already dead…
You recovered.
Within a day of you waking up, your medical team had you on your feet and walking. It was painful, it was exhausting and difficult, and Robby hated to see you struggle and the tears of humiliation clinging to your lashes as your team held your arms and encouraged you to move your feet.
It was brutal.
But, and the doctor part of his brain understood and supported this no matter how the side that was your father loathed the whole process, awake ICUs had shown significant increases in recovery rates and decreases in complications associated with the deep sedation most intubated patients were under in most of the country. There was no medical indication for you to be sedated, so you weren’t. You were still on a ventilator for now, but you were awake and walking.
Early mobility kept postoperative complications down, reduced the risks of blood clots and preserved muscle function.
Robby kept telling himself all the advantages, repeating them like a mantra in his head while desperately trying not to think about how much the effort you were taking looked like pure torture from the outside…
Days passed. Timelines for common complications rolled by without touching you. Milestones were reached.
But you were always tired. You were in pain and uncomfortable, and the reality of all that had happened to you slowly started to sink in - Robby could tell by the haunted expression that had slipped into your eyes.
Physically you were improving, but mentally… Robby could tell you were struggling.
Your medical team concluded that your level of consciousness was enough for you to protect your airway, and your spontaneous breathing tests came back promising.
Robby was wholly unfamiliar with the role of the family member during an extubation, but he tried his best when your doctor prepped you for extubation.
“Dad, you can sit right here and hold your daughter’s hand.” He said, addressing Robby as he would any other father of a patient. As Robby had done a million times, but today it felt wrong to hear the word Dad addressed to him in a voice that was not yours.
It had been so long since he heard your voice…
He’d been listening to old voice messages you sent him when he missed your presence at home too much. He was so pathetic, but right now Robby didn’t even care. He sat on the chair assigned to him and held your hand, smiling at you with as much silent encouragement as he could muster. You squeezed his hand when the tube was pulled from your throat. You coughed, and tears rolled down your cheeks. Robby held his breath, eyes flicking wildly back and forth between your face and your stats on the monitor. Your oxygen levels fell slightly while you coughed and tried not to choke on your secretions. A nurse was at your side right away to help by using the wall suction to get rid of most of it, giving you some time to adjust having the tube out before handling that yourself.
“You’re doing great, sweetheart.” Robby murmured and pressed a soft kiss to your knuckles.
“Hi, dad.” You croaked, voice raw and quiet, and you winced as soon as you spoke.
“It’s okay, sheifale. Your throat will hurt for a bit while it and your voice box recover from the inflammation the intubation caused. It’ll go away in a few days.”
“Thirsty.” You murmured. Robby noticed you were already struggling to keep your eyes open.
“You are getting fluids through your IVs and the feeding tube.” Your doctor explained. “But many patients report a feeling of intense thirst after extubation. You may sip some water, just tiny sips though.”
“Is that safe?” Robby asked.
“Yes. We’ll have a Speech-Language Pathologist come by to assess her swallowing function so we can determine whether it is safe to remove the feeding tube and have her feed herself, but research has shown that sipping water works best to reduce the sensation of thirst after extubation with no ill effects to recovery. We prioritise patient comfort in these cases over the older doctrines of mandatory fasting periods after extubation.”
Robby nodded. He trusted your doctor’s judgement. Robby intubated and extubated plenty of patients, but he didn’t usually get in contact with long-term ICU patients, nor was he well versed in the more recent research discoveries in the field.
Many liked to call emergency physicians butchers, but when literally fighting for lives, Robby gladly did everything he could - even if it wasn’t pretty. Your medical team was focused on different concerns.
They left after a moment of monitoring your breathing and oxygen levels. Robby held the ugly hospital-issued off-pink plastic cup in his hand and brought the straw to your lips, watching you take a cautious sip.
“Just a small sip, baby.”
“I heard the doctor.” You huffed.
“I know.” Robby smoothed your hair down and shot you an apologetic smile. “You know how I get. Let me fuss over you. It puts my mind at ease.”
You huffed again, but Robby saw the smile you tried to hide from him. It made his chest feel lighter to see it, to see your face without the tube and the tube holder obstructing it. Compared to that, the transnasal feeding tube almost didn’t stand out.
“You feeling okay?”
You nodded weakly.
“Shall I read some more?”
“Please.”
Robby picked up the book he’d been reading to you from time to time during your stay from the nightstand and searched for a bookmark. It was your favourite book from when you were a child. Robby doubted your choice had been a coincidence, despite the book never leaving your shelf in the years since. The last time these pages had been turned, Robby sat in bed with you, your little body curled up against him.
He’d gladly do anything he could to bring you any comfort he could in these times.
You fell asleep before he could finish even a single chapter. He tucked the bookmark between those pages but kept reading anyway.
His eyes, though, never stayed off your stats for long.
Robby missed your transfer from the ICU to the regular ward.
Your medical team had been discussing it for a while. You were improving. You still had a long way ahead of you but… somewhere along the way Robby stopped thinking about your death.
He still sometimes woke up in the middle of the night, most of which he still spent in the hospital despite your attempts to make him go home, in a cold sweat, startling from a nightmare where things had taken a much worse turn.
You were talking to Caleb twice a week since you’d been extubated.
Things got dark. It was Jack who noticed that it had gotten too dark. That you crossed the line of grappling with what had happened to you into much more unsteady territory. Not that you could be blamed for it. What you had been through… no child should have to go through any of that.
Talking seemed to help you, but your smiles stayed a little too forced, your eyes a little too distant. That was when Caleb advised antidepressants. Robby closed off. He didn’t want to hear any of it. You were fine. You were struggling, yes, but how could anyone blame you for that? You’d been shot at school by a boy you were trying to help and spent hours running around the school, tearing yourself apart to help save as many people as you could. You starved off death with some gauze and stone-cold determination.
That was no reason to stuff you full of meds!
You were fine.
But you weren’t.
You weren’t, and, as Jack and Caleb pointed out, medication was just another support pillar they could offer to help you on your journey to come to terms with your new reality. It was no different than antibiotics, pain meds or physical therapy.
And just because a geriatric patient was still mobile did not mean Robby wouldn’t also prescribe them blood thinners to further help prevent blood clots…
You had lost so much that day, much more than had become apparent right away. You didn’t lose your kidney, but a not insignificant part of your innocence had been completely shattered. The whole magnitude of the trauma that day, almost dying, and the strenuous recovery process had handed you was only just beginning to crawl to the surface.
The massive scar stretching all the way from the top of your sternum down to your pubic bone and the three smaller, round scars where the bullets entered your body would be with you for the rest of your life. You’d be reminded of what happened every time you took a shower, every time you wanted to wear a bikini, every time your shirts had a slightly lower neckline…
Robby didn’t want to, but he owed it to you to explore why he had that reaction to Caleb’s suggestion. He was a doctor. He should not still be so affected by outdated prejudice regarding mental health, especially in this time they were living in, where the discourse about mental health was as alive as never before.
He agreed to give his consent should you want to take the meds.
The entire time you’ve been in the hospital, Robby had been thinking how he’d do everything to help you and if the meds could help you deal with your dark thoughts, with the anxiety and sleep problems, the nightmares then… well, how could he justify denying you that?
Caleb reassured him they’d reassess your need for them every six months. There was a good chance you wouldn’t need them for the rest of your life. You didn’t have chronic depression. Your whole world had been turned upside down, and you need… you just needed some help finding ways to cope with your new reality.
You spoke a lot with Jack. Robby tried not to be jealous. He had no reason to be. Jack was your godfather. Jack had been in a war zone. Jack lost his leg. Jack spent months in the hospital. Jack could relate to this new part of you that Robby didn’t even know.
There was a new part of you, one that your father didn’t know…
You were moved to the regular ward while Robby was at the mall, picking up a new book and a couple of video games you’d asked for. He was actually standing in a store looking at gaming laptops, considering getting you one of those since you wouldn’t be able to play on your computer at home - he’d bring the thing into the hospital, but Gloria would never let that happen - and he knew there were some games you liked that you couldn’t play on the Switch, when he got your text.
It was a selfie of you in your new room.
Freedom at last!, you’d captioned it, followed by a request for your favourite meal. The ICU had strict rules regarding everything family members brought in from the outside, one of which was no outside food. You’d been stuck with unsalted hospital food after your feeding tube was removed, and you’d been begging to have it back in because the liquid diet was still better than the disgraceful meal plan from the hospital.
You can have whatever you want, he replied. Anything you want from home?
You sent a list - of course you did - that ended with don’t touch my nightstand in all caps, and Robby debated whether he wanted to know what that was about.
He decided the content of a seventeen-year-old girl’s nightstand was between herself and the nightstand.
Robby finished his shopping and went home to gather some comfortable clothes for you, the quilt from his grandma you kept in your bed, a few of your most cherished plushies, some toiletries and a pair of slippers before picking up your requested meal and driving back to the hospital.
He found your room already occupied by your friends. They hadn’t been allowed into the ICU due to visitor limitations. Dwayne was still on crutches, but Robby knew they had all gone back to school a week ago.
Garcia had hit the nail on the head - teens bounced back faster than adults. It truly was inspiring to see how much the four of you refused to let this tragedy destroy you. Between talking about the memorial service the school held for the officer, the teacher, and the two students who died, you were discussing your plans for college and the summer. Dwayne got cocky about how the captain of the cheerleading team agreed to go to prom with him and Mira and Oliver exchanged shy glances.
“I don’t know about prom.” You huffed and tugged at the front of your button-down pyjama top. The dressing of your surgical scar peeked out at the top. “Not with this ugly thing.”
“Scars are cool.” Dwayne mumbled around the entire pack of Skittles he dumped into his mouth.
Robby couldn’t help the smile tugging on his lips.
“Mr R!” Mira was the first to notice him.
“Hello kids.” Robby deposited the bag he packed on the bed next to you and brushed a kiss to your forehead. “Hello, sheifale.”
It made him very happy to know you had found the kind of friends who would drop everything at a moment’s notice to get to the hospital just because you’d finally be transferred to a ward where they could visit you.
Robby settled on the chair Dwayne vacated when your friends said their goodbye and cleared out of the room. He unpacked the food he brought and listened to you fill him in on all the latest gossip your friends had brought from school, the cute puppy video you saw online and the ward gossip you picked up on from the nurses.
Robby could not imagine a place where he’d rather be.
Robby found himself growing increasingly fed up with his own struggles. He was sick and tired of feeling like an empty shell. He was sick and tired of feeling like everything sucked all the time and would never get better.
He was sick of hating the day, every day, before it had even begun.
He watched you get better, despite having had to go back in for surgery once you’d stabilised to put permanent fixes in place where Garcia had only had time for quick patches.
He watched that haunted expression fade, a little more every day. He watched the antidepressants take effect and some of your old self returning to you. You tackled the full cafeteria during the lunch rush with your therapist, just sitting in the chaos and trying to endure it as your anxiety skyrocketed. When that went well, you moved on to the ER, then the waiting room, and from there you even managed to brave the park outside the hospital.
Robby was so endlessly proud of you, but at the same time a nasty, terrible part of him despised that you got better while he was still stuck, still trapped in his own bullshit as if it were tar slowly dragging him under.
And for the first time since Jack handed him the business card of his therapist a few days after PittFest, Robby picked up his phone.
Dana cackled.
Her laughter cut through the low buzz of ER madness and made Robby lift his head. His glasses sat low on his nose to prevent them from fogging up in the humid air being blasted through the department by the shitty air conditioning unit.
“What’s that about.”
“My daughter just sent me a TikTok.” Dana turned around to hand him her phone. Robby needed a moment to make sense of the video playing on the screen. In bold, white lettering written across the screen it declared filming my dad every time he uses hand sanitizer. The video started playing, showing Robby coming out of different rooms of the ED or stepping up to one of the many counters, rubbing his hands together. You, in your endless boredom as you called it, had apparently spent an afternoon following Robby with a camera - and he hadn’t even noticed. Every time he held his hand under a dispenser, you zoomed in on him.
“You went viral.”
“This?” Robby questioned with a raised brow. “This thing went viral?” He looked at the number beneath the little heart in the corner. “Jee-sus.”
Dana was still laughing.
“What the fuck even is this?”
“Ah,” Jack grinned as he stepped up next to Robby, catching a glance at Dana’s phone. “You found Robby jr’s project.”
“Her what?”
“Go on the profile, she’s been making all sorts of videos. The hospital honestly should hire her as social media manager. The people love The Pitt.” Jack tapped on the profile. You really had called it The Pitt. Oh, Gloria would hate it.
On the profile were a series of silly videos like the hand sanitizer one, filming Jack doing tricks in a wheelchair, asking staff around the ER for their secret talents, a montage of Javadi’s best shocked expressions, Whitaker ‘looking like a sad, wet puppy’ as you’d titled the video.
But it was more than that.
You did an interview with Dana, asking her how long she’d been working at the Pitt, why she went into health care, why she stuck around despite all the challenges, what she loved about the job and one thing she wished the world knew about her profession. You’d done the same interview with a couple of people - Jack among them - but also medics, Esme, Lupe, Antoine, and at least one of their techs. You gave Kiara and Dylan a chance to talk about the help available for people that most didn’t know about.
You interviewed homeless people, asking them about their lives, showing that they were human, that most of them had lived a whole life before something terrible happened and made them fall through the cracks.
One video stuck out. In it, you talked about what the ER meant to you personally. You talked about all the days you’d spent here when you were little, how much Robby had sacrificed to raise you. You talked about Adamson and the time you lost your tooth because you and Jake were playing chase and you slipped, knocking your mouth against a counter. You showed off the tongue-suppressor toys you built as a little girl, and Robby still kept around, almost a decade later. You talked about how you were almost born right here in the ER, on the way to the elevators, because Robby, in his panic at your mother’s water breaking, couldn’t find the car keys. How inspiring it had been to grow up around so many people who dedicated their lives to being there for people on the worst day of their lives, who shouldered the trauma and heartbreak of it all just so people wouldn’t have to be alone in their hour of need.
“This is where I almost died.” You said on the video as you walked into the trauma room. You flipped the camera around and smiled sadly. “Nobody likes going to the hospital, and I’m slowly losing my mind being stuck here too, I want to go home. I want none of this to have ever happened, but no matter what happened - this is home. My home away from home… and these people are my family. I’ve spent so many Thanksgivings and Hanukkahs and birthdays with them. I don’t have solutions for all of the things that are going wrong in the healthcare system, but if you’re in Pittsburgh and something happens to you, and you end up at the Pitt, you can trust that my family is going to take care of your family.”
Robby found himself fighting back tears, just for the video to scroll away automatically and the next one starting. You were following Robby with your camera again, zoomed in on him while nature sounds played.
“Here we see-” You said in your best approximation of David Attenborough. “-a common exhausted, overworked, burnt-out health care worker in his natural habitat.”
Robby burst out laughing. You panned your camera over to Jack, who was standing next to you. “This is the existential crisis variant of the overworked, burnt-out healthcare worker.”
Jack made a peace sign with his fingers. “I got over the existential crisis.”
“Did you though?”
“Rascal.”
Jack put his hand on Robby’s shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze. “She’s doing good.”
“Yeah.” Robby murmured, watching you chase after Jack in a wheelchair. You stood no chance of course. Jack had much more practice than you, but you were laughing, that shrieking high-pitched laugh that was so you and so real and for the first time since the shooting, Robby looked at you and saw the person you were before all of this shit.
But trauma was a conniving, resourceful bitch.
“Are you worried about her getting discharged today?”
Robby shook his head. “Not as much as I’m worried about everything else. She’s been struggling with going outside. Her therapist took her to a store, and she started crying and almost had an anxiety attack.”
“Which isn’t surprising with what she’s gone through, but she’s not ready to give up on her life just because some asshole decided bringing a rifle to school was the solution for all his problems. She handled that shit, brother. Yeah, it didn’t go how she hoped it would, but she used her skills, and she calmed down again and ended up buying a bunch of snacks to bring back to her room, and she'll be stronger for it. She did good. Healing isn’t linear.”
That was the exact same thing Jack’s therapist told Robby during their last session together. A weekly occurrence at this point.
“I know.”
Jack kept staring at him.
Robby sighed. “She wants to go back to school once she’s cleared.”
“Okay.”
Robby glared at Jack. “Okay? It’s not! It’s far from okay, man!”
“She doesn’t want to let this set her back. She wants to graduate with her friends.” Jack shrugged. “She’s starting with half days, right?”
“For now.”
“I think it’s good. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t like thinking about her going back to school either, not after what happened, but she deserves to move on. She deserves closure. And she deserves to reclaim the school for herself. She doesn’t want this tragedy and the trauma to win.” Jack slapped Robby on the shoulder and shot him a crooked grin. “Go on, finish up here and take our girl home. I’m sure Robby jr is looking forward to finally sitting on the sofa and forcing you to watch one of her shows again.”
Robby chuckled. “Probably.”
He too was looking forward to it, and to many, many more evenings like that to come…
summary: after six years of avoiding it, you're finally forced to make your way back home. things should feel easier as you make the transition back to something familiar, but it only fills you with dread to think about finishing your years as a med student at the pitt, working under your father.
warnings/tags: yo... holy daddy issues, angst, michael robinavitch is his own warning, platonic/father-daughter relationship, robby is not really being a great dad rn... he is not the girl dad you people think he is
wc: 10.9k
"For a minute the world seemed so simple"
Your first time back in the PTMC since moving home was more anxiety-inducing than it should've been. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that you weren't just there as an attending's kid; you were now there as a med student.
