mare

all about reposting <3 [+18 content]

[honeylesshaze]

“There’s my girl,”

At 3:07 a.m., she stared at Dean Di Laurentis’s contact for a full thirty seconds before pressing call.

The room around her was completely dark except for the dull glow from her phone screen. Her roommate was gone for the weekend, leaving the dorm painfully quiet in a way that made everything worse. Normally she liked being alone.

Tonight it felt unbearable.

The day had been awful from start to finish. A failed exam she’d studied weeks for. A fight with her mom that ended with tears she refused to cry until after hanging up. Then finding out her internship application got rejected in the middle of an already miserable evening.

By midnight she’d convinced herself she was fine.

By two in the morning she was sitting on her bathroom floor trying to breathe through the overwhelming feeling that everything in her life was suddenly too much.

And somehow, despite all her attempts to avoid it, her brain kept circling back to Dean.

Which was stupid.

Dean was fun. Bright. Easy. The opposite of whatever emotional breakdown this was.

He’d probably be asleep anyway.

Still, her thumb pressed call before she could stop herself.

The phone rang once.

Twice.

Then immediately:

“Hey.”

No irritation.

No sleepy annoyance.

Just Dean’s voice, rough with exhaustion but instantly alert.

Something in her chest cracked a little at that alone.

For a second she couldn’t even speak.

Dean sat up in bed immediately on the other end.

“Hey,” he repeated softer this time. “What happened?”

That nearly did her in.

Because he sounded worried instantly.

Not confused about why she was calling at three in the morning. Not irritated she woke him up. Just worried.

She swallowed hard. “Did I wake you?”

“I don’t care.” Sheets rustled on his end as he moved around. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m fine.”

“Baby.”

Two syllables.

Gentle. Quiet. Concerned.

Her eyes burned immediately.

Dean heard the shaky breath she failed to hide and cursed softly under his breath.

“Oh, sweetheart.”

That was worse.

Way worse.

She pressed her hand over her eyes. “I’m sorry. Forget it. I shouldn’t have called—”

“No.” His voice sharpened instantly. “Don’t do that.”

Silence.

Then more softly:

“Talk to me.”

And she tried.

Really.

But the second she opened her mouth, all the exhaustion and stress from the day tangled together in her throat. Suddenly she was crying quietly into the darkness of her room while Dean stayed on the phone listening.

Not interrupting.

Not trying to immediately fix everything.

Just listening.

“I feel stupid,” she whispered eventually.

“You’re not stupid.”

“I cried over pasta earlier.”

Dean was quiet for exactly one second.

“What kind of pasta?”

A startled laugh escaped her through the tears.

“There she is,” he murmured softly, sounding relieved just to hear her laugh at all.

She wiped quickly beneath her eyes. “It was bad pasta.”

“Okay, then your reaction was justified.”

Another tiny laugh.

Dean exhaled slowly on the other end of the line like that sound physically relaxed him.

“Can you open the front door for me?”

She frowned immediately. “What?”

“The dorm entrance.”

Her brain lagged behind.

“…Dean.”

“I’m outside.”

She sat upright so fast the blanket tangled around her legs.

“What?”

“I’ve been driving this entire call.”

Sure enough, through the phone she suddenly heard a car door shut.

Her chest tightened painfully.

“You drove here?”

“You sounded sad.”

Like that explained everything.

Like crossing campus at three in the morning wasn’t even a question once he heard her cry.

Something unbearably soft moved through her chest.

She hurried downstairs in oversized sweatpants and one of Dean’s hoodies she’d stolen weeks ago. The dorm lobby was empty and silent at this hour, fluorescent lights buzzing faintly overhead as she pushed open the main doors.

Dean stood outside beneath the yellow glow of the streetlamp.

Gray sweatpants. Black hoodie. Hair messy like he’d barely bothered fixing it before leaving. His car still running behind him.

And the second he saw her face properly, his entire expression changed.

Gone was the sleepy softness from the phone call.

Now he just looked concerned.

“There’s my girl,” he said quietly.

That almost made her cry again.

Dean noticed immediately too because his face softened with alarm.

“Oh no,” he murmured, stepping closer. “C’mere.”

The second his arms wrapped around her, she completely fell apart.

Not dramatic sobbing.

Just exhausted, overwhelmed tears pressing into the front of his hoodie while Dean held her tightly against his chest.

One hand slid into her hair instantly.

“I got you,” he whispered. “You’re okay.”

The warmth of him felt unreal after hours of feeling miserable and alone.

She could feel his heartbeat beneath her cheek. Steady. Calm. Grounding.

Dean didn’t rush her.

Didn’t tease her.

He just stood there in the middle of the cold night holding her like there was nowhere else he needed to be.

Eventually her breathing evened out enough for embarrassment to creep in.

“You really drove across campus because I was crying?”

Dean pulled back just enough to look at her.

“You called me at three in the morning,” he said gently. “You never do that.”

The simple honesty of it hit hard.

He knew her enough to recognize this wasn’t normal.

Dean brushed his thumb carefully beneath one of her eyes, wiping away leftover tears.

“Rough day?”

“The roughest."

“Wanna talk about it?”

She hesitated.

Then shook her head slightly.

Dean nodded immediately like that was completely fine.

“Okay.” He squeezed her waist lightly. “Then we won’t.”

No pressure.

No forcing.

Just understanding.

God.

She was in so much trouble with this man.

Dean glanced toward the dorm entrance. “Can I come upstairs or are we getting arrested tonight?”

That finally pulled a real laugh out of her.

“There’s technically a rule against visitors this late.”

“Sweetheart, I play hockey. Rules are suggestions.”

She rolled her eyes, but warmth spread through her chest anyway as she led him upstairs.

The dorm room was freezing when they entered.

Dean frowned immediately.

“Why is it cold enough in here to preserve human organs?”

“The heater sucks.”

“Criminal.”

She closed the door quietly behind them while Dean looked around sleepily, hands shoved into his sweatpants pockets.

Then his eyes landed on her bed.

“Get in.”

She blinked. “What?”

Dean pointed firmly. “Bed. Now.”

“You drove here in the middle of the night just to boss me around?”

“Yes."

Despite herself, she obeyed.

Dean kicked off his shoes and climbed in beside her without hesitation, pulling the blanket around both of them before immediately tugging her against his chest like he belonged there.

The familiarity of it nearly melted her on the spot.

One strong arm wrapped securely around her waist while she tucked herself against him automatically.

Warm.

Safe.

Dean smelled like laundry detergent and sleep and faint traces of cologne.

“You comfortable?” he murmured against her hair.

“Very.”

“Good.”

Silence settled softly after that.

Outside, rain tapped lightly against the dorm windows. Somewhere down the hallway, a door shut faintly before quiet returned.

Dean’s fingers traced slow patterns against her back underneath the blanket.

Not sexual.

Just soothing.

The kind of touch that said I’m here without needing words.

“You know,” he murmured eventually, voice quieter now with exhaustion creeping back in, “I kinda like that you called me.”

Her chest tightened slightly.

“Yeah?”

“Means you trust me.”

She went still.

Because that was the terrifying part.

She did trust him.

Completely.

More than she probably should.

Dean must’ve felt her tense because he tilted his head slightly to look down at her.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Liar.”

She smiled weakly into his chest. “I just…” Her voice softened. “I didn’t think you’d come.”

Dean looked genuinely confused by that.

“Why wouldn’t I?”

Like the answer was obvious.

Like there was never a version of tonight where he left her alone hurting.

Emotion clogged painfully in her throat again.

Dean noticed instantly.

“Oh, sweetheart, no more crying.” He tightened his arms around her dramatically. “I’m too handsome to be cried on this much.”

A laugh burst out of her before she could stop it.

“There you are,” he whispered again softly.

The room grew quieter after that.

Her body slowly relaxed against him for the first time all day while Dean kept holding her without complaint despite the awkward dorm mattress and uncomfortable position.

Sleepiness tugged at her finally.

Right before drifting off, she felt Dean press a gentle kiss against the top of her head.

“Get some sleep, baby,” he murmured into her hair. “I’ve got you.”

And for the first time that entire horrible day—

She believed it.

[carbonfiction]

Sleepy girl

Summary: the one where Jack Abbot doesn't play about helping his girl get to sleep.

Masterlist

Warnings: porn without plot (what can i say, im just a girl) v sleepy (but consenting!!) reader, light subspace vibes, vaginal fingering, clit play/pussy rubbing, jack talks you through, sprinkle of praise, clothed play. I think that is allll for today's blasphemy

Tbh i cant say anything more than i got myself in a headspace and locked the fuck in, i need those fat finger inside me SO BAD im going insane

Intensely locked in on the thought of lazy fingering/pussy rubs w Abbot

The kind when it starts innocent after a long day, the pair of you cuddled up beneath a blanket on the bed.

