I spent countless hours binge-reading Bucky Barnes fics here. I live for stories that leave my eyes swollen from crying and make my heart flutter, and this is my way of showing my deepest admiration for those works. This masterlist gathers the stories and authors whose writing captured my heart and made me fall in love with their craft.
1. HOMESICK FOR ARMS THAT NEVER HELD ME by @rintxt
2. RIGHT WHERE YOU LEFT ME (Part I) and (Part II) by @redemptive-truth
3. THE RING by @solaceinruin
4. ONE INCH DEEPER by @marvelstoriesepic
5. TRACES OF A LONELY WORLD (Part I) and (Part II) by @bcksbarnes
6. BORROWED TIME (Part I) and (Part II) by @orellazalonia
7. THE TIME WE COULDN'T HAVE by @sassandscribbles
8. BETRAYAL by @onlyforsebastianstan
9. PRESSURE POINTS by @crybabycabin
10. DROWNING OUT THE SORROW by @redd-blushing-roses
11. A LOVE LETTER TO STONE by @cheekybarnes
12. WHEN THE SUN HITS (IT MATTERS WHERE YOU ARE) by @rosesaints
13. LOATHE ISN'T STRONG ENOUGH by @honeysucklewatr
14. LIFE ON YOUR LINE (ongoing series) by @riamaple
15. YOU PROMISED ME FOREVER by @mannien
16. TAKE ME BACK TO THE NIGHT WE MET by @buckybabesonly
17. LITTLE DOVE by @barnesonly
18. RUIN THE FRIENDSHIP by @mcrdvcks
19. COME BACK TO ME by @peterparkive
20. UNSAID, UNNAMED by @neeeed-y
21. LOST IN THE WILD by @daddyjackfrost
22. YOU VEX ME by @blowingbarnes
23. ONLY SAFE WITH YOU by @daxisyzz
24. POLITICAL ANIMALS (Part I), (Part II), and (Part 3) by @n3ptoonz
25. BUCKY BOSSA NOVA by @houseofhyde
26. FOR YOUR CONSIDERATION (Series Masterlist) by @daydreamgoddess14
27. HOT N' READY by @spdrveil
28. ELEVATOR, BABY! by @aquaticmercy
29. 11PM SESSIONS by @whoispedro
30. BITTER SWEET CAFÉ by @kiba-uwuzuka
31. ARE YOU OUT TONIGHT? by @54nboo
32. STALKER by @buckysgirlll
33. DREAMS COME TRUE by @satlun
34. MATCH POINT (Part I) & (Part II) by @chipotleburritobowl
🔖: I’ll keep adding more to this list as I go (updated: 02/15)
★ summary: Jack Abbot was never supposed to be yours. He taught with the kind of restraint that made you ache for the time it might slip, and it never did. Not when you were his student, not when appearances demanded distance, not through years of shift changes, time like a countdown. He let you go without a fight because letting you go was, apparently, the only kind of care he trusted himself to give. You told yourself the same, at least. Not until a loading dock at 3 AM, years later, when neither of you had anywhere left to be careful for.
★ word count: 5k+
★ warnings: slow burn (five+years); age gap (attending/former student); unrequited feelings; fallout; one strained friendship with a jealous classmate; parental/familial pressure; mentions of past death; emotional manipulation; argument; breakdown (non-graphic); introspection-heavy narration (i'm literally yapping); workplace power-imbalance tension
★ a/n: my first ever posted fic!!! this one lived in my head longer than i expected it to. i'm a sucker for the "we could've had this years ago but we were both too careful" trope, especially when the caution is actually earned instead of just manufactured angst. medical details are fictionized and may not reflect actual clinical practice. the title's from the trauma term (the first hour after the worst thing happens, when it's still possible for it to go either way. it felt right for both medicine and the romance. happy reading! <3
chapter one | next chapter »
The acceptance letter from the University of Pittsburgh School of Medicine sat on your father’s desk for three days before he said anything about it. That was how you knew it mattered. Your father did not linger over small things. He was a cardiothoracic surgeon who ate breakfast standing up and read op notes at stoplights, and the only time you had ever seen him go still was over that single sheet of paper. His eyes moving over your name typed at the top like he was checking it against something.
“Fifth generation,” your mother said at dinner, as she always did. Treating the words as though they were grace before the meal.
Your great-great-grandfather was a general practitioner in a coal town. Your great-grandfather served at a county hospital. Your grandmother was one of the first women to finish a surgical residency in the state. Your father became chief of cardiothoracic surgery, and so the legacy continued.
It was less a family tree than a chain of custody, and you were the newest link freshly forged and already expected to hold weight.
You told yourself you wanted this for yourself. Most days you believed it but on other days, doubt crept in.
Orientation week blurred into name tags and cadaver lab. And for most of that day, you sat through a dean’s welcome speech in which the word “privilege” somehow appeared four times.
You met Samira Mohan on the second day, in the library, both of you reaching for the last copy of the same anatomy atlas. She let you have it, which you would later understand was less generosity than strategy.
Mohan collected debts the way other people collected friends, cashing them in exactly when they’d do the most damage.
“You’re a legacy,” she said, not a question. Reading it off you the way she’d read off the book. “I can always tell. You people hold your pens differently.”
You didn’t know what to do with that, so you just casually replied, “I’m not sure that’s a compliment.”
“Don’t worry, it wasn’t,” she said and smiled like they were already friends.
For the first two years you mostly were friends, and mostly meant something real by then. Not just the convenient camaraderie of two people thrown into the same overwhelming project.
You and Mohan became the kind of study partners who developed their own private shorthand. A whole system of margin notes and inside jokes that made anatomy lecture bearable, a running bit where you'd each award the other a point for the most needlessly complicated word a professor used in a single sentence.
She was, in those years, the funniest person you knew. Sharp in a way that made you sharper just by proximity, and you found yourself laughing more in her company than you had in the entire stretch of undergrad that preceded it.
She showed up at your apartment unannounced the week your grandmother died, first year, before you'd even told most of your classmates. Someone had mentioned you'd missed a lecture, and Mohan had simply put it together and appeared at your door with soup from the place two blocks over that she somehow already knew was your favorite.
She sat with you for three hours saying almost nothing, which turned out to be exactly the right amount to say. You never forgot that. You didn't think you'd ever fully be able to repay it, and for a long time you didn't think you'd need to. That was what friendship was supposed to feel like, you thought, an accounting neither person actually kept.
You did the same for her, when her own crises came.
The semester her parents' divorce finalized and she couldn't concentrate on a single lecture for three straight weeks. When you took over her share of a joint presentation without being asked and never once brought it up afterward as a debt owed.
The two of you developed a whole language of small, wordless rescues, the kind of shorthand that builds only between people who have actually seen each other at their worst and stayed anyway.
There were study sessions before boards that stretched deep into the night, ones that in retrospect, felt less like studying and more like a specific kind of familiarity. The two of you sprawled across library furniture never meant for sleeping, quizzing each other on pharmacology until the words blurred into nonsense. Every so often, one of you would say something stupid enough to send you both into helpless laughter. The kind that only exists at four in the morning, when you’re exhausted and too fond of each other to care.
You'd walk home together as the sky went gray, half-delirious, making increasingly ridiculous promises about the kind of doctors you were going to be.
She was going to run a cath lab like a general running a war room, you were going to have a service so well-organized that residents would beg to rotate under you.
And you believed every word of it, both for yourself and for her with a completeness you would later realize was one of the purest things about being free and not yet fully aware of how much the profession could cost you.
Looking back on it later, a real friendship and not a performance of one, not a rehearsal for whatever came after. Which was exactly what made the unraveling of it so difficult to metabolize once it came. It would have been so much easier if there had been nothing real to lose.
It was clinical rotations, third year, that changed the shape of things because clinical rotations were when you first heard the name of Dr. Abbot, attached to a warning.
“Trauma surgery, third block,” a fourth-year told you both in the hallway outside the OR viewing gallery.
“Abbot doesn’t do hand-holding. He’ll ask you a question, and if you don’t know the answer, he just—wait. He doesn’t yell. Somehow, that’s worse.”
You didn’t say anything. You’d looked him up the week before, the way you looked up every attending before you rotated under them. Some old habit of preparedness inherited from a household where being unprepared was its own kind of moral failing.
Jack Abbot, Attending Physician in Emergency and Tactical Medicine with more decorations than his CV lines could comfortably hold. In his faculty photo, he looked like a man who had been photographed against his will.
You did not expect walking into that trauma bay for the first time in your short white coat, for him to look up from a chart and hold your gaze half a second longer than the introduction required. You did not expect your pulse to do something unprofessional about it. You filed the feeling away in the part of your brain reserved for inconvenient things and therefore did not need to be examined.
That first week you learned the shape of the department the way you'd once learned anatomy. Systematically, by rote, until it stopped being abstract and started being a body you could navigate blind. You learned which vending machine ate your money and which one didn't. You learned that the attendings drank their coffee as it owed them something, and that the nurses ran the entire operation with a competence none of the doctors, Abbot included, were foolish enough to underestimate out loud. You learned mostly how to be the smallest possible presence in a room where every decision mattered, and none of them were yet yours to make.
Your father called that first Sunday, the way he called every Sunday, a ritual older than your memory of him.
“Trauma surgery,” he said when you told him your rotation.
“Good. That'll toughen you up before you specialize.”
He said it the way he said most things about your training.
As data points on a longer trajectory he had already sketched out in his head. One you had never formally agreed to but had also never quite found the nerve to redraw.
“I might like emergency medicine,” you said, testing the sentence out loud for the first time and surprised by how true it felt once it was airborne.
There was a pause in the line. The kind that told you more than any words would have.
“You have plenty of time to decide,” he said at last. It was as close to permission as you were likely to get from your father that early on. You took it and held onto it longer than the sentence probably warranted.
Dr. Abbot taught the way you imagined he did everything else – economically, without waste. He didn't perform knowledge the way some attendings did, stacking pearls up like party tricks for the students to admire.
He asked questions that made you actually think, and when you answered wrong, he didn't correct you so much as redirect you. One more question closer to the truth, until you arrived at the answer feeling like you'd found it yourself instead of being handed it.
You found yourself preparing more for his service than for any of your other rotations. Told yourself it was because trauma surgery mattered, because your father would ask about it at Sunday dinner, because a legacy did not get to be mediocre at anything.
All of that was true. None of it was the whole truth, and you knew it. You just kept refusing to look directly at it. The same way you never looked directly at the sun.
Five weeks in, a multi-trauma came through at two in the morning during your overnight shift. MVC, three patients, one of them crashing. You were the only student on the floor, which meant you were mostly in the way but Abbot pulled you into the second bay anyway.
“Tell me what you see,” he said, over the patient and over the noise.
You told him. “Decreased breath sounds on the left, tracheal deviation. Tension pneumothorax.”
Somewhere in the back of your mind, you could still see the textbook's warning. Clinical diagnosis. Imaging could wait.
He glanced at you – really looked – and then he was moving. Needle decompression. It worked, exactly as it was supposed to. Later, in the relative quiet of the bay being cleaned and restocked, he came up beside you. “Good catch.”
Two words. You thought about them for a week.
However, it was Mohan who put a name to what you've been avoiding naming. She caught you after that shift, in the residents' lounge, still riding the particular high of having done something that mattered.
“You like him,” she said firmly, leaving no room for doubt.
“He's a good physician.”
“You like him,” she said again, and there was something underneath it this time. Something you didn't have a word for yet but would come to recognize, later, as the sound of a door quietly closing. “I liked him first, for what it's worth. Since the second block.”
“Nothing has happened,” you carefully said, because you did not know what shape this conversation was supposed to take, and because some animal part of you understood already that whatever you said next would matter more than you could currently calculate.
“It doesn’t have to happen for it to be a problem,” she said, and her voice had gone flat and precise in a way that made the hair on your arms rise. A tone you hadn’t heard from her before and wouldn’t forget after.
“I know exactly whose daughter you are. Everyone in this program does. It’s the first thing anyone says about you before they mention your name. So let me be very clear about what happens if I decide to make this a story. I know people on the admissions committee. I know people who sit on the same boards your father sits on. It would take one conversation, phrased the right way, for a golden child to get favorable treatment from an attending to reach exactly the people whose good opinion your entire family has spent five generations building. I wouldn’t even have to lie. I’d just have to say it loud enough, to the right people, in the right rooms.”
It was clear she was threatening you. Mohan, your best friend, the person you’d spent your first two years of medical school with – all over the petty quarrel of who got the man.
“That’s not true, and you know it isn’t.”
Your voice not quite steady, some cold understanding settling into your stomach that this was not the same conversation you’d braced for.
“There’s nothing to make a story out of,” you added.
“Doesn’t matter,” she said.
“You know that better than anyone. Appearances are the entire currency your family trades in. I watched you hold that anatomy atlas the first week like it might report back to your father if you creased a page. You think a rumor needs to be true to cost you something? It just needs to be loud, and inconvenient. Attached to a name people already watch closely.”
She let that sit for a moment and watched it land. There was no pleasure in her face when it did. Just a grim kind of certainty, someone using the only leverage she had because she’d run out of gentler ones.
And for someone like you, who’s her ride or die – for fucks sake, where does she get the audacity to spit that in your face?
“So here’s what I’d suggest. Step back. Quietly. No drama, no scene, nothing anyone has to explain later. Let it go before it’s a story people tell, because I promise you. I will make sure it’s a story people tell if I have to.”
“So nothing,” Mohan pressed on, when you didn’t answer.
She looked into your eyes as though you were strangers, and left.
You told yourself there was no way Mohan would do that to you. It felt like your knees nearly gave out, as though years of friendship had shattered beneath you. Yet you'd become well practiced at convincing yourself of how distant she’d been toward you since the third block.
It had been a threat, dressed carefully enough to survive being repeated to anyone who might ask. And it landed exactly where Mohan had aimed it. Not at your heart, but at the one thing you had never once been allowed to risk.
Mohan's feelings, as it turned out, were not a private matter for long. Not that she made them public, but that they governed the shape of everything after that conversation at the lounge, a threat sitting between the two of you that neither of you needed to say out loud twice.
She was not subtle in the way she orbited Dr. Abbot's service. She volunteered for every extra shift, staying late to restock trauma bays that did not need restocking, laughing a half-beat too long at things that were not especially funny.
As far as you could tell, he was either entirely unaware of it or kind enough to pretend he was. Either way, nothing in him moved toward her, and everything in her noticed the absence.
Then her attention shifted to you – to how quickly you’d started pulling back.
The retreat wasn’t dramatic. It was a slow accumulation. You started declining shifts you would otherwise have picked up. You started arriving exactly on time instead of early, leaving exactly on time instead of staying to ask one more question.
You told yourself this was maturity, a strategy, and a simple med student learning to manage her own exposure. Some nights you almost believed it. Yet, you're not convinced.
You could’ve called her bluff.
Later, alone, you would construct a dozen versions of the argument you didn't made. Mohan's feelings weren't your responsibility. Nothing you'd done was inappropriate. A threat built on nothing true couldn’t survive scrutiny. Your father’s reputation was sturdier than one classmate’s rumor and that stepping back on her account rewarded exactly the kind of leverage you should have refused to legitimize.
But you had grown up watching how quickly whispers could travel through rooms your family cared about. Five generations of names that had never carried an asterisk, except beside an achievement, and the particular exhaustion of being the only person in any room allowed exactly zero mistakes.
So you did the quiet thing instead. You let the distance widen on its own and let the friendship fade. You never let her see how much doing actually hurt you.
The week before your trauma block ended, you did not sleep so much as lie awake in the dark, rehearsing conversations you had no intentions of having. You told yourself this was normal - the ordinary insomnia of a hard rotation ending. You told yourself that the way you told yourself most things by then, with the practiced dishonesty of someone who had gotten very good at managing her own evidence.
You walked past his office twice on the second-to-last day. Not on purpose, except it was entirely on purpose. A route you could have avoided with one different turn in the hallway and chose, both times, you chose not to.
The first time the door was closed. The second time you could see him through the glass, head bent over a chart, and you stood there for four full seconds. Long enough to count them before you made yourself keep walking. Heart going too fast for someone who had done nothing but look through a window.
You thought about what it would cost to say something. Not the abstract cost – the one Mohan had already priced out for you with a voice gone flat and precise. You thought about the granular version, the one that kept you awake at two in the morning, doing math you had no business doing.
A rumor didn’t need truth to travel. You know that now. Mohan had confirmed it in language specific enough to leave a mark. And if it traveled, the damage wouldn’t stop with you. Your father could lose a seat on a board he’d spent a decade earning. Your mother would have to reckon with a version of her daughter she’d never expected to tell. Dr. Abbot had something to lose too, something you had less claim to weigh but weighed anyway. A career built the hard way, decorated and scarred in equal measure, reduced to a rumor about a student half his age because neither of you had been careful enough to stop it before it started.
You turned it all over like a differential you couldn’t quite close. Waiting for one final piece of information that would make the decision for you. It never came. Some decisions had to be made without the mercy of certainty.
You thought too, about what it would cost to say nothing. There was no ledger for the version of yourself you’d be in five years. Having never once found out what might have been true if you’d let yourself find out.
You thought about your grandmother, the first woman in your family to finish a surgical residency in a state that hadn't wanted her there. You wondered whether she'd ever stood in a hallway like this one, weighing a name against a want and what she would have told you to do if she were still alive to ask. You suspected you already knew the answer. Knowing it wouldn't have made walking away any easier.
You did not let yourself cross it. That was the one thing you were certain of, standing in that hallway with your hand not quite raised to knock. Whatever this was, whatever you owed yourself or him or the five generations standing behind you in every room you’d ever walk into. It wasn’t something you were going to do carelessly, in a hallway, with a threat still fresh enough to bruise.
If there was ever going to be a version of this that didn’t cost everyone something, it wasn’t going to start with you knocking on that door and saying the thing you’d spent six weeks refusing to name even to yourself.
So you found a smaller reason instead. A true one, just not the whole truth. The same kind of half-honesty you’d been living inside for weeks by then. You told yourself it was to thank him for the rotation. That was almost true.
He was in the small office off the trauma bay, charting, and he looked up when you knocked on the open door. The same way he'd looked up that very first day, and you thought so absurdly that some part of you had been waiting weeks to find out if he would look at you like that again.
“Just wanted to say thank you.”
Your voice came out steadier than you felt, which was by then, a skill you’d had to learn on purpose. “For the rotation. I learned more from you than from any block so far.”
“You were good,” he said with the same simplicity he brought to everything.
He set his pen down. Your emotion somehow is more of an admission than anything he could have said. A small act of a man choosing to give you his full attention instead of half of it.
“Sharp. You'll be a good doctor.” A pause, brief enough that you might have imagined the weight in it.
“Thank you,” you said again because you didn’t trust yourself with a longer sentence. You stood there a beat too long in the doorway, caught between leaving and stepping further inside. You’re trapped in the particular purgatory of a goodbye neither of you wanted to end.
“Are you heading to a different service next?” he asked, if only to fill the silence.
There was a substance under his careful question, something that told you he knew exactly what he was really asking and had chosen the smallest possible version of it to say out loud.
“Peds,” you replied. “Then I'm done with third year.”
“Good.”
His expression shifted, and you would spend a long time afterward trying to name the change and never quite manage. Not quite regret, and not quite relief but something adjacent to both. The specific expression of a man setting something down carefully instead of dropping it.
He stood, which he didn’t need to do for a conversation this short, and came around the desk.
For one suspended second, the distance between you was smaller than it had ever technically been allowed to be. Close enough that you could have closed it with a single unwise step, and close enough that you understood with total clarity that he was thinking about the same step you were.
Neither of you took it.
“You'll do well wherever you land,” he said instead.
That made you think of falling of the particular vertigo of standing at the edge of something you weren’t going to let yourself jump into.
He held out this hand instead. Formal, professional, the exact correct gesture for a rotation’s end, and you took it.
The handshake lasted exactly as long as a handshake should and not one second longer. You both understood, without either of you saying it that the correctness of it was its own kind of goodbye.
“Take care of yourself, Dr. Abbot.” The words sounded more final than you’d intended, and yet you meant them to.
“You too.”
He did not say your name, though you could’ve sworn he’d wanted to.
That was all. That was the entire conversation, nearly three years of medical school compressed down into two minutes of a man telling a student she was sharp and would land well. A handshake held exactly as long as propriety allowed and not a second more, and a goodbye that cost you more than any of the things that hadn't happened in that room ever could have.
You walked out of that office and did not cry until you were three blocks away.
You sat on a low wall outside a coffee shop, furious at yourself for how much an ordinary sentence and a perfectly proper goodbye had managed to cost you. You were furious too because for one suspended second, you had both come close to becoming people neither of you was supposed to be. Instead, you chose to remain exactly who you were expected to be.
You didn’t hear him approach, which was how you knew you’d been fully and embarrassingly gone for a minute. No peripheral awareness left for anything outside your own chest.
“Hey–hey, are you okay?”
You look up to find Dennis Whitaker standing a careful few feet off, a third-year like you, one of the perpetually earnest ones who’d spent the whole rotation asking questions two steps ahead of where the team actually was.
Iced coffee sweating in his one hand like he’d been mid-errand before he’d spotted you.
You’d barely exchanged more than rotation small talk with him in six weeks, which made the concern in his face feel almost more mortifying than the crying itself.
“I’m fine,” you said in a way that you said most things you didn’t mean.
“You don’t have to tell me anything,” he hovered, clearly unsure whether sitting down uninvited was the compassionate move or an intrusion. “I just… saw you from across the street and couldn’t exactly keep walking. Rough shift?”
You scoff. “Yeah, something like that.”
“For what it’s worth,” he added. “Abbot’s rotation destroys everybody a little. I cried in the call room in week two. Told literally no one until right now, so we’re even I guess. Karma or whatever.”
He said it lightly. Aiming to give you an exit ramp out of explaining anything further, and you were grateful for it in a way you didn’t have the composure to voice properly.
“Thanks, Whitaker.”
You managed almost a laugh working its way up through the wreckage.
“Anytime.” He hesitated a second longer, like he was deciding whether to say something else. Then apparently decided against it, lifting his coffee in a small awkward salute instead.
“Go easy on yourself. Whatever it is. You’re one of the good ones – the anxious kind, not the scary confident kind. I mean that as a compliment.”
He left you there before you had to find a way to answer that.
You watched him jogging off toward the hospital entrance like a man late for something. And you sat on the low wall a while longer, oddly steadied by the strange kindness of a near-stranger who’d know exactly how much space to leave and exactly how little to ask.