You walked in, hair styled out of your face but in a way that made you feel confident, brand-new top worn under your scrubs. You knew better than anyone that this look wouldn't last, but it was something to boost your morale and help ease the soul-crushing anxiety that had been weighing on your chest since you went out to dinner with your father and now- coworkers, over a week ago.
"There she is!" the thick, charming Pittsburgh accent you'd always been comforted by, doing just that as you attempted to maintain confidence. Your perfect posture dropped momentarily as the tension released from your spine, a natural grin of relief finding its way upon your lips.
"Well, hello, Charge Nurse Dana Evans." you mocked a professional greeting, causing Dana's already present smile to brighten as she set down her chart and swung around the nurses' station to greet you.
"Dr. Y/n L/n-" She slung an arm over your shoulder before leaning in to mumble in your ear, "Or are you going back to Robinavitch?"
You tensed slightly, giving her a dramatic grimace, "definitely not- for so many reasons, Dana"
You chuckled as she pulled you into a full hug, "Excited to have you back with us, sweetheart... you're gonna do great."
You squeezed her in return, your breath hitting her collarbone as your face fell into the slope of her shoulder. You wished you could stay there, but you reminded yourself you had people to prove wrong (your father), and that wasn't going to be achieved by staying in Dana Evans's arms for the entirety of your first shift.
"Feel the rush of my blood, I'm seventeen again"
a few moments passed- you greeted Princess and Perlah in casual Tagalog, to which they excitedly greeted back and joked about how you'd been practicing. You caught up with them and told them all about your extensive language studies throughout college and how they inspired you to give Tagalog a try.
The next interaction came from none other than Jack Abbot- a carefree arm tossed around your shoulder, causing you to jump before realizing who it was, "Try not to give your old man a hard time today, okay?"
He said with a teasing smirk, but it landed sourly, leaving a slight burn in your stomach. You didn't react physically, giving an easy, semi-shy smile as you leaned into him.
The warmth and comfort of your found family slipped away as your father approached, chatting with a guy with blonde curly hair and a girl with a dark ponytail. You felt Abbot's arm tighten around your shoulder in a brief reassuring squeeze before it fell back to his side.
Robby finally made eye contact with you, seemingly halting in his conversation long enough for the two trailing behind him to notice. They looked in your direction as well, but before either could say anything, Robby resumed, leading them to the center of the ED and calling out to gather everyone to join them.
Robby waited until the crowd had gathered before clearing his throat.
"Alright. Quick rundown before everybody scatters." The room quieted as you shifted your weight anxiously. Same ED. Same people. Different role. You tried to remind yourself that while you may not have been here, you still have experience, and knowing many of these people will only make the blend easier
Robby launched into his usual briefing, discussing staffing assignments, patient volume, bed shortages, and all the things that made emergency medicine feel like controlled chaos.
You tried focusing on his words, but all you could think about was the fact that every single person standing around you already knew who you were- and not as a doctor, or even just a med student, but as Dr. Robby's kid.
"And one more thing." Your stomach dropped. Robby glanced down at his clipboard.
"We have a new medical student starting with us today." You tried to resist the visceral reaction your nerves were sending to your brain when Robby looked directly at you.
"Most of you already know Y/n." Several people smiled, a few waved, others looked reasonably lost, as you forced a professional smile in return.
"She's rotating with us for emergency medicine." You thought it was going to end there- it probably should've ended there...
"Obviously there's a potential conflict of interest." Your smile vanished as the room got quieter.
"So for everyone's sake, including hers, I'm going to be very clear-" you could see Dana and Abbot tense from where they stood slightly off your father's shoulder.
"She won't be receiving any special treatment." Your jaw tightened. You tried to keep your gaze locked on him, to seem as unbothered as you should be, but you could see Samira wince silently out of the corner of your eye, already knowing this wasn't going to go over well.
"Nobody needs to cut her any slack because she's my daughter." Heat crawled up your neck.
"Matter of fact-" Robby continued, somehow making it worse, "if anything, I'd encourage people to hold her to a higher standard."
A few awkward chuckles sounded. Fuck, you wanted to disappear all over again. Robby didn't notice- or maybe this was one of those times where he did notice and didn't know how to stop.
"She's smart, but she's also stubborn." Jack immediately ran a hand down his face, shifting in his stance.
"And she has a tendency to think she knows more than she does." Dana let out a deep sigh, her hands clasped in front of her as she dropped her head momentarily, shaking it in disappointment.
And suddenly there it was- that familiar burn you'd been carrying since you were fifteen, settled right into your chest. You bit the inside of your cheek, hard enough to taste the metallic flavor of blood, while the room remained quiet for a beat too long.
"She's capable," he continued, almost as if he was trying to convince everyone else of your skills rather than himself.
"Just don't let her talk you into thinking she knows more than she does." A few scattered laughs followed. Your face felt hot as you stared at a spot somewhere behind him. You could feel Dana looking at you, and could feel Abbott looking at Robby. You refused to look at either of them.
The worst part was that none of it sounded particularly cruel if someone didn't know better. To everyone else, it probably sounded like harmless teasing, father-daughter banter. Ya know, the kind of thing families did!
But Dana knew. Jack knew. Frank knew. Samira knew. And judging by the uncomfortable expression on Princess's face, fuck, she probably knew something wasn't sitting right either.
Your jaw tightened- you forced yourself to relax it... then tightened it again.
Robby finally looked up from his clipboard. "Anyway."
A pause. His eyes met yours as he seemingly held his breath for a second before diverting his attention elsewhere to wrap up his speech. "We have a busy shift ahead of us. Questions?"
Nobody spoke as he looked around, eyes not even stopping on you as he surveyed the crowd.
"Good." He clapped his hands once. "Let's get to work."
Conversations resumed as the group immediately began breaking apart, people scattering toward their assignments. You stayed exactly where you were, still, silent, biting the inside of your cheek raw.
Dana appeared at your side almost instantly, her shoulder gently bumping yours. You glanced over as she raised an eyebrow. You offered a smile- a fake one, of course- but a smile nonetheless. The same one you'd been giving adults since you were thirteen years old, that said "please don't make a thing out of this".
Dana's expression softened, an understanding nod bobbing her head, "alright..."
Before she could say anything else, a familiar voice called your name, "Hey, troublemaker."
You looked up just in time for Frank Langdon to throw an arm around your shoulders, the tension in your chest loosening immediately.
"Frank." You rolled your eyes, sarcasm and annoyance dripping from your voice, but the soft smile on your face betrayed your true feelings.
"There she is." He gave your shoulder a squeeze, shaking you around a bit. "Took you long enough!"
You rolled your eyes, "I literally just got here."
"Yeah, six years late." That earned a genuine laugh from you. Samira appeared beside him, smiling warmly, "We've been waiting."
Your expression softened as you escaped Langdon's hold to throw your arms around Mohan's shoulders, burying your face in her neck. "I missed you guys. So much..."
"We know," Frank said cockily, hands behind his head. "The department's morale has been terrible without you."
"You are so full of shit."
"Language." You barked out a laugh, the familiar rhythm of the interaction settling your nerves almost instantly.
Samira glanced between you and the dispersing crowd. "You okay?"
The question was gentle, dangerously so. You immediately looked away. "Yep."
Both of them stared, neither believing you. Frank opened his mouth, hesitated, then closed it, deciding against whatever he was about to say. Instead, he hooked a thumb toward the hallway. "Well, lucky for you, you don't have to deal with me today."
"Oh?"
"Robby's got you working with Whitaker and Javadi." Your smile froze, not quite dropping, just wavering slightly in confusion, "Oh."
Frank laughed, "Oh, don't sound so excited."
To be honest, you really weren't. Not anymore, at least. All of your excitement to get to know people vanished the second Robby let everyone know you were related. You were kind of hoping to just follow Langdon or Mohan around for the day and occasionally hop in with someone else when you found your rhythm.
"I just don't know who those people are."
"You will."
"That's usually how meeting people works, Frank."
"Good point." Samira shook her head fondly, placing a hand on your shoulder and giving you a small, pained smile, "Good luck."
You frowned, "That didn't feel very reassuring..."
"It wasn't really supposed to be." Before you could respond, two figures approached from the opposite side of the nurses' station.
The blonde guy from earlier and a shorter girl wearing a purple zip up, both looking equally as awkward. They both hovered slightly, looking at each other to see who would speak first. They looked helplessly back at you as you raised a brow.
The girl offered her hand first, "Victoria Javadi. I'm also a student doctor- second year here!"
You smiled politely and shook it, "Y/n L/n."
A small smile tugged at her lips, the rest of her starting to relax now that she's seen you smile, "Nice to officially meet you."
The blonde stepped forward next, "Dennis Whitaker. First year resident"
You shook his hand as well. "Nice to meet you."
Whitaker opened his mouth to say something, then halted. He glanced over toward where Robby had disappeared, then back at you, seemingly processing his observations in front of you. "I didn't know Dr. Robby had a daughter."
"Huh... no kidding," you snarked, crossing your arms. Whitaker immediately felt like it was the wrong conversation starter after seeing you close yourself off again.
"Uh... so... are you Jake's sister?" You scoffed and chuckled humorlessly. "No. Love that kid- but no..."
More awkward tension hung in the air for a moment or two before you elaborated.
"Dr. Robby is my biological father, which is unfortunately why I am as fucked as I am." You deliver it with a dryness that Dennis isn't really sure whether or not it's okay to laugh.
A short, awkward silence followed. Whitaker glanced at Javadi- she glanced back at him- neither of them seemed entirely sure how to respond to that.
Finally, Dennis let out a small laugh through his nose, "Well... at least you're self-aware."
"Years of therapy." That got a slightly bigger laugh out of both of them, the tension easing a little, even though they were both still a little unsure of whether you were joking or not.
You exhaled deeply and began heading in the opposite direction "Sooooo... Trauma three?"
"Uh yeah-" Javadi nodded, glancing quickly to the doctor beside her, still a little nervous to interact with you. "Yes. Your dad just put us on the same patient."
"right..."
Your first patient went smoothly, and the day picked up after that.
Patients blurred together, labs were drawn, consults were called. You spent most of your shift trying not to think about your father's introduction and focusing instead on proving that you actually belonged there.
A few hours in, while waiting for updated imaging on one of your patients, you found yourself staring up at the tracking board.
"Man..." the intimidating girl with the dark hair stationed herself next to you with her hands in her pockets, "I knew Dr. Robby was a misogynist, but I didn't think he'd be an asshole to his own daughter."
She tried to joke, staring at your side profile until you slowly turned your gaze to catch her with an unimpressed brow raise and a slightly irritated quirk of your lip
"Yeah... he's... he's something." You didn't give her much, going back to looking up at the patient board. She stood beside you for a moment, then shifted to face you, leaning against the wall.
"Trinity Santos." She extended her hand straight out, looking effortlessly cool with one leg propped on the wall behind her. You couldn't help the tiny amused smirk that peeked out as you shook her hand.
"Y/n."
"So I've heard." You rolled your eyes.
"Yeah, well, apparently you're the first," Santos snorted.
"Honestly, kinda hard not to know about you when half the department practically raised you." That caught you slightly off guard, her casualness and lack of pity or awkward sympathy something you weren't necessarily used to.
"You're the first person who's said that without making me feel weird about it."
"Well I mean- it is weird." You barked out a laugh, and Santos grinned, letting your laughter hang for a brief moment before continuing
"I mean, seriously. I've worked here for two years, and every third person I meet has some story about you."
"Oh God, they do not-" you crossed your arms over your chest, rolling your eyes slightly, the small smile still on your face
"'Y/n used to sit at the nurses' station and do homework.'" You groaned at her first impression of some other staff member
"'Y/n used to sneak extra pudding cups from the patient fridge.'"
"I was eight-"
"'Y/n got suspended for punching a kid who made fun of Dana.'"
"Okay, that one was justified."
Santos pointed at you immediately. "See? That's exactly what Dana said."
You laughed despite yourself, the tension in your shoulders easing for the first time all day. Trinity noticed, and her expression softened slightly.
"Can I be honest?" You hesitated, already preparing to pull up another wall, even though she never really broke through the first one. "Depends."
She hummed, "Fair."
A beat passed.
"That introduction this morning was kind of fucked." Your eyes immediately flicked toward her. You waited for the usual follow-up- some sort of excuse or justification- but the "he means well" never came.
Santos just shrugged. "Maybe that's not my business."
"No..." you said slowly. "I mean, it kinda is now."
She nodded. "Then yeah. It was weird."
You let out a breath that almost sounded like a laugh. "Thank you."
Santos frowned, brows furrowing. "For what?"
"For not immediately defending him." That seemed to genuinely surprise her.
"Why would I do that?" You stared at her, she stared back, and suddenly you realized how ridiculous the statement sounded outside the context of your life.
Santos shook her head, "Look, Robby's a good doctor."
You immediately braced yourself, "But being a good doctor doesn't automatically make someone a good parent."
Your eyebrows shot up. The woman beside you shrugged. "What?"
"No, it's just..." you laughed softly. "Most people here don't say stuff like that."
"Yeah? Well, they should." You laughed again- a real, tickled laugh, leaving Santos smiling slightly, pleased with herself. The two of you stood there for a moment, looking up at the patient board.
"Wanna hit 14 with me?" she asked as she started to back away. The small smile still on your lips as you replied, "Sure."
The silence wasn't awkward anymore as the two of you began heading toward the patient. In fact, it was surprisingly comfortable.
"You know," Santos said eventually, "I actually thought you were gonna be terrifying."
You glanced over, eyes wide and eyebrows raised, "Me?"
"Yeah."
"Why?" She deadpanned.
"Because you're Robby's daughter and Langdon talks about you like you're some mythical creature."
You burst out laughing, "Oh my God!"
"'The legendary Y/n, resident golden child, is coming back.'" you rolled your eyes, grinning because that is definitely something he'd say
"Well, for starters i was never a golden child-" Santos cut you off with a raise of her brow
"Not in the eyes of Frank Langdon- 'You guys are gonna love Y/n.'"
You laughed as she continued to imitate him, making her voice a little deeper and raspier and moving her hands around rapidly to mock his excitement
"'Y/n's gonna fix this place!'" That one got you a little bit. You knew that one was likely very true because it's the same thing Frank and Samira would tell you when you were having a hard time in school. They didn't even necessarily mean the Pitt itself, but wherever you ended up, you were bound to make it a better place.
You ran a hand over your face as you shook your head, "Frank is such a loser."
"He really is." You shook your head, still laughing, and for the first time all day, you found yourself genuinely glad you'd come back.
"I am not scared of death, I've got dreams again"
The patient wasn't supposed to be complicated, at least that's what you thought when Trinity dragged you into the room.
The woman was somewhere in her forties, complaining of abdominal pain and nausea- nothing immediately alarming. She was talking, laughing with you, even. Her vitals weren't perfect, but they weren't horrible either. It should've been straightforward.
You and Trinity introduced yourselves, asked your questions, and did your exam as usual. The patient answered easily enough, but something about it made your stomach twist. A gut feeling, a nagging little voice, the same one that had followed you throughout school whenever something didn't fit quite right.
You glanced toward Trinity, "Can you pull up her labs again?"
Trinity raised a brow but complied. You looked through them once, rescanned them again, and then even a third time.
"What?" Trinity asked, and could only give her a frown before mumbling, "I don't know yet."
You obviously hated that answer as much as she did. You wanted something concrete, but more so, you wanted to be wrong. However, the feeling persisted, so you dug deeper. You asked more questions, pulled up older records, looked through previous visits, and slowly the picture started coming together.
It wasn't enough to diagnose anything, but enough to know that something wasn't right. Enough to know she needed more attention than she'd been getting, and enough to make you seek out an attending. Unfortunately, that attending happened to be your father...
You found him halfway through charting. "Dad-"
Robby looked up immediately before you even had time to cringe at yourself, "Dr. Robinavitch."
His expression shifted slightly. "What've you got?"
You launched into your presentation- professional, organized, concise. You explained your findings and concerns, along with your reasoning, never once pausing or shifting your tone to look for reassurance. You didn't try to convince him you were right, you were simply presenting a patient, the way you'd done hundreds of times before and would continue to do
And Robby just stared. He couldn't help it because, for a moment, he forgot to listen. Not completely- he didn't entirely shut you out and ignore the case you were presenting- he still followed and understood what you were saying, but part of his brain got stuck somewhere else.
You sounded different. Not like the angry teenager who used to scream at him across the kitchen. Not like the little girl who followed him around the hospital asking a million questions. Not like the daughter he'd spent years failing to understand.
You sounded like a doctor- not even a med student, but an experienced doctor. Confident. Capable. Comfortable... like you belonged there.
It shouldn't have shocked him. Obviously, he knew you were in medical school, and it was only natural for you to feel comfortable in this environment since you were already pretty familiar.
He knew you'd excelled in school and that you'd worked your ass off to get there... but knowing something and seeing it were two entirely different things.
You wrapped up your presentation of the patient's case, and Robby just blinked, then nodded, "Alright. Let's take another look."
You exhaled, shoulders dropping slightly as the tension released, and followed him back to the room. The concern ended up being justified- she wasn't crashing over dying, but she was significantly sicker than everyone initially believed.
And as you spoke to the patient with the confidence of a seasoned professional and the kindness of a rookie, Robby couldn't stop watching you.
He was completely enamored by how clearly you'd explained things, answered every single question she had with ease, and even made her laugh once despite the circumstances.
And suddenly he wasn't looking at a student anymore- he wasn't even looking at a doctor- he was looking at his daughter.
His daughter.