You rest practically on top of him, Jacks strong arms looped around you , letting your head tuck into the crook of his neck, keeping close. Its warm, comfortable, safe as the TV play's some show you'd lost focus on a while ago, too wrapped up in the heat of jacks body beneath yours.

One of his large hands drifts from rubbing over your back when you shift against his chest, a soft whine passing pouty lips half conscious. Mind struggling to drift off all the way despite the overtired exhaustion in your bones.

You dont notice that shift, too preoccupied in between dream and drift off. Not when the pads of his fingertips span your belly beneath your top, thumb soothing carefully, nor do you make a peep when they tuck just beneath the band of your sweats. Infact, if anything, you seem to press into the warmth of him like a kitten it's mother.

Still, he waits until you grumble again, scratchy stubble on his jaw rubbing your hair when you nuzzle in, before he lets them dip any further.

They creep down, slow and gentle, until he's cupping you over the cotton of your panties, pressure light to keep you drifting. You feel hot, even with the fabric barrier keeping your pussy from full contact.

Jacks fingers move back up the gusset, two chubby pads offering just a little more pressure, rubbing lazily. His chin dipping to plant a soft kiss to your temple.

The combination stirs you, makes your hand grip into the center of his shirt just a little tighter, sleepy eyes blinking up oh so blearily.

"Jack? What- mmph- what're you?-"You mumble, hips unconsciously tilting into the fingers that are still working your covered cunt.

Jack just smiles against you, cooing quietly, a freckled arm squeezing you a little tighter to him. "Shhh S'okay, Jus wanna feel my baby f' a bit, s'that alright? Jus' my fingers, Help you get all sleepy"

You must think about it for a single moment, a fleeting millisecond of coherence in that fuzzy little brain, before your head tucks back in and your leg drapes over his middle to allow more access.

Every whine, every whimper, you let bubble out holding a fragility that makes Jack's chest (and cock) ache.

And that, for a while, is how it goes. You, mewling into his neck, while Jack rubs your pussy over your panties. Just enough to keep you calm, to let you doze gently without drifting too far.

That is, until he finally slides the now drenched cotton to the side, his fingers making complete contact with the puffy, sticky lips of your vulva. Your head peaks out to moan, a sound that goes straight to Jack's cock.

"Ohh, s'that feel better? Hm?" he breathes, meeting your lips in a sloppy press that just about resembles a kiss.

Every brush, every lick of pressure to your clit has your hole drooling out arousal, pulsing as it tries to pull the digits that tease the outer edges in.

"Whats the matter, you need somethin inside?" your hips only tilt down, letting the tip of his middle dip just a little into where you need him. "Yeah.. Yeah you do, Alright, Nice n easy.. Big breaths, Jus feel it"

You take that breath against his mouth, shakey and tapering off into a soft cry, the thickness of his middle finger snug as it pushes inside your walls to the knuckle. He relishes in the moment, driving the single digit in and out, letting your wetness libricate the move before he begins to curl it with expert ease.

Jack can feel the heat radiating off of you, feel it pushed against his chest, every puff of your breath fanning hot. Even when you begin to squirm, rocking your hips in time as he presses against that spot that makes you keen, you remain devastatingly close- practically on top of him.

"S' Right there isn't it, thats the spot.." he murmers knowly, drawing out to circle your clit wetly. "Gonna give you another 'kay, big breaths good girl"

And If the first finger felt good, the stretch of two is like heaven, his middle and ring finger slipping in with little resistance. The rough pads curling up and pushing so perfectly against you that its obscene. Especially how, with every full plunge into your weepy cunt, you can feel the cool band of his wedding ring grow warmer- wetter.

And then, palm flush against your core once more, you hear it. The Filthy, muffled squelches that only make the lewdness of the situation worse.

Torn between nuzzling in deep to hide and the need to feel Jacks lips devour yours, You end up somewhere between the two when you mewl next, Cheek dragging open mouthed along the stubble of his jaw. Nimble fingers scrabbling to grip onto his forearm as the warmth in your belly burns hotter. "A-ah m' so- s'close Jack"

"Oh i know, i know.. S'right there isn't it" he shushes, squeezing your arm again, a faux kind of sympathy on his tongue. The heel of his palm plap, plap, plaping against your sticky, puffy clit as he curls his fingers perfectly deep. "cmon, cum it out sweetheart. Haven't gotta do nothin but let go, you can do it"

And truly, it doesn't take much more encouragement than that to make you shatter. His rough voice in your ear, fingers deep inside your rippling pussy as it squeezes him tight. The intensity has you shaking, lips dragging along his neck as you cry out. Each breath wracking your lungs as you heave it in. Heartbeat so loud in your ears you just about catch the gravelly drawl of jacks praise in your hair.

"That's my girl, yeaaahhh, there we go, makin me proud"

And jack, nothing if not totally content in your pleasure, doesn't stop, not until your squirming anyway. Struggling in his hold, hips writhing from the sensitivity, his fingers making sure to draw out the final sparks of heaven from your cunt before he snakes them free from you entirely.

Sticky, soaked and covered in the creamy mess of your release as they slide out of your panties and waistband up to his mouth.

You more so feel the guteral grumble at the taste, what with the way sleep finally seems to flood your system, fuzzy little head just about coherent enough to catch his final hum.

"sweet dreams, sleepy girl"

[pellucid-constellations]

Staying Overtime

Pairing: Jack Abbot x Psych Resident!Reader

Summary: You and Jack had been dancing around each other for months, playing a game that neither of you would label. But then you took that leap, pushed the boundaries, and Jack had to confront just how much he cared about you. He just wished it hadn't been like this.

Word count: 4.7k

Warnings: Injury, blood, workplace violence in a psych setting, angst!, yearning tho and hurt/comfort hehe <3

a/n: My first fic for the pitt!! Branching out to new fandoms can be scary so hiii :) idk what I'm doing but I hope you enjoy! More to come probably :) Maybe a part two but also idk love you

~~

It wasn’t unusual for you to stay overtime, even in the absence of work. You enjoyed the view out the window of the sun setting over Pittsburgh, the way the sidewalks filled and then depleted as everyone made their way home, and you stayed put. There was a gentle hum in your office that could only be heard at this time, a placeholder for the constant conversations and voices and requests that typically filled the space. It was tranquil, a time to ground when your day was filled with emotional weight. 

And, perhaps you also enjoyed the tiny bleep of your pager sounding off just around 7 pm. Your coworkers hated that sound. It meant you had to head down to the ED to take a history on a patient you had just met and make decisions under duress. It meant probably being screamed at, glared at, maybe even hissed at, on a few occasions, but such was the job description. You all knew what you were getting into when you took this psych residency, ED consults and all. 

To be fair, you didn’t really enjoy the pager yourself, especially when you had a mountain of notes to complete and not enough time in the day. But when it went off around 7, around shift change downstairs, the sound elicited something strange within you. Something exciting. 

You fixed your hair in a passing window as you made your way to the elevators, praying that the silent halls meant every office was empty. The last thing you needed was your coworkers becoming more suspicious; they had begun to question your eagerness to take afternoon psych consults and asked one too many times about your obsessive use of lip gloss. 

The ride down to the pitt had you bouncing on your toes, the uncomfortable shoes the hospital required you to wear making your heels throb. Damn the Joint Commission and its penchant for business casual. But, at the same time, the pretty blouse you had chosen this morning was perfect for your not-so-impromptu consult. 

Pros and cons, then. 

The ED was buzzing with handover reports, hallway beds, and nurses zipping across rooms, as it always was. You took in a deep breath and entered the madness, not yet seeing the target of your visit, but comfortable enough to linger by the nurse’s hub. You were down there often. People knew your face. 

That fact was evident in the subtle brow raise Princess sent you when you leaned against the counter, her face in a humorous grimace as she typed away on a charting computer. “I wasn’t aware we had a psych case.” 

“Hi, Princess,” you drawled out, tapping your fingers on a near-empty tissue box. “Nice to see you, too.” 

She threw you a look. “I see you almost every day. You don’t get pleasantries anymore.” 

“What do I get then?” you teased. 

She pretended to think, tapping quickly to lock her computer and whisking a discharge summary from the printer. You looked at her expectantly, but a smirk had taken over her face, and she spun on her heel after a glance over your shoulder. 

“I swear you’re getting faster.” 

You felt the breath punch from your lungs at the sound of Jack Abbot’s voice, quickly reigning in your smile as you turned and leaned your back against the nurse’s station. He was there in all his glory, arms stretching long beneath his scrubs and crossed over his chest, hair just a touch out of place. His mouth was already quirked into a half-smile, but when you met his eye, you were almost sure it grew just a little bit wider. 

You didn’t give him the satisfaction of a smile. Not yet. “Well, I have to be fast. I was supposed to go home an hour ago, but I keep getting paged right when I’m finally about to leave. It’s the strangest thing.” 

“That right?” he posed, his eyes drifting down your body and back up. It really was a pretty blouse. 