You did not see Dr. Abbot again for the rest of medical school. You made sure of it. Checked rotation schedules the way other students checked exam results, quietly arranging your rotations around the possibility of his absence.
Mohan, from her side of things never brought the stairwell conversation again. And you let her not-mention it because the alternative was a fight you weren't sure your family's name could survive being part of, even privately, even just between the two of you.
Peds turned out to be exactly the kind of distraction you needed, though you wouldn't have chosen it for that reason if you'd been asked at the time. There was no room, on a pediatric floor, to spend six weeks quietly unraveling over a man you'd said a correct goodbye to.
The work simply didn't allow it, not with rounds that moved at the particular fast and careful pace pediatrics demanded. Not with parents whose fear filled a room faster than any trauma bay's adrenaline ever had. You learned to sit on the floor of exam rooms to get down to a four-year-old's eye level.
You learned to explain a lumbar puncture to a terrified nine-year-old using the word straw instead of needle, and to explain the same procedure to the parents in the hallway five minutes later without softening a single fact. You found somewhat to your own surprise that you were good at this too, that competence didn't stay confined to the one specialty that had first taught it to you. It simply moved with you, the way grief eventually would, the way most of the things you carried out of that trauma rotation eventually did.
You coped that final year the way you'd coped with most things your whole life by getting quietly and thoroughly excellent at something else. You threw yourself at board prep with an intensity your attendings noticed, and your father approved of without ever fully understanding why it had accelerated so specifically after third year.
You picked up extra shifts on rotations that had nothing to do with trauma, built yourself a schedule so full there was no unclaimed hour left over for the specific ache of thinking about a small office and a handshake held exactly the correct length. It worked, mostly. Some nights, late, it didn't but some nights you'd catch yourself running the conversation back scene by scene. The half-step of distance neither of you had closed, and would have to get up and do something with your hands until the replay lost its grip.
Mohan kept her distance too, in her own way. Not unkind, exactly, but careful. The two of you orbiting each other at a wary distance neither of you tried very hard to close. You passed her in the hallways. You nodded. Neither of you brought up what didn't need bringing up, and some quiet, unspoken part of you understood that this. The six feet of hallway kept between you and it was simply what the two of you were going to be for a while or maybe for good.
By spring, fourth year had worn down into the particular limbo every graduating class settled into.
Your rotations finished, boards behind you and nothing left to do but wait for a single envelope to tell you where the next chapter of your life would happen. You spent the weeks before Match Day the way most of your classmates did. Half-convinced that you'd somehow sabotaged your own rank list without noticing, running worst-case scenarios at two in the morning that had nothing to do with logic and everything to do with four years of accumulated exhaustion finally having nowhere left to go.
Then the Match Day came the way it always does, too fast and then not fast enough. A small manila envelope holding four years down to a single line. You opened yours in the gymnasium with your parents watching from the gallery, your father's phone already half-raised to call every relative he'd promised an update.
Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center – Emergency Medicine.
You didn't think about who else worked nights there. Not yet. You let yourself have exactly one day of pure uncomplicated relief before you let yourself remember.
The summer between medical school and residency was supposed to be restful, and mostly wasn't because your family treated the gap the way they treated every gap in your calendar. An unclaimed territory to be filled with expectation.
There was a dinner with extended relatives where your great-uncle, ninety-one and still sharp enough to be dangerous, asked you which subspecialty you intended to pursue after residency as though residency itself were a formality to be endured rather than the entire next chapter of your life.
“Emergency Medicine,” you said, for what felt like the hundredth time that summer.
“That's not a specialty,” he said. “That's a waiting room.”
You didn't argue. You'd learned somewhere in the last four years that some battles weren't worth the ammunition, and your great-uncle's opinion of emergency medicine was never going to survive contact with an actual trauma bay. So there was no point in spending yourself trying to change it in a dining room.
Your mother, on the other hand, threw you something closer to a party than a send-off. The whole extended family, a cake with a stethoscope piped into it in blue icing, and toasts that name-checked four generations before landing, finally, on you.
You stood at the head of the table in a room full of people who loved you fiercely and expected everything of you in the same breath. And you thought, not for the first time, that there was no clean way to separate those two facts from each other.
The love was real. The weight was real. They had simply always arrived together in your family like two passengers who'd bought the same ticket.
You packed your apartment near the hospital the week before orientation, and standing in the most-empty rooms of your childhood bedroom the night before you left, your father knocked on the doorframe and came in without quite being invited, the way he did most things.
“I know I put a lot on you,” he said, which was as close to an admission as you'd ever heard from him.
“I'm not going to pretend I didn't or that I'm going to stop entirely because I don't think I know how. But I want you to know I'd be proud of you as a school teacher. I just never had to say it out loud because you never gave me the chance to worry you'd pick one.”
“That's a strange kind of compliment,” you respond.
“Most of mine are.”
He left you to finish packing.
You sat on the floor of your childhood for a long minute afterward, turning the sentence over and deciding to let it count for more than it probably should have.
Spiders have three life cycles. When between cycles, it can leave the spider vulnerable to threats. And for those spiders who make it through, it amounts to a kind of... rebirth.
SPIDER-MAN: BRAND NEW DAY
In Theaters Now | dir. Destin Daniel Cretton
SPIDER-MAN: BRAND NEW DAY (2026) | directed by Destin Daniel Cretton, written by Erik Sommers and Chris KcKenna, based on the MARVEL comics by Stan Lee and Steve Ditko
paring: bucky barnes x gf!reader (can be read as gn but more fem)
warnings/tags: angst, established relationships, hurt/comfort, emotional hurt/comfort, very little miscommunication, mainly bucky being emotionally constipated, reader isn't much better, communication issues, eventual happy ending and domestic fluff, some swearing.
wc: 3.5k
summary: you and bucky are not good at talking about the things that hurt. him especially when it comes to his past.
an: based off of this request and doors by Noah Kahan. i kind of feel like i butchered this request but i read it and then did my own thing and then was like oh crap. anyway hope this is okay :) cc is appreciated
The coffee pot sputters and spits as it lets go of the last few drops of warm brown liquid, while the smell of powdered sugar drifts through the kitchen.
Bucky grabs a mug from the cabinet, hesitating for a breath before setting it down again.
You’re in the middle of making pain perdu the Sarah Wilson way, moving easily around the kitchen, humming a simple, repetitive tune. You always loved making extravagant breakfasts on Saturday mornings.
Bucky finally pours the coffee into his mug. The steam curls over the edges and wraps around the handle. He puts three sugars in the coffee.
He used to drink it black.
You'd wrinkled your nose the first time you saw him do it and declared that anyone who enjoyed coffee that bitter couldn't be trusted.
Two weeks later he found himself reaching for the sugar bowl, just to try, of course.
He never told you.
Bucky takes a sip of coffee, watching your every move. He should say something. He wants to say something. Anything. He should tell you that your hair is sticking up in the back. Tell you that he loves when the kitchen smells like cinnamon. Tell you he loves you. But he doesn't. He just watches as you continue the repetitive task of making breakfast.
You look up when you feel his eyes digging holes into the back of your head. "What?" you ask as a soft laugh escapes your lips and a familiar heat rises to your cheeks.
"Nothing. You're just… being you."
"Is there a problem with that?" you grin over your shoulder.
His mouth twitches like he's trying not to smile back. "No."
"Then why are you staring at me?"
"…Just thinking."
"About?"
He exhales through his nose. His shoulders tense beneath his blue t-shirt and his jaw works as he looks anywhere but at you.
"Bucky?"
"I'm fine."
"You don't look—"
"I said I'm fine."
You set the whisk down. "I'm just trying to make sure that you're okay."
"Then stop."
The words hang heavy between you.
Neither of you move. He doesn't look up from his coffee.
The sunlight spilling across the floor seems to lose all its warmth, leaving only the cool bite of the tile beneath your bare feet. The pain perdu hisses, forgotten on the griddle until the scent of cinnamon is slowly overtaken by the smell of something sweet burning.
"…shit."
You reach for the spatula, scraping the now charred slice from the griddle into the trash. The lid falls shut with a dull, metallic thud.
You stare at the empty space on the griddle for a long second; longer than necessary before reaching for another slice of bread.
"I'm not hungry."
His voice is soft, barely above a whisper.
The fresh, egg-soaked slice of bread hangs suspended between the your fingers above the griddle.
"James…"
"I've asked you more than once not to call me that."
The bread falls back into the custard with a quiet splash.
Your mouth opens, then closes. Once. Twice. A third time. Every response slips away before you can catch it.
He picks up his mug.
You watch him cross the room and lower himself on the couch. It's not far from the kitchen, but it's never felt further.
One single, white plate sits on the counter with more than enough breakfast for one. You reach for the Steen's Cane Syrup. The sticky, yellow tin stubbornly gives up the dark syrup in long, slow ribbons.
Sam had shoved it into Bucky's hands before the two of you left Delacroix, insisting that it would "ruin maple syrup" for both of you.
Now it's making everything sticky.
You don't sprinkle any powdered sugar on the bread. Your fingers hover over the shaker, then slowly lower it back to the counter.
He sits just a few feet away, but he looks at the carpet, never once moving to look up at you.
Your eyes stay fixed on him, burning with unshed tears. "Did I—"
"I don't want to talk about it."
"Please don't shut me out." your voice wavers as you speak.
The silence settles over the room like a blanket of snow. The pain perdu grows cold as your fork picks at it. You slide the plate into the refrigerator for later before turning the sink on hot enough to burn your hands. The bubbles that fill the left compartment of the sink carry the sickening smell of dish soap and it turns your empty stomach. Custard and syrup coat every dish in the sink. One after the other, you scrub. The burnt sugar refuses to let go of the griddle and you almost break the smiling Scrub Daddy trying to get it off.
"…for fuck's sake."
You whisper, exasperated.
Throwing the stupid smiling sponge into the sink, you decide to let the griddle soak.
The rest of the kitchen isn't much better, but the crisp November air begs you to lace up your running shoes and get out of the stuffy apartment.
You shut the door to your shared bedroom, not wanting to face the storm cloud sitting on your couch, and change into the comfiest running clothes you own. When you open the door, you see him standing in the kitchen, washing the dishes you didn't finish.
"I'll get those when I get back."
His head whips around. His blue eyes are softer than they were before, and every line on his face seems deeper, etched with some type of worry.
"Where are you going?"
"On a run."
"When will you be back?"
"I don't know."
"That's not a real answer."
You pinch the bridge of your nose.
"I don't have a plan. I'm just going on a run."
"Why?" he asks, his voice growing increasingly soft. "You never run on Saturdays."
You sigh. A long foreboding sigh.
"I just need to get out of here."
His eyes drop back to his coffee.
"Okay." his voice is small.
You cram your foot into your running shoe and reach for the doorknob.
"Be careful… please."
The door clicks shut behind you.
Outside, Brooklyn is very much alive. Cars pass and people walk down the street. You adjust your shoe for the second time. A leaf falls in front of your feet. You take a deep breath and finally start running.
The air burns your lungs, and the wind chaps the tear streaks on your cheeks. Your feet hit the pavement again and again.
Left.
Right.
Left.
Right.
Was he telling the truth?
Left.
Does he even want me here?
Right.
Was I trying to open a door to a room he didn't want me in?
A woman walking her golden retriever walks by on the other side of the street. A dad with his baby in a stroller walks over to meet his husband sitting on a bench. Two kids are swinging on the swings at the park on the corner. A wannabe influencer records herself trying a pumpkin spice latte from your favorite local shop.
That was the shop that you dragged Bucky to, making him try the entire fall menu. You fell in love with the butter pecan latte, and he tolerated the honey cinnamon tea. The two of you sat at the table last November, his jacket around your shoulders, and multiple drinks in front of you. He kept stealing sips of your drink by pretending he was going to hold your hand. It made you laugh every single time.
"Hi, what can i get started for you today?" the teenager at the register asks.
"One medium hot butter pecan latte… and is there a way that I could pay for a hot honey cinnamon tea now and pick it up on my way back? Or should I just order it later?'
"Oh, um. It might be better to come back and pay for it later. My shift will end and things like that kind of get lost here. But if you're willing to try then by all means."
You hesitate and glance toward the door.
"No, that's okay… I'll come back for both later. Thank you, and sorry."
The barista nods and motions for the next customer without another word.
Around noon, the air hasn't gotten any warmer. Your lungs still burn and now your whole face feels chapped. Running without a plan isn't something you normally do, but somehow you've ended up at the cemetery where Bucky's parents and sister are buried.
You adjust the flowers on Rebecca's grave and brush off some leaves from his parents. The first time he had taken you here was on your six month anniversary. He didn't speak at all. He cleaned up all the graves and then sat there staring at them. On the walk home you asked him why and he told you "I have too much to say to them so I just listen instead." Deep down you knew it was because he's not the son, not the brother, they would recognize.
Now you do the same.
You sit in the cold grass, just looking at the stones and picking at blades of grass. Thunder claps in the distance, telling you that you need to go home. But your shoes are suddenly too tight and your legs grew sore sitting. The smell of the coffee shop clings to your clothes and the wind blew strands of hair into your face.
That familiar stinging builds behind your eyelids and your throat gets tight. A single tear slips out and runs along that chapped track. You take a shaky breath as another clap of thunder echoes across the gray sky.
As you stand, your legs wobble beneath you.
One foot in front of the other.
A fat rain drop plops right on top of your head. Just make it home.
It starts to drizzle as you reach the sidewalk outside of the cemetery. You're not running anymore; moving slower than your average walking pace.
The bell above the door rings as you walk back into the coffee shop. The place is mostly deserted now that it's raining, so you linger in the back, pretending to look at the menu before walking up to order your drink and Bucky's tea.
"Hi welcome in, what can I get for you today?" the barista, one you see regularly, asks.
"Just one medium hot butter pecan latte and a medium hot honey cinnamon tea, please. Could you please make the tea extra hot, I've got to walk back home with it?"
"Of course."
Waiting for your order, you slide into the corner booth and look out the window. The rain is coming down slightly heavier now. The leaves on the concrete sidewalk are soaked, sticking to the shoes of people who walk on them. Umbrellas dot the sidewalk, reminding you that you had the misfortune of not checking the weather before you left.
The faint sound of jazz hums throughout the shop, it's probably something that Bucky would like. Something he would turn on to dance around the apartment with you.
You are pulled out of your thoughts when two drinks are placed in front of you. The two white paper cups with the brown cardboard sleeves are warm to the touch. A small stream of steam escapes through the tiny hole in the lid.
A small, polite smile grows on your lips. "Thank you." you practically whisper.
The heat from the two cups warms your chilled hands as you set off back to your apartment. No umbrella. Just the cups to keep you warm.
Is he even home?
Would he want to talk to you?
The thoughts rattle in your brain, bouncing from one side to the other with every step. No amount of walking could clear out this mess. They follow you all the way up the stairs to the second floor of the building and right up to the door.
Setting your coffee down on the hallway floor, you reach for the doorknob only to find out that it's locked. Your knuckles rasp against the wood in a quick rhythm.
"Bucky, please answer the door. I don't have my keys."
Silence echoes on the other side.
"Please."
Nothing.
You knock again, louder this time. "Let me in. I know you're in there."
The deadbolt on the other side flips, but the door remains shut.
You stare at the door, rain water dripping from the ends of your hair.
"Are you fucking serious?"
Nothing.
You laugh once, but there's no humor in it.
"You lock me out now?"
The door opens a few inches.
Bucky's face appears in the gap. His eyes are red and his face hold so much exhaustion.
"I didn't lock you out."
"You locked the door."
"I needed space."
"Then tell me that."
He looks away.
"I did."
"No." you snap, the words are sharper than you intended. "You told me to stop asking questions."
Your voice cracks.
"That's not the same thing."
"Well it's what I meant."
"I'm not a mind reader, Bucky."
"Neither am I."
You look down at your soaked shirt. The two cups, yours still on the floor, have cooled off by now.
"Can I come in? Please?"
Or do I get shut out of the apartment too?
You bite your tongue before the rest of that thought slips out.
The door opens fully; Bucky steps to the side. You reach down to grab your coffee.
"I got you a tea… figured you might…" you swallow. "Nevermind."
"You didn't have to."
"I know."
He turns and walks off, his boots heavy on the floor. You stand there, a small puddle forming around your feet, shivering just slightly.
The sound of him approaching makes you lift your head. He holds out a towel from the bathroom with his right hand.
You reach for it and your fingers brush. You know you should thank him, but the tightness in your throat won't let any words out.
He goes back to his spot on the couch. You don't follow. The rain taps against the window. The kitchen is spotless now; there's no trace of the breakfast mess from earlier.
"…I thought you were leaving earlier. That's why I locked the door."
Your head whips around as soon as he speaks.
"You thought I was leaving?"
He nods.
"Why?"
"Because you said you needed to get out."
You look down at the coffee in your hands.
"I needed to get out of the apartment, Bucky. Not your life."
He looks up at you. His blue eyes glisten with tears. His Adam's apple bobs as he tries to swallow whatever emotions are bubbling beneath the surface.
"You should leave."
His voice is a whisper. It hits you all the same as if he would have shouted it at you.
Your own voice breaks as you speak.
"Do you want me to?"
He lets out a quiet sob. "I don't want to hurt you."
A single tear escapes your own eye. You don't wipe it away. You let it run down that chapped track one more time. "That's not what I asked." you whispered.
You pick at the skin around your thumb. The apartment feels too small, yet you still feel too far away from Bucky. His eyes are glues to his shoes. His right leg shakes. All you want to go do is place your hand on his knee, like you always do.
"I don't want you to leave…"
His eyes never meet yours.
"Then why should I leave?" your words are a little sharper than you intended.
"Because I'll hurt you."
"No you won't."
"Yes, I will."
He shoots up and paces in front of the couch. His hand runs through his already messy brown hair. His bottom lip trembles, but no tears or sobs escape him now. Nothing that would make it easier for you to walk over there and comfort him.
"You don't understand."
"Then help me."
"Why do you care so much?"
Your eyes drop to his shaking hands. Tears flow freely and small gasps of breath are all you can manage. He stop pacing and looks directly at you. Standing up, you take one step closer.
"Because I love you."
He angles himself away from you.
"That's not enough."
"It has to be."
"It can't be."
You're not trying to hold it together anymore. Your sobs are ugly and you wipe at the tears fiercely.
"It's not enough? The love that makes me want to fight for you? For us? It's not enough?"
"You don't know what you're saying."
"Then tell me. Please."
His hands shake harder.
"You see me when I'm like this and you still think you know me."
You shake your head. "Bucky—"
"You don't." his voice cracks. "You see me make breakfast. You see me drink your coffee. You see me sleep on your couch. You don't see what happens when I wake up."
He swallows.
"You don't see when I can't tell where I am. When I wake up screaming and I don't know what year it is."
His eyes finally meet yours.
"You don't see me sleep on the floor when the bed, when sleeping next to you, doesn't feel safe."
Your breath catches.
"You don't see the things I remember."
He looks down at his hands.
"I remember all of it."
He sobs once.
"And I don't want to remember your face when I finally lose control."
You reach for him, but he moves away.
"One day you're going to see all of it."
His voice drops.
"And you'll look at me differently."
You let out a sound like a wounded animal.
"Is that what you think of me? That I'm just here for the sunshine and rainbows and the first time it pours I'll walk away?"
The rain hits the window harder.
"Look at me Bucky."
He doesn't.
"I am standing here, soaking wet, because I came back for you."
His eyes flick towards yours.
"I went to see your family today."
That catches his attention. His bloodshot eyes zero in on your tear stained face.
"I went there because I know that's where you go when you don't know what to say."
Your voice breaks.
"Don't tell me I don't know you."
He moves one step closer to you. His right hand shakes as it reaches for your hand. He doesn't lace his fingers with yours, he just rests it on top of your fidgeting hand. Tears hit the floor as his blue eyes search your face.
"Let me see you."
"I've closed that door from you."
"I'll keep knocking."
His breath shudders. His head finds its way to your shoulder. Thunder claps outside and the north wind whistles in the walls of the building. Your hands move to wrap around him. Your right hand cradles the back of his head, while the left presses into his back.
You move to the floor, just holding him, allowing him to sink fully into you. You match your breathing to his and gradually slow your own until he begins to mimic your breath pattern. His eyes stay shut. His hands fidget with your hair and the fabric of your shirt. His lips press against your neck and shoulder, anywhere he can reach.
"I've got you."
"I'm not good at this."
"I never asked you to be, Buck."
The day comes to an end. The rain stops just in time to reveal the last of the sunset. Bucky still won't come near you. Not during dinner. Not when you sit on the couch to watch TV. Now you lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering if maybe you pushed too hard, or maybe he just doesn't want you in that part of his life.
As you settle in, a yawn breaks free and the door creaks open.
“Can I sleep in here tonight?”
You sit up straight. The six-foot man suddenly looks like a scared child standing in the doorway of your shared bedroom.
“Of course.”
He pulls back the comforter and gently lowers himself into the bed. The mattress dips beneath his weight. He doesn't reach for you yet.
“I didn't think you'd just walk out on me…”
You swallow.
“I know… I never would.”
You pick at the comforter.
“I didn't think you'd actually lock me out.”
He brushes the hair away from your forehead.
“I know. I'm sorry for locking you out.”
“I'm sorry for running away.”
He pulls you to his chest.
“You do… you do want me there, right?”
He cards his fingers through your hair.
"I do. I just don't always know how to tell you.”
You trace his jawline. "I just need you to tell me when you're struggling. And I'll tell you how I feel before I just leave for a run."
He presses his lips to yours, never going any deeper, just a way to seal a promise without words.
You curl up against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heart. Allowing yourself to be lulled to sleep.
Summary: Your daughter fakes a stomachache to surprise her parents at work on Take Your Kid to Work Day, never realizing the panic it would cause.
Word count: 4.2k+
Warnings: fluff, tiny angst
A/N:
this was co-written with my friend Nora! We actually wrote some other stuff together too, but this is the first fic where she wrote the most of it. She also wants to write fanfics but is a little hesitant. Can’t wait for you to open your own blog and share your talent with tumblr Nora, this one’s you!!!💓
English is not my first language, so I apologize if I made any (grammar) mistakes. Feedback, requests, talks, vents, recommendations or just simple questions are always welcome.
Happy reading xxx
I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site.
When your daughter Lucy heard about Take Your Kid to Work Day, she came home convinced it was going to be the greatest day of her entire six-year-old life.