The little girl who used to sit at Dana's desk, coloring while he finished charts. The little girl who made him drawings for his office. The little girl who begged him to come to softball games and school events and college visits. The little girl he'd spent years disappointing.
And somehow... somehow you still became this. This kind, brilliant, resilient young woman. Everything he'd ever wanted for you. Everything you were able to accomplish without him.
The realization hit so hard it nearly knocked the air from his lungs, because when had this happened? When had you grown up? When had you become someone he admired? When had he stopped being the center of your world?
The answer was pretty obvious...
Years ago, while he was busy working, grieving, making excuses. Busy missing everything revolving around you. All while you were busy with the same things, and he didn't even stop to think how badly you needed him. Robby felt his throat tighten.
You turned slightly, asking Trinity something about the patient's imaging. Your movements were so familiar. Your expression, the way you pushed your hair behind your ear. For one impossible second, he saw both versions of you at once- the child and the doctor- and it nearly brought him to tears.
Holy shit. That's my little girl... and she's incredible!
The patient ended up being transferred upstairs about an hour later, stable, monitored, and taken seriously, which was all anyone could really ask for.
"There is meaning on Earth, I am happy"
You finished documenting your portion of the consult while Trinity wrapped up the last few loose ends. The two of you made your way out into the hallway, exhaustion already beginning to settle into your shoulders.
"See?" Trinity nudged your arm lightly. "You didn't kill anybody on your first day."
"This shift is far from over Dr. Santos" she chuckled, hands holding onto the stethoscope around her neck "Good point."
You both chuckled softly, easy grins remaining on your faces. The doors to the patient's room swung open behind you, and you stepped aside automatically to let staff pass, then froze as you realized it was your father.
Your stomach immediately tightened. Old habits. You waited for a correction, criticism of some sort- there had to be something you'd forgotten- something you'd done wrong.
Robby looked between you and Trinity before settling his gaze on you, keeping it neutral as he held eye contact for a moment, then he cleared his throat.
"Good catch." You blinked. "What?"
"The patient." His voice was casual, matter-of-fact, like it was the most normal thing in the world- and to any other doctor or med student in this place, it would've been normal.
"You picked up on something everybody else missed."
The hallway suddenly felt too warm, "Oh."
Robby nodded once, awkward tension pulling his lips into a straight line, before he took a deep breath, "You did a good job."
Your breath caught in your throat as your heart stopped. No dramatic speech. No hug. No grand gesture. Just five words- that's what nearly did you in.
You did a good job.
The phrase hit you so hard it was almost embarrassing. How your eyes immediately widened and began to water, the pressure and sting in your nose like you were about to burst into tears at any second.
Logically, it shouldn't matter this much. You were twenty-something years old, you'd survived college, most of medical school, board exams, cross-country moves, heartbreak, loss- you didn't need your father's approval...
You didn't.
So why did it feel like somebody had reached into your chest and squeezed your heart?
"Oh." Brilliant response. You swallowed, "Thanks."
Robby nodded again, like he'd completed the task he'd set out to do, then glanced toward Trinity. "You too."
Trinity immediately looked delighted, "Thank you, Dr. Robby."
"Don't let it go to your head."
"Oh, it already has." He shook his head, a small grin on his face as he started walking away. You watched him disappear around the corner as Trinity looked over. You were still staring after him, still trying to process what had just happened.
"You okay?" You blinked, not looking away from where your father had just disappeared. "Yeah."
Your voice came out softer than intended, but then you realized you were staring, and you cleared your throat, turning your attention to Trinity with a small, barely contained smile.
"Yeah. I'm good." Trinity studied you for a moment, then, mercifully, decided not to push.
"Cool." She bumped your shoulder. "C'mon, Doc"
The title made you laugh. You felt a little light-headed, the last hour and a half leaving you feeling lighter than you'd managed all day. As you followed her back toward the nurses' station, you found yourself smiling for no reason at all.
Trinity bumped your shoulder as the two of you approached the nurses' station. You were still trying not to think about what had just happened, but the words sat heavily in your chest.
Javadi looked up from the chart she was working on, her gaze flickering between you and Trinity, then narrowing slightly. "What happened?"
"What? Nothing," you answered immediately and Trinity snorted. "Something happened."
You shot her a look, but she just grinned. Javadi glanced between the two of you again, then her eyes widened.
"Oh my God." there was a pasuse as everyone waited to hear what she'd just figured out, "Did Dr. Robby compliment you??"
Your eyes widened as you visibly tensed, "Oh my God."
Trinity's smug grin only grew wider as she crossed her arms, "He did."
"He did not."
"He absolutely did." Trinity looked delighted as Dennis glanced up from the computer beside them. His attention drifted between the conversation for a moment before he quietly returned to whatever chart he was reviewing.
"He said I made a good catch- that's hardly a compliment."
The second the words left your mouth, you regretted them as you watched Javadi's jaw drop semi-dramatically, a small quirk of her lip making it appear a bit more teasing than serious
"You got a 'good catch'?" You groaned and buried your face in your hands, leaning against the counter. "Please stop."
"A good catch is huge." Whitaker chimed in from his spot behind the desk, eyes unmoving from the screen, but his bottom lip jutted out in acknowledgment as he nodded slightly
You groaned again, slumping further against the counter, face fully leaning on it now, as Trinity looked downright fascinated by your embarassment
Victoria's expression softened slightly. "I get it."
You peeked over your arms at her. "My mom's like that."
You immediately straightened. "Really?"
"Oh, yeah." She leaned back in her chair. "If she compliments me, I remember it for like- six months."
Trinity barked out a laugh and Javadi pointed her gaze at her, "I'm serious!"
"No, I believe you."
"Like, logically, I know she loves me." "Right."
"But hearing approval from someone who taught you everything you know is..." She shrugged. "Different."
Something about that settled the strange feeling in your chest. It was nice to know someone understood. Not completely- nobody could- but enough that you didn't feel ridiculous for caring.
"That's actually a really good way to put it." Javadi smiled softly and shrugged
"Would you look at that," The familiar voice pulled your attention away from the chart in front of you. Samira Mohan stood at the opposite side of the nurses' station, coffee in hand, her warm gaze drifting between you, Javadi, Whitaker, and Santos. "Glad to see you're making friends already, Tweety Bird."
You squeezed your eyes shut, alreayd knowing when you opened them that you "new friends" would be giving you looks
"'Tweety Bird'?" Santos questioned, a teasing grin on her face.
You sighed and peeked at her, "It's a long story"
Samira laughed and came closer to the group, joining you and Trinity in leaning against the station, "Obviously we all call Robby "Robby"- but when Y/n was little, she just didn't get it, so everyone started calling her "Robin" to make her feel included-"
Trinity, Victoria, and Dennis were locked in on the lore of their newest coworker, "which eventually became "Birdie", cuz ya know- Robin the bird, duh. And then one day she came in wearing this bright yellow sweater-"
"It was a dress." you cut in, correcting the minor details in her retelling
"Right, a bright yellow dress- so Jessie started calling her "Tweety", and now it just rotates between those." She finished off, and everyone had some sort of amused expression, while you were trying to bury your embarrassment
"That's... honestly, adorable." Victoria was the only one to speak up
"Okay." Mohan chuckled softly as she threw an arm over your shoulder
"You look significantly less terrified than you did this morning." You immediately groaned. "Oh my God."
"What??"
"You could tell?" Samira raised a brow. "Y/n."
Fair enough. You sighed dramatically. "Okay, yeah. I was a little terrified."
"A little?" You shifted in her hold to bump against her, "Shut up."
The corner of her mouth twitched as she glanced around the station, before tilting her head slightly to speak quieter directly to you, "You surviving?"
You thought about it- about Trinity sort of taking you in, Javadi being someone you could relate to, the "good catch" you had a little bit ago, the fact that you hadn't completely embarrassed yourself yet... "Yeah."
This time the answer came easily. Your bottom lip jutted out as you nodded, "Actually... yeah."
Samira nodded once, her natural smile warming your heart, her expression reading like that was exactly what she'd been hoping to hear.
"Good." And that was it. She took a sip of coffee and immediately pivoted back to work.
"A minute from home but I feel so far from it"
Robby didn't get much time to think during a shift- that's one of the things he liked most about emergency medicine. There was no room for overthinking and hyperfixating, not when patients kept coming and nurses needed orders signed.
Thinking was dangerous and led to regrets if you spent too much time doing so... and Robby had enough of those already.
And yet, his eyes kept finding you- across the department, at the nurses' station, walking down hallways, laughing at something Trinity Santos had said. He told himself it was just his fatherly subconscious making sure you were alright.
Every time he looked, you seemed a little more comfortable- more settled- like you were starting to accept that you belonged here
The realization should've made him happy. Instead, it mostly made his chest hurt. "You look constipated."
Robby didn't bother looking up, "Good afternoon, Jack. Back so soon?"
Abbott slid into the chair beside him. "Seriously. What's wrong with you?"
Robby gave him a look, but said nothing, resuming looking over the chart he was about to hand off to another med student. Jack nodded, "Right."
Robby continued charting. Abbott continued existing- an unfortunately persistent habit, from Robby's perspective
"You know Dana almost threw a stapler at you this morning."
"She threatens that weekly."
"This time she meant it." That finally earned a reluctant snort, causing Abbott's expression to soften slightly. "You know you really embarrassed her."
There it was. Robby's slight smile disappeared completely, and his jaw tightened. "I introduced her."
For a moment, he genuinely seemed to be waiting for more, as if perhaps Robby would hear himself and realize how ridiculous that sounded.
When nothing came, Jack sighed, "You embarrassed her."
"I was trying to be professional." The defense sounded weak and dismissive, even to his own ears.
Abbott's brows shot up. "You told the entire department she thinks she knows everything."
Robby instinctively straightened his posture, walls visibly growing higher in his attempt to defend. "I said she was smart."
"Then immediately followed it up with an insult."
Robby sighed, rubbing his hands down his face, "Jesus Christ."
"I'm serious."
"So am I." Abbott leaned back in his chair, and for a moment neither spoke. Across the department, Y/n was talking with Javadi. Something made her laugh, and the sound carried farther than it should've.
Robby looked away first. Abbott noticed, as he always did and took a deep breath before leaning in and mumbling to his best friend, "I mean, c'mon man."
Robby closed the chart, already regretting where this conversation was headed." When was the last time you even talked to her before she got back?"
"Oh, fuck off." The response came out sharper than intended. Robby immediately sat back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. "...I talk to my goddamn daughter."
"Okay." Jack held up both hands in surrender; the gesture would've been a lot more convincing if his expression hadn't remained completely unchanged. Neither man looked away as the silence stretched between them, long enough to become uncomfortable.
Then Jack leaned forward, resting his forearms against his knees. "So when was the last time you saw her?"
The question landed harder than the last one. Robby's eyes flicked away instinctively, toward the nurses' station, then back toward the chart in front of him.
"'Cause most college kids come home for Thanksgiving." Robby's jaw flexed.
"Or winter break." His fingers tightened around the edge of his chair.
"Or the three months between school years for the summer." Abbott's voice remained calm and soft, nothing accusatory about it, which made Robby feel so much worse than if Jack had just yelled at him and called him an asshole.
"Why didn't she?" Robby immediately opened his mouth, ready this time with an explanation- An excuse. A defense. He always had one... But it didn't matter, because Abbott cut him off before he could get a word out.
"No, seriously." The teasing was entirely gone now. "Why haven't any of us seen her in six years?"
Robby felt something unpleasant twist in his stomach. Across the department, somebody called for a nurse, a monitor alarm chimed. The hospital kept running and neither acknowledged it in the moment
"The kid's studying her ass off to become a fucking doctor-" Jack shook his head. "And you're telling me she hasn't talked to any of us?"
The emphasis on us wasn't accidental; Robby knew that. "She was practically raised here, Michael."
The use of his first name made him finally look up to see that Abbott was watching him carefully now. Not angry, not even a little bit, just concerned. Which was always harder to stomach.
"You think we don't know her?" A painful silence hung for what felt like forever
"You think we don't know you?" The silence after that felt suffocating. Robby was once again the one to look away first. His hand dragged slowly over his face, the stubble scratched against his palm.
"I went to her graduation." The second the words left his mouth, he knew how weak they sounded. Abbott stared at him like he was waiting for the punchline.
"Robby." His voice was almost disbelieving. "Are you serious right now?"
"Yes," The answer came quicker than intended, immediate and defensive. "I'm being serious."
"That was over two years ago." Robby looked down, and Abbott sat back in his chair. The disappointment on his face somehow hurt worse than the frustration.
"You're telling me you haven't taken the time to check in on her in person?"
"She's in med school." Robby's voice rose slightly, more frustrated now than angry; more embarrassed than frustrated.
"That girl doesn't have any time for me." Abbott blinked slowly, mouth slightly agape as he furrowed his brows, like he'd just heard the dumbest thing imaginable.
"You don't think she'd make time?" The question lingered as neither of them spoke again. It was a bit strained, and Robby could tell Jack was using all his willpower not to bitch him out right then and there. The accusation sat plainly between them. Unavoidable.
"Or are you just assuming that because you wouldn't make time?"
Robby stood so abruptly that his chair rolled backward. "Alright."
He began heading down a decently empty hallway, and obviously, Jack followed, so he kept going,
"I've had enough of you talking to me like I'm some shitty father." Abbott immediately shook his head.
"No." His voice softened. He wasn't backing down, but he could see exactly where this was coming from. "You're not a shitty father, man."
Robby laughed bitterly, "Really?"
"You're not." Jack held his gaze. "But you're not there for her."
The words hit harder than anything else he'd said. It wasn't an insult, just an observation, a very painful one.
"How would you know?" Robby snapped, his voice echoing louder than intended.
"How do you know anything about my kid?" The question hung between them, and for a long moment, Abbott said nothing. Robby watched him inhale slowly and choose his words carefully. Deliberately, like a man trying not to make an injury worse.
"Because your kid spent a good chunk of her childhood hoping somebody would show up for her." Robby physically flinched, face scrunching up
"And because she's an adult now." Jack's voice remained calm, steady.
"A grown-ass adult who reaches out when she's struggling."
Abbot paused and then finished, "Clearly didn't get that from you."
Robby turned away immediately, hands still planted on his hips as he paced a small circle, eyes fixed on the ceiling, jaw working, trying to find an argument- something- anything.
But all he could think about was the fact that, of course, you still talked to Jack. Why wouldn't you? At some point over the last six years, Abbott had stopped being one of the people who helped raise you and become one of the people who actually knew you.
The realization hurt more than Robby cared to admit.
"The death of my dog, the stretch of my skin"
The high didn't last forever. You knew it wouldn't, but it was nice to ignore the potential of things getting bad again so soon.
The department had settled into a steady rhythm by late afternoon- busy enough that nobody was standing still, quiet enough that you could hear when someone was irritated.
You were reviewing labs when a familiar voice cut across the nurses' station. It wasn't super loud, not at first, but sharp enough to make you look up.
Samira stood at one of the computers, and your father stood across from her, his shoulders rigid, jaw set. You recognized the expression immediately, the one that usually meant somebody was about to have a very bad day.
Samira was speaking, trying to explain something. A patient. You caught bits and pieces. A consult. Delayed response. Change in status.
"No." The word landed hard enough that several people glanced over, including you.
Samira stopped talking, and you felt your own stomach tighten. "Dr. Robby-"
"No." His voice was louder now. Not yelling- not yet- but close. "That is the third time I've asked you the same question."
The entire workstation seemed to go still. Samira blinked once, "You asked-"
"I asked why nobody called me." The interruption came instantly. Ruthless, like he wasn't even listening.
Mohan took a slight breath before responding evenly, "I did call."
"No." Robby stepped forward. "You left a message."
Samira's jaw tightened. "You didn't answer."
"And somehow that translated into 'problem solved'?" The sarcasm dripped from every word. A few nurses exchanged looks, but nobody said anything. Nobody ever said anything. "You know better than that."
Samira opened her mouth, closed it, then tried again. "The patient was stable at the time."
"Until they weren't." His voice echoed louder than intended, several heads turned this time. The entire nurses' station suddenly became fascinated with their work. "You've been doing this long enough to know better."
Your chest tightened. You'd heard that sentence plenty of times before, word for word. Different context. Same Tone. Same disappointment disguised as anger.
Samira looked down briefly, collecting herself, the way people did when they were trying very hard not to react, then she nodded. "I understand."
"No." Robby laughed humorlessly, the sound making your stomach drop even more. "I don't think you do."
Silence. Heavy. Uncomfortable. Silence. The kind that settles over a room when everyone is pretending not to witness something.
Finally, Samira nodded again, a little stiffer this time. "Understood."
Robby stared at her for another second, then turned, already moving toward his next patient. Already done with the conversation, like he hadn't just ripped somebody apart in front of half the department.
The moment he disappeared around the corner, the tension lingered. But you didn't. You were up and moving before Trinity could even try to stop you.
You passed the nurse's station and heard Dana call out to you, a warning tone flooding her voice as she recognized the look on your face and that you were heading in the direction of your father.
You ignored her but spared Mohan a glance, seeing her stare silently at a computer screen while pretending she wasn't affected. You suddenly wondered how many other people had learned to absorb his anger the same way you had.
Which only made you walk faster toward your unassuming father.
"It's all washin' over me, I'm angry again"
You found him reviewing a chart outside one of the trauma bays, calm and focused, completely unbothered. The sight alone made your blood boil.
"Dr. Robinavitch." Robby looked up immediately. The tone of your voice had done its job, because for half a second, genuine concern flashed across his face.
"What's wrong?" You swallowed hard.