“You should know,” you accused. “You’re the one who always seems to have a psych consult as soon as you walk in the door. Have you even finished your handoff from Robby?” 

“I don’t think they pay you to ask all these questions, sweetheart.” 

“I get paid to ask questions all day. That’s, like, the whole job.” 

Jack huffed out a laugh, shaking his head in place of a response. He stepped forward until you could smell the soap lingering on his skin and reached over your shoulder, his nose edging just a little bit closer to your temple. You tried to ignore it, but he was chipping away at making you smile. Proximity was always an easy one. He was going for the low blows, then. 

“Dropped this,” he said as he pulled back, waving your badge between you. “Still haven’t fixed the reel?” 

You stared at the shining plastic between his fingers, over-correcting and grasping his full hand in yours as you took it back. “I don’t want to fix it. The entire thing is broken, and I don’t want to get a new one. I like this one.” 

Jack tugged it loose from your grip and examined the badge holder. He let the rhinestones shimmer against the hospital lighting and hadn’t dropped his smile as he threw you a disbelieving look. “Mental health is your jam?” 

You snatched it back. “Yes! It’s cute. I’ve had it since med school.” 

“There’s a little jam jar on it. And glitter.” 

“Exactly. It completes all of my outfits.” 

Jack was shaking his head again, still close enough for you to feel the heat of his body. He did that often—got close enough to leave you flustered and flirted relentlessly until he decided it was enough. You never wanted it to be enough, but you were still at work. Technically. 

“Are you going to tell me what you called me down here for, or was the page just to make fun of me?” you asked, chin turned up to look at the attending. 

“Never making fun of you,” Jack rumbled from deep in his chest. He took a step back, watching the way your gaze finally lowered with the distance. “Got an early 20s male with new onset psychosis. Family history of bipolar disorder. Mom’s on meds for it. He’s been pretty disoriented and doesn’t trust any of the doctors.” 

You eyed him skeptically. “Your shift doesn’t start for another 30 minutes, Dr. Abbot. How do you already know all of that?” 

“He asks about the psych cases first,” a voice spoke up from behind you. You glanced over your shoulder to find Robby setting up a home on the charting computer, glasses low on his nose. He gave you a fleeting smile. “Real interested in psych cases, that guy.” 

You let your head fall back in a laugh, missing the way Jack tracked the sound. “What a coincidence, then, that I keep having to stay late.” You patted Jack’s chest on the way to the observation room. “I think I win this one, Dr. Abbot.” 

He craned his neck to the side and quickly trailed after you. Sometimes, your meetings in the ED were shorter, more fleeting. He would page you down, and you would catch a glimpse of him just long enough for him to report to you, stare at every inch of your face, and then get whisked away by a resident or a patient or a trauma. The consults were never urgent enough for you to really be needed—you had an on-call attending for a reason—but you figured the 10 seconds he took to stare at you and smile meant something, so you didn’t mind the extra work. 

Other times, like today, you had more leeway to enjoy each other. To play the game. Sometimes he won, and sometimes you won. It boiled down to a game of flirting and never quite saying the words out loud, but he liked it that way, and you weren’t going to push. You were just going to win. 

“Win?” Jack parroted. “What are you winning?” 

“Oh, you know,” you hummed, logging into the computer outside the observation room and skimming the patient’s chart. “The knowledge that I’ve bested you today.” 

Jack crossed his arms again. You were sure there were several things he needed to be doing at the start of his shift that did not involve talking to you, but there he was, anyway. “You haven’t bested me.” 

“Haven’t I?” 

“No,” he scoffed. “You were blushy and giggly over there. I saw it.” 

You raised your brows over the computer. “So you admit that’s your goal? That this psych case could have waited?” 

A smirk accompanied Jack’s next scoff. He looked at you for another long moment, the same way he did when he didn’t have the time, when he was busy and overworked and still called you down in the hopes you hadn’t left yet. You looked back at the chart. Jack spoke. 

“You don’t know what you’re doing, sweetheart.” 

Another flash of your eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“Means I’m old. Got a lot that comes with me. You don’t want all of that.” 

“I think I’m quite aware of the things I want—” 

“I’m serious.” 

His low tone had you locking the computer, finally taking him in the way he did to you. His brows were low over his eyes, and while he was still staring at you intently, something had shifted. Your arms fell to your sides. 

“Jack—”

“I don’t—” he began, hands on his hips as he stared up at the ceiling for a beat. “—I don’t think this is like that for me anymore, the winning and losing. But I don’t think that’s fair to you either, really. Maybe—I don’t know, maybe I’m not making sense.” 

Months of build-up had led to this. Months of dancing around each other. Both your departments knew something was going on, but neither of you had had it in you to label it. To speak it out loud. The current conversation was the closest you’d gotten. 

Stepping around the rolling table, you stared back up at Jack, resolute. “After this consult, I’m going to walk to my car. Outside of the hospital. I think you should ask me on a date.” 

“What—” 

“Don’t ask me in here. We’re always in here. Do you know which car is mine?” 

Jack furrowed his brows. “Yeah.” 

“Right,” you nodded. “So, I’ll wait there then.” 

A long pause. Jack didn’t look away. Not until you were walking into the observation room and leaving him alone in the hall. 

~~

You were distracted. You shouldn’t be, but you were. You asked all the questions, assessed what needed to be assessed, and reassured the patient several times that you were not part of the group out to get him. Working with psychosis took a lot of patience, a lot of carefully placed words when interventions were new. You knew this, and still, you were distracted. 

You were not supposed to be distracted. 

Things with Jack were never difficult. He called you, he flirted, he watched you until you sent a wave over your shoulder and went home for the night. You liked the way he made you feel. You liked how he looked at you. 

Today, he made things… difficult. Or maybe you made them difficult by framing this as a game. It had never been a game to you, but the undertones of playfulness acted as a shield, and both of you had decided to throw the shields to the ground. 

I’m old. Got a lot that comes with me.

You knew he was older. You knew he had hang-ups. God, you were working in the mental health field; did he forget that? You tapped your fingers against the keyboard and considered that you had just made a fool of yourself. Asking him to ask you on a date—who does that? Idiots. Idiots do that. 

With your years of training and several more years of spouting knowledge, you recognised the spiral immediately. You were spiralling. You were not in the setting to have a spiral. You shook your head at yourself and cataloged every CBT skill in the book to set your thoughts straight. 

This was fine. 

What was the worst thing that could happen, and then how much would that actually suck? How could you recoup? 

“Mr. Nelson, I’m going to step out now, okay? Remember, there are going to be a few nurses in and out of this room just to check on your physical health, but in the morning, I’m going to come by and move you to another room upstairs,” you calmly explained, tucking your hands behind your back. 

Mr. Nelson’s eyes were blown wide as he nodded back. “Who’s upstairs?” 

“A few people like me who can help. I know this is all very stressful and confusing, but this is the right place for you. You are safe here, and you’ll be safe there.”

“Safe from them?” 

You nodded softly. “A safe place for us to help you.” 

Mr. Nelson nodded back, jerkily, and you offered him a gentle smile before heading out. The walls outside the observation room were much brighter, busier, and distracting. You let out a long breath and steeled your shoulders back, still determined despite every thought making you second-guess. 

If he didn’t show up—if he didn’t ask—that would be okay. You worked upstairs, anyway. He would probably stop paging you so much, and the distance would be good. It would set boundaries, and even though you didn’t want those boundaries, they would make sense. 

You were good at this. Reframe, set boundaries, redirect. Box breaths, progressive-muscle relaxation, mindfulness. Right. You were good at this. 

Your fingers curled into your palms as you paused outside of the room, unwilling to face the entirety of the pitt just yet. He could catch you before you walked out, convince you that this wasn’t a good idea. Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe you’d never know if you didn’t try. 

Tension began to seep from your shoulders as you replayed that last thought. You wouldn’t know unless you tried. You wouldn’t know anything past Jack’s lingering touches, or his playful quips, or the way his smile looked, but only under hospital lighting. You liked the way things were now, but there were so many other possibilities, so much more that could be waiting just past the window of tolerance. 

That window would be passed as soon as you got to your car and waited. 

Only, you weren’t moving towards your car anymore. You had told your body to move, to take a step, but suddenly, pain erupted along your scalp, striking and hot, and you were yanked back instead of moving forward. Tears spring to your eyes instantly, blurring your view of the man who shoved you against the wall. 

“You are a liar,” he seethed, face close to yours. “You’re with them. It says it on here.” 

Your badge was shoved into your face then, the sparkles flashing against the light and making you blink. It was how he got out of the observation room. It must have fallen off in the doorway. 

“Mr. Nelson,” you choked out, your arms in an abrasive hold, your mind going into overdrive because you were pretty sure you were trained for this. You could remember a training on non-violent crisis intervention. “Let me speak to you about this. Please, just take your hands off of me, and we can talk.” 

Your head was throbbing, the feeling becoming duller as his fingers created divots in your biceps instead. No one was looking yet. Too many people were in patient rooms receiving reports for shift change. 