Her class had spent nearly a week talking about it. Every morning another child had a new story, another exciting detail to add. Emma was going to help frost cupcakes at her mother's bakery. Noah couldn't stop talking about riding in his dad's garbage truck, proudly announcing to anyone who would listen that he was going to press the "real buttons." Olivia was getting a behind-the-scenes tour of the aquarium where her mom worked. Even little Ben, whose father worked at a bank, marched around the classroom with a paper tie taped around his neck, declaring he would be "approving loans all day." By Thursday afternoon Lucy had listened to enough stories that she'd begun planning her own. She was absolutely certain she would wear one of those little white doctor coats she'd seen in toy stores. She'd carry a clipboard. Maybe even a stethoscope. Everyone would finally get to see how cool her parents' jobs were.
So when you and Jack walked through the front door that evening after a twelve-hour shift, you barely had time to take your shoes off before Lucy came barreling across the living room like an excited puppy.
"Mama!"
She wrapped herself around your legs so tightly you had to catch yourself against the wall to stay upright.
"Daddy!"
Jack wasn't spared either. She launched herself at him next, nearly knocking the backpack from his shoulder.
"Whoa, easy, bug," he laughed, catching her under the arms before she could accidentally headbutt him. "Someone's excited. Where's your grandma?"
"In the kitchen. I have something important to say."
You and Jack exchanged an amused look over the top of her head. Important announcements from Lucy ranged anywhere from losing a tooth to discovering worms in the garden.
"Oh?" Jack asked, setting his bag down.
Lucy nodded so enthusiastically that her ponytail bounced. "It's Take Your Kid to Work Day next Friday."
Her grin stretched so wide it nearly split her face.
"And I get to come with you."
The silence that followed was tiny.
Barely a second.
But it was enough.
Jack's smile faltered first. You watched it happen almost imperceptibly, the corners of his mouth relaxing as his eyes drifted toward yours. The excitement on Lucy's face hadn't dimmed yet. She was already imagining hallways and stethoscopes and showing all her friends pictures afterward.
You felt your heart sink before either of you had even opened your mouths.
Lucy noticed immediately.
Her smile wavered.
"...What's wrong?"
You crouched until you were eye level with her, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear while you searched desperately for words that wouldn't break her heart.
"Oh, sweetheart..."
Jack carefully lowered himself beside you, adjusting his balance before slipping an arm around Lucy's shoulders.
"Our jobs are a little different from everyone else's."
She frowned in confusion.
"But I can still come, right?"
Jack let out the smallest sigh.
"The emergency department isn't really a place for kids."
Her forehead wrinkled.
"Why?"
You looked at Jack for half a second before answering.
"Because the people who come to see us aren't coming for fun." You spoke gently, carefully choosing every word. "They're usually having one of the worst days of their lives. They're very, very sick..."
"Or hurt," Jack added quietly.
"They can look scary sometimes," you continued. "There can be blood. People cry. Sometimes they're frightened, sometimes they're angry, and sometimes they need every doctor and nurse in the room paying attention to them."
Jack nodded. "Our job is making sure they get help as quickly as possible. We can't always stop to explain what's happening, and there are things no six-year-old should have to see."
Lucy listened with surprising seriousness, though it was obvious she still didn't understand.
"But..." she said softly, "I'll be quiet."
Your chest tightened.
"I know you would."
"I could sit in the corner and color."
Jack smiled, though it didn't quite reach his eyes.
"You probably could."
"I wouldn't touch anything."
"We know, sweetheart."
"I wouldn't even talk."
Jack smiled sadly. "You'd probably be the quietest kid in the whole hospital."
For the briefest moment, hope flickered across Lucy's face before reality settled back in. She looked between the two of you, swallowing hard.
"So..." Her voice was barely above a whisper. "...I can't?"
The words were so small they made your chest ache. You reached for her little hand, giving it a gentle squeeze.
"No, sweetie. I'm sorry."
Her eyes filled almost instantly.
"But everyone else gets to go to their parents' work."
Jack closed his eyes for a fraction of a second. Every parent hated hearing those words because sometimes there simply wasn't a fair answer. He rubbed his thumb absentmindedly over the back of her tiny hand.
"I know."
"I wanna see where you guys work."
"I know."
"I wanna wear one of those little doctor coats."
Despite the ache in your chest, a smile tugged at your lips. "You would look absolutely adorable."
"I could help."
Jack let out a quiet snort, his expression turning dramatically serious.
"Oh, that's exactly the part I'm worried about."
Lucy blinked. "...Really?"
"Oh, absolutely," he said with a solemn nod. "I think you'd spend the whole day walking around the department telling everyone what to do."
"I would not."
"You absolutely would."
She crossed her arms.
"No."
"No?"
She puffed out her chest, planting both hands on her hips as she deepened her voice into what she apparently believed sounded very authoritative.
"'Okay everybody, one at a time! No pushing! You have to wait your turn!'"
Jack laughed so suddenly and genuinely that it echoed through the house.
"There it is."
You couldn't help laughing too.
"Our little charge nurse."
Lucy dissolved into giggles, pleased she'd made both of you laugh.
The moment was warm.
Light.
Comfortable.
Until it wasn't.
Her smile slowly faded as she remembered why she'd started the conversation in the first place.
"...But I still don't get to come."
Jack's laughter disappeared just as quickly. He opened his arms without saying a word, and Lucy climbed into his lap as naturally as breathing. She tucked her face into the crook of his neck, wrapping her little arms around him with a sigh that sounded much older than six years old.
"No," he admitted quietly, kissing the top of her head. "Not to work."
The room fell silent.
You watched Jack gently rub circles over Lucy's back while she sat curled against him, neither of them speaking. The disappointment in the room was almost tangible. You knew Jack was feeling it just as sharply as you were. Both of you spent your careers taking care of other people's children, yet this was one of those moments where your own daughter simply had to accept that your jobs came with doors she couldn't walk through.
Finally, you leaned over and kissed the top of her head.
"How about this?"
She peeked up hopefully.
"When we're both off next weekend, we'll take you to the hospital."
Jack immediately caught on.
"We'll show you the cafeteria."
"My locker."
"The ambulance bay."
"If there aren't any helicopters flying, maybe we can see the helipad from outside."
"The empty waiting room."
"My office."
Lucy sniffled, considering the offer with all the seriousness of someone negotiating an international treaty.
"...Can I push a wheelchair?"
Jack looked over at you.
You shrugged.
"If nobody's using it, sure."
She thought for another long moment before giving a tiny nod.
"...Okay."
It wasn't the answer she'd wanted.
It wasn't even close.
But she accepted it with the quiet resilience children somehow managed to find after their hearts had been disappointed. Before long she was asking what was for dinner and whether Grandma was still making pancakes the next morning, and by bedtime she seemed perfectly content again.
You smiled to yourself as you tucked her in that night, smoothing the blankets over her little shoulders.
Children had an incredible ability to move on.
Or so you thought.
Lucy had absolutely no intention of moving on.
She smiled when you tucked her into bed that night. She happily ate pancakes with Grandma the next morning. She colored pictures at the kitchen table, watched cartoons, and talked excitedly about the hospital tour you had promised for the following weekend. If anyone had asked, she seemed to have accepted your answer completely.
She hadn't.
To a six-year-old, "next weekend" felt impossibly far away. Everyone else would get to visit their parents' jobs on Friday. Everyone else would come back to school Monday with stories to tell. Emma would talk about frosting cupcakes. Noah would probably tell everyone he got to honk the garbage truck horn. Olivia would have pictures of fish. And Lucy... Lucy would have to say she stayed home because her mommy and daddy worked somewhere she wasn't allowed to go.
That simply didn't seem fair.
By Wednesday she had the beginning of a plan.
By Thursday she had improved it.
By Friday morning, she was convinced it was foolproof.
Your mother had barely finished pouring herself a cup of coffee when she heard small footsteps padding down the hallway. Lucy appeared in the kitchen doorway still wearing her pajamas, her favorite stuffed rabbit dangling from one hand while the other pressed dramatically against her stomach.
"Grandma..."
Your mother looked up immediately.
"Morning, sweetheart."
Lucy took two slow steps into the kitchen, making sure not to walk too quickly. Sick people probably didn't move very fast.
"I don't feel good."
The smile disappeared from your mother's face at once.
"Oh, sweetheart."
She set her mug down without taking a sip and crouched in front of her granddaughter, brushing a hand over Lucy's messy bed hair.
"What's wrong?"
"My tummy hurts."
"Oh no."
Lucy gave a pitiful little nod.
"It hurts a lot."
Your mother frowned with concern.
"Can you show me where?"
Lucy froze.
That...
She hadn't prepared for.
She looked down at herself, suddenly realizing stomachs had different parts. She'd heard you and Jack ask patients that question before. Daddy always wanted to know exactly where it hurt.
Panic fluttered in her chest for half a second.
"...Everywhere."
Your mother's eyebrows lifted ever so slightly.
"Everywhere?"
Another solemn nod.
"Mhm."
She gently rested both hands on Lucy's shoulders.
"Did you throw up?"
"No."
"Do you feel like you have to?"
Lucy pretended to think about it before giving a hesitant little shrug.
"...Maybe."
"Do you have a fever?"
"I don't know."
"Hmm..."
Your mother pressed the back of her hand against Lucy's forehead before checking again with her palm, the way mothers and grandmothers always seemed to do. Her skin felt perfectly cool.
No fever.
That was reassuring. Still, children didn't always spike a temperature right away. Maybe she'd eaten something that hadn't agreed with her. Maybe a little stomach bug was just beginning.
Lucy watched every expression that crossed her grandmother's face. She could tell she wasn't entirely convinced.
She needed to make it more believable.
So she let out the tiniest little whimper she could manage. Not loud enough to sound dramatic, just enough to make it seem like the pain had returned.
Your mother's face softened immediately.
"Oh, you poor thing."
Lucy leaned instinctively into the comforting touch, a small stab of guilt twisting in her chest before she quickly pushed it aside. She wasn't trying to be naughty. She just wanted to see Mama and Daddy at work like everyone else got to.
After a long pause, she lowered her voice to an almost frightened whisper.
"I think..." She looked up through her lashes with the biggest, saddest eyes she could manage. "...I need the hospital."
Your mother smiled gently as she tucked a strand of hair behind Lucy's ear.
"Oh, honey. I don't think we're there just yet."
Lucy's heart sank.
"...But my tummy really, really hurts."
"I know it does."
"We should go."
Your mother hesitated. Normally she would've waited an hour or two, called you first, given Lucy some water, and seen whether she felt any better after breakfast before rushing to the emergency department.
But abdominal pain in children was one of those things she'd learned never to dismiss completely after watching both you and Jack work in emergency medicine for years. You had both told stories about children who seemed perfectly fine until they suddenly weren't. Appendicitis. Intussusception. Things she'd never heard of before you became a doctor and Jack became a nurse.
She didn't want to overreact.
She also didn't want to ignore something important.
Her eyes lingered on Lucy's face. The little girl looked uncomfortable enough to be believable, even if she wasn't crying. Some children tolerated pain differently.
Your mother sighed softly as she stood.
"Alright."
Lucy's eyes widened before she could stop herself.
Really?
It worked?
Excitement rushed through her so suddenly she almost smiled.
Almost.
She bit the inside of her cheek just in time, quickly lowering her head and pressing a hand dramatically back against her stomach.
"I'll get dressed," your mother said. "Then we'll have one of Mommy's friends take a quick look at you, okay?"
Lucy nodded with all the seriousness she could muster.
"...Okay."
As your mother disappeared upstairs to change, Lucy remained standing in the middle of the kitchen, hugging her stuffed rabbit tightly against her chest.
Her plan had worked.
In just a little while, she'd finally get to see where her mom and dad spent all day.
She had no idea that before the morning was over, two people who had faced mass casualty incidents, violent trauma, and countless life-or-death emergencies would see her name on the emergency department tracking board and experience a kind of fear neither of them had ever learned to prepare for.
The emergency department had been in controlled chaos since seven that morning.
Every room was occupied. Hallway beds had filled before breakfast. Monitors chimed from every direction, phones rang almost constantly, stretchers rolled past one another with practiced precision, and conversations overlapped until they became little more than background noise. Jack had barely stopped moving since clocking in. He had just finished helping stabilize an elderly patient in respiratory distress and was updating the tracking board when a new name appeared among the incoming pediatric triage patients.
His own last name.
At first his brain didn't process it.
He frowned automatically, assuming it was another family with the same surname. It wasn't uncommon.
Then his eyes shifted to the details beneath it.
Accompanied by: Lucy.
The world seemed to narrow into a single point.
His stomach dropped so violently it almost hurt.
No.
No, no, no.
His mind filled the blanks long before reason had a chance to intervene.
Car accident on the way to school.
She'd fallen from the playground.
An allergic reaction.
A seizure.
Appendicitis.
A ruptured appendix.
Internal bleeding.
She'd stopped breathing.
His chest tightened so sharply that, for one terrifying second, it felt impossible to draw in air.
He was already moving before he'd consciously made the decision.
"Jack?"
Dana looked up from her workstation as he hurried past.
"You okay?"
He didn't answer.
Couldn't.
His prosthetic clicked faster against the floor as he rounded the nurses' station, weaving through stretchers and staff with an urgency that made several people instinctively step aside. Every extra second felt unbearable. His heartbeat pounded so loudly in his ears that he barely registered the voices around him.
Across the department, you were finishing charting after discharging a patient when your own eyes drifted toward the tracking board.
Your last name.
Pediatric triage.
Lucy.
Everything inside you went cold.
"No..."
The word escaped before you realized you'd spoken aloud.
Your pen slipped from your fingers onto the counter.
You didn't bother picking it up.
Someone behind you asked a question you never heard. You abandoned your chart mid-sentence and hurried out of the trauma bay, every rational thought dissolving beneath one singular, suffocating fear.
Not my baby.
Please not my baby.
You'd both spent years watching parents run into emergency departments wearing that exact expression.
The look that silently begged someone to tell them their child was okay.
Now you understood it from the inside.
Jack reached pediatric triage first.
He rounded the corner so quickly he nearly lost his footing, instinctively compensating before his prosthetic could catch awkwardly beneath him.
Then he stopped.
Lucy sat on one of the triage beds beside your mother, happily swinging her legs back and forth as she hugged her stuffed rabbit. She looked perfectly content, completely fascinated by everything happening around her.
The moment she saw him, her entire face lit up.
"Hi, Daddy!"
Jack didn't answer immediately.
He couldn't.
His breathing still hadn't caught up with him. His pulse hammered painfully against his ribs as his eyes swept over her with clinical precision born from years in emergency medicine.
Skin color okay.
Breathing normal.
Alert.
Talking.
No blood.
No bruising.
No obvious deformities.
No signs of respiratory distress.
No altered mental status.
Nothing.
Nothing.
Relief crashed into him so suddenly his knees threatened to buckle.
He had to grip the back of a nearby chair to steady himself.
"Jack?"
Your mother stood immediately, guilt already written across her face.
"I am so, so sorry. I should’ve called."
You arrived only seconds later, breathing almost as hard as Jack.
"Lucy!"
Your daughter beamed.
"Hi, Mama!"
You dropped to your knees in front of her without hesitation, your hands automatically moving through the familiar sequence every parent in emergency medicine knew by instinct. Forehead. Neck. Arms. Wrists. Face.
"What happened?"
Your mother looked apologetic.
"She was perfectly fine this morning. She'd been playing, and then all of a sudden she started holding her stomach and said she was in terrible pain. I didn't know if I should wait or..."
"You absolutely did the right thing," you assured her automatically, even as your attention remained fixed entirely on Lucy.
"Honey?"
Lucy nodded solemnly.
"It hurt."
"Where does it hurt, bug?" Jack asked.
She pointed vaguely toward the center of her stomach.
"...Here."
"How bad?"
She held up eight fingers.
"On a scale of ten..."
"...Eight."
"When did it start?"
"This morning."
"Did you throw up?"
"No."
"Feel sick?"
She hesitated.
"...Maybe."
Jack exchanged the briefest glance with you.
Neither of you relaxed.
Because children lied about vegetables.
They didn't usually lie about pain.
And even when they weren't lying, they were notoriously bad at describing it. Jack had treated smiling children with ruptured appendixes, kids who laughed while walking on fractured ankles, toddlers quietly coloring despite severe dehydration. Looking well meant almost nothing in pediatrics.
You rested a reassuring hand against Lucy's abdomen.
"I'm just going to press a little, okay?"
She nodded.
You gently palpated one quadrant.
"Does this hurt?"
"No."
You moved to another.
"How about here?"
"No."
Lower right.
"No."
Lower left.
"No."
Jack watched every tiny flicker of her expression. Or rather, the complete lack of one. She wasn't tensing beneath your touch. She wasn't guarding her stomach or curling inward instinctively. If anything, she seemed far more interested in everything happening around her than in the examination itself.
Her eyes wandered constantly around the department, following nurses rushing past, patients being wheeled down the hallway, monitors chiming, stretchers rolling by, the ambulance doors sliding open every few minutes. She wasn't frightened by any of it. She looked fascinated.
You noticed it too.
Before either of you could ask another question, Lucy turned back toward Jack, wearing the brightest smile she'd had all morning.
"So..." She tilted her head innocently. "...Can I see where Daddy works now?"
Silence settled over the four of you.
Jack closed his eyes.
Very.
Very slowly.
Your mother frowned, looking between the three of you.
"...Lucy?"
Your daughter's grin only widened.
"It worked."
Jack opened one eye.
"...What worked?"
"My tummy."
Neither you nor Jack said a word.
"It wasn't really hurting." She paused, as though she'd only just realized you weren't reacting the way she'd expected. "I just wanted to come."
For several long seconds, nobody moved.
Jack slowly lowered himself onto the chair beside her, more because his legs suddenly felt weak than because he'd intended to sit.
Because his prosthetic leg suddenly felt unsteady beneath him.
He rubbed both hands over his face, forcing out a long, shaky breath before looking back at his daughter.
"You..." His voice was rougher than he intended. "...You faked it?"
Lucy nodded proudly, completely oblivious to the emotional hurricane she'd just unleashed.
"That was the only way Grandma would bring me."
Your mother's mouth fell open.
"Oh my goodness..."
Lucy looked between the two of you with complete sincerity.
"I wanted to see where you work."
Jack let out another slow breath that sounded dangerously close to becoming a laugh. Not because anything about this was funny, but because relief had nowhere else to go.
"You scared ten years off my life."
Her smile faltered.
"...I did?"
Jack swallowed, the image of her name on the tracking board still burned into his mind.
"When I saw your name pop up..." His voice caught unexpectedly, forcing him to pause. He looked away for a moment before gathering himself enough to continue. "I thought something terrible had happened."
You nodded quietly beside him.
"I thought my little girl was hurt."
Lucy's face crumpled almost instantly. The excitement disappeared, replaced by confusion and guilt.
"I..." Her shoulders curled inward. "...I didn't know."
Of course she hadn't.
She was six years old. In her mind, she'd come up with the smartest plan imaginable. Pretend to have a stomachache. Go to the hospital. Surprise Mommy and Daddy. She'd never stopped to think about what it would feel like for two emergency clinicians to suddenly see their own child's name appear on the tracking board.
She looked down at her sneakers, twisting one toe against the floor.
"I'm sorry."
Jack watched her quietly for a long moment. Every ounce of frustration he'd felt dissolved beneath the sight of her trying so hard not to cry. Without another word, he opened his arms.
Lucy climbed into them immediately.
He wrapped her tightly against his chest, closing his eyes as he rested his cheek against her hair.
"I'm not mad."
She looked up uncertainly.
"...You're not?"
He shook his head.
"I'm relieved."
His voice was barely above a whisper.
"So unbelievably relieved."
He held her for another moment before leaning back just enough to meet her eyes.
"But you cannot ever pretend to be sick like this again."
She nodded immediately.
"Okay."
"I need a real promise."
"I promise."
You moved closer until your shoulder rested against Jack's, wrapping an arm around both of them. Almost instinctively, Lucy reached for your hand with her free one.
"I'm sorry, Mama."
You squeezed her little fingers.
"I know."
"I just wanted everyone at school to know my mommy and daddy have cool jobs."
Your heart ached.
"We know, sweetheart."
"They all got to go."
You met Jack's eyes for a brief second. Sometimes the hardest part of parenting wasn't saying no. It was understanding exactly why your child wanted something so badly and still knowing the answer couldn't change.
Jack kissed the top of Lucy's head.
Jack was quiet for a moment before a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"You know what?"
"What?"
"Since you're already here..." He glanced at you, silently asking the question before either of you spoke.
You smiled back.
"I think our patient has been thoroughly examined."
Jack nodded solemnly.
"I agree."
He looked back at Lucy.
"So I'm officially discharging you."
Her eyes widened.
"You are?"
"Mhm." He reached over and gently tapped the tip of her nose. "No tummy ache. Cleared to go home with Grandma."
She giggled.
"But..." He lowered his voice conspiratorially. "Before you go home, I think we can spare five minutes."
Lucy's mouth fell open.
"Really?"
"We can show you the nurses' station." He pointed toward the center of the department. "My locker. Maybe the ambulance bay if there isn't anything coming in."
"And the cafeteria," you added with a smile.
Jack nodded.
"But that's it."
"No treatment rooms."
"No sick patients," you said gently.
"And you stay with one of us the entire time."
Lucy threw her arms around his neck so quickly he almost laughed.
"I promise!"
"I know you do." He hugged her back before pulling away just enough to look at her seriously. "But that doesn't change one thing."
"What?"
"If you ever feel left out again, you tell Mommy or me."
She nodded.
"You don't have to scare us to spend time with us."
The smile slipped from her face.
"...Okay."
"I mean it, bug."
"I know."
She leaned forward to hug him again, then reached for you too, nearly pulling the three of you together on the waiting room chair.
Jack caught your eye over the top of Lucy's head.
"I think she inherited our problem-solving skills."
You laughed.
"No."
"Our stubbornness."
Lucy looked up immediately.
"I heard that."
"Oh, we know," Jack said with a grin. "Trust me, we know exactly who you got it from."
"I did not fake being stubborn."
"You absolutely did."
That earned another burst of laughter, loud enough that even your mother laughed through the tears she'd been quietly wiping away.
As Lucy happily slid off Jack's lap, already asking a hundred questions about ambulances and whether nurses really kept candy in the break room, the knot in his chest finally began to loosen. The fear hadn't disappeared entirely. He wasn't sure it ever would. Seeing her name on that tracking board had unlocked a terror he hoped never to feel again.
But as he watched her bounce happily between you, clutching one of your hands and one of his as though the last twenty minutes had never happened, he found himself smiling despite everything.