"Can I speak with you for a moment?" His eyes immediately scanned you, checking for panic, urgency, for some sort of sign that something had gone wrong with a patient. You gave him nothing and the silence stretched.
Then he nodded, taking a deep breath, "Yeah."
He handed the chart to a passing resident. "Let's go."
The walk to the call room was painfully quiet, every second giving you another opportunity to reconsider and back down.
Robby turned as soon as the door shut behind you, "What happened?"
The concern was still there, still expecting a medical problem or maybe even a patient gone rogue and something had happened to you, but he definitely wasn't expecting anything like this.
You folded your arms. "Why did you talk to Dr. Mohan like that?"
The concern vanished instantly as an almost eerie silence filled the room. Robby stared at you, and seeing as you were never one to back down, you stared back.
Slowly, his expression hardened. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me." he let out a dry, humorless laugh, letting you know this conversation was going to be as productive as any other confrontation with him as ever been
"That's what this is about?" The disbelief in his voice only made you angrier, but you took a deep breath, knowing better at this point than to match his energy- especially not right off the bat.
"Yeah," You nodded. "That's what this is about."
Robby scoffed and looked away, like he couldn't believe he was having this conversation.
"We are in the middle of a shift." Your jaw tightened.
"Don't do that."
"Do what?"
"Act like the problem is me bringing something up instead of what actually happened." Robby laughed, short and humorless, once again. The same exact laugh that had made your stomach drop when he was standing over Samira.
"You have absolutely no idea what you're talking about." The words landed exactly the way he intended them to- dismissive, belittling, familiar. As if he was aiming to tranquilize you and end the conversation there.
Realistically, it should've ended there. You agreed with him slightly in that, yes, you were at work, and there were other things to focus on, but if he had time to publicly humiliate a doctor, he had time to be scorned for such.
You'd spent the last six years healing and growing out of your old habits, including reacting immediately and outrageously to someone who was clearly trying to get that emotion out of you. Your father was really the only person who did that, but you still managed to learn some patience for that sort of attitude, even while you were away from him
Your pulse quickened, and you took another deep breath to ensure that your voice would come out even and professional. "You absolutely berated Dr. Mohan just now."
"I corrected a resident."
"You humiliated her." Robby knew you were right, as you so often were. You sounded so much like Jack right now... This conversation was the second one he'd had today where he was being told off for being shitty toward people who were looking to him for guidance.
"No." His voice sharpened immediately. "I didn't."
"Half the department was staring at her-"
"Good." The answer came so quickly it stunned you. Robby stepped closer, not aggressively, but with the same intensity he used when teaching, or rather, making a point.
"Maybe next time she'll remember."
Your mouth fell open, the last of your newfound maturity and restraints slipping away, "Oh my God."
"What?" he spit out
"You think that's okay?"
"You think patient care is a joke?" The question hit like a slap. Suddenly, the conversation wasn't about Samira anymore- it was about competence. Or was it responsibility? Or maybe it was just another thing of authority. All things Robby could always weaponize when cornered.
You closed your eyes and took the deepest breath you could imagine, knowing this would be the last one if this conversation didn't end here and now. "No one said that."
"Then stop acting like I screamed at her for fun." You took a step forward, finally starting to match his irritation and intensity, "You really think that's what I'm saying?"
"Honestly?" Robby threw his hands up with a slight shrug. "Yeah."
The word echoed in the tiny room. "You walked in here because you saw thirty seconds of an interaction, and suddenly you're an expert on how I treat my staff."
You laughed, the sound holding no humor whatsoever, finally catching up to your father in mood. "An expert? Seriously?"
"You don't know the patient." Robby shook his head, glaring down at the floor.
"You don't know the context." He glanced up at you as he began stalking toward you, keeping his chin lowered but his gaze holding yours. It was a familiar intimidation tactic that you'd grown immune to
"You don't know what happened." His voice grew sharper with every sentence. And even though you knew better than to let him get to you, suddenly you were sixteen again, standing in a kitchen trying desperately to be heard.
"You cannot just walk in here and talk to me however you like." The volume finally rose, not quite yelling yet, but getting close to it.
"I know you think you got away with that shit when you were younger, but that is absolutely NOT going to fly here." You tried to keep your face neutral, knowing the fire in your eyes was already giving too much away, but you couldn't hold back the flinch as he barked his denial at you.
This wasn't Dr. Robby talking to a medical student. Not an attending talking to a colleague. It was a father talking to a child.
You felt even more infuriated as your vision blurred with anger, humiliated that he still had this effect on you, but even more so that you thought he might've changed. I mean, you had- so what was stopping him from doing the same? What was stopping him from becoming better?
"Wow." You breathed out. Robby crossed his arms with a roll of his eyes. "Oh, spare me."
"No." You shook your head, hands coming up in defense, disbelief racking your heart. "No, that's actually insane."
"What is? That I won't let you-" You cut him off before he could accuse you of something else
"No- That you still do... this." You gestured wildly between the two of you. His brow furrowed. "Do what?"
"That... thing where you decide nobody else could possibly know what they're talking about. That I couldn't possibly understand anything you do or why you do it." Robby rolled his eyes, the motion making your blood pressure spike.
"You think I'm shitting on you for fun?" The words burst out before you could stop them. "You absolutely berated Dr. Mohan just now! And for what? Huh??"
Robby opened his mouth, but you didn't let him. "She was trying to explain herself!"
And just like he carried on before, you followed suit "She was giving you an answer."
Your tone rose, but never your volume. You'd learned that being loud doesn't mean being right very early on. "She was talking to you like a professional, and you talked over her every single chance you got!"
The room fell silent, both of you breathing harder now, neither willing to back down, neither willing to leave. Somewhere beneath the anger, beneath the frustration, beneath the years of resentment, you realized this stopped being about Samira a long time ago.
"You think I'm the bad guy here?" Robby asked incredulously. You stared at him, neither answering nor looking away. He shook his head, "You've been here one day."
He had one hand on his hip, the other lifting a finger to be in your face, a gesture so familiar it made your stomach turn.
"One day." The emphasis hit exactly where he intended.
"You don't know these people.- you don't know how this department works." You felt your jaw tighten. Strike two.
"You. Don't. Know. What. You. Are. Talking. About." There it was, the final blow. He punctuated every single word, spelling it like for you like were stupid.
The silence stretched between you, and something in your expression changed. Robby saw it immediately- the anger disappeared, replaced by something colder. You looked tired
You nodded once, slowly, "Okay..."
The single word caught him off guard. Your arms dropped from where they'd been crossed over your chest, the fight leaving your posture entirely, "Okay."
"Y/n-"
"Nope." You shook your head, not even angry anymore. You took a step backward toward the door. "Forget it."
Robby frowned as he watched you reach for the door handle.
"Have a good shift, Dr. Robby."
The title hit harder than it should have. You pulled the door open, and this time, when you walked away, you didn't look back.
"The things that I lost here, the people I knew, they got me surrounded for a mile or two"
By the time you made it back to the rest of the department, the anger had settled into something heavier. Something sat deep in your chest and followed you around until something else could occupy your mind.
Like anyone else in this place, you threw yourself back into work because that's all you could do, Patient after patient. Chart after chart. Anything to keep your brain occupied.
It worked for the most part- at least until Dana appeared beside you. You didn't notice her appearance, only the coffee she set down next to your workstation. You glanced up, but she didn't look at you. She didn't ask any questions. Didn't make a scene. She simply slid into the empty chair beside you. The two of you sat in silence for a few seconds.
"You know-" Dana clicked through a chart, "I almost let Jack follow you."
A humorless huff of air escaped through your nose before you could stop it. "That would've been a disaster."
"That's what I said." The corner of her mouth twitched before you looked back down at the computer. The brief moment of amusement disappeared as quickly as it came. Dana finally glanced over and watched you for a second.
You could tell she was staring, trying to gauge whether or not you were going to react poorly to her checking in on you. You rarely did, but sometimes your father's habits showed through you as well, and you got a bit of an attitude.
"You don't need to hover, ya know." Dana quirked an eyebrow and tilted her chin slightly at that, not that you saw it. "I'm an adult. And not only that, I am also a professional, and I don't need you making sure my life is perfectly in shape any time I have a less-than-pleasant moment."
Her jaw dropped slightly, a bit taken aback by your avoidance and attempt at putting distance between you. She let out an exasperated laugh and shook her head. The audacity this kid has... just like her father... Dana looked back at her screen, the amused quirk of her lip still lingering as she allowed a few moments of silence to pass.
"How bad was it?" The question was gentle, carefully and particularly delivered, knowing exactly how to talk to you after years of trying to get you to trust her... you were too similar to your father in so many ways.
You swallowed, "Not bad enough to be memorable."
Dana hummed, the sound alone telling you she didn't believe that for a second.
You stared at your computer, then glanced over at the patient board. It was too far away to read the names clearly, but you needed to look at something that wouldn't leave her in your line of sight. Eventually you sighed.
"He hasn't changed." The words felt stupid the second they left your mouth. Childish, even, and you knew that. Dana's expression softened immediately, which only made you feel worse
You rubbed at your eyes, frustrated and embarrassed, angry at yourself for caring. "I don't know."
You laughed quietly. "I think that's the part that's bothering me."
Dana stayed silent, letting you find your own words. "I spent so much time away... so much time working on myself..."
You shook your head, the admission coming easier than expected. Your brows furrowed as you bit your cheek. "I worked my ass off."
Dana nodded once, because she knew- everyone knew.
"I learned how to communicate better..." You stared at the floor. "How to let things go, how to stop picking fights-"
Another bitter laugh escaped. "At least most of the time."
That finally earned a small smile from Dana, only for it to disappear a second later as you continued, "And I think..."
You paused, trying to organize the feeling, to make it make sense of it. "I think some stupid part of me thought he'd have done the same thing."
The painfully honest words hung between you. Dana's face fell, knowing exactly where you were coming from. She shrugged, the understanding tone seeping through her voice, "You wanted him to grow, too."
You nodded, the movement was barely noticeable. "Yeah..."
You hated how your voice cracked slightly- even acknowledging it within yourself made your nose sting with emotion. "Yeah."
Dana reached over and squeezed your shoulder, firm and grounding. The same way she had when you were fifteen. The same way she had when you were twenty-one. The same way she always would.
"Sweetheart." The nickname nearly broke you. You had to close your eyes and take a deep breath, unable to meet her eyes, or else it would be the end of your well held compuser.
"You can't do somebody else's growing for them." You lowered your head immediately, jaw clenching. Dana squeezed your shoulder again. "You hear me?"
You nodded. Neither of you said anything for a moment. Across the department, someone laughed, a monitor alarm sounded, a stretcher rolled past. Life kept moving. The emergency department always did.
Her chair squeaked as Dana finally stood. "You done being sad?"
A surprised laugh escaped you. "What?"
"You get five more minutes- go take a lap." Dana pointed at the clock. "Then I need my favorite med student back."
You rolled your eyes, a smile threatening despite yourself. "Favorite?"
"Don't tell Javadi." That earned a real laugh. The first bit of relaxation you've felt since you'd walked out of that call room. Dana smiled, satisfied with herself, then headed back toward the nurses' station, leaving you with your coffee and your thoughts. You let your head fall to rest on your folded arms, giving yourself a moment to actually breathe and shut your brain off.
"You look like shit." You glanced up. Frank stood beside the workstation, hands shoved into the pockets of his scrub jacket. The sight of him alone made something in your chest loosen.
"Wow."
"You do." He pulled the empty chair beside you closer and sat down. "Dana said you disappeared."
You looked back at your coffee. "Dana needs a hobby."
Frank hummed, the sound telling you he wasn't buying it, not even a little. Neither of you spoke for a moment until Frank finally nudged your shoulder.
"Hey." You looked over. "We're happy you're back, y'know."
The words caught you off guard. Frank shrugged like it was the most obvious thing in the world before adding on, "All of us."
"Yeah." Your voice came out quieter than intended as you lowered your gaze to the paperwork in front of you. Frank's expression softened slightly.
"One bad conversation doesn't change that." You swallowed, looking down at your hands. "Especially with Robby."
"I know." Frank let the silence sit. He'd always been good at that, never rushing you, never forcing you to talk before you were ready. Eventually, he stood with an exhaled breath.
"Good." He reached over and squeezed your shoulder once as he passed behind you. "Now quit sulking."
A tired laugh escaped you despite yourself. "Thanks, Frankie."
"Anytime, kid." And just like that, he was gone again, back to work, leaving you feeling a little less alone than you had five minutes ago.
"The car's in reverse, I'm grippin' the wheel"
Across the ED, Robby watched you, his daughter, laugh at something Langdon had said. The sight should've been reassuring, but he was sure you hadn't been made aware of Langdon's leave of absence a bit ago and how it had put a strain on their relationship for a while. Or maybe you had known- maybe Frank confided in you in the way you seemed to do so with him during dark times. Things were better now, for the most part, but it shouldn't have mattered.
Instead, the sight made Robby's stomach twist. You looked at him that same way once, years ago. Before every conversation, somehow became an argument. Before phone calls became shorter. Before holidays became excuses. Before six years passed without him realizing just how much more of her life he'd missed.
Jack had been standing beside him for several minutes before either of them spoke, neither particularly eager to revisit the conversation from earlier. Unfortunately for Robby, it was impossible not to. Every time he caught sight of you across the department, he remembered the look on your face when you walked out of that call room.
"You know," Abbott finally spoke, arms crossed over his chest as he watched you disappear around a corner with Javadi and Santos, "for a doctor who's kinda known for being so observant, you are terrible at reading your own kid."
Robby scoffed, but there wasn't much conviction behind it.
"I know." The admission came quieter than intended. Jack glanced over and Robby was already looking away, back toward the floor.
The truth was, he didn't know what the hell he was supposed to do now. An apology felt inadequate- embarrassingly so. Like trying to patch a bullet hole with a bandaid.
Years didn't disappear because you said sorry. Trust didn't magically come back because you finally realized you'd screwed up. And Robby had spent most of the afternoon realizing exactly how badly he'd screwed up.
Robby dropped his head into his hands, staying there for a moment with his eyes closed. He took a deep breath before lifting his gaze back up to take in the chaos of the ED. Then released it, shaking his head with a huff.
"God..." His fingers rubbed across his forehead. "She's just like her mother."
Abbott immediately let out a noise somewhere between amusement and disbelief. "Oh, bullshit."
Robby glanced over, and Jack was already grinning. He pointed toward where you'd disappeared. "She may look exactly like her mom, but that is your daughter, Michael."
The grin widened. "To a fucking T, man."
Despite himself, Robby laughed, short and tired, moderately defeated. He hated how right Abbot was, and that realization didn't actually solve anything.
"I'm back between villages and everything's still"
By the end of the shift, you were hurting in most ways possible- your feet hurt, your back hurt, your brain hurt, and more dramatically, your heart hurt.
You'd spent the better part of twelve hours running around the emergency department, trying to learn names, remember protocols, impress attendings, and avoid thinking too hard about the argument that had nearly derailed your entire day. And for the most part, you'd succeeded.
The department had begun its nightly transition- day shift filtering out, patients still arriving, monitors still chiming. You stood at one of the workstations, finishing your final note on your chart, as the cursor blinked lazily on the screen. You stared at it for several seconds before finally signing off.
A strange mix of relief and disappointment settled in your chest- your first shift was over. You leaned back in your chair and glanced around the department. Dana was arguing with Jack about something (probably the fact that he's been here way longer than any mentally stable person would be). Princess was laughing with Mateo. Perlah was giving a report. Langdon was halfway through telling Mel some sort of story as they'd begun to head toward the lockers.
Everything looked normal, like today hadn't changed anything, and maybe it hadn't.
A familiar figure caught your attention across the department- your father, reviewing a chart, the same way he had been all day. For a moment, your eyes lingered, and as if sensing it, Robby looked up.
The distance between you wasn't very far, twenty feet, maybe less, but after six years and your interactions throughout the day, it might as well have been an ocean.
Neither of you smiled nor waved, you didn't move a muscle. The memory of the call room still sat heavily between you, and eventually, Robby looked away first, returning his attention to the chart in front of him. You swallowed, then looked away too.
The shift was over. But the conversation wasn't, and you knew this was about to be a lot harder than any other rotation you'd been on up until this point.
You gathered your things quietly, dropping your stethoscope into your bag and slipping on your jacket, trying not to dwell on the ache in your chest.
"See you tomorrow, hon." You looked up. Dana stood beside you, already smiling. It's like she could read your mind (at this point, you wouldn't be surprised if she actually could) and tell you were irrationally contemplating moving back.
Tomorrow.
You'd be back tomorrow. Back with Dana. Back with Frank. Back with Samira. Back with Santos. Back with Javadi. Back with patients. All of it... Including him.
The realization was simultaneously comforting and terrifying. A small smile tugged at your lips. "Yeah. See you tomorrow."
You slung your bag over your shoulder, then you headed toward the exit. The automatic doors slid open, and the cool evening air met your skin immediately. The doors slid shut behind you, and somewhere inside the emergency department, life carried on.
summary: When you've been feeling sick for a few weeks, Jack expects to face the worst. But a trip to the emergency room reveals something he never expected. And you have to face the fact you're there for each other in sickness and health... and everything between.
warnings: pregnancy, mentions of abbot being a widower, lots of uncertainty and anxiety, age gap (but reader is implied to be a bit older), talks about infertility/ trouble getting pregnant. let me know if I need to add anything!
notes: had this idea a few days ago and like the devious baby fever pilled gal I am and managed to bang it out in two evenings. thank you jack abbot for being my current muse.