“I don’t want to talk to you,” he spat out. “You didn’t mean what you said. You don’t want to help me. You want to get inside, like they do.” 

Low and slow. Don’t be combative. Don’t try to explain yourself. “I know you’re very upset about feeling watched, and I don’t want to make that worse, Mr. Nelson. From what you’ve told me, it sounds—” 

“No!” he screamed. You could hear shoes squeaking against the sanitized floor then. But it was too late. He was already upset, and you were alone. “You don’t know anything!” 

“Hey!” It was Robby who called out first, a rushed sort of sound that startled your patient. Mr. Nelson’s eyes flashed, and he slammed your head against the wall once, and then twice, before he was ripped away from you. The room was buzzing, and something tasted bitter in the back of your mouth. 

“Don’t—don’t hurt him,” you stumbled out, fingers coming up to rest against your temple. The air felt heavy. “A-ativan. Push Ativan and soft restraints.” 

You weren’t sure if your orders were actually coming out of your mouth in clear sentences or if they jumbled together to match the state of your brain. Adrenaline mixed with sharp, intruding pain, and you heard a commotion that you couldn’t quite focus on. Your eyes were still blurred with tears, and your head felt both light and too heavy at the same time. That probably wasn’t good. You had the fleeting thought that you should go to your car before you left Jack waiting too long. 

“What the hell?” a familiar voice echoed. Jack’s voice. Jack was here. “Hey. Hey, what happened?” 

Your face was taken into sturdy hands, and you blinked to orient yourself to the new feeling. Jack had touched your face before—moved a stray hair away, tapped your chin, brushed an eyelash from your cheek that wasn’t actually there. But he was holding you, then, scanning your face with a precision he didn’t usually harbor when he looked at you. 

“Jack?” you mumbled out. 

“Yeah. Yeah, sweetheart, it’s me. What—what happened? You alright?” 

“Patient was confused. Scared. He didn’t mean to. He needs restraints, or he might—maybe hurt himself.” 

Jack’s face screwed up into displeasure, and he tilted your head back slightly to take you in. “You. Are you alright? Patient’s got a team of doctors in there right now, but you don’t. You were the one attacked.” 

“‘Wasn’t attacked,” you slurred back. “He was—” 

“Scared. Got that part. Think you can walk to a bed for me? Let me check you out?”

You tried to shake your head, but Jack had you firm in his grip. “‘M just shaken up. I’m alright.” 

“You’re slurring your words. I’d like to be sure, okay? Can you do that for me?”  

The sigh you let out was half-hearted and tired and still a bit wobbly from the adrenaline, but you couldn’t say no to Jack. Not when he was looking at you with so much concern and holding you the way he was. When you finally gave him some semblance of a nod, Jack pulled his hands away to guide you by your elbow. He stopped halfway. You both stopped, staring down at the shining red coating on his fingers. 

“Is that mine?” you shakily asked. It seemed like a lot of blood. The dripping sensation on your neck made you think it was a lot. 

Something flashed across Jack’s face, but he quickly stashed that reaction away and replaced it with calm. With measured responses. He was a doctor, and you were bleeding. You were sure that was normal for him. A common occurrence. 

“It is, but, hey—” he moved again at the sound you let out, hands on your waist as your knees began to shake. “—I’m gonna fix it, alright? Easy fix. Just need to take a look and—someone get me a chair! I need a stat CT!” 

 “I think I’m going to throw up.” The words tumbled from your lips before you had even thought them. “I’m—Jack, I’m going to throw up.” 

You clutched at his arms as you felt the overwhelming wave of nausea push past the pain and confusion. There was a bag shoved in front of you, several hands entering your line of sight and alerting you to the fact that it actually hadn’t just been Jack assessing you. Someone pressed you into a seat, and you felt deft fingers bringing your hair back as the nausea won out. 

“That’s okay. Breathe through your nose,” Jack hushed, his thumb rubbing against your temple. “I’ll fix it.” 

You groaned when the lurch of your stomach finally subsided, grimacing as someone—you thought maybe Jesse—whisked the bag away and replaced it with a new one. You scrunched your eyes open to the abrasive lights of the ED and found Jack still kneeling before you, his expression pinched, assessing. His jaw twitched in small bursts. 

“I’m sorry,” you groaned out, feeling equal parts mortified and disoriented. “That was gross.” 

“Hey,” Jack hushed again, tilting his head up to show his seriousness. “No apologizing. We’re gonna move you now. Probably gonna get dizzy.” 

He gave you one last squeeze of your shoulder that caused you to hiss in pain, eliciting another flinch from the attending’s face. He shook his head slightly and rose with a grunt, but he didn’t pause. His leg was probably bothering him after the position he held, but he didn’t pause. 

You did get dizzy when you moved, and you got more confused when light was shone into your eyes, and then you got overly sleepy when something was pushed into an IV, and Jack was urging someone, again, about CT. The buzz around the room had started to quiet after his last press, and you blinked against the spinning in your head. Your legs hung off the side of the bed, unwilling to lie down and look ridiculous even with several nurses encouraging you to do so, and Jack was soon between them, kneeling again. 

“Can you tell me where you are?” he quietly asked. 

You felt yourself smile weakly despite the situation. “That’s the third time you’ve asked me that.” 

Jack placed a hand on your knee. “Just answer.” 

“Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center.” 

“And the year?” 

“Jack—” 

“Just one more time. You're next up for CT.” 

You sighed and relayed the year, and then your full name, and then the president. Jack’s fingers were creating unintentional patterns against your knee, and you wanted to find a way to make him look a little less serious. To make him get off his knee, because even though he tried to hide it, you could tell it hurt. 

“So, is my brain going to explode?” 

That gave you a smile. But his brows were still furrowed, and he didn’t get up. “Probably not. As long as your CT comes back clean, we’re not looking at anything life-threatening. You’ll have a pretty nasty concussion, though. Head wounds bleed a lot. It looked scarier than it was. We’ll stitch it up.” 

“So I’m fine,” you concluded, blinking quickly as the room swayed. 

Jack was up on his feet before you could settle. He met your eyes, serious again, and steadied you by your shoulder. “Nasty concussion. Not fine.” 

“But not life-threatening.” 

“I don’t know if I can separate the two. Not with you.” 

The admission gave you pause. You glanced down at your hands on the bed and clutched the starched blanket until your knuckles changed colors. You could hear Jack’s breathing, and it grounded you amidst the painkillers and the airy feeling in your head. 

“Can I look at your arms?” Jack asked, low enough to blend in with the hum of the central heating. 

“What?” 

“You flinched when I grabbed you earlier. Can I look at them?” 

“I think they’re just bruised.” 

“C’mon,” Jack whispered, playfulness seeping back into his tone. “Give an old guy a break. You scared the shit out of me.” His fingers flexed on your shoulders. You saw red still staining the crevices. “Let me just make sure.” 

You relented. You always relented when it came to Jack. With permission, he brushed your shaky hands to the side and began to unbutton your blouse, careful in his movements, slow and purposeful and trying not to scare you. But he never scared you. You weren’t scared. 

“I really liked that top,” you sighed, staring longingly at it as Jack placed the stained satin to the side. 

“It was pretty,” Jack hummed. He leaned down and narrowed his eyes at the already-formed bruises on your arms. His eyes skimmed over the blood that had seeped to the chest of your undershirt and pressed his lips together. 

“I knew you worked today. Maybe I chose to wear it because I knew that.” 

“Maybe if I hadn’t been working, you wouldn’t have gotten hurt.” 

That made you scoff out a laugh, pressure shooting through your head. You winced and went to tap your fingers to your forehead, but Jack’s hands were already there. He was always there. 

“Take it easy, okay? Especially before we can get a good look inside.” 

“Well, maybe if you didn’t say such ridiculous things, I wouldn’t have to risk my brain and laugh.” 

“Wasn’t ridiculous,” Jack murmured, lifting your eyelid again to look at your pupils. He’d done that several times. Nothing had changed. 

“It was. You had nothing to do with what happened. It’s an occupational hazard.” 

“You were supposed to be home already. You stayed.” 

“Jack, enough,” you finalized, pushing his hand away. He compensated by resting against the bed, his hands on either side of your thighs, his weight over you. “I wanted to stay. I’m a big girl who can make her own decisions, and just like I chose this specialty, I chose to stay. So enough with this crap about me not knowing what I’m doing and you not being right. I’m glad I stayed. I’m glad you were here.” 

The air became static, and Jack hung his head between you. You weren’t sure if it was the pain medication lowering your inhibition or the seemingly near-death experience that made you so brazen, but you figured the crack had already been there. It had always been there. There was no going back after today, and you were good at this. You were good at boundaries and reframing and— 

“You scared the shit out of me.” 