He would take fake stomachaches, dramatic plans, and six-year-old schemes over seeing his daughter in one of those treatment rooms for real every single day.
summary: Luck did not seem to be on your side today. The entire ER had figured out your attraction to older men thanks to Trinity, and now it was coming to haunt you. All you could hope for was that Jack wouldn’t figure out that it was actually about him.
tags/warnings: jack abbot x fem!reader, yearning, reader gets assaulted, injury, angst, miscommunication, fluff, age gap (reader is in mid-late 20s, jack is in late 40s) jealous!reader, trinity and dennis dont have boundaries, pitt crew appearances
wc: 4.7k
“The mystery man you've been crushing on is night shift attending Jack Abbot?!”
Trinity bursts into the lounge whisper-shouting. Your eyes go wide and you abandon the yogurt you were eating to run over and clamp a hand over her mouth. “Shut the fuck up! Shut up. Please for the love of god, shut up.” Your heart was beating like crazy, and you felt like you were gonna throw up. She slowly nods and you finally let go.
“What makes you say that?” You say with an almost threatening tone. She grins sheepishly at you before backing a few inches away. “Well I might have gone through your locker, and I might have taken a peek at your journal…”
“Oh my god, that's a total invasion of privacy Trinity! How the fuck did you even get my combination?!” You were running your hands through your hair, this girl was unbelievable. “Huckleberry might’ve helped me,” she says while trying her best to avoid your gaze.
“No, you know what, that’s great, I'm so glad I decided to move in with the nosiest people in Pittsburgh!” You clasp your hands together and start pacing back and forth.
“Okay, first of all, Perlah and Princess beat us in that category, and second of all, you weren't telling us anything! No hint, nothing, so what better way to find out than snoop through your most prized possession? A book that you never let leave your vicinity. Don't worry though, we skipped all the emotional stuff and landed on the page that had a cutout picture of him with hearts around it.” She chuckles, and you feel like you could kill her.
“I'm burning that goddamn book and the two of you with it. I can't believe you guys went through my journal!” Your cheeks burn with embarrassment, god, did they know anything about boundaries?
Yes, you had a picture of your night shift attending with hearts around him in your journal, but you weren't obsessed with the man. The topic of manifestation had come up once or twice with Trinity, so you decided to try it out knowing nothing would probably happen. You had a crush on him since you started working at the PTMC, feelings you knew he would never reciprocate, so that silly page meant nothing, not really.
“I'm sorry, we went too far.” Trinity walks over and puts a hand on your shoulder, the guilt finally catching up to her. “But I'm surprised I never caught on. Now thinking about it, your feelings for him are so obvious.” She almost sounds annoyed at herself.
You scoff and remove her hand. “Obvious? Please.”
“Oh my god, is he the reason why you make me or Huckleberry bring you in early and leave late?” she asks, her annoyance now directed at you. “N-No, don't be ridiculous.” You're a lying, stuttering mess. Of course he was the reason why.
“And the way you hover, listening to every last word he says. I've noticed the way he flirts with you but he does that with everyone, so I didn't think anything of it. I just thought he was a mentor that you admired, but it all makes sense. Just know that I never caught on cause I didn't know you liked them old.”
“Likes what old?” Panic rushes into your chest as Robby walks into the room cutting you two off. “Her men,” Trinity says casually and Robby’s eyes go wide. “Oh?”
You start shaking your head and fake laugh. “She's just joking, I don't like them old, that would be weird! N-Not that there's anything wrong with being old and liking older men but I definitely don't.” You were speaking so fast your brain couldn't catch up with your words. Horrified, you watch Robby look at you amused while Trinity holds back a laugh.
Fuck, you were such a bad liar.
“Okay— I'm gonna grab an apple and head back out so you two can keep discussing your attraction to older men,” he teases, walking towards the fruit basket. You watch him grab his apple and chuckle before heading out. As soon as he's gone Trinity lets her laugh out and you smack her chest. “Ow, my boob.” She rubs her chest frowning.
“That wasn't fucking funny, why would you say that it was so humiliating!” You cover your face with your hands, your embarrassment being tenfold now. “To be fair your response was what made it humiliating, but you'll be fine babes, it wasn't that bad, and at least it wasn't the man himself.”
You moan into your hands and look back at her. “We’re not discussing this further. I'm mad at you.” You state, while walking to throw your yogurt away, not being able to stomach the rest. “Hey, that's not allowed!” You flip her off as you exit the room, trying to leave your embarrassment behind as you reenter the chaos.
She follows, but it's not long before you freeze, almost causing her to collide with your back. You see Jack rush into Trauma One with one of his SWAT officers on a bed bleeding out.
“Maybe you should sit this one out,” Trinity says while passing you to head to the room. You nod and stay in place as you watch them get to work. Seeing him felt weird now that Trinity and Dennis knew, it made your crush feel more real, and completely childish.
“You doing alright?” A deep voice from behind you pulls you from your thoughts, making you jump. “Dr. Langdon, you scared me.” You turn to see him with his arms crossed and an eyebrow raised. “Yeah, you were completely zoned out there.” You see him glance at what you'd been staring at, and back at you. “You know them?” He asks and you shake your head. “No, I was just lost in thought, sorry, I'll get back to work.” He slowly nods his head. “If you need a break doc, take it.” He pats you on the back and moves past you.
God, you'd be pathetic if you had to take a break over Jack Abbot.
The next time you saw Jack was right after they'd successfully saved the SWAT officer you saw him roll in with. You had come looking for Robby, wanting a second opinion on a patient you had just seen, when you heard Jack speaking with Dr. Al-Hashimi the new attending. “We should grab a beer sometime, share war stories” You felt a wave of jealousy pass through you. “I'd like that,” she casually replied, and walked out of the room. Trying to ignore your stomach you walk up to Robby. “She seems cool.” Jack says to Robby, both of them not noticing your presence “Yeah, maybe.”
You clear your throat, trying to catch Robby's attention and you watch the amused look from earlier reappear on his face as he turns to look at you. “You here to tell me more about how you're ‘not into’ older men?” You see Jack perk up in your peripheral vision and your eyes go wide. “Um, no, but if you have time could I get a second opinion on this patient?” You try to keep your voice steady even though your heart felt like it was going to explode. He chuckles and looks back at his laptop. “Yeah, I'll be out there in a second.”
You nod and turn to leave. Once out you hear Jack’s voice through the door. “You gonna tell me what that was about?” Hearing him laugh makes you burn up at the thought of Robby telling him everything. You don't know if you could handle any more embarrassment today, so you were gonna try and focus on your charts for the time being.
While looking through your charts you hear someone clear their throat next to you. “You enjoying Dr. Al-Hashimi’s AI tool?” Your eyes go wide as you look up to see Jack standing next to your desk. “Oh, no. I'd rather write these up myself.” You say, turning to look back at the monitor, unable to hold eye contact with him. “Smart girl.” He says and moves closer, making your heart skip a beat.
“Sorry I couldn't help earlier, hope your friend’s doing better now.” You muttered, trying to ignore his closeness and warmth. There was some guilt there, you had froze, so Trinity moved for you. “He's gonna be fine, but it would've been nice to have my favorite resident there.” He says softly.
Favorite resident?
The smile that emerges on your face is subtle but you know he can see it. He starts speaking again before you can respond. “But I think she was too busy staring at an older man.” You whip your head to look back at him, your smile instantly dropping. “W-What? He shrugs playfully while turning to walk away. Your heart was beating so fast, he definitely knew you were looking at him, but you hadn't even realized he noticed you earlier. You quickly get up abandoning your charts to busy yourself with something else, you were too worked up to sit at a desk right now.
The next few hours go by somewhat fast. You were able to avoid Jack the entire time surprisingly. You slipped into random rooms when you heard his voice nearby and would rush to find a patient when you'd see him. Were you being dramatic? Yes, but you needed to stay clear of him, his teasing would be the end of you.
You had just discharged a patient, working on finishing their notes when you hear a familiar voice. “I'll pay for it.” You don't know how you heard him, he was borderline whispering, and you were surrounded by a noisy hospital. So you couldn't help the curiosity that crept in you deciding to walk by the room you heard his voice in.
He was sitting on the hospital bed shirtless with Dr. Mohan smiling behind him. You hear her say “Our little secret.” and the frown that was usually on his face was gone, replaced with a similar smile. As much as your body wants to stop in place, you don't and keep walking.
Jack was known for being a smooth talker, you knew that, but there was a small part of you that had hoped it was different when he flirted with you. Now witnessing it twice in one day with two different women, you couldn't help but feel stupid. I mean you had never gotten as close to him as Dr. Mohan just was, you could only imagine what else had transpired between them.
“Damn, where you headed to?” Trinity’s voice stops you in your tracks, you see her head emerge above a monitor. “To check on a patient Trin, where else?” You lie, but it's because you don't want to deal with her questions right now. “I don't know, it looks like you're running away from something, plus you have this horrified expression on your face.” She dramatically waves a hand over her face, emphasizing “horrified expression”
You groan and shake your head. “I'm not running, and I do not have a horrified expression on my face. Please just go back to doing your charts.” She opens her mouth to reply but you cut her off by walking away.
You make your way towards the ambulance bay and when you walk out you're instantly hit by a cloud of smoke. You look over and see Dana leaning against the wall. “Hey, kid.” You reply with a quiet "Hey" and walk over to stand next to her. “Don't look too good, you want a puff?” She holds the cigarette out for you to take and you sigh. “Fuck it.”
Smoking wasn't really your thing, but right now, it didn't seem too bad. You grab it and bring it to your lips, inhaling slowly, then exhaling. You mumble a “thank you” and give it back to her. “No problem, although I'm surprised, you’ve never accepted before.”
You let out a laugh because it was true, you never joined in drinking when the crew would ask you to after a rough shift, and the very few times Dana’s offered a cigarette you've refused. It's not like you don't partake. You used to in high school and college, but ever since you started working at the PTMC you haven't had the urge to, which is surprising considering the fact that it's the reason most people start and continue.
“Today's been rough, nothing terrible, just mentally draining.” She nods at your words, understanding that feeling before you continue. “How bout you? How's your shadow, Emma doing?” You watch as she deeply sighs at your question. “She's doing real good. Yeah, she’ll be great.” You can hear the concern in her voice. “You're doing good too Dana, she’ll flourish under your wing.” You put a reassuring hand on her shoulder wanting to comfort her even though you know her concern will never fade.
“Yeah, here’s hoping.” She takes another drag while looking at the calm in front of you two. There's comfortable silence before she looks back at you. “You out here because of Robby's loud mouth?” A bitter chuckle escapes you, because of course he was going around talking about what had happened in the lounge.
“No, not really, I didn't realize he was telling everyone.” He was your superior but that wasn't gonna stop you from killing him. “Oh yeah, word travels quick round here, everybody knows about your interest in older men now.” She was laughing now.
You wanted to crawl in a hole and never come out.
“Ugh, it's all Trinity’s fault! She told Robby I like my men old, and then I word-vomited trying to save myself from humiliation. I failed miserably, if you were wondering.” You were reaching for the cigarette in her hand again, which she easily gave up. “Santos, really?” She asks and you nod your head while breathing in more smoke. “Eh, I wouldn't worry too much, I'm sure everyone will forget about it by tomorrow. They're so bored they’re grasping for any sort of gossip, something new’ll come up soon,” she says, putting her hand on your shoulder now.
“Honestly, I don't get what the big deal is. Why is it so crazy that I'm interested in a guy that's maybe a little too old for me? News flash, I'm a fully grown adult.” You can't help the irritation in your voice, this was all so annoying. “It can be a big deal, depending on the circumstance,” she says, and you sigh, taking another drag. She's right, HR would be on your ass if they found out all this ruckus was about Jack.
“You're lucky no one else knows which older man you like.” She adds and you start coughing, choking on the smoke you inhaled. “Christ, I'm sorry kid.” You can hear the smile on her face as she speaks. She moves her hand from your shoulder and pats your back, trying to help you.
You catch your breath and look back at her. “Don't tell me you went through my journal too,” you say defeated.
She shakes her head. “I've known for a while now, I can see the way you look at him.” She hesitates before continuing. “And the way he looks at you. You need to be careful.”
You can't help but scoff at that. “Dana, the man's a chronic flirt. There's no need for you to worry, cause nothing will ever happen.” You try to take another drag, but she grabs it from your hand and drops it on the ground, crushing it with her sole.
You pout your lips at her, and she shakes her head. “Alright, no more cigarettes for you. How bout you go back in, I'll be right behind you, just give me a second.” You mutter an “okay” and start walking back into the ER, there was no point in arguing with her.
You’re only a few steps in the hospital before you hear a scuffle in one of the rooms. Walking over to see what was going on you witness a patient putting Emma in a headlock.
Panic and pure adrenaline surge through you as you run into the room to get the man off her. You used all your strength to pull his arm, managing to free her from his grip, but now he was focused on you. He lunges for you, grabbing onto the sides of your head before head-butting you. As you fall to the ground you hear Dana yell and watch her tackle the man to the floor, stabbing him with a needle in the process.
You close your eyes as you hear a bunch of footsteps rush into the room. “What the hell happened?” You hear Robby's voice, the noise making you wince. “He attacked them so I gave him a shot to settle him down,” Dana replies, her eyes wide with shock.
You feel movement next to you before someone touches your face, knowing exactly who it is before he speaks. “Fuck, she’s bleeding, help me get her up.” You cry out as Jack picks your body up. Your head is throbbing, and your face is on fire. “That fucker got me good.” You open your eyes to see Jack in front of you, concern covering every inch of his face.
You look over at Emma wanting to make sure she was okay, and she's staring right back at you while being bombarded by questions. You notice the red ring around her neck, and you feel anger finally hit you. “Hey, focus on me, we need to get you to a different room.” You nod your head, and hear Robby grilling Dana as Jack leads you out of the room, your hand tightly wrapped around his arm.
As soon as you sit on the edge of the bed, Jack is on you, checking your face and head. You weren't able to hold back your whimpers as he touched the inflicted areas. “I'm gonna kill him.” He mutters under his breath and you manage a smile. “I'm fine.” You’re breathless as you speak. He picks your chin up, eyes not leaving yours.
“You could have a concussion.”
“I don't,”
“Your nose could be broken.”
“It isn't.”
He sighs before grabbing an alcohol pad to wipe your face carefully, you hadn't even realized your nose was bleeding.
“I didn't realize you could be this gentle, Jack.” You watch as he freezes, it was the first time you had said his name out loud. “I like the way you say my name.” You couldn't stop the bitter laugh that escaped you. “I wonder how many girls you've said that to.”
You move to grab the wipe from his hand but he grips your wrist before you can take it. His touch was scorching, while the metal band on his ring finger was freezing. “I haven't used that on anyone.” He states, and you raise an eyebrow at him. “Really? Not even earlier on Mohan?” You don't know what had gotten into you, were never confrontational, maybe you did have a concussion. His eyes go wide and he drops your wrist. “What are you talking about?” He asks, confused.
“Our little secret? I'll pay for it?” and you watch as he figures out what you were talking about. “When I said I'd pay for it, I was talking about getting her an uber for supplies she wanted to send home with a patient. That's all.” He sighs before continuing. “And I was grazed by a bullet earlier, I didn't want to do the paperwork, so she helped and promised to keep it quiet. That's it, I promise.”
Now you were the one looking at him with concern. You felt so stupid, you were so quick to assume things. “Are you okay?” You place a hand on his shoulder, worried. “I'm fine, don't worry about me,” He says while putting his hand over yours. All you could think about was kissing him, your jealousy from earlier completely gone, and you could tell he was thinking the same with the way he was staring at your lips.
You start leaning in, only for him to back off. “You‘re not feeling okay, you're not thinking straight.” He shook his head, voice wavering, almost like he was trying to convince himself.
The rejection stung, and to make everything worse, your head was fucking killing you. “I'm fine.” You snapped, moving to get up, but as soon as you're on your feet your legs get wobbly. “Let me help you.” Jack grabs onto your waist and you push him off. “Jesus, get off me, I said I was fine!” Your own volume made you wince, and the hospital lights were only getting brighter. You stumble out of the room extremely dizzy, almost tripping before Jack catches you.
The movement grabs Robby’s attention. “Is she okay? I need to ask her what happened.” Robby questions, but before Jack can answer you cut in. “The guy headbutted me, and I fell. I'm fine, I just need to rest, please.” Robby runs over, opening your eyelids to check your pupils. “Shit, did you evaluate her?” and Jack shakes his head. “I was going to, but she got up and ran out.”
You remove Jack’s hold on you. “I'm a little dizzy and the lights are too bright, so if you need to give me a CT scan go ahead, but I'm telling you, all I need to do is rest. I'm coherent, I'm good, if anything I have a minor concussion but I doubt it. I'll answer any other questions you have, just get me in a fucking bed, and away from him,” You say, jutting your head at Jack. No one says anything, Robby just gives Jack a weird look before coming to your side to bring you back to the isolated room.
By the time Robby's done asking questions and evaluating you, you’re ready to sleep. “I'll turn the lights off so you can get some rest, but you're going home immediately after. You're lucky it was only a minor concussion,” Robby says and you nod slowly. “Is Emma okay?” You had been worried about her since Jack dragged you away from the room earlier. “Yeah, she's okay thanks to you. There are some red marks around her neck but that's about it,” he says, attempting to comfort you.
You let out a sigh of relief, what happened to her was awful, but you're glad nothing worse happened. “Okay, well Is Dana in any trouble?” you ask, remembering Robby's questions. He was asking if you had seen what she’d done, which you had, but you lied, because you know she shouldn't have had any type of sedative on her. “I don't know.” He sighs and you know not to prod. “I’ll be back soon, rest up,” he adds, and you mumble an “okay.” before you close your eyes, drifting away.
When you wake up, your head feels better but you're riddled with anxiety. Everything that had occurred earlier was immediately taking over your mind, so you get up and get ready to discharge yourself, not wanting to be stuck in this hospital any longer. You make your way to Robby and quickly debrief with him, making sure he knows you're okay, before you say your goodbyes and leave.
You didn't have a car, usually choosing to ride with Trinity or Dennis, but because they still had a couple of hours left you had no choice but to order an uber home.
As you're walking out you hear your name being called. Turning to see who it is, you watch as Jack runs, trying to catch up with you. He stops a few feet away from you and you can see the sweat glistening on his skin. “I heard you were going home, how are you feeling?” You can't help but roll your eyes at him. “I'm okay,” you reply dryly. He sighs and steps closer. “Look, I'm sorry about earlier, I wanted to make sure you were all there.”
“Save it, I don't wanna talk about this right now.” You glance at your phone and see that the uber was only a couple of minutes away. “No, please let me explain,” he pleads and you look at him frustrated, but ultimately nod giving him permission to continue.
“I wanted to kiss you, I did, but I didn't want to while you could've possibly had a head injury. I wanted to make sure you were thinking straight and I didn't want you to regret it.” Your stomach was doing flips at his words.
“Jack—” You try speaking but he cuts you off.
“I really like you, sweetheart, and I have for a while.” He says softly, his eyes holding yours intently. “Jack, don’t say it if you don't mean it.” Your body was on fire, and you were squirming under his gaze. This all felt surreal.
“When I came in today, you were the first person I searched for only to see you already staring back. Later when Robby told me about the conversation he had with you, I couldn't help but wonder if it was about me. Then that feeling turned into certainty when I overheard Santos and Whitaker talking about the older men rumor and how it was specifically about me.” He chuckles, thinking about how the day unfolded.
He was saying all the right things, but couldn't help but cringe. “God, that's so embarrassing, I hate that you had to hear that from them.” You hide your face with your palms, but Jack clicks his teeth and moves them away. “Don't hide from me. And if anything, I'm grateful that I did, don't know if I would've had the courage to confess if I didn't.”
He shakes his head as he moves his hands to hold your face. “You scared me earlier. I don't know what I would've done if something happened without having the chance to tell you how I felt. I just needed you to recover before I did anything, before I did this.” He slowly inches towards you and stops, searching your eyes for permission. This was everything you ever wanted, and you didn't want to waste any more time, so you nod your head and move forward softly planting your lips on his.
The kiss is slow, gentle, and the taste of him was addicting. It was better than you ever imagined. You tilt your head, and wrap your arms around his shoulders, wanting to give him more access, but whimper when your nose brushes his a little more aggressively.
He pulls away instantly, checking to see if you were alright, making you giggle. “I'm okay, I'm still a little sore.” He pouts and brushes a strand of hair behind your ear, before resting his hands on your hips. “You need to rest. Please tell me you're taking a couple of days off,” and you shake your head. “I'm coming back tomorrow, I can handle it.” He squeezes your hips and presses his forehead against yours. “I'm gonna make sure you rest, you're not coming in tomorrow. I'll take care of you, don't worry.”
“I won't argue with that. I guess some rest would be nice, especially if you'll be there.” You move to connect your lips again, but are quickly interrupted as a car honks behind you. You groan as you force yourself to look back at the car, “That's my uber.” He presses a quick kiss to your forehead before letting go of your body. “Go home, rest, and I'll be there after my shift.”
“Okay, I'll send you my address. See you later?” you ask as you step away, heading towards the car. “See you later,” He replies smiling, and you light up.
As soon as you're in the car you're messaging the group chat with Trinity and Dennis explaining everything that happened and that you'd have a visitor soon. You scold them, but also thank them for being insufferable today. Then you find Jack’s name and type in your address. You might be a little concussed and in pain but things finally felt amazing.
You shake your head in disbelief, you can't believe you managed to manifest Jack Abbot.
a/c: I was on vacation working on this and just got back so i can finally post it!! I wanted to do smth short but fun while i was away before continuing to work on the sammy bryant fic so theres not gonna be a part 2 but i hope you all enjoy!!
⭐︎ warnings: pre-brand new day canon compliant, fluff, huge idiots in love, hurt/comfort, typical depictions of violence (fighting, blood, guns, injury), near death experience, angst, light banter, suggestive themes, abandonment issues, touch-starvation
⭐︎ word count: 9.6k
⭐︎ a/n: there are no major spoilers for bnd in this fic !! i've only mentioned/alluded to things that were already shown in the trailers, so you do not need to watch the movie to understand.
synopsis:
You have been Spiderman’s communicator—his eyes for crime and the voice on the other end of a staticky little radio that took him less than an hour to build. He doesn’t know your name, or what you look like. And you don’t know a single thing about him. Peter tells himself it’s better this way, that keeping you at arm’s length is the only way he can keep you safe. But the longer he speaks to you, that promise slowly begins to fray.
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“Alright, Spiderman. There’s a bank robbery going on at 30th Avenue. Suspect is—uh, hello? Is this thing on?”