Jack’s work shoes squeak against the linoleum floor, his heavy footsteps echoing down the empty hospital hall. He’s running, a layer of sweat already beading at his temple. The glass ambulance bay door hits the wall with a teeth chattering thud. Jack is almost suprised it didn't shatter with his thrust.
He pants, eyes scanning the hospital’s back lot, trying to find the ambulance he knew was on his way.
“Mr. Abbot, we have your wife here- she fainted in the grocer’s parking lot…”
Jack knew he shouldn't have left you. He'd had a feeling. The looming dread that had been creeping up on him the past couple of weeks.
You'd been feeling out of it for a while now. A lethargic and nauseating achiness you couldn't quite shake, no matter how much tylenol or herbal teas you’d tried.
You had played it off as nothing. Just a headache that came and went. An upset stomach due to the day old chinese food you’d eaten.
“It's fine, Jack. I’m just tired.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m okay. I’m here. You don't have to worry.”
But Jack worried.
He was always worrying.
He knew that little things sometimes added up to a bigger, meaner somethings. That if you missed the signs, you might catch it too late.
What exactly? Jack wasn't sure. He didn’t particularly want to find out.
But he sure as hell wasn't gonna let you blow it off now.
His heart pounds as the ambulance finally pulls into the bay, the emergency lights blaring an ugly red and orange. Jack bary registers the EMT saying hello to him, his eyes focused on your splayed out form, laying on the gurney.
“Hey baby,” he says, voice cracking slightly.
“Jack,” you look up at him blearily, your eyes hazy, a bandage already taped to your forehead. Jack is quick to come by your side as the EMT lowers the gurney, his hand running over the back of your hair.
“One of the bystanders said she hit her head going down. It's not too bad. Just needs some cleaning. Same for her legs,” the EMT says to Jack as she watches him carefully lift the bandage.
Jack lets out a shaky breath, pressing a kiss to the top of your head and leading your gurney back into the Pitt.
“What the hell Jack. You just ran off-” Robby calls out, watching Jack come back in. He stops once he sees you, your scraped up knees and bandaged head, the confused expression on your face. “What happened?”
“She fainted. We’ll need to start her on an iv, get her fluids and run a couple of blood tests. Do you still feel dizzy?”
“I don’t… Jack, what’s going on?” You look up at Jack, confused, panic written across your face. Jack looks back at the EMT who shakes her head.
“She was having trouble remembering the fall. Only remembers her headache and feeling sick.”
Jack remembers how you had looked this morning. The purple bruises around your eyes and the wince you'd tried to hide when he said goodbye.
“I don't have to go in today. Shen can cover if Robby really needs him to.”
“Go Jack. They need you more than me.”
He should have known better.
Robby comes beside the railing of the gurney, helping to pull it into a trauma room. You look around, your chest beginning to rise and fall quicker as your eyes begin to clear of the confused fog.
“What’s going on?”
“Jack, stay with your wife.”
“I am with her,” he throws back at Robby, turning to grab the bag of fluids Princess was moving to hand him.
“No. Stay with her as Jack. Not Dr. Abbot,” Robby tosses back, gesturing to your wide and fearful eyes. Jack swallows thickly, torn.
Especially when you groan, turning towards Robby and vomiting off the side of the gurney railing.
Jack’s heart hurts, pounding heavily against his sternum. You were here. The one place he hated seeing you.
Jack knows he can help take care of you right now. Bandage you up and order labs. He can solve the mystery behind why you were suddenly so ill. Why you haven’t been feeling well lately.
He can handle that. Dr. Jack Abbot, night attending and army vet, can handle bad news.
But just Jack. Mr. Jack Abbot, loving husband and worried widower, cannot.
He can’t take another bad diagnosis.
Jack looks up at Robby who’s helping Princess clean up the vomit, and then back at you. And he makes a decision.
“Hey,” Jack says, pushing down the railing on his side of your gurney and sitting on the edge. “Hey, honey-” He takes your head in his hands, taking the damp cloth Robby hands him and helping to clean your face.
Jack sits with you, his scrub top abandoned, his hand clasped tightly over yours. He watches as the color slowly comes back into your face, helps you take a sip of juice when your hand trembles too much to hold the cup. He stays silent for it all, Robby cleaning and bandaging your scrapes, Perlah coming in to draw your blood, the hospital gown Princess helps you into. He watches it all with a wariness. An awful churning in his gut.
A fear gnawing away at him.
“Jack,” you whisper, squeezing his hand. He hums, glancing up at you from where he was sitting beside your gurney. “It’s going to be alright.”
“I know,” he whispers back. You hadn’t said much to each other. Mostly hushed whispers and clinging to each other's hand. Like raising your voices was too much for the already overstimulating hospital room.
Jack’s knee is bouncing up and down anxiously. He couldn’t help it, his mind turning over the many diagnoses, the myriad of things that could be wrong with you. You gently wrangle your hand out of his iron grip, reaching over to rest it on his jostling knee. Jack stills at the feeling of your warm palm over the fabric of his scrub pants, swallowing. You smile.
“Whatever it is… we’ll be okay.”
"I know," Jack repeats again. But it's hard to really believe it.
He's been here once before. A hospital room just like this. The woman he loves loved sitting by his side. Slowly wasting away. And he didn’t even know it.
He sees the symptoms, too familiar and painful. The exhaustion and fatigue that wore you down. The migraines and brain fog, lethargicness and nausea that plagued you. He sees it and he knows. Whatever labs Robby is currently looking at holds a future he’s not sure he’s ready for.
You sigh, your hand moving upwards to run through his salt and pepper curls. They had already been mussed and messed up from his own hand raking through them. Jack sighs at the feeling, closing his eyes and leaning his head against your side. You hum, holding him close.
“I didn’t even get to do any shopping. I just… passed out in the parking lot.”
“Don’t worry about that,” Jack mumbles into your gown. “I’ll order some groceries for delivery later.”
“I really wanted to get that new cream cheese to try. The one with the jalapenos.” You sigh. “Gosh, I wish they could just inject that into my iv. Maybe I’d perk up faster.”
Jack can’t help but crack a smile. You hum happily, still petting his hair.
“There he is.” Jack looks up at you, his mouth open to say something. To apologize for worrying. For being so scared.
But he doesn’t get a chance.
The door to your room opens, Robby’s familiar silhouette shadowing behind the curtain.
“Jack?”
Jack clears his throat. “Yeah?”
Robby peeks his head through the fabric.
“I’ve got the test results back.” He comes in and sits down on the stool by the foot of your bed with a grunt. You give Jack a nervous look, your hand finding his again. He takes it, squeezing gently. Grounding. Robby clears his throat.
“Well, your blood panels came back fine. No signs of infection or disease.”
“So…what is it? What’s wrong with her?” Jack asks, swallowing thickly. Robby looks down at the lab work in his hands, peering over the frames of his glasses at the two of you.
“Nothing.”
The word hits harder than Jack could have expected. Of all the things he had anticipated-
You frown, looking confused.
“Nothing,” you repeat, the question no louder than a breath of air. Robby smiles and nods.
“Well, nothing that won’t go away in nine months. Congratulations kids. You're gonna have a baby."
Both of you go very still. Your mouth falls open, Jack’s eyes practically bug out of his head. Robby sits there smugly, folding the lab results over.
“A…” Jack starts, trailing off as he leans forward. Surely he’d heard Robby wrong.
“I- a baby?” You ask, dumbstruck.
“Hmm.” Robby nods. “From what I can tell you’re roughly six weeks along. Of course, you’d need an ultrasound and larger blood panel to be able to tell more accurately.”
“Pregnant,” Jack breathes. His eyes dart around the room, finally meeting Robby’s. “But how?”
Robby raises an eyebrow.
“It’s a simple process. I don’t think I have to explain the exact mechanics on conceiving to you Jack-”
"No, I know- I mean how... I can't even...
"We aren't exactly prime candidates for conceiving," you finish for Jack.
He can feel your fingers wrap tighter around his hand, your shoulder brushing against his.
Robby gives you a look, his features softening. “I know. I know, I don’t know why. It happens. Sometimes fertility problems resolve themselves. No on can pinpoint why exactly. Could be hormonal changes, medication changes, reduced stress-”
You and Jack finally glance over at each other. He looks at you, eyes raking over your face, the glimmer of hope you were trying to hide. And it hits him.
The sabbatical, he thinks. The long overdue vacation he'd finally gotten around to taking.
Three months without either of you worrying about work or patients. Three months of just the two of you; long walks in the park, lazy mornings spent in bed. Decadent yet nutritious dinners and way too many trips to the ice cream shop down the street.
Leaving behind the worries of your every day.
The sabbatical he’d finally come back from not even a few weeks ago. Just before you had begun to get sick-
You're the first to smile. A small curve upwards, more nervous than anything.
"I'm pregnant."
Jack breathes heavily in his chair.
“You are,” Robby smiles. You take a shaky breath, unsure of what to say. “There’s quite a few things we’ll have to go over. I’m sure Jack knows this speech like the back of his hand, but it’s still customary…”
Jack is half listening as Robby goes on about the usual procedure. The prenatal vitamins you’ll need, the appointments you’ll have to set up. The safety precautions and symptoms and internal changes. The risks considering Jack was older and you weren’t very young yourself.
Jack is so far zoned out he doesn’t even realize you’re calling his name.
“Jack. Honey," you shake his shoulder, frowning. “Are you okay?”
Jack opens his mouth, looking between you and Robby. He glances once at your stomach. Hidden behind the hospital gown. Looking exactly like it had yesterday.
But it was different. There wasn’t some disease growing inside you. Some foreign thing making you sick and slowly sucking the life out of you.
There was a baby growing there. You were sick because you were making another life.
Jack is hit by the realization that for the next nine months, you were going to be going through all kinds of changes. All kinds of hurdles and milestones.
A baby.
Jack suddenly feels sick.
“I have to go,” he blurts, shaking your hand off of his shoulder and beelining out of the hospital room.
“Jack!” You call out, your voice raising with surprise.
“I just need some air!”
Jack doesn’t turn back. He can’t. He can’t let you see the utter terror written on his face.
He marches down the hall, ignoring the looks the nurses give him, the confusion Trinity and Mel share as he storms out down the crowded hallway and to the stairwell.
You find Jack outside. Not on the roof like you’d panicked he’d be.
Robby had come back, shaking his head, trying to calm your racing heart.
No. After finally convincing Robby to let you help him look, You find Jack sitting on one of the benches in the park across the way from PTMC. He’s sitting there, elbows braced against his knees, staring off into the distance.
You approach him carefully, blades of grass crunching beneath the slip on clogs the hospital provided. Your clothes feel cold against you, comforting and familiar after the scratchy hospital gown. You glance back at Robby who stands at the edge of the park. He nods, encouraging you to keep going.
As you get closer, you realize Jack’s not just staring off at nothing. You catch sight of his eyes, focused and glistening beneath the late afternoon light. You follow his sight line, watching a little family on the other side of the park. A broad shouldered man tossing a foam ball to a toddler girl, her mother laughing as her girl toddles about.
You watch Jack for a moment, staying out of his sight line. You don't have to try very hard to guess what he's thinking about. The sheer amount of worry and confusion he's feeling.
You felt it yourself. The whiplash of expecting the worst outcome only to learn you were carrying something wonderful. There was still the nervousness of what the future would look like.
The schedules that would need rearranging, the house child proofed, your office room cleared out in space for another little person. Doctors appointments and ultrasound photos taped to the fridge, onesies and books and diapers tucked away in a closet.
In spite of the excitement you felt, the confused yet exhilarating feeling of knowing you were going to be a mother, you were scared.
There was a whole person you'd have to take care of. You'd have to grow and birth. You weren't exactly a spry chicken. Neither was Jack. And there were more risks and complications that came with that.
On top of all the things that came with pregnancy.
You might not be dying from some malady. But pregnancy was no small thing either.
You finally take a step forward, placing your hand gently on Jack’s shoulder. He snaps out of his stupor, back straightening, a panic written in his eyes.
“You shouldn’t be up-”
“I’m okay.” He frowns. You point to the space beside him on the bench. “Can I sit?”
Jack nods, scooting over a bit. You sit. Jack wipes his eyes with the palm of his hand; being closer now, you can see they’re red rimmed and glassy. He doesn’t look at you. Not at first.
But he’s the first to open his mouth again.
"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have run out if there. That was a dick move."
You swallow against the thick lump in your throat, trying to keep the well of anger rising at bay. It wasn’t hard to. The fear and anxiety laid bare in Jack’s voice. The thoughts he tried so hard to hide from you unveiled.
You nod. “Yeah. It kinda was."
He takes a breath, reaching out to hold your hand. You take it, his thumb brushing along the ridge of your knuckles.
"I just... this whole time I was worried I was going to lose you. I kept thinking about all the ways I’d have to watch you die. All the treatments or surgeries…” he chuckles dryly. “I was so worried about you. And now all I’m thinking about is how we’re going to have a kid walking down the aisle in a cap and gown when I’m 70.”
You sigh, the breeze a gentle comfort as it blows against your cheeks.
“That's all you’re thinking about? College already?” You give his hand a small, loving squeeze. Teasing. A clearing amidst the stormy turmoil you both had been worrying over.
“Well,” he shrugs slowly. “You know, between wondering if the pregnancy will hold. Or birth. Or what elementary school drop offs will look like and dinners and the house and my crazy schedule-”
“I know. I know, it’s a lot.”
Jack nods. “It is… and I’m scared.”
You look at him. Your heart aches with the pure sincerity written on his face. Jack was never one to hide his feelings. But he rarely gave them away easily. Not like this.
Truth written in the glassy mist of his eyes, the worry carried in the tightness of his hand around yours.
“I know,” you nod. “I know it’s not going to be easy. Robby explained the risks.”
The long list of complications and genetic disorders and risky side effects run through your mind. You hadn’t known just how fragile pregnancy became the older you got. It was just never something that had crossed your mind. To think or worry about. But now…
You continue.
“I know this wasn’t what we had planned, Jack. Us. Having kids… and I know you may not want- may not think we can do this. But I don’t think this is such a bad thing.”
Jack’s eyes widen, his frown deepening.
“What, woah. No I don’t want you thinking that. I don’t- I don’t think that.”
“Really?” You take a deep breath, hopeful. Jack finally smiles. A small and gentle quirk of his mouth.
“Really. And I’m sorry if I made you feel that way. I just… I didn’t think that I could have one.”
“A baby?” You clarify. He nods.
“I told you about what happened in the army. With my leg and, well, everything else. And you told me having kids wasn’t exactly going to be easy for you.” It’s your turn to nod.
Between Jack’s injury and age, your genetics and seemingly lackluster fertility, a baby had just never been a part of your plan. And you were fine with it. Life was crazy enough as it was.
“I know. But here we are.”
Jack nods, looking out into the park again. He’s watching the small family again, eyes glued to the man as he hoists his giggling daughter into his arms.
“Here we are,” he mumbles.
“We don’t have to figure everything out right now Jack. There’s still time.”
“Seven months and two weeks,” he huffs. You chuckle.
Robby makes Jack leave the hospital early with you.
Although Jack would use the term ‘make’ loosely, considering he had already decided he wasn’t staying the moment he saw you in the ambulance’s hull. You’re cleared to leave not long after Robby drags the both of you back into the ED, making sure to stop by the pharmacy to pick up your new prescriptions.
The prenatal vitamins and nausea medication sit among Jack’s own clutter of meds on the kitchen counter. Jack told you not to worry about groceries or the car still at the store. He’d take care of all of it in the morning.
For now, he just wanted to clean away the sterile smell of the hospital lingering on both of your clothes and get to bed.
He’s grateful, for once, that you're exhausted enough to fall asleep the minute your head hits the pillow. You’re breathing softly beneath the sheets before Jack can even pull his prosthetic off, your hand lain out on his side, like you still wanted him to hold it unconsciously.
But sleep doesn’t come for him. Jack lays awake for a long while.
The moonlight casts wispy shadows along the wall and he watches them, thinking. He plays with his wedding ring, twirling it between his fingers with mesmerizing ease.
Not the ring you'd slipped onto his left hand years ago, the dark amber band that still glistens on his ring finger. Jack plays with the wedding ring he wore a long time ago, still a young man figuring things out. From his first marriage. His first wife.
It wasn't often he pulled the ring out. Sometimes it hurt too much to even look at it; to think about and remember her. Jack fiddles with the ring now, holding it against his lips as if he could whisper all his worries into it.
The worries which still rested in the side of his ribs, changed but there all the same. Jack can’t help but think of all the things he never got to do with her. The future they’d planned cut short by an illness he couldn’t cure. Maybe it’s why he felt so scared now.
This unplanned thing laid out before him. Far out of his control.
Jack tosses and turns, his mind reeling with memories and thoughts about the future. He quietly gets up, setting the ring on his nightstand and fitting his prosthetic back on. He slips out of your bedroom, making sure you were still settled before wandering down the hall.
He’d always wanted to be a father. That wasn’t the problem. Hearing that you were pregnant had resurfaced those feelings like they’d never been buried. The idea of having a mini him, with matching curls and crooked smile. Or a mini you, with your bright eyes and pretty nose.
The problem was that desire had been locked away for a very long time. After he got injured in the army. After he became a widow. Even after he met you. Jack had begun to accept that being someone’s parent was just not in the cards he’d been dealt. But now…
Jack stands in the living room, staring around the dark room. He moves quietly, picking up a random glass and setting it in the kitchen, moving the tossed couch pillows back into their designated places. He can’t sit still when he tries. The air suffocating inside in spite of the cooling system blowing gently.