Your shoulders fell. “Jack, I know. But—” 

“No. You scared me. Badly. You were out for a couple of minutes. Do you remember that?” When you didn’t respond, he looked up. “Went limp before we got you into a chair. And I know concussions. I’ve treated hundreds. But your blood was on my hands and you were unconscious and I kept thinking about how much of a damn idiot I’ve been.” 

You tilted your head to take him in, and he looked down at the bruises on your arms. 

“Robby’s been on my ass about asking you out. I kept telling him it wasn’t the right time. That it wouldn’t be right for you. And then you show up today and call me out, and I panicked. I was in the breakroom drinking a damn lavender tea to calm down because it’s supposed to be a coping skill or whatever it is my therapist was trying to push.” 

“Lavender can be very soothing—” 

“Not done,” Jack chastised, standing fully. He took your face back into his hands. Your lashes fluttered, but not from the pain or the dizziness or the meds. “This shouldn’t have happened because I should’ve gotten over myself a long time ago and asked you. Shouldn’t have taken this for me to get my act together.” 

“This wasn’t your fault, Jack,” you reminded him. 

He nodded, but you could tell he wasn’t taking the message to heart. “I know.” Another upturn at the side of his mouth. A sweep of his thumb along your cheek. He looked at you, and it felt like it always did. “But I’ll fix it.” 

[buckygasm]

Sometimes Jack hooks a finger in your ass when hes fucking you in doggy just to test your limits a lil bit.

Sometimes the two of you are just straight up vulgar. You're on your hands and knees on the European Oak flooring of his apartment — the flooring you begged him to get installed cus you thought it looked pretty.

He's above you, thighs on either side of yours and a hand holding your head up right beneath the curve of your jaw so that your neck doesnt hurt.

He's so much bigger than you. So domineering and warm and gentle that it makes your head swim with a heavy honeyed feeling.

Sinking his digit to the knuckle past the rim of your hole rips a raw gasp from the back of your throat.

Jack's there immediately. Burrowing his nose in the back of your hair, holding you at your jaw securely.

"Y'okay?" His voice is soft, pressing a kiss to the back of your head.

Jack gives you a moment to breathe, the pad of his thumb stroking the skin of your neck softly.

"Okay, okay. Slow– slow down, please— just need a sec," you scramble, panting and readjusting your knees on the pillow Jack placed on the floor for you, a soft and weak laugh falls past your lips as you rock from side to side, growing familiar with the weight of his cock paired with the stretch of his finger knuckle deep in your asshole.

"Alright," Jack hums voice dry and careful, pressing another kiss to the back of your head, circling his digit upwards and curling it back towards him, "M'stoppin, m'stoppin."

With a shuttered moan, you drop your head between your shoulders with Jack's hand still wrapped around your neck follows and he places a kiss to the middle of your shoulders, running his tongue over your skin.

Jack pulls back a little and ruts his hips into yours, cock slipping against your walls and fat tip grazing the spongey part of your heat when he angles his hips upwards.

"Oh," you shiver, rocking forward with every thrust, "deeper, please. Need you deeper."

Jack hums from behind you, leaning down and placing his thick chest plush to the clammy skin of your spine.

"Take a deep breath for me," he pulls some of your hair that sticks your temple back behind your ear.

You do as he says, breath shuttering through your lungs and teeth chattering when you feel him sink to the hilt with a hearty groan.

Jack pulls his finger from your puckered hole to place his hand beside yours on the floor. You cover his thumb with your palm, dropping your head to lean against his forearm, grounding you.

"Want y'to fuck my ass," you mumble, biting at the freckled skin of the inside of his elbow. You're a little annoyed at how long its taking to work you up to actually being able to take his fingers — let alone his cock. Your impatience isn't lost on him.

"Daddy'll get you there," Jack presses his stubbly cheek against yours, rolling his hips into yours, he pecks your cheek and you turn your head, meeting his lips in a wet and messy kiss.

"Wanna be good fr'you," your voice is small.

Jack nods, "you're bein' good." He reminds you, eyes softening when he sees yours well up, "you're always my good girl."

[buckygasm]

Hnnnggghhh im thinking about Jack talking you through it when Robby's balls deep in your pussy

Cw: older!Jack & older!Robby, younger!reader (20s to 30s), kissing, fluff, praise, subspace kinda mentioned, r kinda gets there but Jack pulls her back, no use of y/n!, petnames, creampieee, Jack talks R through it because hes Dada man, sir and daddy kinks so sorry also not, check ins, the L word..., lowkey these characters all have history but I dont feel like expanding

⋆｡˚☤🩺✧˖°.

Between the girth of Robby's cock splitting you open, two large hands wrapped around the plush of your spread thighs, and Jack's gruff voice, soft and gentle, whispered against your temple, you feel like you're about to float away.

"Y'r doin' so good," Jack's lips press against your skin, one of his hands holds the inside of your knee, spreading you open.

Robby groans from above you, circling the pad of his thumb over your clit in tandem with each stroke of his cock.

You can feel the veiny girth of him pressing against your velvet walls — heavy and warm, stretching you deliciously wide. You've cum three times already and you're not quite sure you can handle another orgasm right now.

"Robby–" you gasp, eyes blown wide and lips parted, you can hardly breathe, "Robby, Robby, Robby, oh my god—" your voice trails into a wet choke as you try to soothe yourself through the wave of your next orgasm.

Robby nods from above you, smiling smugly at you when Jack presses a kiss to the side of your head and gathers your hair in a fist, pulling it off the nape of your neck.

Cool air hits your spine, sending shivers down your arms and thighs. There's too much happening and at the same time, it feels as though nothing much at all is. There's too much to focus on and you just cant quite seem to get a grip on where you are. You've been quite literally fucked dumb.

With lidded eyes, you fall lax in Jack's hold, spine colliding rather uncoordinated against Jack's knees, earning a hiss from both men.

Robby tries to grab you halfway down. Dropping his hold on your thigh to slip behind your head.

"Easy, kid... Christ."

Jack manages to manuever you to settle between where he rests on his haunches, your back pressed into his chest. A freckled hand cups your jaw, holding you upright, the other laces with your hand on atop the comforter.

Your'e so fucking out of it. All you can really focus on – or see, for that matter – is Robby pumping into you. You struggle to grasp onto to cloudy images of Robby's cock, the weight of his hand on your hip, Jack behind you. You feel like you're underwater.

Jack holds the back of your head, "look at that," he practically goads at the way your cunt swallows the length of Robby's cock, "prettiest thing I've ever seen."

Robby hums something in agreement that you don't quite catch.

You mumble something that sounds like a word but you're not quite sure. You're not even sure what you need, or if you said anything at all.

But in the midst of your foggy headspace, Jack notices.

Because of course Jack does. He's your lighthouse when your rafts lost at sea — when you find yourself farther from shore than you thought you were.

Its a gentle squeeze at the base of your neck, thumb and forefinger pressing against your pulse point just enough to kinda wake you up in the heavy fog of your head.

You jolt a little, slipping further into Jack's chest, tucking yourself into him in an attempt to hide yourself away for a moment.

Robby slows, gradually pumping into you but giving you a moment of reprieve while you tremble in Jack's lap.

"Jackie," you sniffle.

Jack pulls back some to look at you. "Y'okay, sweetheart?"

You fluster, whimpering under his gaze and shutting your eyes and tucking yourself further into his chest.

His brows furrow at that and he urges you upwards, detangling you from the warmth of him, "No hiding right now, c'mon."

Robby smoothes his palms up and down the length of your thighs, pressing whiskered kisses to the skin of your hips.

Jack cups your jaw in one hand, the other holding the back of your head. You both watch eachother for a moment.

"Y'okay?"

You nod, you can tell he seems unconvinced.

"Use your words."

Jack's voice deepens in that oh-so gooey heavy way that makes your head feels like its been covered in honey.

You nod again, wrapping a small hand around Jack's wrist, thumbing the vein right beneath his palm, dragging his hand up to slip his thumb past your lips, "m'okay, daddy," you mumble around his digit.

That word shifts the tone of the room and suddenly Jack is everywhere he wasn't and Robby's cock pulses within you.

"Yeah?" He slips the hand from your head down between your legs to spread your folds open where Robby's girth stretches you wide, thumb circling over your swollen clit, "just needed daddy here, huh."

He watches the way tears well at your lashline as you nod, pulling your bottom lip between your teeth, looking up at him under your wet lashes, "mhm," your voice is strained and wrought.

Jack presses kisses to your cheek up your temple, whispering "daddy's here," he soothes you when you whimper, brain melting away at the warm place that Jack's presence moves you towards, "s'okay, baby, you're okay," words muffle when he turns your jaw, pulling you into a kiss.

Robby pumps into you and you moan into Jack's mouth, holding his wrist where he cups the underside your jaw.

"She okay?" Robby cocks his head, thick brows raising, towards Jack. You can feel him nod against you and you try to hold onto some part of Robby but just end up looking up at him under heavy lashes, lips parted.