Peter laughs, already swinging through the tall buildings of New York City, zipping and flying through them faster than you can even say ‘Spiderman.’ While one arm is busy slinging out webs from building to building, his other arm holds onto a thick communications radio that looks like an amateur concoction of a walkie-talkie accompanied with old thick wires he found in a junkyard.
“Yep, I hear you loud and clear,” Peter says from his end. “I’m already a few blocks away. What does the suspect look like—”
“Spiderman? Hellooo?” Your voice cuts him off in a burst of static that makes his ears ring. “Ugh—is this radio even working? Are you still there?”
He needs to make a mental note to figure out a way for your voice to come through clearer—and preferably not through a brick of what feels like a tenth-century sad excuse for a cellphone that he has to clutch every time he wants to talk to you.
“I’m here!” Peter shouts through the mic, swinging around a corner.
“Ah! There you are!” you say, sounding like you’re smiling, if only Peter could picture what you looked like. “Missed your voice for a second.”
Peter’s face flushes under his mask.
“Detecting a sudden increase in body heat—specifically around the facial region—and a spike in heart rate despite no intense physical activity being performed—”
“Shut up, Evie,” Peter mumbles, hoping you didn’t hear him from the other end of the line.
He hadn’t gotten around to fixing the background noise integration yet, so the shitty microphone attached to the radio picks up almost everything. He hears you laugh on the other end, and he has to force down the rapid thumping of his heart before Evie calls him out on it again.
“Are you blushing, Spiderman?”
“What—no!” Peter immediately interjects, landing on top of a tall building on 30th Avenue. His eyes scan the windows of the bank directly across the street. “Just tell me what the suspect looks like, alright?”
You chuckle again. “Okay, the suspect is tall, wearing dark clothing, and probably handsome—if it weren’t for the ski mask covering his face.”
Peter rolls his eyes underneath his goggles.
“Now’s not the time to play around,” he says, already swinging through the entrance as innocent bystanders and employees run out in a panic.
He swings above the crowd in a perfectly prone position mid-air until he lands on his feet in the center of the bank. He doesn’t need your comms in here—he can handle whatever gets thrown at him at this point. His ears tingle with a warning that tells him the enemy is to his left. He turns his head to that direction, and…
“Spiderman!” A tall man in dark clothing and a ski mask holds up a rifle, pointing it directly at Peter. “You’re dead, kid!”
“Oh, jeez,” Peter says, slowly raising his hands in surrender.
“Oh, and I forgot to mention,” your voice statics through. “He’s heavily armed.”
“Yeah, good comms,” Peter scoffs sarcastically.
“Who the hell are you talking to?” the man shouts, pointing at the radio in Peter's hand. “Is that a bomb? Drop it!”
Peter furrows his brows, glancing at the object in his hand. A bomb? Seriously? The radio really looks that bad?
The man’s grip on the gun tightens, holding it in a way that lets Peter know he has clearly never held a gun before in his life. The panic among the people remaining in the building surges at the sight of the weapon, everyone shoving past each other toward the entrance.
“Come on, man. Don’t shoot—there are innocent people in here!” he tries to interject.
“Innocent dead people soon, if you don’t put that weapon away!” the man barks back.
“The police are on their way,” you explain, serious this time, through the radio. “Take care of that gun now, or he’ll start shooting like a madman once he sees the sirens. You have less than two minutes.”
“Okay,” Peter says. “Time me.”
“Starting now?”
“Starting now,” he confirms before switching off the radio’s microphone input.
The man takes the loud clicking sound as a threat, his finger hovering over the trigger with every intention to shoot—but Peter moves faster.
Extending his left hand, a thick layer of web covers the muzzle, trapping any potential bullet in the barrel. The poor man doesn’t even have time to react before Peter webs the gun, yanked it out of his hands, and tosses it aside. Just as the man turns to make a run for it, Peter pins his ankles together with a thick strip of webbing, sending him face first onto the floor before securing his wrists behind his back with another band of webs.
From where he still stands in the center of the room, Peter unclicks the microphone. “You got it, Static?”
He can practically feel you rolling your eyes at the stupid nickname. “That was fifteen seconds. Good job,” you applaud. “And are you seriously still sticking with Static? I hate that nickname.”
Peter chuckles, scanning the area for any signs of injuries, but finds none. The police finally arrive, pulling up with sirens blaring as they assess the crowd and begin scouting the area with weapons drawn. Seeing the suspect already bound by webs on the floor, they immediately move in with handcuffs.
Knowing the police will take it from here, Peter zips out of the building as if the entire fight—if you would even call it that—was just a quick pit stop.
“Well, that’s just what I’m gonna have to keep calling you, because your voice always comes through staticky,” he says, the wind picking up through the microphone and making it harder for you to hear him. “Unless… you wanna give me your actual name. Then maybe I can call you that instead.”
You pause at the other end of the radio, the silence between you filled only by the harsh wind and the snap of spiderwebs on his end.
As Peter swings his way back to his apartment, his heart pounds wildly in his chest with anticipation.
This isn’t the first time he’s teased you to get you to give up your name, and you’ve asked for his name more times than he can count on his fingers.
“Very funny,” you muse from the other end, your voice drawing out with a teasing tilt. “I could say the same thing to you.”
Peter smiles, landing on his apartment rooftop with a huff. “I don’t know—I think I like the way Spiderman rolls off your tongue.”
For the very first time since you two found each other through a stroke of pure luck—when Peter spent a night building a radio to hijack police comms and accidentally connected to you, a woman doing the exact same thing—you find yourself completely at a loss for words.
He doesn’t even know where the sudden boost of confidence came from to blurt out a flirtatious comment like that. Maybe it’s the suit, or maybe it’s that flutter of excitement he gets every single time he talks to you.
But that confidence slowly teeters away the longer you stay quiet. He grimaces, feeling like he overshot his mark big time.
Finally, he hears a slow draw of breath from the other end.
“That’s a shame,” you tease. “I would’ve loved to hear the sound of my name in your voice.”
Peter sucks in a sharp breath, his body tensing as your words travel down his spine and straight to his heart. It was the way you said it—that sultry little rasp that even the static couldn’t mask. An awkward silence takes over the both of you, and for once, Peter is grateful for how poorly he configured this radio, since he can use it as an excuse for a faulty mic.
“Dramatic increase in heart rate detected. Body heat has increased an additional two degrees, and your suit—specifically around the groin region—appears to be tighter. I am also detecting a heightened state of arousal—”
“Evie!” Peter barks suddenly. He hears your laugh come through the other end, and the sound definitely doesn’t help his situation at all.
“Got you to blush twice today.” You taunt. “I think that’s a record, Spidey.”
“I wasn’t blushing,” Peter lies. “Anyway—enough of that. Are you seeing any other criminal activity in the area?”
You hum, and he hears a faint clicking noise on your end. “Nothing,” you say. “But what’s the rush? You’re given the opportunity to relax. You should take it, considering how hard you’ve been pushing yourself.”
Peter hops onto the ledge of his building and starts idly pacing back and forth, smiling under his mask as he holds the radio close to his ear. “Aw, you don’t have to worry about me. I have Evie for that.”
You blow a raspberry, and Peter’s smile widens.
“Yeah—well, Evie is an artificial intelligence. She can only care so much. Plus, she can’t make as many good jokes as I can.”
Peter’s tongue pokes the inside of his cheek as he kicks a tiny stray pebble off the ledge, watching it fall ten stories to the ground. “Are you getting jealous of my assistant now?”
A garbled noise leaves your lips, and he chuckles as you stammer over your own words.
“God—you’re so full of yourself, aren't you?” you huff. “I’m your partner—so it’s only natural for me to look out for you.”
“We’re partners?”
“Haven’t we been this entire time?”
Peter pauses, glancing up at the sky, where the orange sun is starting to set behind several towers of buildings.
Partners. He hasn’t had anyone he could call a partner since everything happened—since he made the whole world forget who he was. He hasn’t had a real, caring partner since… them. Ned and MJ.
And now, after all that time spent in solitude, he’s finally found someone to call his partner again. Someone he’s never even seen, whose name he doesn’t even know. All he knows about you is that you’re smart—smart enough to build a radio and link up to his frequency—and that you live in New York. He could’ve passed you on his way to buy groceries, or seen you on the subway. Hell, you might even live in his building. Maybe you’re even that girl he accidentally swapped laundry with the other night.
“Spiderman? You still there?” you ask, snapping him out of his daze.
Despite your usual spunky attitude, in that moment, you sound so… small. Like you don’t want to hang up, even if there aren’t any crimes to report.
“I’m here,” he breathes, his voice coming out softer than he expected. “I’m not going anywhere.”
You smile at that. He can hear it. “Okay. Good.”
The microphone picks up shuffling noises on your end—judging by the sound, he pictures you rolling over in bed and getting comfortable.
“How about we play a game?” you ask before the radio falls into silence again.
Peter raises a brow under his mask. “A game?”
“Yeah—every time you complete a successful mission, we trade a fun fact about each other.”
He hums, taking a seat on the ledge and letting his feet dangle over the edge. “Okay, sure. And since I just finished one—does that mean the game starts now?”
You chuckle softly at his enthusiasm to play along. “Sure. Want to go first?”
Peter cranes his neck back to look at the sky. Although neither of you has ever brought it up, he has a feeling you’re both on the exact same page when it comes to secrecy. Neither of you wants to give away too much and blow your identity, but you share just enough to keep things interesting.
And by letting him go first, it feels like you’re giving him the chance to set the tone.
“Hm. Let me think.” He rubs his chin through his mask. “Okay—I’m ready. My favorite coffee is a hot Americano.”
You snort. “The first fun fact you want to share is your coffee order?”
“Hey—coffee can be fun!” Peter interjects. “Now tell me yours.”
A little laugh escapes you, and he can hear you shaking your head. “Fine. I get an extra-hot almond milk latte, with one pump of sugar-free vanilla, one pump of regular hazelnut, and two scoops of vanilla bean powder.”
The white lenses of Peter’s goggles widen, and he lets out a brief, disbelieving laugh. “Oh—so you’re pulling my leg because I started us off with a lame fun fact? Is that it?”
“What?” You giggle along. “I’m not! That’s my actual order—especially on chilly days. You should try it sometime.”
Peter imagines it: a girl—a pretty one, judging by your voice and personality—ordering that ridiculous concoction at a coffee shop while the barista rolls their eyes at how long it takes to recite. For some reason, the visual warms his chest.
“Sure. And I’d tell you to try a hot Americano—but based on the order you just gave me, I don’t think you’d like it very much,” he jokes.
You chuckle. “No, probably not.”
Silence fills the space again, and Peter kicks his legs over the edge of the ledge, trying to think of something to say before he loses you.
He clears his throat. “So, uh—”
“Can I ask you something?”
You both talk over each other, and his face warms with embarrassment. “Sorry. Go ahead.”
“Okay,” you continue. You let out a shaky breath, and he instinctively braces himself for whatever you’re about to ask. “I’ve noticed that your receiver is always on. Do you forget to turn it off?”
Peter pauses, confused by the question. “No. It’s on twenty-four seven—just in case something happens, you know?”
You hum softly. “I get that. But I guess what I’m trying to ask is… don’t you have other things in your life to worry about, instead of fighting crime behind a mask?”
Peter stays quiet for a moment.
In truth, there’s a bigger reason he keeps the radio on besides his duties as Spiderman. He could easily listen in on reported crimes just fine without your help, but he keeps it on twenty-four seven in the hopes of hearing your voice ring through—just in case you might… need him.
There have been several nights since meeting you where he tosses and turns in bed, reaching for the radio to see if your receiver is on. It usually isn’t during consistent parts of the day—meaning you’re either at work or in class. It’s usually off at night, but sometimes around three in the morning, he’ll see your receiver light up and you’ll call in, your voice completely wide awake, proving you can be a real night owl.
Ever since meeting you, it feels like he finally has a friend to talk to. The worst part of it all is that he doesn’t even know your name. And he can never meet you, no matter how badly he wants to.
Peter finally found someone he cares about—and he isn’t going to risk losing you.
“I… I guess I do,” Peter says, trying his best to tread carefully. “I always keep an earpiece in, just in case something happens. You can never be too careful.”
You hum again, and Peter knows that answer wasn’t enough to buy it.
“And I guess I also keep it on… just in case you ever want to talk.”
Shit, Peter curses to himself. If his half-assed answer just now wasn’t enough to make you switch off the line, this one definitely takes the cake. You’re quiet on the other end, and each passing second makes him want to do you both a favor and turn it off himself.
“In that case,” you speak softly, “I’ll keep my receiver on in case you want to talk to me.”
His heart stutters in his chest, feeling as though all the air has been sucked straight out of his lungs.
Peter hasn’t felt this way since high school. He’s grinning ear to ear—a smile so wide it hurts the muscles in his cheeks. He lets out a chuckle, a raspy, disbelieving sound at the realization that there’s a chance you might feel the exact same way about him.
“Don’t say that,” he says before he can stop himself, trying to inject some humor to cover up his flustered state. “You’re gonna get annoyed with me.”
“Who’s to say I’m not already?” you joke back.
And for the first time in a long time, Peter feels like the happiest man on Earth.
He looks up at the sky, watching birds fly across the orange hues as he kicks his feet like a high schooler who just scored a date with the prettiest girl in class. His heart is racing so fast in his chest and he feels so giddy that he’s actually surprised Evie hasn’t called him out on it yet.
He wants to make this last—to say something, anything, to keep this moment from ending.
Suddenly, a series of sharp beeps emits from your end of the radio. It's a sound he knows all too well, a reminder that duty calls before anything else.
“Oh, God,” you mutter quietly.
Every hair on Peter’s arms stands on end. He leaps to his feet, ready to launch himself toward whatever is happening. “What is it, Static?”
“There’s an alarm triggered at Grand Central Terminal,” you explain. “NYPD comms just flagged it—there are a bunch of hostages. It looks bad, Spiderman. Multiple armed men have barricaded the main concourse.”
Peter wastes no time, shooting a thick web line toward the nearest building and flinging himself into the sky. “How many hostages are we talking?”
“At least fifty. Commuters, staff—they were trapped during rush hour,” you answer, the clack of your keyboard clattering over the staticky connection. “I’m tapping into the security feed right now. They’re holding guns, and… it looks like there’s a heavy grade explosive right in the center, attached to the information booth.”
The wind roars through Peter’s mic as he accelerates through the air. “How much time is on the clock?”
“I’m trying to zoom in—eight minutes,” you say. “They’ve blocked all the major exits with deadbolts and wired the perimeter. It looks pretty half-assed, Spidey. If SWAT breaches the doors, or if even a piece of rubble hits that rig, the whole thing will blow.”
“Alright, no breaches,” Peter takes a mental note, his mind racing through entry points as the massive arched roof of Grand Central comes into view. “You’re my eyes in there, Static. Find me an entry point that skips the doors.”
“The skylight above the west balcony has an old grate,” you reply instantly. “It leads directly into the ventilations—high enough to keep you out of sight, but close enough to drop in.”
“Got it,” Peter replies, landing silently on the glass roof. He peers through the skylight, his eyes adjusting to the interior where dozens of terrified people are huddling on the floor, held at gunpoint by masked men with automatic rifles.
Right in the center, duct-taped to the information booth and blinking with a harsh red timer, sits the bomb.
“Okay, I’m in position,” Peter breathes through the radio. “Time me?”
He hears a soft click on your end, signaling that your timer is already running.
“Be careful, Spiderman.”
He tucks the radio against his thigh, securing it with a thick band of web.
Peter moves exactly in the direction you tell him to—he wedges his body into the dusty vents, moving with the practiced speed of an arachnid that takes him from point A to point B in the blink of an eye. He slowly lifts the grate, the poor thing held up by only a flimsy screw, and sets it down softly beside him to avoid any loud noises.
He lands gently right in the center of the terminal—but his plans for discretion don’t last when a hostage looks up and yells, “We’re saved, everyone! It’s Spiderman!”
Immediately, all the armed threats spin around, several barrels abandoning the hostages to point straight at the man in the red-and-blue suit.
“Oh,” Peter smiles. “Making my job a lot easier. Thanks.”
Before giving them the chance to shoot, Peter fires off thick strings of web into every single barrel, clogging up the firearms. With every weapon bound, he tangles the web lines together into one big knot and yanks them all out of their hands.
The guns crash into each other in a tangled mass of spiderwebs and steel. With the firearms rendered completely useless, he tosses the mess aside to focus on the men—who are now charging at him with combat knives and sidearms.
Peter quickly makes short work of the pistols, disarming the men with his webs before a stray bullet can even graze the bomb. One by one, he takes them down, firing webs with every intention of keeping them bound and completely immovable.
When Peter gets down to the last guy, slinging a thick web to pin him flat against the wall, your voice rings out from where the radio sits tucked against his thigh.
“SWAT is moving in—mind the doors and tripwires!”
“Shit,” Peter curses, whipping his head toward the exits—but it’s already too late.
The SWAT team breaches fast, shouting and gesturing for the hostages to run. Panic surges through the crowd, and every frantic step from the civilians echoes like thunder in Peter’s ears. One misstep, even one piece of falling debris, could set this entire place off. Peter snaps his head back to the bomb. Four minutes remain on the digital clock, but suddenly the numbers freeze—and a sharp high pitched frequency fills the room.
It’s quiet to everyone else, but to Peter's heightened senses, it might as well be an air siren.
“Wait!” Peter shouts, turning to vault himself away before the bomb sets off.
But it’s too late.
“Spiderman! Get out of there!” you cry out through the radio—right before a brilliant flash of red and white blinds the entire building.
Pressure and heat slam right into Peter’s chest, throwing him backward through the air and showering him in flying stone like a ragdoll. Glass shatters overhead, raining down thousands of sparkling fragments as the information booth detonates into a massive cloud of fire and smoke.
Peter crashes hard against the far wall, the impact knocking every last drop of air from his lungs. He coughs up blood, staining the inside of his mask, before sliding down a broken slab of marble. He wheezes violently as dense gray smoke fills the room. His ears ring loudly, drowning out the shouting SWAT officers, the screaming crowd, and the creaking support beams above.
Evie’s voice sings in his ear like a taunt.
“Detecting bone fractures near the lower hip. Internal bleeding. Labored breathing—”
Then, your voice comes cutting through the static.
“Spiderman! Answer me!” Your voice cuts in and out, and despite being crushed under rubble with smoke filling his lungs, he reaches for the radio at his thigh.
He lifts it with a trembling hand, and his heart stops. It’s broken, snapped open with electricity sparking near the wires.
“Please—are you there? Spiderman! Check in!”
“Time, Static,” he manages to croak out.
Even through the static, the sheer panic in your voice is unmistakable. “The ambulances are on their way. Just hold on for a little longer—”
“What’s the time, Static?” he repeats with a wet cough.
You suck in a sharp breath. “Four minutes and twenty-three seconds. Now save your breath and stop talking!”
“Peter,” he croaks, coughing up more blood.
“W-what?” you stammer through tears. The sound makes his chest hurt more than the slab of concrete resting heavy on his ribs. “You’re breaking out.”
“Our little game—remember? Every successful mission, we exchange a fun fact,” he wheezes, fighting for air. “My name is Peter Parker.”
A broken, sobbing gasp escapes you. He glances down at the radio, watching the little light that indicates his microphone is working flicker in and out.
“Static? Are you still there?”
“I can’t hear you, Spiderman.”
The blue glow of your television screen is the only source of light in your dim apartment. Outside your window, New York City keeps moving, but inside, time feels like it has been frozen for seven agonizing days.
On the screen, a news anchor stands outside Queens Hospital Center, her face grave under the studio-lit broadcast.
“…we return to our top story tonight regarding Spiderman,” the reporter’s voice echoes through your quiet room. “It has been one week since the explosive incident at Grand Central Terminal that left the vigilante in critical condition. Authorities and medical staff at Queens Hospital Center have kept tight-lipped about his recovery.”
You pull your knees tighter into your chest, your fingers trembling as they wrap around a lukewarm mug of tea you haven’t touched.
“In a shocking turn of events earlier this morning, hospital administrators confirmed that Spiderman is no longer in their care,” the reporter continues. “According to sources, when attending nurses entered his private room to adjust his IVs and monitor his severe injuries, they found the hospital bed empty. There is no security footage explaining how or when the injured hero managed to slip past guards, leaving NYPD officials baffled—and deeply concerned given the extent of his internal trauma.”
Your eyes widen, and you press a hand over your mouth as a shaky exhale spills past your lips.
He woke up.
He survived.
You keep watching, waiting to see if the reporter will expose his identity. A part of you is already annoyed that these attention-hungry journalists would stoop so low now that he’s been admitted to a hospital. But another part of you desperately wants to know—because you felt like that might’ve been what he was trying to tell you over the radio right before the line cut out.
A heavy breath escapes you when the reporter doesn’t mention a name, and the broadcast switches to a story about local stray animals. You’re not even sure if the sigh you let out is one of relief or frustration.
You glance over at the radio resting on the couch beside you.
Your receiver light blinks green—it has been on this entire time.
For the past seven days, you’ve been sleeping with the radio clutched in your hands in hopes that you’ll hear his voice one more time. Even as you walk through the hallways of your university, moving from lecture to lecture, you keep an earpiece tucked in your ear so you won’t miss him if he calls.
A few more days pass, and you’re sitting at your desk with heavy eyes. A lamp at the corner of your desk emits a warm glow over the pages of your notebook. You feel like you’ve been awake for days, running on far too little sleep and not nearly enough caffeine to keep you going.
Your head rests heavily in your palm. A quick glance at the clock tells you it’s 3:41 in the morning.
With a tired sigh, you start to push your chair back—but the sudden sound of familiar static stops you in your tracks.
A sound that is usually so grating to your ears suddenly sounds like heaven.
You quickly scramble back to your desk, your hand swiping up the radio and lifting it to your ear.
“Hello?” you say, your heart racing. “Hello? Is someone there?”
The static cuts out for a second, and you pull the radio back to check the lights. Both indicator lights are glowing green, showing that you—and whoever is on the other line—are connected. The static crackles through again, and you press the receiver tight against your ear, holding your breath as you wait for them to speak first.
“—atic?”
That voice—so familiar, so gentle—rings out. You feel your heart leap straight into your throat. You’ve been waiting for days to hear him again, but you aren't prepared for what to say now that he's actually here.
“Sta—t—ic,” Peter’s voice cuts in and out before suddenly coming through crystal clear—clearer than the very first time you ever connected with him. “This is Spiderman. Are you there?”
Your heart swells with a profound wave of relief. Tears prick at your eyes, spilling down your cheeks before you can even stop them.