Jack ends up sitting outside on the back porch, his head in his hands.
What would she have thought? After all this time.
A baby.
Jack’s not even sure he should begin to want this. To let himself hope. There was so much uncertainty with a later in life pregnancy, of an older parent conceiving a child. The constant what ifs and complications. So much to worry about.
Jack sighs, running a hand through his mussed curls as he realizes how tired he is. Of feeling on edge. Of never feeling like he could settle. The worry of something bad happening again. Of being all alone-
A noise sounds from the bushes running along the fence.
Leaves rustle softly, twigs crunching beneath something weighty. Jack looks up, brows furrowing. He squints, standing and flipping on the porch light to illuminate the dark backyard. The rustling sounds again, and Jack inches closer.
He pauses. And then he lets out a disbelieving laugh, instantly quieting himself.
The rabbit which had ducked back into the foliage at the sound of his voice peeks it’s head out again in the new silence. Her nose twitching, beady black eyes staring straight into Jack. He lets out a breath, in awe of the rare sight. He knew there were plenty of rabbits that lived around the neighborhood. He often saw where they burrowed through your garden or ate certain plants. But actually seeing one was rarer.
Of all the nights…
He goes still when the rabbit moves. Inching slowly out of the bush. She turns back, snuffling softly and moving forward again. A baby in tow.
Now, Jack was not a very superstitious man. At least, not by nature. He laughed when Ellis chastised him for saying the “q” word in the ED, rolled his eyes when Joy and Nazely talked about karma.
But if life had taught Jack anything, it was to never ignore the signs.
He watches the pair of rabbits hop through the backyard, eyes following their path until they squeeze through the cracked boards of the fence, disappearing into the night. Jack lets out a slow and much needed exhale, the cool air of the night finally feeling fresh.
New.
Second chances that don't always happen every day.
Baby rabbit.
Baby Abbot.
He liked the sound of that. And maybe, this time, there wouldn’t be so much to worry about. Not with you by his side.
"Jaack!" You call out from the kicthen, where you're putting the first few bags of groceries away.
"Yeah?" Jack's voice echoes down the hall, the sound of more paper bags rustling.
"Did you get- never mind!" You grin as you find the tub of cream cheese you'd been dying to get your hands on, practically tearing the package open and digging in. You let out a satisfied hum as you eat a spoonful of the spicy spread, nodding in satisfaction.
Jack enters the kitchen, arms full of groceries, an amused look on his face.
"As good as you'd hoped it'd be?" You hum again.
"Better. I think your child already has great taste in cuisine."
Jack stills for a fraction of a second, then smiles. He sets down the bags and moves over by your side, pressing a kiss to your forehead, carefully around the tender cut still hidden by a bandage.
"Yeah they do."
You both put away the food and various household items you'd needed to stock up on. Trash bags and pasta, that lavender creamer you loved and Jack's protein bars he always carried in his scrub pockets.
You munch on a bagel- properly toasted and spread with your cream cheese because Jack insisted on at least being civilized about your cravings- going through the last bag. The bag crinkles as you feel around inside; you frown as your hand comes into contact with something soft. Fluffy. You peer inside.
A little stuffed bunny peers back at you. You stare at it for a moment, and then you laugh.
"Jack?"
"What?" He asks, folding the towel he'd just used to wash his hands. You smile, holding up the bunny. His ears go pink and he gives you a bashful grin.
"I just thought... well I thought it might be cute for the baby. You know, rabbits are thought to be good luck charms or something."
I FOUND IT. Oh my god I'm so glad I could find it again. I swear to god this fic fixed something in me as a supposedly infertile as well as older woman. Like I'm not saying it would ever happen but being able to put myself in the Reader's shoes here and have Jack be on the other side… It was just a balm on my soul.
Thank you for writing this, Scarlett. It is gorgeous.
the sunshine of the night shift, all cookies and lavender, loves to make the grumpy, sassy, silver fox attending smile through attempts at flirting and baked goods. but what happens when he asks a certain replacement attending for drinks and the sunshine dims?
—angst. hurt/comfort. fluff ending. reader can be described as plus size but no specified race. age gap (reader is in her late 20s, early 30s, our grumpy man in his late 40s, early 50s). medical inaccuracy.
part two coming soon !
thank you to @cafekitsune for the lovely divider!
"Are those croissants?"
"Better yet, they are vanilla cream stuffed croissants."
The unsubtle smell of your new croissants wafted through the air, alerting almost everyone of your presence that came with new baked goods like a package deal. All the pittlings, as you so dearly called them, looked up as Dana playfully scoffed at the obscenely mouthwatering croissants which you brought in.
"Trin, wait—"
"Nope!"
"No, no, no! You stole all of the cookies last week!" Matteo came running, hands already up to defend the desserts as Trinity opened up the lid of your container before you could even reach the nurses' station.
"What about me—I'm literally her favourite—"
Dennis almost tripped trying to catch up as you gave custody of your beloved croissants to one of the hands trying to poach them away. You walked up to the nurses station handing a secret stash to dana and lena, your mama nurses, before grinning at the scene in front of you.
"You're spoiling them." Dana scolded, without any bite. She also knew how much they deserved it, and how you were too sweet to actually stop treating the youngest of the pitt.
You gave her a side hug. "They deserve something after busting their asses here, especially under Robby. God knows what's up his ass these days. How many times did he yell at Samira today?"
Dana and Lena scoffed, "Almost told her she didn't belong here again."
You rolled your eyes. This wasn't new at all. You made a mental note to check up on the girl yourself.
You looked at them in front of you. Matteo, Trinity and Dennis were already battling against each other and somehow Langdon had already gotten away with two pieces—one for Mel, obviously—and then Shen's invading hands also won the match.
Your heart warmed at all of them.
"You done distracting my staff, nurse?"
A buzz of electricity shot through your spine at the deep, gravelly voice. You turned around on your heels, a sly grin adorning your face, cheeks bumped up to meet his almost smirk and beautiful hazel eyes.
Dr. Jack Abbot. Your grumpy, sassy, hot attending. Your personal mission.
"So you agree that I'm distracting?"
Javadi made a choked noise that sounded almost like chortle while covering her mouth.
He huffed at you, crossing his arms on his chest. You had to keep your eyes from drifting to the muscles on his big arms taut against his broad chest.
"Bribing my students with baked goods? That's distracting."
"You know, its crazy—all I keep hearing is that you find me a.k.a my cooking is distracting, doc."
"Yeah? Well that's medically compromising—you should get your ears checked."
You rolled your eyes, your grin unwavering by his dry quips. "Well, what's medically compromising is your appetite, Abbot. Say, when was the last time you tried any of my distracting goods?"
He raised his eyebrows, "Why? You want me distracted too, nurse?" His voice dropped a decibel, as if the whisper was a secret meant to only rile you up. Your cheeks immediately turned pink, dusting the tips of your ears as well.
Your grin faltered. His almost came into view.
"Very subtle—" Shen coughed up, very unsubtly as your intimate moment with the attending came crashing. Jack took a quick look at your face; pink cheeks and ears and the confidence of the sunshine he managed to falter. A prideful feeling almost bloomed in his chest—only he could affect you like this. Fluster you like this. A small smile was about to make to his face, but was he about to let you win?
"Okay, back to work everyone! Santos, you still have to finish those charts!"
He moved away from your space, the warmth lingering in your heart. But you saw it—he almost gave in.
"Well, sunshine—you almost made it. take the win, will ya?" Dana's voice rang out in the back. but you shook your head, your lower lip getting caught between your teeth, leaning back onto the counter, watching your grumpy attending order around. "Never giving up on this, Dana. Not until he actually smiles, or even laughs."
"God, when will you both stop?"
—
It all started during a particularly, mercifully uneventful night at the pitt.
You, including almost everyone at the pitt, had their eyes glued on the screen with dollars on stake. Will the stupid teenagers who stole their professor's car, with a brake fail, be caught by the unwitting police? Or will they crash? In who's vicinity? Presby or will they have to save lives in the pitt, yet again?
You had put 40$ on presby and he had snorted. "You're optimistic."
"You should try it sometimes—might just make your grumpy face prettier, old man."
Whittaker's eyes widened, Trinity side eyed Perlah and Princess who were looking like they just found gold, Jesse and Donnie stopped incessantly organising the crash cart in case the car did crash in the pitt's vicinity and Dana and Robby smirked at each other.
Amusement etched onto the attending's face and it was a thrill you never stopped chasing. "C'mon, even the grumpy dwarf in snow white smiled, doc—what's stopping you?"
He just shook his head at you, huffing at the comment and walked off. You watched him walk away with his back towards you and accepted the challenge. "One day or the other, I'm gonna make you smile, Abbot—maybe even laugh—you'll see!"
He raised his eyebrows at you and leaned back onto a wall with his arms crossed on his chest, making something thunder inside your body. "We'll see about that, nurse. But first, you might want to look at the screen."
The police had caught them.
—
After that day, you brought in your best food and your best lines. But somewhere along the way, it stopped being just about seeing him smile. I mean, obviously you wanted to see him smile, almost concerned it would make your heart stop, but Jack Abbot started to mean something more.
Seeing him everyday, looking into his soulful eyes, his stupid soft voice while talking to patients and the almost smile he gives you during your shenanigans bloomed a deep, warm, ridiculously fuzzy feeling which had set itself somewhere behind your sternum.
Even if it got a huff out of him, a scoff, a smirk that burned its way through the small space in between you both to between your legs or just raised eyebrows.
So, you never stopped flirting. Never stopped baking. Never stopped chasing his smile. It became your dream. Because you knew it would be breathtaking to see it, feel it and know that you were the cause of it.
So, you were here, with a hop in your step, making your way towards the man.
"And I thought these dull hospital lights could never make anyone look good, but here you are, proving me wrong, Mr. Grouch."
He didn't even look up from the chart he was assessing. "Don't you have patients to check up on?"
"Don't you have some smiling to do?"
He turned to look at you and the warm feeling started to spread through your body, unwarranted. He was about to quip back, his mouth opening slightly when—
"19 year old, GSW to the chest, head trauma, pulse is thready—"
Jack's shoulders and jaw set itself tight, as if bracing for whatever was about to come next. he kept the chart back with a thud, going around you, hand brushing on your lower back. "You're with me. Smiling later." He said, lowly, breath fanning your ear.
"Promise?" Your voice had gone heavy.
You gulped as you both walked towards the gurney, his hand still on your lower back, a small comfort before heading into the storm. He glanced back at you, before getting to the boy after you gave him a nod of readiness.
"Trauma 2 is open!" You heard princess yell.
You took a deep breath before going in, hoping this one will turn around. Everyone is here. Jack is here.
It was going to be okay.
—
Your hands trembled.
Your breath was stoic. It didn't dare to move the air between you or the resident still doing cpr.
Jack glanced at his watch. "Stop."
His voice had lost its sharpness but it still held authority. It honeyed through the trauma room, reaching you. But it didn't warm you up like it usually did. His concerned face was focused at the year 2 resident who was starting to hyperventilate. She still kept going.
He glanced at you. You understood what he needed. You moved forward, your body numb. "Sweetheart, you need to let go. Its okay, its going to be alright—"
"No!" She shrieked. You heard Jack calling her name. "He was younger than me—" She whispered.
Jack stepped forward and gripped her shoulders. "Its okay, doctor. Let go. Look at me—I need you to breathe."
Her hands went slack. The machine beeped mercilessly. "Time of death, 5.57 am."
You circled your arms around her as she fell, weeping into your chest.
"shh, I know. C'mon let's get you out." You whispered, your voice sweet as sugar, your soul numbing as the machine beeped.
Jack looked at you but you avoided his gaze. Your hands were trembling, your vision was blurring and your heart was trying to punch its way through your body. Your brain couldn't take it. But you still took care of the people around you. You squeezed donnie's hand on the way out because you knew his kid was also a teenager. You promised princess a treat because you knew she was not going to eat after this. You took care of the resident in your arms because you knew she wont be able to sleep after this.
His gaze burned on your back as it followed your figure through the overbearing walls of the pitt.
After, you got the resident settled, you were about go off to take a breather when Ellis called your name. "Hey! The kid in trauma 2, do you mind calling his parents and informing them?" Your heart ached and flashbacks of another trauma, another death, another set of parents losing their whole world burned in your mind. But you nodded.
"Hello? am I speaking to Mrs Shah?" You introduced yourself, "I'm speaking from Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center—"
Immediately the questions started, the panic, the desperation, the devastation. You sighed, your exhaustion and anguish slipping out. You tried to explain the urgency, that they needed to come immediately. Your hands shook as you hung up and closed your eyes.
You tried to busy yourself, checking up on other patients, but your mind still wandered away to the boy. The sorrow of another soul departing, another young life you couldn't save, another injustice was too heavy. The grief set in your bones.
It was a reminder of how this job got harder. These walls sometimes seemed too hollow, too empty, with the losses all of the doctors had faced. This department wrung people out with its cruelty. You were expected to move on with no time to process everything.
That's where Jack came.
Being with him, bantering, flirting, joking—it gave you joy—something that the E.D could never steal. He made working and just being there easier, as if the air got much more breathable around him. You were almost addicted to the giddiness you felt around him. his salt and pepper curls, his teasing voice with you, his dry sarcasm, the way his black tee stretched around the muscles on his back and biceps—
"Excuse me? We were called in urgently? We are looking for our son? Neil Shah?"
The grief crashed down on you. Your eyes turned glassy again and tried to look for any other nurse or even Jack so that you wouldn't be in this position. Not again. Not where you have to inform the parents that their beloved child has passed away. Not where you have to hear the wails of the mother and denial of the father.
You sighed in defeat and led them to an empty room. Slowly, you explained what had happened. How their son had passed away. "I'm sorry for your loss, Mr. and Mrs Shah. Truly."
They had started crying, asking you questions, Demanding answers to truths you didn't know. Until one question. "How did he get shot?"
"He—" Your voice broke, but that's when you felt a warm, steady hand on your shoulder. Your beacon of comfort. You immediately recognized it. "I'm Doctor Abbot—I performed the surgery on your son. Nurse, could you please assist Dr. Kwan with a consult in south eight?"
Your heart filled with gratitude. He gave you an out. And you took it. You nodded but not before mouthing a thank you to the man in front of you. He squeezed your shoulder before holding the door open for you and your heart squeezed. Why did he have to be so kind?
You took a quick glance towards him before getting out. You felt you could breathe.
That did not long last.
"Can you believe he did that? I mean, if I was in his place, I would never put my life on the line—for a girl i just met? That was so stupid—"
You took a sharp inhale and jerked your head to the voice. "How dare you? Just because you don't even have an ounce of the bravery, the courage and the empathy that he had, doesn't mean you get to call it stupid, you—"
Before you could go up to him and slap him, strong hands grabbed you, wrapping around your torso, with no harshness but just comfort coursing through.
"Ogilvie, if you don't have even 1% basic empathy or haven't heard the phrase 'dont talk ill of the dead' I suggest you drop out of medical school and go back to 3rd grade."
You shoulders visibly relax at the voice and at his fingers which softly caressed your chubby love handles—this man was not helping you keep cool. Heat travelled up your neck when you felt his chest rumble with some instructions he gave to the resident in front of him.
Jack called your name and his hands travelled to your shoulders. "Come on, let's go—"
"What? what about the consult—"
"That was a lie—"
"You dog—"
"Come on, you nuisance. Let's get you a breather."
—
"The roof?"
"You'll see."
The door busted open and strong gust of wind hit you in the face. And there it was.
You gasped and your hands went to Jack's forearm. "Oh my god."
"Oh my god."
"Come on, you wanna see the sunrise?"
"Well, at least ask me for a cup of coffee first, old man. You losing your touch already?" He gave you a deadpan look. "But of course, if you insist."
He took you to the railing. "I've heard you go even beyond the railing..."
Jack gave you a side eye. "Oh come on, you really believe anything really stays in the box at this hole?" He still did not entertain you. "Please, Jack?" You gazed up at him, with your best puppy eyes.
"Alright. But only this time."
He ducked and got across first, holding out his hand for you, fingers gently taking your palm and helping you cross the railing. "Thank you," You softly murmured, the touch growing the warmth in your chest. the sunrise had only taken its footing—the soft blue of the sky was slowly lighting up. "So," You took a deep breath, "why did you bring me to your sacred space?"
"Sacred space? Really?" Jack scoffed.
"Everybody knows its where you and Robby come to make heart eyes at each other—" He grunted and you let out a soft laugh. "Come on, tell me." You whined.
"I saw you." He spoke. "After–after you realized he was gone, after we declared the time of death. your hands were trembling," Your breath hitched. "Your breaths were small, your voice was—" You looked away. His gaze bore deep into your eyes, trying to probe out the vulnerability gently, and his voice was too tender, too warm, almost wrapping you up in their saccharine like blanket. "The point is, you still took care of everyone. Donnie, Princess, the resident—"
"Someone has to. I just choose to. Nobody forces me to, Jack." Your voice gets small.
"And when will you let yourself take care? When will you take a breath?" Your breath hitched. "You're the sunshine of the dark side, sweetheart. We don't want you fading out while you take care of others." He syruped.
You hoped it would stay dark so that he couldn't see the red on your cheeks, the heat crawling up your neck and how you couldn't trust your own voice anymore. But you braved on.
"um, I dont know if you know this, doc, but I shifted to nights for a reason other than one grumpy teddy bear," You let out a giggle when jack let out an annoyed huff, "there was a girl, 19, just like today's kid. She was abducted and tried escaping, but the abductor shot her. She was brought in, I was a part of the surgery and despite everything, despite Robby busting his ass—she–" Your voice broke and you gripped the railing. "She almost escaped it, but...her parents were angry more than heartbroken. Her mother threw things at the father, he yelled back and I tried to calm them down, but h-he pulled me in, threw me in the wall and said I was too incompetent, I couldn’t save his daughter's life."