Robby seems to understand, "just needed daddy t'calm y'down a bit, huh, honey."

You nod tearfully, "yes sir."

Robby chuckles a little at that, "yes sir," he muses and leans forward with a groan, grabbing ahold of your cheeks, smushing them together so that your lips pucker, catching your swollen lips in a kiss.

His nose bumps against your own and your tongue swipes over the roof of his mouth earning a deep-rooted groan from the older man.

Robby pulls away from you but keeps his hand on your cheeks as he pumps into you. "Give daddy a kiss," he urges you towards Jack.

Jack hums once you've turned back to him, silver eyes watch the way his thumb runs over the plush of your bottom lip, whispering "hey, baby."

"Hi," you whisper back, breath catching in your throat when Robby angles his hips just enough so that the swollen head of his cock bruises against the spongey part of your heat.

You try to look at them both, eyes shifting from either man as you struggle to warn them, the wound string in the heat of you wrought tight, bordering on snapping.

A whimper falls past your lips, settling in your throat when Robby circles your clit and spreads your sopping folds open where his girth parts you.

"Think m'gonna cum again," you sob, eyes settling on Jack when he shushes you softly.

"I know. Just keep breathin' fr'me, sweetheart."

The tears fall faster than you can stop them, brows furrowing and lashes tickling your flushed cheeks when your scrunch your eyes closed, the heavy pleasure sinking you underneath it all.

It feels almost like you're drowning. Your ears ring and there's an uncertain fuzziness that settles in the core of you. Wading out on a raft.

"Thank you sir, thank you, thank you," you ramble through heavy tears and choked sobs that dont seem to stop.

Jack holds you to his chest, his chin atop your head as he strokes a hand down down the middle of your breasts, massaging your sternum softly.

Robby hisses from above you when your walls clamp down around him. He circles your clit as he gently rocks you through it, balls pressed up against your folds when he spills into you, "fucking good girl."

You're shivering in the warmth of Jack's arms, trembling as you grasp on to him.

"That was a big one, huh," Jack hums when he feels you begin to relax, legs no longer tense and your grip on him turns soft.

You nod against him, eyes heavy. You swallow dryly, coughing a little when the back of your throat

"Was a lot," you mumble through a wet giggle.

Jack hums and strokes a hand over your warm cheek, pulling back strands of hair that stick to your clammy temple, "and y'did so good," he coos, pressing a kiss to your temple.

Peering over at Robby, he smiles down at you, slowly and gently pulling out of you. He takes a moment to spread the swollen lips of your pussy open, watching the way his cum dribbles out of your swollen cunt.

"Good girl," he whispers softly, looking back up at you before leaning over you and pressing a kiss to your lips, "so pretty fr'us, honey."

Still breathing heavily, you let yourself settle in their hold of you, sandwiched between the two of them.

"I love you, Robby... love you, Jackie," you nuzzle either of them with each confession, running your hands over any inch of skin you can reach.

Robby kisses your nose, "I know."

Jack whispers it back into your hair and presses a kiss there.

"Sweetest girl I know."

[bounty-jes]

i want you (to need me)

fandom: The Pitt

pairing: Jack Abbot x f!Reader

content: she/her pronouns for reader, pet names (kid, kiddo, sweetheart, sweetie, my girl), dubious medical talk, canon-typical violence, cursing (both Jack and reader), age difference (reader is mid-late 20s, Jack is late 40s/early 50s), domestic abuse, mentions of suicide (jack and reader sorry babe), implied stalking, no use of y/n

18+ MDNI 18+ MDNI 18+ MDNI while this story does not contain explicit sexual content, there are very heavy adult themes. this work is considered mature and i ask that minors do not interact

word count: 11k (this was supposed to be like 3k, man)

summary: You change to the night shift in an attempt to avoid your shitty boyfriend. It doesn't quite go the way you expect.

line dividers from @chrisssiren, mdni banner from @cafekitsune

You recently switched to the night shift. Dana had been hesitant to sign off on the transfer, but you managed to wear her down. You had to. He’d been getting worse lately. 

Your boyfriend loves you, he just gets worried or angry at times. At least, that was what he always told you after leaving bruises across your skin. Aches and sores that were always skillfully hidden beneath long-sleeved undershirts and scrub pants. He loves you. You try to believe the words. It gets harder by the day. 

So, yes, the switch from day to night shifts could be seen as running away. Hiding from the issue at hand. But there isn’t much else you can do. That’s what you tell yourself as you meet Dr. Jack Abbot for the first time. As you try to ignore the way the wrinkles around his eyes make your knees just a little weak. 

(Your boyfriend had never really been your type. Too tall. Too blonde. And maybe a little too young, despite being three years older than you. But chasing after silver foxes had never worked out, so you decided to test your luck on a younger guy. And He loves you. Surely.)

“I’ve heard a lot about you from Robby. He thinks I stole you away.” Dr. Abbot’s voice is warm, almost teasing as he shakes your hand. His hands are rough against your palm and you can’t help laughing softly.

“And I promised him on my last shift that I hadn’t even met you before.” Your smile is real. Soft and bright. It makes your eyes shine under the fluorescent lights that, realistically, aren’t supposed to make anyone look good. The pale lighting sometimes makes injuries worse, shining bright white on blood and any of the multitude of bodily fluids that are so common in the ED.

“I’ll tell him that during handoff.” Dr. Abbot’s laughter tumbles like rocks down a cliff. A gentle rumble in his chest. You try not to think too much about Dr. Abbot’s chest. “So, why did you change to nights? Not many want to work when the sun isn’t even out.”

The question feels like a punch to the chest. Like too-fast compressions that split your sternum in half. You hope you don’t look as haunted as you feel.

(He loves you. He has to.)

“Just looking for a change, I guess.” Shit. Yeah, that was anything but convincing. You can see Dr. Abbot squint at you before quickly clearing his face. He claps his hands once and smiles down at you, not asking. Not pushing. You’re more grateful for that than he knows. 

Jack is absolutely fucked. No way he has a crush on the new nurse. A crush. Like a goddamn teenager. And on a woman half his age. This cannot be happening. 

Yeah, you’re pretty. And, sure, you’re one of the best nurses Jack has ever worked with. Competent. Quick on your feet. You somehow look good in scrubs. Jack thinks that if he’d met you before today, he really would have tried to steal you from Robby.

Shit. No. That is not where this train of thought is supposed to be going. Jack is used to shaking on and off the rails, just not this way. More like his tracks are running on a wide open field than on the edge of a cliff. Fuck, he’s getting poetic now. 

“You good, brother?” Robby’s hand lands on his shoulder, squeezing in a side hug. Suddenly Jack no longer feels like he’s about to explode into a million pieces. He knocks his fist against Robby’s chest.

“Of course.” And it’s not quite a lie. The hand on his shoulder is grounding. Jack thinks he’s pretty damn lucky to have a friend like Robby. Not that he’d ever say that aloud. “Got four big ones in last night. Two moved up to surgery. Two are still in here, just observation.”

Robby nods and they quickly move through the handoff. It’s late. Or—early, actually. Jack just wants to sleep and forget that you exist for a few hours. But there you are. 

Your dark jacket is too big for you, something other doctors have told you off about before. Jack knows that the sleeves could get in the way and that’s why he doesn’t let you wear it during your shift. Not because his eyes flick down to your fingers just barely poking out the end. Your nails are chipped, painted bright colors. He forces his eyes away from you as you walk a few nurses and med students around. 

“How is she doing on nights?” Robby’s question comes from seemingly nowhere and Jack has no idea what the hell he’s talking about. He thinks Robby must have finally cracked. His friend just rolls his eyes. “The nurse you were just staring at? The one you stole from me?”

“I did not steal her. And she told you that, too.” Jack laughs. Not his usual rumble. A thinner sound, higher in his throat. Barely different. Robby catches it. He doesn’t say anything about it. 

“Sure. Get some sleep, Jack. You look like shit.” Robby’s eyes crinkle at the corners as he pats his friend on the back.

Jack just elbows Robby in the ribs, laughing at the pained noise the taller man makes. Ducking out of his grip, Jack waves over his shoulder and calls out a goodbye to Dana. 

You always take the pain meds as per instructions. No more than four doses in a twenty-four hour period. Two tablets every six hours. Exactly what it says on the bottle. Never more and sure as hell not any less. You don’t think you’d be able to function on less. Not with how the bruises across your ribs seem to be yelling at you to stop and just take a fucking second. Except, you don’t have a second. Even in the dead of the night, people are stupid or unlucky. Most times, both. 

But you’re a nurse. You know your body. How far you can push it before you crash. How far you can go before there’s no way back. As great as taking a minute sounds like heaven, you’re a nurse. And these people need your help. 

“Incoming MVC! We’ve got three bodies, six minutes out!” Lena’s voice calls out from the nurse’s station. You sigh, pushing up from the chair you had gotten to sit in for exactly twenty-seven seconds. 