“Oh my God,” you breathe, your hand trembling as you press the radio against your forehead. “You’re okay. You’re here. Thank God. I—I thought I lost you. I was keeping up with the news, and when they said you fled the hospital—I hoped you were okay. I’ve been waiting for your call all week. I—”
“Hey, hey,” Peter coos softly on the other end. “It’s okay. I’m here. I’ve been here the whole time. I’m not going anywhere.”
You hear him rustling around on the other line, the soft friction of sheets sounding like he’s lying in bed. The thought of him resting comfortably in his own room rather than trapped in a sterile hospital bed makes your heart melt.
“Where have you been?” you ask, your voice cracking as you wipe a stray tear from your cheek. “Why didn’t you call sooner?”
“I know, I know… I’m sorry,” Peter says softly, his breath catching in a faint, painful wince that he tries to cover up with a dry laugh. “My suit was pretty much trashed, and the radio got crushed in the blast. It took everything in me just to crawl over to my workbench, and a few more days to rebuild the transmitter from scratch.”
A shaky breath leaves his lips. “With the radio broken, I was terrified I wouldn’t be able to find you again. I spent all this time rebuilding it—I even fixed the signal integration so both our voices would come through clearer.”
You let out a wet, teary laugh. “So that’s why you sound like that.”
You can picture him grinning on the other end. “A lot better, huh?”
That familiar, teasing tilt in his voice sends a wave of butterflies straight to your stomach. A soft laugh escapes you, and he chuckles in return. Then, as if savoring the sound of your joy, he breathes out softly.
“I missed hearing your voice.”
Your feet carry you over to the comfort of your mattress, and before you even realize it, you’re collapsing onto your bed, kicking your feet like a giddy, hopeless romantic.
“I missed hearing you, too. You’d better not let that happen again. If I can barely handle losing you for a week, I definitely can’t bear losing you forever,” you say, trying to pass it off as a joke, but the tremble in your voice betrays you.
Peter’s grin widens where he lies in bed, staring up at the ceiling. “I’ll make sure to be extra careful from here on out, just so you don’t lose me.”
You smile into your pillow. “Good.”
A comfortable silence settles between you two—not the awkward kind from when you first met, but a warm one, wrapping around you both like a blanket despite the distance. You set the radio down on the empty space beside your pillow, and he does the same. With the microphone improvements, you can hear his steady breathing on your end, and he can hear yours.
“Were you able to hear anything I said... the last time we spoke?” Peter asks softly.
You shake your head, the friction against your pillow rustling over the mic. “You were cutting out too much.”
He pauses, the soft sound of sheets shifting as he pulls his blanket up over his shoulders.
“It was about our game—the fun facts one,” he says, his voice careful, like he’s walking on eggshells.
You couldn’t catch much before the line broke down completely. Pet... That was all you had managed to hear. But a deep feeling in your gut tells you that whatever he said was a precious piece of himself—a piece he wanted you to have in case he didn’t make it.
You hold your breath, waiting to see if he’ll offer it up again.
“And since I completed a successful mission,” he continues, swallowing hard. “I thought I’d continue with that trade.”
You brace yourself, your heart clawing in your chest as you wait for the confession—for him to finally drop his guard and lay his identity on the line, just like you plan to do with yours.
Peter draws a slow, quiet breath.
“Do you… have a boyfriend?”
You blink.
The silence stretches for a long second, the sudden change in direction catching you so off guard that your mind does a hard reset. Of all the things you expected him to say—a big secret, a superhero revelation, a tender confession about his life—that was not on your bingo card.
“What?” you squeeze out, your voice squeaking slightly.
Over the line, Peter clears his throat awkwardly, a sudden rustle of sheets betraying how fast he just sat up to bury his face in his hands.
“O-or girlfriend! Sorry—I shouldn’t have assumed! I mean, you don’t have to answer! It’s just—it’s a fun fact! A personal fact! That’s how the game works, right? You tell me something, I tell you something… or—”
A helpless, snickering laugh bubbles up from your chest, breaking off his ramble.
“Spiderman,” you giggle, burying your blushing face deeper into your mattress.
“Yeah?” he yelps, sounding like a man standing on trial.
“No,” you answer, a wide grin spreading across your face. “No boyfriend. No girlfriend.”
A long, almost dramatic exhale breezes through the speaker, followed by the soft thud of Peter flopping back down onto his mattress.
“Oh, thank God,” he mutters, trying to keep it quiet enough so the microphone doesn’t catch it—but you hear it anyway. “I mean… cool. That’s cool.”
You snort. “Okay. You know how the game goes. Now it’s my turn to ask.”
“Do I have a girlfriend?” he prompts.
You shrug, taking the opportunity to tease him. “Or boyfriend. I don’t judge.”
A playful scoff leaves his lips, and you can already imagine him rolling his eyes. He’s quiet for a few seconds, making you think he’s just too flustered to answer. But when his voice comes through shaky, almost hesitant, you feel an unfamiliar tug at your heart.
“I—um… I used to have this girl,” he murmurs. “We were dating for a while—but it didn’t work out.”
The tone of his voice sends a shiver down your spine. He speaks like a man who’s been broken again and again, carrying a profound heartache you couldn’t even begin to measure. A small, selfish twinge of jealousy tugs at you, but you know it’s not your place.
“What happened?” The words spill out before you can stop them.
Peter sucks in a sharp breath, and you wince with regret for pushing too far.
“Well, that’s something you’re gonna have to ask the next time I complete a successful mission,” he says, trying to ease the tension with a playful tone, and you’re more than happy to fall right back into it.
You roll onto your back, looking up at your bedroom ceiling. Across the city, Peter does the exact same thing.
“Deal. But let’s not jump back into all that too soon, okay? Whatever crime happens out there, let the police handle it,” you say, pulling your blanket up to your chin. “I just want to keep you all to myself tonight.”
You want to slap yourself for how ridiculous you sound. He just opened up about a painful past relationship, and you immediately turn around and sound like a clingy girlfriend.
But Peter laughs—a full, rich sound that doesn't sound at all like he just survived a traumatic experience a week ago. It’s a laugh that never fails to make you smile.
“Usually, I’d oppose the idea of ignoring crime,” he says softly. “But for you? I’ll stay. For as long as you want me to.”
You smile, nuzzling your nose into the soft fabric of your blanket. “Good. Goodnight, Spiderman.”
“Goodnight, Static.”
And for the remainder of the night, neither of you switches the radio off, letting the quiet and comforting sound of each other’s breathing lull you to sleep.
It’s a brand new day, and Peter is running around New York getting his errands done. Laundry run, check. Grocery run, check. The last thing on his list is to pick up some flowers for Aunt May.
Right next to the small bodega where he always buys his flowers sits a busy coffee shop.
The front window is large enough to see everything and everyone inside—which is exactly why he has to do a double take at the person standing near the cashier.
He stops dead in his tracks, causing a hurried pedestrian to bump into his shoulder.
“Sorry,” Peter mumbles, but the man just shoots him a dirty look and keeps walking.
Standing inside the coffee shop is a face that’s all too familiar—someone he hasn’t seen in a long, long time.
Ned.
Peter’s feet are moving before he even realizes it. He hovers near the entrance, stepping aside for a few exiting customers before pushing the door open. Slipping into an empty seat near the front, he watches Ned chat with the barista. But Ned isn’t alone.
He’s standing next to a girl—a pretty girl, at that. And one he doesn’t recognize.
Peter smiles to himself, a swell of pride washing over him seeing his best friend doing well, and scoring a pretty girlfriend to date.
“And for the missus?” The barista holds up a paper cup, pen hovering over the cardboard as she waits.
You glance up at the menu board, though you don’t really need to. You know your order like the back of your hand.
“Can I get an extra-hot almond milk latte with one pump of sugar-free vanilla—”
Peter’s heart stops.
“—one pump of regular hazelnut…”
That voice. That familiar, sing-song cadence he hears every night through a staticky radio. The last voice he listened to when he nearly died just a few weeks ago.
“And two scoops of vanilla bean powder,” Peter mumbles to himself like a mantra.
“…and two scoops of vanilla bean powder?” you finish, flashing the barista a harmless, innocent smile.
The barista gives you a disbelieving look, and you chuckle awkwardly, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. The movement gives Peter a clear view of a small earpiece nestled right inside. Everything playing out before his eyes matches the picture he’d built in his head—except for you. You being this stunning was far beyond anything he could have imagined.
The barista finally finishes jotting your order down, and you and Ned turn to search for an open table. Peter holds his breath, watching your easy smile and the natural way you interact with his once best friend.
The pang in his chest is a feeling he wouldn’t wish on his worst enemy. Two people he cares about more than anything... so close, yet entirely out of reach.
His heightened spider-sense gives him the ability to hear almost anything, even from across the room. Yet right now, the ringing in his ears and the heavy thumping of his heart drown out every other sound. You and Ned approach an empty table with only a single chair, but you glance around and spot the unused chair across from Peter.
“Hey,” you smile politely—a soft, courteous tone reserved strictly for strangers, not your partner in crime. “Are you using this chair?”
This is it.
Finally, for the first time, he can introduce himself to you properly. He could bring both you and Ned back into his life with a single, simple greeting.
Hi, I’m Peter. Peter Parker. The guy you’ve been talking to over a flimsy radio these past few months.
Peter looks up at you, completely frozen where he sits. Your smile fades into a faint frown when he hesitates. Then, your eyes flicker briefly to the earpiece resting in his ear—identical to yours, worn for the exact same reason.
Just in case either of you calls in.
Before he loses you, Peter clears his throat. His hand subtly moves up to scratch his ear, hiding the earpiece with his knuckles before slipping it into his palm. When he finally speaks, he deliberately drops his voice a few pitches deeper—adding a slight rasp for good measure.
“No, go ahead.”
That polite smile returns, and you pull the chair away from his table. “Cool, thanks.”
You slide the chair up to the table you’re sharing with Ned, and just like that—unaware that you’ve completely flipped his world upside down and inside out—you fall right back into conversation with him.
The barista calls out your order with your name, and the sound of it is like music to his ears.
He repeats it quietly under his breath. It sounds natural, like a name that was always meant to be spoken in his voice.
Peter squeezes his eyes shut. He can’t reveal his identity to you. Telling you his real name that night—when he was trapped under rubble and bleeding out—was just a lapse in judgment brought on by desperation. But now that he’s here, looking at you and his best friend in broad daylight, he knows he can’t risk letting you into his world.
Anyone who knows Peter Parker is Spiderman is a person bound to be lost. And Peter can’t afford to lose you.
Yet as he watches you sit across from him, tossing your head back with a laugh that is painfully familiar, it feels like he’s already lost you anyway.
“So, tell me more about this party.”
“Well, it’s a housewarming party,” you explain, tucking your hands into your pockets as you walk through the night streets of Queens. “Two of my friends moved into an apartment recently—so we’re celebrating tonight.”
Peter hums, leaning back in his chair and staring mindlessly at his screens. He folds a piece of paper, fiddling with it as his mind wanders to who those friends could be. Ned? And if so, he wonders who else he could be moving in with—if not him.
“That’s… cool,” he finally answers in an indifferent tone.
You round the corner, the sounds of the bustling city nightlife picking up on your microphone. “Yeah. And since I’ll be busy socializing, I won’t have my receiver on all night. But I’ll try my best to check in with you.”
Peter huffs a laugh through his nose. “I’m a big boy. You don’t need to check up on me.” He glances at the window. “I’m more worried about you, though.”
You step aside for a pedestrian who’s rushing past. “What for?”
Peter pushes himself out of his chair with a grunt, stepping up to the small window and looking down at the city street below. “Well, you’re a woman walking all by yourself at night. I hope your friends at least know where you’re at.”
You chuckle, pulling open the door of the small corner grocery store and being welcomed by a soft bell jingle.
“Don’t worry your head, Spiderman. If I constantly worry about my well-being just because I’m a woman, then I’ll never get anything done in this city.”
You’re greeted by a frail, older lady behind the counter, and you offer her a polite smile as you walk past. Making your way to the coolers in the back, you weigh your options between beer and seltzers.
“Do you think two cases of Budweiser is enough?” You ask Peter.
The bell chimes again, and a large man with a dark hoodie pulled over his face enters. You glance at him, and he holds your stare. You look back down.
Peter’s cackle draws you back in. “And you’re drinking?”
You can’t help but grin at the worry in his voice. Grabbing two cases—one in each hand—and shutting the refrigerator door, you head to the front counter. “Yes, because I’m an adult and should be enjoying myself. And you should be, too, Spiderman. It’s Friday night.”
A bitter smile dances on his lips. He should be enjoying himself—a night out with you, instead of being cooped up in his apartment, worrying about you getting wasted at a house party surrounded by men your age with grimy hands and bad intentions.
You set the cases on the counter, and the lady begins to ring you up. The man in the dark hoodie falls in line right behind you, holding just a pack of gum in his hand.
“Okay, I gotta head out. I’ll check in with you later tonight—”
The lady at the front counter has her attention locked on the man behind you, and she sharply gasps, ducking down immediately. Your head whips around, and you find yourself face to face with the black metal of a handgun.
“You know Spiderman?” the man before you asks in a deep gravelly voice, finger poised right above the trigger.
A pathetic, broken sound escapes you. You still have Peter on the line, and you hear the sudden panic in his voice the minute your microphone picks up your heavy breathing and whimper.
“Static? Who is that? What’s happening?”
“You must be mistaken,” you raise your hands in surrender, shoulders timid, as a bead of sweat rolls down your temple. “I—I don’t know Spiderman—”
“Bullshit!” the man shouts, backhanding you with the grip of the gun.
You cry out in pain, your body collapsing hard onto the floor as your hand flies to your cheek. Your earpiece falls out, Peter’s voice ringing out loudly in sheer panic. The man huffs an incredulous laugh as he crouches down to pick it up and lift it to his ear.
“Tell me your location—where are you? I’m coming—!”
“103rd Street,” the man answers with a grin. “That’s where your little lady is at—on the floor, bleeding outta her lip.”
The wind whips loudly through the earpiece, audible even from where you’re prone on the ground.
“Don’t lay a fucking hand on her,” Peter’s voice crackles through the wind and speaker. “What do you want from me?”
The man only chuckles, turning the small earpiece in his fingers, unfazed by the threat of a friendly neighborhood superhero.
“That’s the thing with people like you who try to play hero,” the man says, his tone dripping with bitter resentment. “You stop guys like us, but what you fail to realize is that we aren’t the bad guys at all, Spiderman. While you sit in your fancy little apartment, the rest of us are out here fighting for scraps just to survive—and it’s people like you who keep stopping us.”
He looks down at you, lying on the cold floor with a trembling hand pressed against your bleeding lip.
“We’re just trying to eat,” the man spits into the receiver. “So if a guy like me has to take a little collateral to get your attention, or to get a quick payday—that’s not evil. That’s just survival. There’s a lot of money on your head, Spiderman. Money that can help an average person like me tremendously.”
The sharp thwip of a web fires through the speaker, followed by the harsh gust of the open night sky.
If it were anyone else being held hostage, maybe Peter would extend the courtesy of hearing him out. But he’s not holding just any person. He’s holding you—the only person Peter has opened his heart to in years. The only voice he looks forward to, the one that gives him hope to push through to a brand-new day. Right now, there isn’t a single shred of restraint left in Peter’s mind—not when your life is on the line because of him.
“I don’t give a shit about your excuse,” Peter spits, whipping around a sharp corner as he flies onto 103rd Street. “If you hurt her again before I get there, I swear to God—”
“It’s too late, Spiderman.”
From high above, Peter spots the grocery store below. The white lenses of his mask widen as he peers through the large front windows, catching sight of you scrambling backward in fear, hands raised in surrender.
The man above you stands straight and lifts the gun. Peter’s eyes lock onto the finger resting against the trigger. With one launch off the side of a building, he catapults himself straight through the glass windows.
The explosion of glass shatters in time with the gunshot. As the bullet travels through the barrel of the gun, Peter collides into the man, sending him flying sideways and the gun tilting upwards. The bullet hits the ceiling, the fluorescent lights exploding with electricity as the roof panel falls. You quickly scramble away so it doesn’t hit you.
Peter sends the man flying from one window to another, rolling around on the pavement outside until he lands on top. There is no amount of webs he can use to convey his anger—so he settles with his fists.
One punch after another, one hit after brutal hit. Blood flies out of the man’s face, tainting Peter’s suit with red. It splatters across his knuckles, and he delivers a hit so violent that it sprays right over the white lenses of his mask.
“Spiderman, stop!”
You shout, but the ringing in his ears is louder.
Tears prick at his eyes behind the mask as he continues raining down punches. The man lost consciousness long ago, but Peter isn’t done. He can’t rest knowing anyone who threatens to hurt you is free to walk these streets.
He can’t rest until he knows, for certain, that you’re safe from danger.
He cocks his fist back one last time, with every intention of putting this guy down for good—until your body crashes into his, your arms wrapping tightly around his shoulders. His arm freezes mid-air, suddenly weighing a ton.
“Stop! It’s over—it’s done,” you try to reassure him but your voice comes in a panicked and rushed tone. Sirens sound in the distance. “The police are coming.”
Peter looks around, his chest heaving.
Several bystanders have stopped to stare, hands covering their mouths after witnessing such a brutal act by a man who was supposed to be a savior to all.
He curses under his breath, one arm wrapping tightly around your body.
“Hold on,” he says, before slinging a web to the highest point of the building next to you and launching you both into the night sky.
You bury your face in his chest, legs wrapped tightly around his waist as you hold on to him for dear life. You’re too terrified to look down. So instead, you glance up at the man holding you—the very man you’ve dedicated your life to assisting these past few months.
He doesn’t look like the friendly Spiderman you see on television or in the newspapers.
Blood lays over his mask like a veil, and you can feel his heart racing against yours from how tightly you’re holding him.
He doesn’t say a word until he finds a discreet alleyway. Then, finally, he sets you down gently.
Your eyes don’t leave his face even as you release your grip on him. You stand in front of him, eyes wide and lips parted as you stare at the man you’ve been dying to meet for what feels like years. But while this is your first time seeing him, it isn’t his first time seeing you.
There are so many things you wanted to say, but none of them come out. You never expected your first meeting to be like this—under circumstances where he tarnishes his reputation and your face bloodied and bruised.
“I…” your voice wavers, desperate to say anything, terrified he might swing away at any second.
Peter swipes his bloodied hand against his thigh to clean it before stepping forward, gently cupping your face in both hands. The lenses of his mask are so expressive, shifting with every furrow of his brow. Even behind it, his expression is wrecked.
“Look at what he did to you,” his voice cracks, sounding so broken, like it’s all his fault.
You huff a soft laugh, resting your palm over his knuckles as you lean into his touch. “If I’d known I was going to see you tonight, I probably would’ve worn more makeup.”
You try to joke, but he doesn’t laugh. His thumb gently brushes over the torn skin at your cheekbone, then down to your busted lip.
“I can’t believe you’re right here,” he breathes. “And I’m holding you.”
Peter should get your injuries fixed up, take you somewhere safe, or even take you home, but doing that means he’ll have to say goodbye—and he doesn’t know when he’ll give himself the chance to be this selfish again.
For the first time in years, it feels like he’s found salvation. After everything, he tries to convince himself he deserves this—even if it's just for a few minutes.
“You know what I look like,” you smile painfully. “Yet, I still don’t know a single thing about you.”
Peter bites the inside of his cheek to keep from breaking down. “I’m sorry.”
You step closer, your hands slowly finding the hem of his mask resting around his neck. With trembling fingers, you slowly lift it up—giving him every opportunity to pull away if he wants to—holding your breath as you raise it over his nose. Brown curly hair decorates the nape of his neck.
As you try to tug it up higher, his hands find your wrists, gently stopping you. “I can’t.”
With a quiet nod, your hands fall back down to his cheeks, cupping them softly. Your thumb traces the curve of his cheekbone, his jawline, and the plump of his bottom lip.
The press of your thumb against his lower lip makes his breath hitch. He closes his eyes, leaning into your touch—the first grace of warmth he’s felt in forever.
His white lenses open again, and his gaze drops to your lips—bruised, bleeding, and parting softly. The tension between you two suffocates him, and without waiting another impatient second, Peter tilts his head down and kisses you.
His lips press against yours, gentle and soft. And when you return the kiss, he feels like he’s in heaven. He takes his time with you, his lips exploring yours and savoring the quiet sweetness of the moment. Your hands are warm against his cheeks, and his hand finds your waist, respectfully holding you close as his heart beats as one with yours.
You kiss until you both run out of breath, finally pulling away to rest your foreheads against each other.
Peter shuts his eyes, breathing in your scent. “I wanted to do that from the moment I first laid eyes on you.”
“I am detecting a sudden increase in heart-rate and body warmth—”
“Shut up, Evie.”
You chuckle, your teeth catching your bottom lip while heart beats wildly in your chest.
“A successful mission,” you smile up at him. “You know what that means.”
He chuckles at that, the sound sending butterflies to your stomach now that you’re hearing it up close for the first time.
“You’re right. You go first.” He prompts.
You tell him your name, but he doesn’t react the way you thought he would after hearing it for the first time. He smiles—almost boyish, with kiss-swollen lips. It feels as though he’s known your name all along.
Peter repeats it softly. “It’s beautiful,” he says.
Warmth fills you from head to toe. You were right. You loved hearing the sound of your name in his voice.
You tilt your head, leaning in until your nose grazes against his. “What’s yours—”
Frantic footsteps echo just outside the alleyway.
Peter’s senses tingle and reverberate through his entire frame. Everything in his body is screaming at him to do one thing: run.
Two people turn the corner, and he freezes at the sight.
“Oh my god, there you are!” Ned shouts frantically, catching his breath. “We were wondering why you weren’t answering our calls—then someone at the party said there was an accident happening on 103rd Street—which is where you were going—and wait, is that Spiderman?”
Standing right behind him is MJ.
“You scared us!” she yelps, running to you with a hug. You turn around with a weary smile and a relieved sigh.
“I’m okay, you guys shouldn’t have left to come find me. It was dangerous back there, and yes,” you motion behind you, “this is—”
Peter doesn’t even let you finish. He pulls his mask down and, without another word, zips up and out, moving through the dark like a ghost in the night. All the warmth vanishes like the gust of wind he leaves behind as he disappears into the air.
“God,” Ned breathes, the three of you standing dumbfounded in the alleyway as you watch him disappear around the corner. “See! It’s like I told you, MJ! He’s like Peter Pan—if you really believe in him, he’ll show up!”
“Okay—you know, your fanboying really freaks me out,” MJ says, making a face. She looks back at you. “Anyway, I’m glad you’re okay—”
A shudder passes through your body.