You inhaled sharply. "He killed himself 2 months later."
"Look at me."
"Jack—"
He pleaded your name. "That was not your fault. It will never get easy, I know that...too well. But you learn to live around it, but I need you to understand that it was not your fault."
You nodded. "How do you live with it?"
"Before returning to Pittsburgh, before my...leg, in Afghanistan—we used to get this street food. It used to be sold at nights and we used to switch routes and trade fucking mattresses and anything just to have a chance to get it. Its called kolcha. It used to be heaven in the hell we were put in.
I used to see my brothers get blown up, losing their lives, civilians losing a sense of humanity after the way everyone treated them. But there are soft joys that help the grief. that helped me live. Stopped me from..." He trailed off, a pensive look forming on his face.
Your hand clasped around his on the railing. He gazed up at you, your eyes already on him, so honeyed, filled with care and admiration, with so much compassion, he didn't know what to do with it.
You both just gaped at each other. Your hearts filled to the brim. Getting lost in time.
Suddenly, a ray of sunlight reflected in Jack's hazel eyes and you broke your contact, a gasp forming on your lips as you tore your eyes away to marvel at the jawdropping sunrise.
The sun was officially peeking up. Its rays bounced off skyscrapers made of glass, lighting up the small alleys of the street. The orange and yellow shades painted the horizon and you almost died right there. "Its so beautiful..."
The sunlight was colouring your skin, your giddiness coming out with the sun.
"Will you take care of yourself, sunny?"
You let out a sweet giggle. "Sunny?"
"The sun clearly loves you." He murmured softly before tucking in a strand of hair fallen haphazardly on your eyes, blocking him from the view.
"Hmm, you're going soft on me, old man. Or are you just manipulating me so that I won't tell anyone that your grumpy attitude is a hoax and you're just a big ol' teddy bear?"
He snorted and let out a soft smile.
Your heart jumped.
"Oh my god!" you gasped and pointed. "Oh my god! You smiled!"
"Come on, sunny. Let's get you inside before you tragically die due to slipping while celebrating something that never happened—"
"Excuse me—" You scoffed but let him lead you onto the safer side of the railing, his hands on your shoulders, sliding down to your hands to steady you as you come over.
"Try convincing Robby that you did it—"
"Oh fuck off, you are just a big, fuzzy, loving teddy bear inside—"
His smile burned through you, in your heart.
And as you predicted, you could never forget it.
—
The next day, there was a new skip to your walk as you entered the pitt. You had spent your day trying to calm down your heart every time you reminisced what happened on the roof. Your skin would jump with goosebumps and your cheeks would immediately redden. So you distracted yourself in the best way.
You walked in with a box in your hand. The aroma of the newly tried recipe made everyone turn their heads. But this time you refrained from giving in to your beloved pittlings' puppy eyes.
Lena and Dana raised their eyebrows. "What's got our sunshine happier than before?"
"Nothing." You squealed softly.
"Mhm." Lena hummed. But mama nurse knew you too well. She knew all of you too well. "You know, you spent an awful lotta time on the roof yesterday. And what's that in the box you're tryin' so hard to keep away?"
"Its for Jack." You murmured. "He mentioned this food he had when he was in Afghanistan—"
"Didn't Dr. Abbot take you up on the roof yesterday?" Joy chimed in.
"What!?" Trinity yelped.
"Excuse me?" Dana took her glasses off and left them on the counter with a thud.
"Are you serious?" Matteo asked you, with her eyes wide open as Princess squealed to Perlah. "i knew it! may utang ka sa akin ng 50 bucks!"
Donnie gave you a pat on the back, like he was proud of you. "W–wait—guys—"
"What's going on here?"
You closed your eyes and sighed in defeat. The voice, the man, the mchottie who had you in trouble. Ellis leaned up on the counter with a dangerously smug look on her face. "Well, we were just talking about sunshine here and yo—"
Your eyes widened and embarrassment crawled up your veins in your neck, swirling anxiety in your brain with all the ways this could go wrong. "Okay! Everybody go back to work, now! Trinity, go home. Ellis, your labs for the 33 year old lady in north five are here and Matteo—"
She peered at Matteo with her glasses slid down till her nose, staring at his phone dreamily, who straightened up, as if he was caught with a scandal. "—do us all a favour, keep the yearning for Dr. Javadi aside and get. back. to. work!"
Everyone scrambled off. You gaped at her with a grateful look in your eyes. "You are amazing."
You turned around to look at the man you've been—shamefully or shamelessly you didn't know—thinking about the whole night and your jaw almost dropped. The sight was marvelous.
Jack abbot in gear.
Camouflage pants and a tight black tee.
"Take a picture, it'll last longer." He dryly quipped at you.
Before you could reply, a gurney came bursting through the bay. "55 year old man, cardiac arrest—"
You felt his whole body reset and bracing like it always did. "Sunny, you're with me—"
"Sunny?" Shen asked, a knowing, smug look adorned his face as his eyes jumped from him to you. Your whole body flushed. He was going to be your ruin. Jack ignored Shen's absolutely valid inquiry with the excuse of the patient in front of him. But you're frozen.
He still remembered your conversation.
Did he think about it again and again and again like you did?
Your heart did not stop pumping blood but your brain stopped producing logic it seems.
"Sunny? You still with me?" Hus rough yet gentle voice coaxed you out of your thoughts and reminded you of the situation at hand. You cleared your throat and just nodded wordlessly, hoping no one would notice the red on you face.
How will you survive this man?
After sending him off to surgery, Crus looked between the both of you, as if he could sense the electricity between you, the tension, the undying sense of something happened here and just these two are in denial. "That was smooth."
Jack raised one eyebrow at him, amusement etched onto his face. "What was?"
Crus cleared his throat. You stilled. You knew what was coming. Crus did not stop. "You two make a good team."
You shot him a glare that seemed somewhere between 'i will kill you' and 'please don't make my life hell'. He saw it, noted it, considered it.
And threw it in the trash apparently. "Just saying. Everyone saw it inside. Its like you both were in sync. Unstoppable. Inevitable—"
Don't say it.
"—made for each other."
Shen made a choked sound and Ellis pursed her lips, trying to contain her giggle. Beside you, Jack stilled.
"Sunny makes it easier. Made for the night shift." He grunted out.
"Don't make it sound dramatic." He signed on some discharge papers and handed them to Lena. His hand brushed against yours. "Bye, sunny." he murmured softly against your cheek and left you. All by yourself. To process what just happened.
"So, sunny?"
"Shut up, guys."
You turned around and walked towards the supply closet, nothing but an excuse to ditch the conversation that you are about to face.
They followed you like little ducklings.
"What happened to you guys on the roof?" Crus asked.
"Nothing happened—and how do you know?"
Ellis scoffed as if the notion of anything staying a secret in this hospital was absurdly ridiculous. "Come on! tell us—"
"Nothing happened guys and shush!" You glared at them. They peered on you with curiosity as your body shook with embarrassment? Humiliation? Adrenaline? The mere thought of Jack abbot and you on the roof?
Shen slurped on his stupid watered down coffee. "You should go for it."
"I will stab you—"
"No, he's right! At least then your sexual tension in between emergency traumas will not traumatise us."
"Excuse me?"
"Please—even the unconscious patient can sense it!"
You huffed and crossed your arms as if it could save you from this conversation and put on a mask of denial. "That's not even remotely true. besides—I don't like him!"
The three of them stared at you. "Yes, and Shen doesn't live on caffeine." Ellis deadpanned. "You cant deny something we see literally everyday. You banter, flirt, tease and even cook for him! Didn't you make something specially for him today?"
Crus gasped dramatically. "Whaaaat?"
You rolled your eyes. "Its not that big of a deal."
"Yes, it is." The three of them chimed in unison. Your eyes fell on their faces, their relentless questions and sighed in defeat. You scrunched your face, closing your eyes for just a second and then squinting at them. "Am I that obvious?"
"Yes—"
"No—"
You pursed your lips and raised your eyebrows at them. "Seriously?"
They gave you wordless looks almost meant to serve with pity, empathy, hope. You don't know. "Listen, you just made this afghan food for him which I know you've never even heard of before. You try to make him smile everyday and there is this embarrassingly obvious sexual tension in between you. Don't think that the ED is half blind to miss the looks you give him."
You sharply inhaled.
"Hey, there's no harm in going for it—he will say yes. If he doesn't, that's his loss. some other person will get your perfectly baked goods." Ellis assured you.
That's when your brain imagined it—wildly. Not in the unsaid, shy and restrained ways it has been doing for the past months. The vivid image of you and the attending you made smile, together, in each other's arms, happy. Holding hands, requited secret glances, soft kisses, stolen touches, his eyes with a gentleness and passion just saved for you and a love that's not a secret—its known, its seen and understood—but its just for both of you.
Your heart skipped a beat.
Your cheeks blushed furiously.
The three of them smirked, knowingly.
"I—" You gulped and stammered on your words. "I need to be somewhere." Your hands shook and your brain didn't comprehend what you needed, nor did your body and it all was about to go crashing when—
"What are you all doing there? Don't you have jobs?"
Jack.
You didn't whether to sigh in relief or wring your hair out in frustration. This man was going to end you. "You know, sunny also has patients to attend to, rather than hearing you guys bicker or gossip about whatever it is."
You felt heat and humiliation hiking up your neck as you notice the smug looks they give each other before wandering off. "Yes boss."
But not before Ellis winked at you, Crus gave you a smug salute, and Shen slurped away loudly, obnoxiously, knowingly, looking back and forth between you and Jack.
Speaking of the man, he just leaned against a counter, gazing at you, with an unpredictable and unreadable look on his face. "Well, since you're done organising that supply closet for the 4th time, some patients are getting starved of your sunshine. Unless, of course, the supply room is in dire need of your attention, sunny."
Sudden confidence flared in your chest. "Well, cap'n grumps, you could just say you are in dire need of attention. No need to shame my perfect supply room."
Your mouth spoke before your brain you could stop it. His mouth twitched, just slightly, his amusement not hiding under a curtain and a glimmer in his pretty eyes which made you weak in the knees. "Get back to work, sunny." He murmured, head shaking and his shoulders lighter than before.
You almost giggled. "Of course, boss."
You walked away. every sense in your body was tingling, goosebumps on your skin and a fire somewhere in the pit of your stomach and a familiar fuzzy feeling growing stronger beneath your chest.
You didn't know if you were going to survive this man. You didn't know if you wanted to.
—
The next hours of the shift were determined to drain the soul out of you.
There were 4 traumas at the same time and a statewide insufficiency of nurses. So that meant you had to jump back and forth. Chairs was filled and actually overflowing while you had a scarcity of beds so all the nurses were charged with scheduling, organising and moving beds according to the level of emergency and pain patients were facing. Plus, you had multiple patients and a family who had declared that dr. google was more knowledgeable than a nurse.
Amazing.
And you hadn't gotten a chance to even eat.
When you finally got a chance to eat in the breakroom, that's when you saw it. The kolcha. Untouched. Because you wanted him to have the first bite. First taste. Just to see that Heartwarming smile again.
You bit your lip and took a peek outside. Everything had slowed down. Just for bit, you were sure, before another trauma, another emergency, another goddamn patient too obnoxious and blind to only believe what google says pulls you in.
This was the time, you decided.
So, you picked up the box, an extra hop to your walk, as you looked for him.
Jack abbot.
Ellis' words rang in your ears and your heartbeat sped up. Should I do it?
Take the chance, the risk?
"Hey, Lena, do you know where Jack is?" You asked softly, almost bashfully, as she narrowed her eyes at you but then flashed you a knowing look before pointing at a room.
The buzz in your heart and brain intensified as you walked towards him. You were so giddy, it hurt. Your soft smile had turn into a beam. The anticipation had turned to you nervous and exhilarated. You wanted to see his smile, the one he'll give after you give him a kolcha. Will it be a soft and dedicated one, reserved just for you? Will it be a joyous and unwithdrawn one, not shying away from showing his beautiful wrinkles?
Everything made your heart soar.
Your feet slowed down as you got there and you heard voices. His and... Dr. Al-hashimi. She was laughing before Jack spoke.
"So, you want get that beer we talked about?"
You heard Jack chuckle. A vibration that rumbled through his lungs in his chest to the ground that you apparently walked on. You felt as if it had just been pulled underneath you. It was lighthearted, casual—directed at someone else.
The ringing of elation in your ears stopped. Replaced with a haunting stillness.
"Yeah, of course. I would love to."
Your breath stopped in your lungs.
It was casual without any audible or visible awkwardness. You glanced inside only to see Jack smiling, a sly and playful grin, lighting up his whole face. Directed towards her. Not you.
Never you.
You wondered if she made it easy for him. Like you probably never did. His whole body was turned towards her, a casual openness to him that was never reciprocated with you. Your chest tightened. Throat strained. Something in your temples felt like it was being pulled.
Jack asking Dr. Al Hashimi out for beers. Your breathing felt shallow. Why wouldn't he? She was brilliant, kind almost dazzling with every step she took. She carried herself with maturity that only comes with facing warzones and fighting injustice. She never had to take constant efforts to make someone smile. He did it instantly for her.
Your hold on the box full of kolchas loosened.
Your legs moved before your brain processed everything. Your eyes looked into the distance, your thoughts melding, twisting your heart, a suffocating hurt settling deep in your bones.
You just kept walking.
"Hey, hon—you okay?" You heard someone say, but your mouth didn't move, your voice had gone numb. So, you just gave tight smile and gave a wordless nod and moved ahead.
Get back to work. You have patients.
Your body moved, on instinct, but without any soul in it.
He didn't owe you anything, you realized. He never reciprocated your efforts, nor did he respond. He just grunted, shook his head, raised his eyebrows, scoffed. It was meaningless. Fruitless. It was just amusement to him. You felt your heart hitting the pit of your stomach. He probably never even considered it. You were his nurse. He was your attending. You tried too hard it was almost entertaining. The sunshine of the night shift. Overbearing. aAways shining. Never needed anything back.
You were nothing like her.
She was everything he could want.
You never even understood where you left the box of kolchas meant for him. It was discarded somewhere like it never included unconditional efforts, hope and love. Like you didn't just stay up the hours you were supposed to put in for sleep to make something you had never made from scratch, just for him. It was not like he ever tried anything you made.
You just walked to a patient, and gave them a smile.
But it felt foreign on your face.
You asked them what was wrong, checked their pulse, gave necessary meds and equipment to the resident in front of you. It felt mechanical. Your eyes were vacant. Too preoccupied with trying to see the things your heart missed. the hope that you harboured over time, the anticipation and giddiness on seeing him, the fuzzy feeling inside your sternum.
Now replaced with a sudden anxiety. A hollowness.
"There she is." You almost jumped, startled by the intrusion of the voice you were now dreading to listen to. "I was looking for you."
Flashes of his soft smile, the wonderful sound of his chuckle, the casual openness—never meant for you—shattered you. You stood there still, unresponsive.
"Sunny?" Jack asked, oh-so-gently, but it just pricked your skin like needles. Even his soft words had become a sign of betrayal. Was he just dragging you along?
A shaky exhale escaped you but your face remained stoic. Your movements were calculated.
"Lena wants you to talk to this patient, he doesn't agree with any of the nurses, says he wants a 'real, qualified doctor'."
"Okay—"
"—and ortho has your results ready for north five, just sign on those." You said in a clipped tone. Tou couldn’t even look at him anymore. You had to get out of there.
But you could still feel him. His furrowed eyebrows, tensed shoulders, concerned eyes—searching for answers, searching for you. All confused. But you didn't have answers. Not anymore.
So, you left, wordlessly, with your broken heart.
Him, with confusion etched onto his features.
Because you realized that while you looked for him in every room before even entering it, he probably never did.
So you should stop too.
Shouldn't you?
oh, what a curse it is to be lover girl
—laufey.
thank you for reading!
because there are already more than 100 people in the taglist, I am closing it. but feel free to comment and show your love!
Summary: Robby and Jack build a crib. You get a headache.
TW: pregnancy
“I don’t know if we’re up for this.” Robby sighed, surveying the sight before him.
“We don’t have a choice. It’s got to be done.” Jack crossed his arms, a look of determination on his face.
“I’m not sure we’re smart enough. We might need to call for consult.” Robby put his glasses on to better look at the situation.
“There is no consult for this. We’ll figure it out, we have to.” Jack stretched his neck muscles in preparation.
“What are you two doing?” You stood in the doorway, eyebrow cocked. “It came with instructions. There’s a QR code for a YouTube video. It’s a crib, not surgery.” You rolled your eyes.
“Good as.” Jack snorted.
“Have you seen the manual? It’s bigger than my medical textbooks.” Robby huffed.
“I can call the store, they said they had people who come out and build them for you.” You said.
“No!” “Shut up!”
“That’s what I thought. I’m going to watch a movie that will inevitably turn into a nap. Don’t kill each other.” You smirked as you walked off.
The two men started organizing the different pieces. They decided to go about it the only way they knew how: with medical precision. They refused to watch the YouTube video.
“So, you guys had the anatomy scan the other day, right?” Robby asked, his brows furrowed as he screwed two pieces together.
“Yeah. I’m under strict instructions to not tell anyone. She wants to do some video with cake or something.” Jack grunted as he pounded a piece of wood.
“Surely I can be an exception.” Robby snorted.