Multi-car pileups aren’t exactly uncommon in the dead of winter. Even in the middle of the night. They’re more annoying than anything else. Stupid people who don’t know how to drive in the snow. People who moved to Pittsburgh without considering the average annual snowfall is almost four fucking feet. But, no. You sigh again, grabbing a trauma gown and a pair of gloves. You look at the clock. Five minutes. Probably closer to four. (Pittsburgh ambulance drivers like to go fast. You’re surprised there hasn’t been a crash yet. Glad, too. Less patients to treat.)

“Ready, kid?” You recognize the hand on your shoulder before his voice. Dr. Abbot stands behind you, glancing up at the board to make sure none of their patients need anything before the ambulance arrives. His hand slides back, tying the trauma gown behind your neck. You’re glad he’s wearing gloves already. His calloused fingertips against your skin would have been difficult to ignore. More so than the nitrile gloves that cover his skin, at least. The warmth is still there. 

“Gotta be, right?” Your grin is sharp, if not a bit wobbly at the corners. You keep your eyes on the ambulance bay, not seeing the way Dr. Abbot’s brow scrunches at your words. He doesn’t have time to ask as paramedics rush through the door.

It’s a long few hours of calling out orders and taking them in equal measure. No time for hesitation or taking a break. Because these three people deserve the best you can give them. 

The cursor blinks in front of you on the screen, taunting you. You don’t even have enough energy to look away, just blinking slowly in time with the little black line on your screen. A headache grows slowly behind your eyes and you rub gently at your temples in an attempt to simply massage the deep ache out. You glance down at the corner of the screen. It’s only 3:49. 

“You okay, kid? You look like you just got hit by a car instead of those guys.” And there he is again, right over your shoulder. You have no idea how he manages to make his steps so quiet. 

The screen in front of you is still blank and you know how this must look. You’ve been staring at the chart for an undetermined amount of time, grumbling and rubbing at your head while not doing your job. Maybe you really do need that break. That’s the moment you realize you still haven’t responded. You glance at the time again. 3:51. Shit. 

“Oh—yeah! I’m good. Just, you know, tired.” You’re glad you sound steadier than you feel. 

Dr. Abbot either doesn’t catch the lie or decides not to question it. His smile is warm as he brings a hand up to pat your back. You can feel the warmth through the layers of your clothes. Dr. Abbot’s hands are different from His. Warm and gentle. Bigger. More careful.

(He loves you He loves you He loves you He—)

“Try to get some rest after shift. Even on the night shift, you gotta sleep sometime.”

You just nod, trying your best not to let a tear fall. You’re hoping He isn’t home when you get there. Your small shared apartment is anything except easy to sneak around in. You just need a nap. An eight-hour nap, but a nap nonetheless. He wasn’t happy when you switched to the night shift. That’s why your ribs hurt. (He was worried. Being out at night is dangerous. He was just worried.) 

Dr. Abbot nods once, squeezing the nape of your neck. It almost scares you, the way such a simple, gentle action can make you melt. Scares you because He has never touched you like that before. “You must really be tired, sweetheart. Go ahead and get yourself a coffee in the break room. The charts will still be here when you get back.” 

“Yeah, sure.” You grumble, pushing yourself off the stool and practically trudging toward the smell of coffee. Cold, stale coffee. Ugh. 

“I’ll make you a fresh pot.” Jack’s voice comes from behind you and you’re so tired that you didn’t even notice him following behind. You ignore how his rumbling laughter makes you want to collapse into the closest surface. You can see the freckles shift with his skin, muscles working as the doctor reaches for the coffee pot. You want to argue, but the couch in the corner looks so comfy and your feet are so sore. The only noise that leaves is a grumbled thank you. That fucking laugh again. 

But the coffee that Dr. Abbot presses into your hands is hot and probably more creamer than actual coffee. Shit, he knows how you like your coffee.

You feel it first in more of the he cares enough to notice way. It warms your cheeks and makes the corners of your mouth tick up. Then, like ice down your spine, it falls apart. How much did he notice? Bruises? Favoring your right side? Maybe the way you flinch when a metal tray that falls, even though trauma alarms barely make you blink? 

The door clicks shut and your eyes shoot up from the steaming drink. Dr. Abbot. He left. But you can still feel the warmth of his thigh against yours. 

Jack knows what chronic pain looks like. Feels like. He sees you take out your bottle of ibuprofen once. He’s been keeping an eye out, just in case. But you never take more than directed. And it’s not every day. Maybe it’s your knees. That was what went first for Jack. (God, he’s so old. He should not look at you the way he does when he isn’t worried about you.)

So Jack watches, but he isn’t overly concerned. You’re a responsible person. If you had a serious injury, you would tell your family doctor. Hey, even doctors have to go to the doctor. So he watches, but he doesn’t ask. He probably doesn’t have a right to, anyway. And then you come into work with a black eye. Jack watches as you wave off the interns’ questions, concern etched on their faces.

“I’m fine, I promise. No concussion or anything. Just a shiner.” Your voice is much too light for the way your right eye squints shut just a bit. Someone punched you. 

Jack has wanted to hurt people before, but he is a doctor. Even in the military, he always healed before he hurt. And right now, he wants to press an ice pack to your face and sit you down on the couch. He wants to tell you that you should have just stayed home. You deserve a break. And then…well, he really wants to punch whoever did that to you in the eye. As glad as he is that your knuckles aren’t bruised, he almost wishes you had already returned the favor. 

“Plannin’ on retiring so soon?” Jack feels Dana as she bumps her shoulder against his. Jack blinks. Dana grins. “I’m pretty sure assault and battery can get your med license revoked, Jackie-boy.” 

He tears his eyes away from you (in that jacket) and looks down at Dana. “Excuse me?”

Her hip brushes against Jack’s closed fist. His shoulders just barely tense as he can feel nails biting into his palm. His own nails. Damn it. Jack sighs, forcing his fingers to relax. He leans onto his leg, toward Dana, with a heavy sigh. He’s already sore. Dana just shoots him a look and speeds off. Jack gleans absolutely nothing from it.

“Dr. Abbot! Hey, I just had a question about the patient in Central 4?” Jack barely keeps himself from jumping at your sudden appearance, still watching Dana across the ED. He looks down at you, grinning.

“Jeez, kid. You snuck up on me.” Jack laughs, reaching out to pat your shoulder lightly. He wonders why he felt that urge to reach out. 

“That bad, huh?” You gesture toward the black eye. Jack tries to keep himself from flinching. It’s still red around the edges, new. Hell, he just saw you twelve hours ago. It’s gotta be pretty fresh. Jack holds himself back from reaching out and touching the skin. 

“What happened?”

“Some guy jumped me on my way home. I got him with pepper spray and called the police, but he got a lucky swing in.” Something grates at Jack when he hears you laugh about the situation. Like it’s a joke. You must see something on his face because you reach out, stopping just before your hand touches his arm. “I already got a CT scan done. I came in early for it. Nothing wrong. I’m cleared to work, I promise.”

Jack can’t help hesitating as he looks at your eye again, but he sighs, acquiescing. “If you say so. I trust you.” 

You smile at him and Jack thinks it might just be completely worth it to worry about you through the shift if he can see that face. 

You got home late that morning. He was just worried. You got in his way and he—it was an accident. Obviously. So you sold the same story to anyone who asked. And you really did get a CT scan done. You knew someone would ask. 

A tiny voice in your head, a new one that sounds suspiciously like Dana, says that they should ask. They have the right. As your coworkers. As your friends. But you couldn’t tell them the truth. They would worry, and you’re fine. He loves you. 

(That same voice tells you that none of the older men you’d chased after had been like this. They were distant and maybe a bit sleazy, but never like Him. You wonder if what you have now is better or worse.)

The entire shift, everyone steers you toward the easy patients. The kid with a sprained wrist or the old lady running a fever. It was sweet. And as much as you wish you could argue I was cleared to work so stop coddling me, the slower pace is much appreciated. A drunk teen who crashed on his skateboard even complimented your bruise (“Fuckin’ sick, dude. Like, so awesome”). You just chuckle and send him off after cleaning up his scrapes.

You let out a breath as you lean back in a chair by the computers. You have charting to do, but you need like five seconds to just sit. You count in your head and suck in air through your teeth. Okay, you can do this. Charting is easy, if not tedious and boring. But medical records save lives. 

“Hey, kiddo. How’re you holding up?” And Dr. Abbot is right there, rubbing hand sanitizer into his hands. You know how gentle those rough hands can be. Shit. Not now. 

“I’m good. Seriously. As much as I do not appreciate being coddled—“ You shoot Dr. Abbot a look that only makes him shrug in faux innocence. The grin he’s sporting doesn’t help, either. You roll your eyes. “I really do appreciate the break.”