My name is Peter Parker.
“Peter,” you whisper with a sudden realization.
📝 first time writing for peter parker kinda nervous !! "all these things that i've done" by the killers was on repeat while writing this. for the first time in a while, i've had a lot of fun and passion writing a marvel fic again, and i hope you can feel it when you read this fic.
if you've made it this far, as always thank you so much for taking the time to read my work. interactions are always appreciated, I love reading every bit of them!
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Summary: you trade Jack for an ex hoping it will do both of you some good.
Warning:Heavy angst, heavy yearning.
Author note:not proofread again don’t know how long this will be.
2/??
Previous chapter
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The next morning you’re quick to go downstairs.
Jack needs to leave your house today. No questions.
“Dr.Abbot?” you shout from the living room.
Jack comes out from the kitchen, he’s in a white top and sweats.
It’s so distracting.
“Can I talk to you?” You nod towards the couch sitting down in it.
“What about?” He asked sitting down in it as well
“You should go back to work.” you fidget with your fingers, already feeling uncomfortable
“Why? I have like a year worth of PTO”
“I don’t need you to take care of me anymore”
“You still have a concussion” he raises an eyebrow
“Yeah, I’ve made arrangements for someone to stay with me” jack shifts in the couch
“Oh”, is all Jack lets out
“He coming at like 5pm so that should give you time to go by your house before your shift later”
“He?”
“Yeah, he’s someone that I used to know, we lost contact but I figured why not? Didn’t want to burden you any longer”
“You don’t burden me” he says quietly eyes looking into you.
“Look, I’ve already asked and he said yeah”
“Are you sure?,because I promise I do not mind caring for you”
“100%” you say with certainty.
“What about wound care?”
“I’ll come by the hospital”
“Who will drive you?”
“He has a car”
“Can he cook and clean and walk max?”
“Yeah, he’s can,this guy was in my life before you” you ment for that last part to sound harsh.
“Well why isn’t he anymore?” Jack stands from the couch leaving you there alone, he crosses his arms.
“That’s none of your concern” you now stand at the absurd question.
“Of course it’s my fucking concern”
“No it’s not, you have no right into my private life”
He want to continue trying to find a reason on why this was a bad idea but he can’t find one, not a single one.
He takes a sigh running an hand over his face.
“Okay then i…I’ll leave”, he holds your hand in his, sending static through your body, “but I wanna meet this guy first”
————————————————————————
The door knocks at 4:30pm, Grant is early.
You get up before Jack opening the door to find Grant on the other side.
Before you can say anything, Grant scoops you up with one hand from the bottom of your ass and wisk you in a circle.
Making you giggle.
“Hey baby I’ve missed you”. He lands a kiss on your lips before putting you down.
The kiss catches by surprise but you don’t hate it, you lean into it a bit.
Jack clears his throat making himself known.
“Uhh Grant this is Jack , Jack this is Grant”
They shake hands in this weird manly thing.
Grant was smaller than Jack but Grant was younger, but given Jacks history he could without a doubt take Grant any day.
The room is silent for a few beats, then Jack finally speaks up,
“So uhh, how do you know y/n?”
“We used to ‘date’” he used air quotes for that last part, but you knew that Jack understood what he meant.
Max comes running out from her bed and jumps on Grant earning him a few licks.
“Hey girl, I’ve missed you” max earnt a few pets behind the ear.
You looked over at Jack and the air was thick around, like he had this dark aura, his eyes were set on Grant.
“Your shift starts in a bit Jack you should leave soon”
“Have to go over what he needs to do for you” he says through clenched teeth.
————————————————————————
We all sit at the table while Jack writes up everything, down to what meds you need to take and when.
“She cant do heavy physical activity.”
“So sex is off the table then” you look at Grant, and he’s got a smirk on his face that gets a snort out of you.
You look over at Jack and he’s looking at Grant with a death glare.
But he doesn’t comment and carries on
“Only light physical activity such as short walks”
Jack carries on.
“I will come by every day before my shift to do wound care”
“Dr.Abbot I said I’ll go to the hospital myself you don’t need to make the diversion”
“No I’ll come by so I’ll be able to give you my full attention, no questions” you nod your head not wanting to argue back.
The list goes on.
“You got all of that, Grant?”
Jack says his name with viper in his voice, as if he cursed the guy.
“Yeah my girl is in safe hands Dr.Abbot”
Grant puts out his hand to shake but Jack just gets up from the table and heads towards the door, you follow to say your goodbyes.
“You call me if anything, do you hear me?” You nod your head. You had no intentions of calling him.
“Goodbye Dr.Abbot”
Jack looks like he want to say something else or do something but he leaves with his bag in hand.
————————————————————————
The next few days go perfectly okay with Grant, you don’t feel embarrassed being around him, in any capacity.
He was an old friends with benefit that fizzled out some years ago. Nothing more. Nothing less.
Jack came around the same time of 4pm everyday and when he came it felt like the tension between them could be cut with the knife, like this big macho man fight.
You couldn’t wait for Jack to leave sometimes, because with a drop of hat you would have him right there, bouncing on him in front of Grant showing him who you belonged to.
But Jack didn’t see you like that, at all.
————————————————————————
one afternoon it was the heat was unbearable so to cope and you wore a tank top, freshly out the shower your hair dripped making the shirt put your nipples fully on display and just underwear the white Cotton kind. And Grant always wore plain boxers around.
You went into the kitchen to get some chips for you and Grant to share, walking out with bag in hand.
“Hey Grant is this okay to share?” You look at where Grant is standing, at the door in his boxers , with Jack standing next to him, fuming.
“Jack ! you’re like 3 hours early” you’re surprised to see him.
“ yeah Robby asked me to come in a bit earlier today” he jaw was so tight that you wouldn’t be surprised if it was wired shut.
“I’m going to use yourbathroom” he walks straight up stairs and slams the door shut.
All of sudden you feel the need to cover up, you look down to see half of your top wet, exposing you more than it should. You run up the stairs to your room, going in your draws putting on a t-shirt and shorts,grabbing some bottoms for Grant as well.
————————————————————————
Jack comes down stairs to see you and Grant sitting on the table, now with clothes on. But he doesn’t look any less pissed off.
“I’ll make this quick” Jack says tight
“Yeah we wanna go back to enjoying our evening” Grant says with a scoff, you shoot him a look.
Jack doesn’t speak just unwrapping your dressing and continuing his work.
“Any nausea?” Jacks asked not looking up
“No”
“Dizziness?”
“No”
“Fatigue or fainting?”
“No”
“I’ll give it a day or two and I’ll say you’re good to go back to work” Jack says ripping his gloves off.
“Really?” You can’t help but smile, being cooped up really has been putting a strain on you.
“So I guess then physical activity is back on too?” Grant laughs.
If looks could kill the one Jack gave Grant definitely doesn’t keep him alive.
Jack clenched his fist and rolled his neck, he looks at you before getting up.
“Get some rest y/n.”
Jack leaves as quick as he came.
————————————————————————
By the end of the week your back at work, everyone asked how you are, and become quickly overwhelmed by it all.
You say you’re thanks to everyone and move to the your desk and login to begin work.
“It’s good to have you back y/n” Lena whispers, “Jack was sulking over not being able to take care of you”
You shoot her a look before laughing it off.
Even though you’re constrained to the desk most of the shift, you really just missed the work of the ER.
By the end of your shift you feel good, you make your way towards the bay when Ahmed stops you in your tracks.
“Hey y/n, I have your money, you won, got it bang on the nose with those two” he hands you a wad of cash and you smile in triumph, a great way to end your shift.
You head at the bay doors, about to walk out when you hear Dr.Abbot call your name.
“Hello, what do you need?” You say surprised, “I don’t need any more wound care,do I?”
He shakes his head
“You bet on Me and Mohan?” He looks hurt
“Yeah everyone did, I guess so happened to have gotten the amount of dates correct” you question why he should care so much.
He moves closer to you.
“Why didn’t you place a bet on yourself?” The questions send a twang of pain and lust in your heart, why would he ask that, did he secretly want you to say yourself?
You shake the thought in annoyance
“Dr.Abbot-”you start
“Jack” he replies
“Dr.Abbot, you rejected me, like outright, you said you didn’t like me, so why would I place my bet on a dead horse?”
He doesn’t get the chance to speak as a car pulls up next to you, rolling down the window shows Grant.
You don’t waste any time getting in the car and Grant driving off.
————————————————————————
Jack really does know how to make your heart yearn for him. You still want no matter the situation.
“Grant you don’t excite me,I told you that”
“It’s that stupid doctor isn’t, look I can make you forget all about him”
Your currently on top of Grant on the couch as he kisses on your neck
“I don’t think you can Grant”
“I know I can baby.”
“Even when you call me that it doesn’t excite me nearly as much as when he does”
You allow him to continue, only cuz he doesn’t excite you doesn’t mean he can’t fulfill something.
“That just makes me want to try harder”
You giggle as he picked you up and takes you into the bedroom.
————————————————————————
The afternoon rolls around soon enough, and a knock comes at your door, you open it to see Jack.
“What are you doing here?”
“I think I left some stuff here, I’ve come to get it”
You knew that was true, he had left his toothbrush and a few clothes lying around.
You opened the door up for him and came in readily.
“Is Grant not here anymore?” He says scanning the area
“He went out for a bit he should be back soon”
“Why is he still here?” He turned around to face you.
“I like the company”
Jack doesn’t say anything, keeping his thoughts to himself, he makes his way upstairs to grabs his stuff.
You are left to your own thoughts
Why was Grant still here? He didn’t really satisfy you or your needs, he’s a selfish lover but he’s better than nothing.
All of a sudden you heard jacks heavy footsteps making his way down the stairs, and he come right up to you, you stumble, taken aback by the sudden closeness.
“Are you fucking him?” Your caught off guard by the question.
“What?”
“There’s condoms in the bin, please tell me you are not fucking that loser” you laugh in his face.
“Why does that matter to you?” He takes a few breaths, then his eyes soften.
“Do you even like me still?” Before you could answer the front door opens and closes.
Jack turns sharply at Grant coming in, Jack stands taller almost.
“Get out” Jack orders
Grant looks puzzled, then straightens his face.
“Fuck no dude” Grant combats. “You leave”
“I’m not fucking leaving, I don’t want you here” Jack says, he takes a few steps towards Grant and Grant follows.
“I could take you” Grant says cocky
You sigh out, Grant may be younger but Jack has combative training on him.
“I’d like to see you try” Jack says.
Grant immediately storms up to Jack pushing him back and before Jack can retaliate you move between them.
“No this is not happening, not in my house.” You look between these two.
“I fucking knew he had feelings towards you, I knew that shit from the jump” Grant shouts.
You laugh.
“Grant no he doesn’t, I told you he rejected me.”
“Oh bullshit y/n” Grant pleads
“Jack doesn’t have feelings for me, right Jack?” you look towards him to for confirmation, to end this stupid fight but he doesn’t speak, he just looks at you with soft eyes.
You falter a bit.
“Jack you don’t have feeling for me right?”
He doesn’t answer. But that was answer enough.
“Grant get out” you now stern
“What?” He questions, you throw him a look, and he leaves knowing how you feel in this situation.
After the door slams shut, you turn and face Jack whose eyes are still on you.
“Jack?”
“It was small at first, I didn’t think I would catch feelings for you”
You scoff
“Are you fucking serious?” You angry, really and truly pissed. “When?” You ask
“I hated it when you ignored me, on the roof before you came up I contemplated asking you out just to see you talk to me again, just to see you look at me with those fucking eyes, but I had been on a date with Samira beforehand and I thinking about that relationship.” He shifted his weight. “I was in my head about you both.”
You roll your eyes
“when I saw you at the nurses station, I just wanted to feel you” he took a step towards you. “Then Samira came and it’s messed everything up, when she came you didn’t look at me once”
“You think I wanted to see that Jack?” You say crossing your arms taking a step back. “After I just said I wanted you”
“No of course not, I just fucked it up” he takes a step forwards but you hold your hand out and shake your head, he takes a step back.
“Seeing you come in with your face all bloody ruined my night, it ruined my entire fucking year baby”, you shiver at the nickname. “Seeing you cry like that over some asshole,knowing I couldn’t protect you, so I decided to to care for you, to make up for something”
Tears have fallen from your face, you wipe them away and scoff
“So you felt guilty?”
“Yes”
“For what?!” You shout
“For not choosing you immediately!” He responds immediately with a level of desperation.
“You not calling me by my name, keeping a level of professionalism outside of work, fuck it hurt baby, but I understand why you did it” he takes another wary step forward.
“Do you know how many times I wanted to kiss you? I was falling more in love with by the second, then you told me to leave and brought in your ex, that shattered me, you kissing him with ease, it should’ve been me, I was jealous, undoubtedly jealous,and knowing that you had sex with him, fuck that stung.”
“Fuck you jack, trying to turn this on me, you’ve been parading Samira around, like you were already going out, you knew how I felt and you still went on dates with her, how do you think I felt for months and you knew how I felt” you walk towards him.
“I told you I wanted something more with you and you still went out with her, holding her, kissing her , infront of me, all while you knew how I felt.” You bit back at him. “ you sound so believable Jack, if it weren’t for those messages I saw from Dr.Mohan on your phone.”
“You said I made you feel uncomfortable Jack” you sob, “that made me feel like shit, that’s why I couldn’t have you around me anymore, I didn’t want to make you feel uncomfortable, that why I let Grant back in to give that space, you were confusing the fuck out of me Jack and I needed that space for my sanity too Jack.”
“I mean when did you even tell her about my confession? Hmm”
He doesn’t answer.
“Jack?” You scream
“The shift after, you blew me off and I needed someone to talk to about it”
“So you go to the girl you’re fucking?” You laugh.
The room is quiet for a bit
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry” he whispers
“Fuck you jack” you says defeated, you’ve wipe your tears
“You should go Jack” you walk to the door about to open when he grabs you and pulls you in for a hug
You want to just fall into and melt into the hug and to let him hold you and to tell you everything’s all right but you were just to hurt.
You push him away,keeping him at arms length.
“I never said you made me uncomfortable, I would never say that. The situation was weird okay, that’s all, I could never be uncomfortable with you, I’m in love with you.”
“Don’t say you love me like it means nothing Jack”
“It means everything” taking you hand pulling it to his chest.
He’s pleading now
“What about Samira?” You ask
“That’s over, it’s completely over, I want you, I need you” he grabs your face cupping it, wiping at the few stray tears.
“I-the reason I never said anything is because I felt you hated me, you always pulled away, never making eye contact,never wanting to touch me for too long calling me Dr.Abbot”
“I was protecting my feelings.”
“I know and I’m sorry for making you do that, I truly am”
He pulls you into a hug kissing the top of your head.
But you can’t shake the hurt, you need time, time to think and to heal.
You pull away from him, going towards the door and opening it up.
“I can’t do this right now,you need to leave”
“Y/n”
“Please Jack”
“Let’s just continue thi-”
“Jack please stop” tears fill your eyes again
“y/n i love you”
“Dr.Abbot” you shout, you’re done with this.
He looks at you, finally relenting but before he walks past he grabs the back of your neck and pulls you into a kiss.
And the kiss was beautiful, poetic even, in those moments you knew exactly how he felt and he knew how you felt too, that you weren’t giving up on him, that you felt the same, but you were too broken right now, he was going to wait for you anyhow.
Your lips matched eachother perfectly, the kiss was better than others, they could never compare.
His tongue find a way in your mouth and you moaned into the kiss, his hand move to your waist steadying him and your hand found its way to his.
He pulled away from the kiss, giving you one last look before he’s out the door, closing it softly on the way out, you now cried harder making your way to the floor and sobbing until you fell asleep right there.
Summary:Jack rejects reader, so what happens when she get hurt and he volunteers to care for her.
Warning:Assult (physical and sexual), gambling, Angst, vomiting, jealous reader.
Author note:story I’ve written while waiting for my laptop, not proofread
1/?? (It’s a short one)
Next chapter
————————————————————————
“Look you’re a great girl and all but-“
“Please don’t” you cut him off. “There’s no need for the speech, you don’t feel the same way right?” He shakes his head, “okay so there’s no more that needs to be said”.
You cut the conversation off completely, your feet moving automatically creating distance between the two of you, tears threatening to fall as your grip tightens on your bag.
It was after a long shift, you and the rest of night crew were in the park sharing beers and stories, you hadn’t known a lot of them yet, as you were a night nurse assigned to the Pitt.
And working on the night shift for some time has shown you had a major thing for the night shift attending.
Dr. Jack Abbot
It had started when he had defended you against a patient who was getting in your face, smelling like alcohol.
Then he would know how you took your coffee, and would give you little sweets that he kept in his pocket for you.
You were falling head over heels for him.
You were tossed a beer, you don’t drink beer, better yet you don’t drink at all, but you nicely said ‘thanks’ and carried on listening to everyone speak about the craziness of today
“That guy in south 9 was so ready to whoop my ass” Dr Ellis proclaims shaking her head.
You look over at Dr. Abbot who listing to the stories carefully laughing along, now and again adding on his own stories.
At some point he looks over at you and winks turning back to the conversation again, this causes you to turn you attention to your now slightly-warm unopened beer and blush.
Everyone started to clear out one by one, leaving only you and him together. Sitting in the silence of the morning park with on every occasion a dog walker or cyclist going past, you look up at him and he is already staring at you.
“What’s on your mind?” He asked taking a sip from his can.
“Can I ask you something?” You fiddle with the still unopened warm can of beer.
He hums in response taking one more sip of beer
“This is going to sound really forward and I really hope I don’t regret doing this but I was hoping we could go out together sometime?” you say in one breath.
“Oh” he sighs now sitting up. that’s all you need to confirm how he feels.
————————————————————————
Going back home was a nightmare, while everyone moves towards work you’re moving towards home, an older woman hands you a tissue as you silently cried on the bus back home.
Your dog was your emotional support for the rest of the day as you kept it hostage as you cuddled it in bed not letting it go, eventually falling asleep to your sniffles.
it was almost laughable, how utterly stupid you had been.
Where had this confidence come from to ask someone way above your league out?
You cringed inside whenever it replayed in your mind, you were so so so naive.
You didn’t want to go to work at all, to face him in a couple of hours but you had to because you:
1.loved your job as a nurse
2.had thousands in student loan.
And some hours later you were walking through those hospital doors once more, walking in just as day shift and night shift were doing handoffs. You walked to the nurses station greeting everyone with the normal amount of enthusiasm.
Just 12 hours of being professional
You could see the back of him turn to the rest of the night shift crew, they yell out a chant and they all disperse, Dr.Abbot turns to face the nurses station and you quickly act busy not want to start any type of interaction.
“Can we talk?” Dr.Abbot says directly to you. You look up at him and try to decipher what he wanted. “About?” Your sticking with professionalism not wanting to over think any interactions again. “You know what?” He looks away now a small burrow of his eyebrows.
“Look Dr. Abbot you had told me how you felt and I understood, my feelings don’t have to be reciprocated” you say, your eyes moving back to the papers in front of you.
“I know bu-”
“Just drop it okay?” Your eyes darting back to him in a whisper-shout. You really don’t want to do this with him and feel even more humiliated.
————————————————————————
The next few shifts you meet Dr.Abbot with strict levels of professionalism not wavering as to not get your hopes up ever again and he doesn’t fight back also keeping the same levels.
Your night shift was ending it close, all packed away heading towards the door,you wave to Ahmed who gives you a heads up, when you eyes catches on the office board.
Who is Dr.Abbot
Your eyes catch to a name but the rest of the sentence is covered up with sticky notes.
“What’s the new bet?” You ask Ahmed, he gives you a smirk leading you into the office
“Some nurses overheard Dr.Robby and Dr.Abbot speaking about how hes gonna ask someone out and Robby made a comment about workplace relationship. So we’re guessing that he has a thing for somebody in the ER.”
You look down at the names:
Mohan has 27 tally marks
Al hashimi has 15 tally marks
Dr.Walsh has 13 tally marks
Dana has 3 tally marks
And a few more names written down with 1 tally marks
You find your name and it has 0 tally marks
At least you know he doesn’t have feeling for you whatsoever
“Why is my name up there?”
“Oh I think princess gave you a mark and then changed it to Mohan a couple hours later, I forgot to wipe your name away”
You nod slowly. Not even others believed you could be the crush.
You rummage through your purse and come out with 20 dollars
“Put 20 for Dr.Mohan and they are not dating yet but have been on exactly 2 dates from today” you give the money to him and walk out the office.
“Not for yourself?” Ahmed questions with a raised eyebrow
“No, I’m not who he’s gonna ask” you smile back at him seeing him wipe your name off the board.
You don’t know much about Dr.Mohan but you know that her and Dr.Abbot are quite close in the ER.
you feel jealous as she had a higher probability to actually get with him then you, I mean she is hot, like really hot.
So if he liked her back you wouldn’t be surprised.
————————————————————————
The next few weeks is you keeping a distance from Dr. Abbot.
Your in the break room with a few others as they talk about the bet.
“Day shift says they saw both them come out a room together” one nurse gossips.
“At this point it’s not a matter of if but when.”
They all laugh and you let out a strained chuckle that dies immediately.
“Who did you put money on y/n?”
“Oh Dr.Mohan also” you say taking a sip of your coffee.
The conversation continues but you stopped listening. You feel tears welling up in your eyes.
You quickly make an excuse to leave heading off into a bathroom and into a stall.
You let the tears fall silently, you feel so embarrassed at yourself about it all, of course he wouldn’t like you, he would never feel that way about you, you have to accept that as fact.
You decided then and there you were going to spend any more time on this, you can’t, for your own sake.
You leave the bathroom hoping not a hint of what you were just doing shows up in your face.
“Hey kid do you mind doing food orders?” lena calls from the nurse station.
You shake your head, grabbing the pen and notepad she had shoved on the desk.
You spend the next 30 minutes grabbing everyone order which was from a local Thai restaurant that open late.
“That’s seems to be everyone, I’ll order it now”
Lena leans over and checks the list.
“You seem to be forgetting someone sweetheart.”
You know exactly who she’s speaking about but you really can’t speak to him right now.
“He’s on the roof sweet pea”
————————————————————————
The roof door makes a loud clang as it shuts behind you.
You scan over the area and you see a familiar body resting against the railing, his head is down, he looks like he is sleeping.
“Dr.Abbot.” You shout out.
He head whips around towards you startled at first but then calms, turning his head back around.
“Hey kid.”
The nickname makes you wince.
“I’m taking food orders for that Thai place.” You wave the notepad.