“That woman has my balls in a vice, I’m not saying a word.” Jack laughed.
“Come on. Still my sister.” Robby groaned.
“Sorry.” Jack smirked. “All you need to know is everything is looking good. Even if we’re still terrified.” Jack picked up the manual to reread.
“You still having nightmares?” Robby asked.
“Sometimes. Not as often, but yeah. They’re different now.” Jack shrugged.
“Different how?” Robby groaned as he reached for a screw.
“Well, they’ve evolved.” Jack mocked excitement. “Now, she’s bleeding out and the baby won’t breathe and the medical team ignores me. So, that’s fun.”
“Jesus.” Robby looked at him with wide eyes. “I thought my brain was fucked up.”
“Yeah. But it’s fine. It doesn’t happen very often. We’re more relaxed than I thought we’d be at this point.” Jack shrugged.
“That’s good. Are you sticking with Andrews for the birth?” Robby asked, looking at the manual again.
“Yep. I trust her, so does Bunny. We’ve seen her do some incredible saves. She’s a good doctor and keeps a tight ship without being an asshole.” Jack nodded.
“Sounds like you guys have everything settled.” Robby smiled.
“Yeah. We’re solid. It’s nice.” Jack felt a warmth run over him at the realization that everything was going smoothly.
Robby screwed one last piece together, and the two men sat back to take in their work. The crib was sturdy and soft. All it needed was a baby to hold.
“Looks good.” Jack cleared his throat.
“Oh man, you got soft.” Robby chuckled.
“Shut up. You would too.” Jack groaned as he got to his feet.
“You two done yet?” You came waltzing in, hair a mess from your nap.
“Just finished.” Jack smiled, looking proud of his work.
“Oh, it looks so nice!” You beamed.
“You’re welcome. I can’t believe you have me doing hard labor on my weekend off. Two weekends in a row at that!” Robby huffed.
“Well, I was going to paint the nursery-”
“Like either of us was going to let that happen.” Robby scoffed.
“Okay. So, stop complaining.” You rolled your eyes.
“It’s my right to complain, as a brother.” Robby crossed his arms.
“Whatever, nerd. I’m ordering pizza.” You turned to leave, wobbling on your feet.
“Whoa. Easy, low center of gravity, remember?” Jack caught you.
“Right. Sorry, got a little dizzy.” You shook your head.
“You okay?” Jack held you close for a second, stopping you from walking off.
“Yeah, just a headache.” You shrugged.
“Go sit on the couch. Feet on the floor.” Jack ordered.
“Jack-”
“Don’t argue, Bunny. You know you’re at a higher risk for preeclampsia.” Robby loomed over you.
“Fine.” You sighed as you walked off to the couch.
Jack went to the hall closet and pulled out his BP machine. He grabbed his bag from next to the door and met you in the living room. Robby was close behind him.
“When did you last eat?” Jack asked as he put the cuff on your arm.
“Like an hour ago. I’ve been keeping up with it.” You said.
“Drinking water?” Robby asked, pulling Jack’s stethoscope from his bag and listening to your heart.
“As much as I normally do.” You took deep breaths. The cuff squeezed your arm; Jack shone a light in your eyes.
“Could be dehydration.” Robby said as he took the stethoscope off, looking at Jack. The BP machine beeped and the cuff deflated.
“Whoa!” “Shit.” Robby and Jack’s eyes went wide at the numbers.
Jack sucked in a sharp breath. “Stay with her, I’ll get her bag.” He ran out of the room.
“It can’t be that bad, you two are dram-” You saw the numbers reading 140/90 and stopped talking.
“Hey,” Robby took your hand. “It’s going to be okay.”
“I knew it was going too well.” Your breath stuttered, hands shaking.
“We’re taking care of you, both of you.” Robby promised. Jack came back in the room, phone to his ear and duffle bag in hand.
“Yeah. Just took it. First time she complained of a headache was today.” He spoke into the phone. “Bunny, any headaches before today? Loss of vision? Spots?”
“Not that I noticed.” You said, a tear slipping down your cheek.
“Nothing before today.” Jack reached over and brushed the tear away with his thumb. “Last appointment was a week ago. They were both fine. I didn’t get a look at the labs, though.”
“Jack?” You grabbed onto his hand.
“Alright, we’ll meet you there. Thank you, Beth.” Jack hung up the phone and turned back to you.
“I’ll go put the bags in the car.” Robby grabbed them and ran out of the house.
“Bunny, we’re going back to PTMC. Dr. Andrews is meeting us in the ED. We’re going to get more labs done. You’re probably going to get admitted.” Jack held your hand.
“I’m really fucking scared.” You tried to stop yourself from crying, but the tightness in your throat was too much.
“I know. But I’m not letting anything happen to you or her. I swear.” He held your face in his hand.
“I believe you.” You took a deep breath.
“Let’s go.” He pulled you to your feet and led you out of the house.
The ER was surprisingly quiet for mid-afternoon. Jack guided you in, arm wrapped tight around your shoulders. Robby trailed behind.
“Dr. Abbot, Bunny!” Lupe called from her desk. “We got a spot ready for you. I’ll buzz you in.”
“Thank you, Lupe.” You said. She offered a kind smile as she unlocked the doors.
The second you walked through the doors, Dana was on top of you.
“Hey, Sweetheart. Not feeling great, huh? Let’s get you comfy.” She pushed you into a wheelchair.
“Andrews should be meeting us down here. Get started on her labs until she is.” Jack said.
“I know, we talked to her already. You have to remember, you can’t be her doctor.” Dana told him.
“You’re right. Habit.” Jack sighed, running a hand down his face. “Who is on until Beth gets down here?”
“Dr. Al-Hashimi is on as Attending. I’ve got Langdon, Mel, McKay and Whitaker as residents.” Dana said, wheeling you into a quiet room.
“McKay. I want Cassie.” You said.
“You got it.” Dana smiled. “Gown up for me. We’ll get you hooked up in a second.”
“I want Donnie doing my labs. He’s got the steadiest hands.” You demanded more than asked. Dana could see the panic in your eyes; she wasn’t going to fight you.
“Alright, hon. We’ll be right back.” Dana said, pulling Robby from the room.
Jack helped you undress. There was no hiding the nervous energy between the two of you. He secured the back of your gown, his warm hands stayed on your shoulders. He dug his thumbs into the tense muscle, massaging at the tension.
“We can do this.” He told you as he helped you onto the bed. You nodded, not trusting your voice to stay steady.
There was a knock at the door and Donnie entered. McKay followed him in, her signature tight-lipped smile on her face.
“Hey, Bunny.” Her voice was soft and gentle in the way she reserved for patients. It had your hair standing on end, the realization that you were the patient again.
“You good if I poke while she does the exam?” Donnie asked, setting up his supplies.
“Go for it.” You nodded.
“I’ll be quick.” He smiled.
“Robby was telling me about what’s going on. You just had the headaches today?” McKay asked as she snapped on her gloves.
“I think so.” You sighed.
“You think? Could there have been a headache on another day?” She asked, shining a light in your eyes.
“I don’t know. Maybe I had a headache earlier this week.” You said.
“Why didn’t you say anything?” Jack was looking at you, betrayed.
“It was small. I drank more water, and it went away. I thought it was just some minor dehydration.” You felt a pang of guilt.
“It’s hard to tell what’s a big deal and what’s normal at this stage in pregnancy. Lots of weird symptoms start occurring. I don’t blame you for thinking it was minor. My head was throbbing constantly when I was pregnant.” McKay said, trying to stop a fight before it started.
“My wife got ocular migraines when she was pregnant.” Donnie nodded.
“I remember you brought her in at least five times to get her BP done.” You chuckled.
“I’m thorough with my anxiety.” Donnie smiled. “All done with the labs and catheter placed.”
“Thank you, Donnie. Put a STAT on those for me.” McKay ordered as Donnie left.
Dana and Robby came in with worried looks on their faces. Dana started hooking you up to the machines. She double checked the BP cuff was connected properly before securing it to your arm.
“I’d like to get a quick ultrasound while we wait, make sure baby’s heart rate is still looking good.” McKay said.
“Please.” You nodded. The cuff tightened and everyone held their breath. Jack watched the screen, hoping his machine was wrong.
150/100
“How did it get worse in twenty minutes!?” You gasped.
“You’re nervous and scared. That’s going to be a factor in it being high as well. You have, unfortunately, entered emergency range. I’m going to give Andrews a call, see when she’s getting down and what she recommends in the meantime. We might get you started on magnesium down here. I know it’s easier said than done, but try and relax.” McKay said as she left.
“I’m going to put you in for emergency leave. Thank God we have a good union. It won’t touch your maternity leave. You are not coming to work until that baby is born. No arguments.” Dana told you. “What do you need?”
“My life to not fall apart every two minutes.” You sighed.
“I’m sorry, Sweetheart.” She put a gentle hand on your arm. “We’ll get you three through this.”
“Thanks.” You forced a smile.
“I’ll be right back. I’m going to grab the ultrasound for McKay.” She nodded and left.
“Another hospital stay was not in my plans.” You let out a frustrated breath as you let your head fall back against the pillow.
“I know. But if that’s what needs to happen, that’s what we’ll do. You can do this.” Jack moved his chair closer to the bed, holding your hand in his.
You squeezed his hand, closing your eyes. Your heart was hammering in your chest. Anxiety was coursing through your veins. You heard a mumbling from the corner of the room. The low rumble of Robby’s voice settled the pounding in your chest. When you were quiet enough, you could hear the words he muttered.
“Are you reciting the Shema?” You looked over at him.
“Sorry.” He cleared his throat. “Habit.”
“It’s fine. I haven’t heard it in a long time.” You sighed. “Reminds me of Grandma.”
“She made us say it every day.” Robby smiled.
The room fell into silence. The energy was still buzzing and nervous. Robby was scared he was going to have to watch his sister die. Jack was terrified to lose everything. You were just hoping that your body didn’t fail your child. It could fail you, that didn’t matter. But this was your baby. You couldn’t stand the thought of failing them from the start.
The knock on the door made everyone jump. Dana came in with the ultrasound machine, McKay following behind.
“Dr. Andrews will be down in just a few minutes. She was getting on the elevator as we finished up our chat. We’re going to get you started on the mag drip down here while they shuffle some things around upstairs.” McKay told you.
“Great.” You groaned.
“The magnesium sulfate can be a tough one. I know you’re no stranger to nausea at this point. You might feel warm and sweaty. Some women get dizzy.” McKay said.
“This just keeps getting better.” You gave an annoyed laugh.
There was another knock and Dr. Andrews appeared. She gave a sympathetic smile as she rubbed sanitizer on her hands.
“Bunny, I was hoping we wouldn’t see too much of each other until the delivery.” Dr. Andrews said, sitting on a rolling stool.
“Same here. I just can’t get enough of the OB observation ward.” You gave a thin-lipped smile.
“I looked over the vitals when you came and the lab results. I’m sorry to say it is preeclampsia.” Dr. Andrews had an empathetic look on her face as she watched the tears start to well in your eyes.
“Okay. We can manage it, right?” Jack sat up straighter in his seat, going into protective mode.
“We’re going to try.” Dr. Andrews nodded. “I want to do an ultrasound, check on baby myself, then we’ll get you settled upstairs. The goal is to get you past 30 weeks. Easier said than done. We’ll have you in the hospital until delivery.”
“I have to stay in the hospital for at least another eight weeks?” You whined.
“We need to keep a close eye on the both of you.” Dr. Andrews nodded.
“It’ll fly by.” Jack tried to comfort you. “You can do this.”
“Let’s have a look at your baby.” Andrews pulled the stool next to your bed. Dana flicked the lights off.
You rolled your gown up over your bump. Andrews tucked the end of the blanket into your underwear. She squeezed the cold gel on your belly and started scanning. You were always nervous with ultrasounds. You could only think of the worst-case scenario.
“Okay…they’re measuring in the 23rd week. Looking good and strong. Have you told anyone the gender yet?” Andrews was trying to lighten the mood.
“No. We were going to do a whole thing, but I guess that’s not happening.” You cleared your throat.
“We can still do it.” Jack rubbed your arm.
“No. It seems silly now. I just want her safe.” You sighed.
“Her?” Dana whispered from the corner of the room. You looked up in surprise, forgetting there were other people in the room.
“Yeah. It’s a girl.” You smiled. Dana gasped and smiled in the corner. You looked over to see Robby trying to wipe his tears before anyone could notice.
“Well, now that the cat's out of the bag, your girl is doing great. Her measurements are perfect, and her heart rate is steady.” Andrews said, wiping the gel from your belly.
“What’s next?” Jack asked, his hands nervously rubbing up and down your arm.
“We’ll get Bunny started on the magnesium drip and sent upstairs for monitoring. She’ll get vitals every hour, and daily exams. I have every confidence that we can manage this.” Dr. Andrews said.
“If it gets worse before the 30 weeks?” Your voice shook.
“We deliver. It’s not ideal, and it’s more dangerous for the baby. I’ve seen premature babies survive and thrive at 23 weeks. We’re not there yet. Let’s try and not get ahead of ourselves. I’m going to check on the status of your room. Try and breathe.” Dr. Andrews left and the room felt heavier.
“I’m going to get you hooked up to the magnesium.” Dana came over with a bag of fluids and started hooking them up to your catheter.
“She’s tough. She’s got you for a mother.” Jack whispered as he wiped the tears from your cheeks.
“You mean stubborn.” You tried to smile.
“That too.” Jack chuckled.
“What do you need?” Robby asked from the corner.
“You have to take care of Squash. Not just feeding him, he needs cuddles too.” You rubbed at your eyes.
“Take care of the alien. Anything else?” Robby moved to stand at the end of the bed.
“Go get Jack some clothes and his crutches. I know you didn’t bring your bag. Your stubborn ass isn’t going to go home.” You cupped Jack’s face, rubbing your thumb along his cheekbone.
“You’re my priority.” He hummed.
“Great, I always wanted to dig through my best friends underwear drawer.” Robby huffed.
“Don’t be such a baby.” You scoffed.
“You too are ridiculous.” Dana shook her head.
“Oh shit.” You groaned.
“What?” Jack sat forward.
“They weren’t lying about it feeling like shit. My head’s swimming.” You squeezed your eyes shut.
“Your vitals still look good. You’re just going to feel like trash, hon.” Dana gave your feet a pat.
“Great.” You moaned as you curled into a ball. “Can I have a ginger ale? I need bubbles.”
“Sure thing.” Dana scurried out of the room.
“I’ll go grab Jack’s things. Text me if you get moved up before I get back.” Robby nodded and left.
With the room empty of onlookers, you finally let yourself breakdown. The sobs wracked your body as you clung to Jack’s hand. None of this was how you planned. None of this was going well.
“Take a breath, Honey.” Jack murmured in your ear. “Deep breath.”
“I-I feel robbed!” You cried.
“I know.” He sighed.
“I don’t get to have the happy experience everyone else gets! I’m never not terrified!” You couldn’t stop the waterfall of emotions if you tried.
“It’s not fair. I’m sorry.” He stroked your hair.
“I just want them safe!” You sobbed.
“We’re going to do everything we can to keep you both safe.” Jack’s confidence would normally feed your own, but this time you were too far gone.
You eventually cried yourself to sleep. The medications were already wiping you out. You were jolted awake by movement. Your eyes shot open and you were in an elevator.
“Hey, it’s okay. They got a room upstairs ready.” Jack saw the panic in your eyes.
“Mmm…s’good.” You mumbled still groggy with sleep. You fell back asleep.
Your dreams were odd. They weren’t prophetic in anyway, just weird. They unnerved you. You felt scared and uncomfortable. You gasped as you sprung awake. You were covered in sweat, and you had kicked your blankets off.
“Easy, you’re okay.” Robby’s voice confused you for a second. You thought you’d only fallen asleep for a few minutes.
“What time is it?” You mumbled, looking out the window to see it had gotten dark outside.
“Almost eight. Jack went to get you something to eat. Told him I’d sit with you.” Robby said.
“I’m sweaty.” You were still trying to get coherent.
“That’s normal. Do you want a new gown?”
“No.” You pulled the blankets back up around you. “How’s Squash?”
“Your alien is fine.” Robby chuckled. “He tried to trip me when I was feeding him.”
“He likes to do that.” You hummed.
“How are you feeling?”
“Mmm’kay. Weird. Tired.” Your head fell back against the pillow, your eyes half open.
“Go back to sleep.” Robby told you.
“Kay.” Was all you managed to say before you fell back asleep.
The dreams were less upsetting this time around. Though, they still didn’t make any sense. You were almost enjoying one when a soft shaking brought you around.
“Bunny, you need to eat.” Jack’s voice was soft as he shook you awake.
“Not hungry.” You groaned.
“I know, but you need to. I got you some soup from the deli up the street.” Jack pulled his chair closer to your bed. He moved the table up towards your chest.
“Please, I don’t want to.” You whined.
“I know, but baby needs you to.” He knew that would work. He lifted a spoonful to your mouth. “Come on, just a little.”
“…fine.” You let him feed you.
The soup was really good. You didn’t mind it at first. You ate half the bowl happily. By the eighth spoonful, your body was done. The nausea was hitting hard. You pushed it away with a grimace.
“I can’t eat anymore. My stomach’s going to flip.” You wanted to cry again. You hated how weak you felt.
“Okay. That’s okay.” Jack pulled the tray away.
“It’s so hard, Jack.” You started crying. “But you’re being brave. You still keep going. You’re a badass.” Jack brushed the hair away from your face. “You’re going to get through this.”
Steve Harrington @stevieharrington71 - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