“I’m good kid” he doesn’t face you, he looks off into the distance a bit
“Are you sure? We still have a few hours left and-”
“I said I’m good” he raises his voice a bit and makes you take a step back, he puts his head and his hands giving him a few seconds.
“I’m sorry” you say sheeply, you’re already moving before the words have left your lips.
A few hours have passed since that incident and you try to not let it mean anything, he probably is just stressed out, I mean we work in an ER, but it’s still weighs heavy on you.
You’re standing by the nurses station, writing down notes.
“Hey Dr.Abbot, got a new patient waiting for you”
You look up to see lena passing an iPad behind you.
All of a sudden a hand reaches past you and a hand grabs your waist as support, you look past your shoulder to see Dr. Abbot right behind you.
“Thanks”
You quickly look down at your notes,continuing to write your notes. His hand still on your waist.
He continues conversation with Lena while he looks at the chart. You don’t move, you can’t, you’re stuck with the warmth on your waist.
“Dayshift should be arriving right about now to do handoffs”
“Well speak of the devil” Lena says, you look up to see Dr.Mohan walking up to us.
You become way more aware of the hand on you waist.
you become self conscious too, you move his hand away by the wrist and scurry behind the nurses station sitting down.
You don’t look at him so you don’t know his reaction, but given that he greets Mohan with a hug, you assume he didn’t care as much as you did with the lost touch.
They are in conversation all smiles with each other, like they forgot about everyone else in the ER , in the entire world.
All the nurses and some residents around all send silent looks at each other.
“You gonna miss your work-wife Dr.Abbot?” Dr.Ellis says jokingly
He doesn’t say anything to that, just gives her another hug and she heads towards the locker room.
You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding and you check the time.
5 minutes left of your shift.
You end your noting and begin packing away.
You don’t want to indulge in the conversation, indulge in anything about him, you don’t even look at him as you say your goodbye citing the end of your shift.
In the locker room, Dr.Mohan is in there sorting herself out.
“Hey y/n.”
You give a quick wave before moving to your own locker.
“Hey did you know about that bet?, the one with Dr.Abbot I mean”
“Uh yeah, I did, why?” You don’t look at her,continuing with your things.
“People think he’s gonna ask out me, can you believe that?”
Of course I can believe it, everyone believes it, you’re growing annoyed with her now.
“Yeah I do, you just got called his work-wife and he didn’t deny it”
You shut your locker give her a stern bye before heading back out, you give everyone a good bye as you see them and head at the ambulance bay doors.
You needed to stop thinking about him.
————————————————————————
You have the next few days off, which you’re glad to have, some time away from Jack will do you some good.
But that doesn’t go to plan.
Your friend maise is leaving Pittsburgh for a new opportunity in New York and has a flight in the early morning so as a last hurrah we decided to go to a bar to celebrate her new found opportunity, but you also took it as a time to hopefully forget about Jack.
But this comes to a close when a guy gets a bit too handsy with you and not liking that you rejected him, punches you square in the face, this knocks you back taking a few glasses with you shattering them and leaves a large cut down your forearm and some glass in your hand.
Cut to the ER, where you have an ice pack and cloth to your nose in chairs. A guy kind enough gives you a jacket to shield from prying eyes of the skimpy outfit your wearing.
“Y/N oh gosh are you okay?” You hear a night nurse, your colleague, shout out.
You stand up with the help of your friend as the world is a little blurry right now.
“Yeah just got sucker punched by a guy 3x my size”
She leads you into a room and lays you down on the bed.
“Stay here while I get a doctor” she leaves quickly.
Your friend tries to converse with you but your face hurts too much to speak, so you opt to just lay there while she speaks instead.
A few minutes later you hear the door open, and walk in Dr.Abbot.
“Are you okay y/n?”
You nod your head, too embarrassed and hurt to speak.
“Right, CT has already been ordered for you let me get a look at nose make sure it’s not broken”
The cloth leaves your face to show a complete bloodied nose with a cut at the ridge of it and a bruise forming around your cheek.
“Jesus y/n, what happened?!”
He felt around your nose with his gloved hand and you winced in pain.
“Some guy lifted my dress and tried to get in my underwear, didn’t like when I pushed him off and punched me”
You saw his jaw tighten in reaction.
“Did you call the police?”
“Yeah they guy tried to say that I assaulted him but luckily there were about 20 witness and camera that vouch in my favour.”
“Good” it’s all he says with tightness in voice and face.
You felt humiliated and tired, you just wanted to sleep.
“CT is pretty backed up right now but I’ll fast track you, let me clean your arm and do stiches” he takes out the suture kit and places your arm on the table.
“You’re doing it? Aren’t like interns supposed to?”
“You don’t trust me.”
“It’s not that I don’t, but aren’t there big cases going on?”
“You’re my big case tonight.”
He ends the conversation,picking up the tweezers and taking the glass out your hand.
You look over to maise who give you a knowing look and you shake your head at her, she rolls her eyes looking down at her phone.
You’re told that luckily nothing is broken but you do have a concussion and will be here for the next few hours before you can go home.
The police came and got your statement asking if you would like to press charges in which Maise gave a loud ‘are you serious!?’ too.
Your left to your own thoughts as Maise had to catch her flight.
But now left with your thoughts you begin to cry, tears overwhelm you, you feel disgusting and probably look it too, just remembering that guy touching you.
You crying so hard you don’t notice when hands touch your shoulder and wrap you into a hug.
“It’s okay y/n I’m here” Dr.abbot say stroking your head.
He lets you cry into him for a few minutes until your sobs subside for sniffles.
“I’m sorry” you say, “I wet your scrub top” you wipe at his top, backing away from him.
“I don’t care” his hand still on the back of your head stroking it.
“I look horrible don’t I?”
“You think I care what you look like right now?”
He sits down in the chair and pulls it closer.
“Where your friend hmm?” His hand moves from the back of your head to your check wiping the tears as softly as he could without hurting you.
“She had to leave, her flight to New York should have left by now” you sniffle.
“Can anyone take ca-”
He stops mid sentence, he clears his throat looking away.
You look at him confused.
“Your dress..it uhh”
You look down and see your dress has been pulled down, exposing a bare boob.
You gasp in response quickly fixing yourself.
“Shit I’m sorry”
“It’s okay don’t worry”
“I didn’t even know”
“Hey don’t worry about it”
“No fuck, that embarrassing”
“Y/n!” You stop your rambling and look at him
“Do you have anyone to care for you?”
You shake your head
“What are you going to do?” you shrug your shoulders.
“I can take care of myself”
“Not when you can barely do anything, concussion suck and to add a bruised nose and fucked arm into the mix, you will need help”
“I’m sure I’ll manage Dr.Abbot” you look up at the ceiling but the lights blind you and you wince in pain.
You hear him take a sigh before standing up, you look at him.
“I’ll take a few days off, I’ll come get you at the end of my shift.”
“What?!” But before you can continue your protest he leaves the room.
————————————————————————
Your wheeled out by the day shift charge nurse by the time jacks shift is over.
“I can walk you know.”
“It’s protocol sweetie” Dana says by your ear.
You see Jack by his car speaking to Dr.Mohan, you look away from them, not wanting to gawk at the moment between them.
You get up out the chair and give a hug to Dana.
“Get better soon” she says, you give her a wave before she heads back inside.
You walk over to Jack slowly, not wanting to intrude on them.
Jack finally notices you walk up., abruptly ending the conversation, he gives her a kiss on the cheek.
“Bye Samira” Jack says as she begins to walks away.
“Call me, Jack” she says in response.
You give her a tight smile and her back.
“You ready to go?” Jack says walking to the driver side.
You nod in response.
————————————————————————
The drive to your house was quiet, just the radio going.
He didn’t speak, not one word.
And you didn’t either, you were thinking of him and her.
This was a bad idea, him taking care of you, you should’ve put up more of a protest.
By the time you’ve made up your mind to tell that you don’t want him to take care of you, he’s parking in front of your house.
“Jack I don’t need a caregiver.”
“You’ve got a concussion and your hurting”
“And I’ll be fine by myself,just please Jack” the last part was earnest, you couldn’t do it.
You get out the car and head to the door not letting Jack respond to you.You thought he would get the hint of you not wanting his help.
You grab your keys from your purse beginning to turn the lock when a hand reached from behind your turning it all the way. He pushes the door open and you walk through but before you can slam the door in his face, he already through the threshold.
“Jack I’ve just said I don’t need your help.”
“Tough, cuz you’re going to get it anyways.”
You relented, shutting the doors behind you.
You were going to speak when your dog came running out towards you, you bent down and happily pet her.
“Who’s this?” Jack said also bending to pet.
“This is max she’s my rescue dog”
“She?” He raised an eyebrow
“Yes, she is a girl and her name is max,deal”
You went into the kitchen, grabbing items out of cabinets to cook for yourself.
“Hey, what are you doing?” Jack says entering the kitchen. “I’m cooking for myself,why?”, you reach for an item in a top cabinet having to stretch causing your arm to hurt, you wince in pain and grab it. “That’s why, you’re gonna pop a stich, this is why you need someone.”
He grabs your shoulders pushing you towards the stairs
“Go rest, let me do it for you.”, you didn’t put a fight with him, there was no point in arguing with him.
————————————————————————
You spent the rest of the day in bed trying to get some rest, but you had a splitting headache so you just silently cried yourself to sleep.
You woke up to the darkness, looking to your bed side alarm to the time
3:04 am
You got out of bed, stalking downstairs.
You could hear the low sound of tv on and the glow down the steps.
“Jack.” You said sleepily
You heard the tv pause and the sound of heavy footstep reach the bottom of the stairs
You see the faint outline of him from the tv glow. You make you way down still groggy, at least the headache is gone.
You still haven’t woke up fully yet, you sleepily made your way downstairs, meeting Jack at the bottom.
“Hey baby, how are you?” You’re too sleepy to notice the nickname or the kiss he gives to your temple.
You give a small hum
“You hungry?” You give a small nod
He sets you down on the couch while he heats up the food he made earlier.
You cuddle up into the couch, letting your eyes rest.
You begin to fall back asleep when he comes back out with a bowl.
“Thankyou.” You say small.
Jack sits beside you, watching you eat.
“How’s the pain?” He keeps his voice low.
“7/10.” You whisper back.
You take a couple more bites of food, but your stomach can’t handle it. You believe that you’re eating too fast so you hand the bowl to Jack.
“You’ve barely touched it” Jack says looking at you.
You begin to gag when you realise you’re about to throw up, you run to the bathroom upstairs luckily making it, you spew your guts out.
You try to move your hair out the way but no luck u too you feel a hand grab the sides of your hair pulling it back into a ponytail and then rubbing your back.
After your nauseas subsides, you let out a gasped Thank you and sorry.
“Are you good now?” He asked
You shake your head in response feeling another bout of nausea reach your throat.
He tightens he grip about your hair making sure nothing falls out.
Your crush is seeing you throw your guts up, you felt embarrassed at yourself.
You use his thigh to steady yourself as you throw up one last time.
You flush the toilet, catching your breath for a moment, you begin to stand up but Jack grabs your arm pulling you down into him.
He sits on the floor legs spread and he puts you between them, wrapping his hands around you.
“I’m sorry that was disgusting.” You say, you mentally slap yourself at the situation.
“It wasn’t disgusting.”
“Yes it was Dr.Abbot” you say
“What happened to Jack?”
You look up at him confused.
“On the stairs you called me Jack.”
“Did I? I was sleepy, I’m sorry” you look down at the floor.
“Don’t be, I like it” he let out a small chuckle as if it was funny.
But you don’t find it funny, this whole thing isn’t funny. He confusing you, it made you almost hate him for it.
“I should shower, Dr. Abbot.” You push yourself off him, quickly going in your room and grabbing a towel.
By the time you’re back to the bathroom Jack is not in sights, which you’re grateful for.
You hear the tv once more downstairs, you sigh shutting the door.
————————————————————————
You wake up to your 9am alarm going off, you had forgotten to turn it off. You smack at the clock turning it off, but now you’re awake. Wide awake.
You descend down stairs meeting, you hear loud breathing coming from the living room, you walk down the stairs slowly.
You see Jack on the floor doing push ups shirtless, he’s counting up.
53…54…55…56.
He breaths are haggard it sends flutters to your stomach as you imagine him on top of you hearing the whispered groans and breathing.
The last step in loud enough to take him out of his workout and stops mid push to look at you, a smile showing up on his face.
“You’re awake” he pushes himself off the floor and walks towards you.
Your now able to see him better now, his hair disheveled, sweaty dripping down his forehead, down his neck and onto his big chest, freckles littered everywhere, you could see a patch of chest hair and a lil happy trail going down to a place you would love to explore.
“Don’t stop on my account.” You wipe the tired from your eyes.
“It’s okay, how’s the pain?”
“Better Thankyou”
“I made you breakfast,it’s light not a heavy meal.”
You sat down at the table, looking up at miming a thank you.
“I’m gonna shower you’ll be fine on your own right?”
You nod in response.
He walks upstairs, while you continued to eat luckily not feeling nauseous.
You hear a ping of a phone coming from the couch, believing it’s yours you go to pick it up.
However when looking at the plain apple default lock screen it’s clear it’s jacks, you begin to put it down when you read who the message is from.
Samira
You now intrigued read the message.
Oh that’s gross, she better not have thrown up all over you, my offer to come rescue you still stands and we could spend it together instead.❤️😘
Your eyebrows furrow in question and frustration, when another message comes through.
You really don’t have to help her out, seeing as her confession made you a bit uncomfortable.
You felt sick all over again, you really wanted to read the rest of the conversation but he had a password and also you respected his privacy.
But he didn’t respect you, you hadn’t thought he would tell anyone about that, but the fact it made him uncomfortable, you felt embarrassed again.
You hear the bathroom door open and you quickly place the phone where you saw it and go back to the table.
Jacks come down the stairs in just a towel wrapped around his waist.
You don’t even process that, your too angry at him to.
“Forgot my phone.”
You hum in response not making eye contact with him.
“How’s breakfast?”
“It’s great, yeah”
“No nausea?”
Not from the food
“I’m fine Dr.Abbot” your stern your throat becoming dry.
He heads back upstairs and once you hear the shower going is when you let the tears drop.
————————————————————————
You putting your coat on lead in hand when Jack comes down the stairs.
“What are you doing?”, he leans again the bannister with a raised eyebrow.
“Max needs to go on her walk”
“So I’ll walk her” he grabs the lead out of your hand. “No physical activity for you.”
“But Jack-” you begin to protest.
“I said no” he stern. “I’ll check on your wounds when I get back.”
“You don’t know our route.”
“I’m sure max will show me, won’t you max.”
Max lets out a bark and wags her tail. Traitor
You reluctantly take off your coat putting it back on the hook, and settle on the couch turning on the tv.
You don’t say another word. You don’t even say goodbye, but when that door shut you let out a small sob.
————————————————————————
Jacks comes back just before noon, and you hadn’t been waiting, you had left the house to get some fresh air away from Jack. You knew he was back by the text messages and calls he was making.
Which you ignored.
He had the audacity to act like some knight in shining while talking shit about you to Dr.Mohan, you felt like every name under the sun.
You settled at a cafe in your neighbourhood and drank some tea, since coffee was way to strong right now, you stayed until 5pm when the cafe closed, so with a huff you went back to your home.
Unlocking the front door your met with the barks of max, who you happily pet.
“Y/n, is that you” you hear from the kitchen.
“Yep.” Jack rounds the corner.
“Where have you been?” His voice stern
“I went out, and before you asked I didn’t do any crazy physical activity, I was at a cafe sitting the entire time.”
“You should’ve told me.”
“Why?”
“Because-
“Becuase what Jack? You’re not family nor are we together.”
He doesn’t answer, he stands there for a few seconds, taking a few moments before heading back in the kitchen.
You continue to pet max getting emotional stability from her.
Icing Jack out is better than him being in close proximity, he said himself you make him uncomfortable.
————————————————————————
The tv plays a movie while you sit on the couch, Jack sits beside you staring mindlessly it at it, you can tell by the way he continuously huffing and puffing that he has a lot on his mind.
But you don’t bother to ask, you don’t want to know.
The movie lulls you, your eyes being heavy you rest you head on the couch, falling asleep immediately.
Your shook awake by Jack nudging your shoulder, however you wake to something hard beneath your head.
“Y/n” you hear him coo.
The tv is playing a different movie now,the tv glow helps light up what situation your in, your body is vertical and your head rests on his lower stomach.
You get up using your hand as a stand not realising where you put it, you hear a groan come from him.
“Oh fuck”
you look him in the face, you still sleepy and then you look down at where your hand is and it lying on the tight part of his jeans.
You immediately pull it away
“I’m so sorry Jack, I didn’t mean to” he shakes his head no.
You get up and immediately go up stairs saying a quick ‘goodnight’
Once in your own bed, you cringe at what you’ve done.
Great job at keeping a distance y/n.
————————————————————————
You wake up at 11:15am the next day. And you spend some extra hours in your room to cowardly to come to face with him.
Your in the middle of a book when you a knock on your door
“Hey y/n are you okay?”
You immediately shut the book, waiting a few more seconds
“Y/n” you walk towards the door, opening it slowly, your met with the tall figure of Jack.
“Hi, is something wrong?” You say looking up at him
“You haven’t eaten, I was worried.” He pushes the door in a bit and you let him walking out of the room.
You walk down the stairs and met max greeting you.
“You missed breakfast so I made brunch”
“Thanks Dr.Abbot” you hear sigh leave his lips but he doesn’t say anything.
You sit down at the table and he sits next to you
So much for proximity
You both begin eating, making small talk, when his phone pings as it sits right between you
And you’re not able to read the entire message just who it’s from and the first line.
And your stomach drops
Samira
I’ve missed you at work, when can I see you Jackie
He picks up the phone immediately and begins typing angling it away from you
You cringe at the pet name.
They are already acting like a married couple.
In that moment you felt like the other woman, you didn’t even have any reason to be called that, you were just another woman that he had no feelings for.
“Who’s that? You say taking a bite.
“It just work.” he puts the phone in his jean pocket and you hum in response.
“Your nose seems to be healing great” he says diverting the topic.
The bruise is slowly but surely fading and your arm is healing, once this concussion nonsense is done, Jack Abbot will be out of your hair.
“Yeah I’m gonna call work about coming back in soon.”
“Yeah?” He says with a smile.
“Yeah and to your luck you won’t have to be my caregiver any more.” You take a bite of your food, “I’ll be out of your hair for good.”
He hums as his only response, brunch being silent for the remainder.
————————————————————————
Jack took you on his walk with max, to get more physical activities in and to get you out of the house.
You walked side by side not saying much.
At some point you got a bit dizzy and you both sat down for a while.
“Sorry I just feel light headed”
“ please don’t apologise to me,baby”
Gosh that pet name sent butterflies through your stomach, you needed him say it to you more often.
“Here rest on me”, you looked at him as he outstretched his arm around you bring you closer into his warmth.
You hated how easily you did as you were told, and you hated how his body just fit perfectly with yours, you hated how easy this was for him, how he could do this and not hold any feelings towards you.
Jack soothed you, rubbing your arm, and your head nestled further into his shoulder, you closed your eyes and let your mind blank.
What a cute couple
You heard passerbys say as they walked past, that made your eyes shoot open.
“I’m good now,we can continue” you lift your head from him, looking into his eyes, he had a look of sadness.
“Are you sure I really don’t mind-”
“I’m sure Dr.Abbot” the sadness in his eyes deepened as he loosened his grip on you.
————————————————————————
By the time your back home you’re exhausted, you were definitely not ready to go back to work yet, but you needed Jack gone.
Back in the house you slumped on the couch not taking your jacket or shoes off.
Your body felt to heavy.
“I don’t think you should go back to work, you’re not ready.”
He walk towards you taking off your shoes and jacket as carefully as to not hurt your arm.
He then take off his layers and settles next to you, propping your head in his lap, you’re too tired to argue with him or stop him.
He strokes your hair, playing with it.
“You know y/n” he begins, you hum to show your listening, “I wish you wouldn’t call me Dr.Abbot”
“Is that not who you are?” You say tired
“But I don’t want to be that for you” he hands traces to your under your arm, landing on your waist. “Call me Jack from now on”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea” you say, his hand running through your hair while the other play circles into your side.
You don’t hear his response as you fall asleep.
————————————————————————
You wake in the same position you were last night, you don’t move, feel Jack sigh shuffle a tiny bit then settle, his phone is in sight, he’s messaging
He doesn’t know you can read them, and you won’t let him.
He first messages is to Dr.Robby
Yeah she still has symptoms of a concussion, she’s not ready yet, hope Shen is okay for some more time without me.
He then closes that and opens up a new text
Samira
Hey, when should I mark out on my calendar for our 3rd date? 😘
The pit in your stomach grows ten fold, so there we’re feelings towards those two, they’ve already been on dates, you now know you were stupid to ask him out, he never saw you like that, you feel stupid for being in his lap.
He wasn’t confusing you, he was trying to be your friend, you were the one looking into it as more than what it was.
Jack begins to type back, he deletes what he was going to say, then re types, then deletes that messages, settling on closing his phone and taking a heavy sigh.
A few minutes go past and feel as though that’s a good amount of time to “wake up”.
You lift yourself up this time knowing not to use you hands on him but using the space in between.
You get up not looking at him.
“Sorry, I fell asleep on you again”
He snakes a hand around your waist, pulling you into him.
“It’s okay I’m not tired”
“Don’t you want to go home?, sleep in your house?”
He let out a chuckle
“I’m fine on the couch”
You let out a sigh
“Jac- Dr.Abbot…that me telling you to go home”
You still don’t look at him
“I mean it” you rub your neck, “you’ll get a bad back sleeping on here for too long”
“Call me Jack and I’ll go sleep in my own bed tonight” you feel his breath hit your neck with his arm pulling you even further into him.
“Really,that’s your condition?”
“Mhmm” he closer to your ear, hearing the vibration of his low hum through your body. You lower part aches at this, how bad you wanted to turn and kiss him.
Calling him Jack , it’s too friendly, you can’t be friends with him, if you are, you’d be a horrible one.
“Then enjoy the couch” you pull his arm off you and walk upstairs.
“Hey wait” you turn your head watching him put his prosthetic on, taking that as your opportunity to make it to your room before he catches up.
You need him gone from your home, you can’t take it anymore, he taken up your life, he likes Mohan not you.
With this concussion you were in no shape to take care of yourself.
You pull out your phone, you had one play, your hand scrolled far, stopping at a name, your ex, Grant.
Hey, I was wondering if you could help me with something.