“Of course—“

“But you better be treating me like normal tomorrow. I’m not made of glass. I’m not gonna shatter, Doc.” Probably. Most likely. The human body isn’t made to shatter, at least. But you’ve seen enough gruesome bodies roll through the doors to know that it is painstakingly possible. You force a smile as you meet Dr. Abbot’s gaze. His brow is furrowed tight, but he doesn’t say anything. Just nods and turns back toward one of the rooms to check on a patient. 

“I thought you would at least be useful during the day while I’m at work. But here you fucking are. Sleeping on the couch without a goddamn care. Do you know who pays rent here?” His voice seems to pierce your eardrums as you curl into yourself on the couch. The words are like acid on your skin.

Your boyfriend of almost a year (not that he would ever remember your anniversary), Brett Baird. Tall, broad, blonde. Overall, a pretty attractive guy. Your boyfriend, who is just stressed. 

“I’m sorry, baby. I—I was just tired after my shift. I must’ve fallen asleep by accident.” Your voice is quiet, a little shaky. Something that trembles at the edges like your fingers during your first cadaver lab.

“And you think I’m just fucking full of energy? I pay rent because of your student loans. I let you live here so you can save up your money, and this is what I get?” Brett scoffs and you blink away tears that threaten to fall. He always gets worse when you start crying. His next words make something inside of you crack. “I mean, you’re not even a fucking doctor. Just a stupid nurse who sits around looking pretty all day. You think they need you? Don’t get so self-absorbed.”

Your entire life has been defined by people looking down on you. When you moved in with Brett, you thought he would be different. He at least let you save all your money to pay off student loans and never asked for any payment in return. That was your one sliver of hope. The last thread. And now you’re falling. A million images pass through your head and you decide that if this is love, you don’t want it anymore. Bridget and Lena. Princess and Perlah and Jesse and Donnie and Mateo. And Dana. Fucking Dana, who is your friend before being your coworker. Dana, who is always talked down to for being not even a doctor. Something hot runs through your veins. You think it might be adrenaline. 

You barely even get a chance to glare up at Brett before he’s yelling again. “What? You’re gonna fight back? Where are you gonna go? I’m all you’ve got, babe.” For the first time in almost a year, his smile isn’t charming or good-looking. It’s sharp and slimy. Disgusting. 

“Don’t call me that.” You grind out between your teeth, fists clenching at your sides. You hear Brett laugh above you and you push off the couch cushion, finally (finally!) glaring up at him. “I said don’t fucking call me that.”

Lightning fast, Brett’s hand grips your throat. You don’t even have time to flinch before you’re gasping. He isn’t smiling anymore. His face is dark, dripping with something between fury and anticipation. He doesn’t even say anything as he holds you in place by the neck and brings the back of his hand across your face. The burn of humiliation hurts more than the actual slap. You scratch at his arms, drawing thin lines of blood. He curses.

“You fucking bitch! That’s it!” He throws you down. You can feel something tweak in your shoulder as you try to catch yourself. Pain blooms across the muscles there, deep. Probably a sprain or a fracture. Collarbone is most likely, but— “What? Tryin’ to space out or some shit? Nah, you’re gonna feel this.” He lifts you again, by your good shoulder this time. You know from experience that his grip will leave a bruise across your skin. Hell, you’ve probably still got one from the last time he grabbed you. “You’re mine.”

You swing a leg out and kick Brett squarely between the legs. He groans, falling to his knees and moving to grab his balls. You make a run for it, but you’re not quite fast enough. His arm swipes out, grabbing at your ankle. You fall onto the coffee table. The legs buckle and snap under your weight and bottles shatter between your body and the table. You can feel shards of glass across your front as you shake off his grip and run for the door. 

Brett is either slow to get up or doesn’t think you’re worth it, because you make it down the road without catching sight of him behind you. You bang on Ms. Chen’s door frantically. The only person in this entire neighborhood worth a damn. The door swings open and Ms. Chen takes one look at you before practically growling Brett’s name under her breath. She’s quick to grab her keys and usher you to her car.

Even with Ms. Chen blasting her radio, frozen air from the windows rolled down low, and Ms. Chen trying to keep you talking, your eyes slowly flutter shut.

Jack ignores Shen’s occasional glances at him for the past hour since their shift started. He had asked Jack what was wrong. Nothing. Nothing is wrong. Jack is completely fine without you here and not moping at all. He’s actually glad you’re taking a break for once. You’ve earned it. After avoiding yet another one of Shen’s attempts at psychic communication, Jack glances up at the board. Usually, the first hour or so is simply trying to catch up with the waiting room. Which is why his head immediately turns when the ambulance bay doors slide open. 

“My neighbor! She passed out on the way here and she’s bleeding!” Jack doesn’t waste any time following the older woman through the doors, already snapping on a pair of gloves. When he sees the person in the passenger seat, he gapes for half a second. 

Jack has never seen you outside of the hospital. You’re a private person, that’s fine. It just means he’s never seen you without your scrubs and a long-sleeve undershirt. So the bruising littered across your arms, both old and healing, is a shock. He snaps out of it immediately.

“Need a gurney out here! Now!” Jack yells back into the ED. He can hear people moving behind him, but he’s focused on you. Your pulse is good. Your breathing sounds a bit scratchy as he listens to your breaths through his stethoscope. Nothing serious. His eyes catch on the red marks around your neck. The ones that will bruise soon. Somebody grabbed your neck. Somebody tried to fucking choke you. “Shit.” Jack keeps two fingers on your pulse, turning back to the bay doors. He can see a gurney surrounded by nurses and other doctors rushing toward you. 

Jack is gentler than he thinks he has ever been with a patient as he lifts you and places you onto the gurney. “Heart and breathing steady. Multiple lacerations across anterior torso. Looks like shattered glass. Bleeding seems to have slowed, no arteries hit.”

They’ve rolled you into North 7 when your eyes start moving again. Jack’s hand is immediately on you, warm and comforting as you lean into him. Your eyes crack open and you slowly reach up to grab Jack’s hand. “Shoulder. Probably a fracture.” You murmur, voice rough and slow despite the professional manner. Like you’re talking about a patient and not your own body.

“Alright, okay. Thank you. You’re doing great, kid.” Jack’s voice isn’t soft as he speaks to you, but it is kind. You press even further against his hand on your cheek. “Order a CT and an x-ray! And get her on an IV for fluids!” He barks out to the others, never taking his hand off of you. If anyone notices, they don’t say anything. Just follow orders without another word. It’s the first time in years that Jack has felt like he’s back in the Army without feeling like he is simultaneously falling apart.

“Doc—Dr. Abbot—”

“Jack’s fine. I know it hurts. The pain meds are gonna kick in soon. Then we’ll get you all patched up. We’re gonna need to remove your clothes to see the full extent of the injuries. Do you want me to send Ellis in?” Jack can feel his brow pinching as he pulls back. The last thing he wants to do is leave you lying here like this. But you’re a patient right now and if you feel more comfortable with a female doctor then—

“Jack.” Your hand drops onto his and the sound of his voice snaps him out of whatever spiral he had begun to fall into. Your palm is rough against the back of his hand. He thinks that it shouldn’t be. Your hands should be soft to match how gentle he knows they can be. “While I do—” You cough and Jack reaches behind your head with his free hand to readjust the pillows. You swat his hand away. It’s not as strong as it should be. The meds are kicking in. “While I do wish you could’a seen my tits for the first time in a much different setting, I want you here. Will you…”

Humor. Humor is good, Jack tells himself.

You let out a breath as Jack brushes a thumb across your bruised cheekbone. Angry red with a freshly showing bruise. “Anything, sweetheart. Whatever you need.” And he means it. Anything, so long as you keep looking at him.

“My stitches. Would you—I just…I trust you, Jack.”

“Okay.” He practically whispers, running a thumb over your cheekbone one more time before pulling his hand away. One of the nurses already set up a suture kit in the corner, the tray gleaming in the bright hospital lights. He rolls it over, checking the contents of the tray before reaching for the trauma shears. Jack doesn’t even realize he’s whispering to you until you send him a look that he can’t quite read. Something between annoyance and affection? But he can’t help the action. With every gentle tug on your shirt, fabric and dried blood peel off of your skin. He can tell you’re trying to bite back pained noises. He runs a gentle hand down your arm, hopefully soothing. 

The stitches take less time than plucking out glass. Jack ignores the way you snort as he pulls out a pair of glasses to see the cuts better, searching for any leftover shards. Actually, he mostly ignores the pained hiss you let out afterward. Laughing must hurt with those bruised ribs. Bruised everything. Reds and purples and angry yellows bloom across most of the skin that would normally be hidden by your clothing. And on top of it all is the multitude of cuts, mostly across your stomach. Thankfully, the glass seems to have broken into big pieces and none went too deep. 

“We can call plastics if you want, but you might have a few scars for a while.” Jack tries to keep his voice even. He doesn’t want to scare you off. He doesn’t know how you’ll respond to him if he brings up the abuse. Because that is what this has to be. Unless you’re an underground fighter, though that seems unlikely. He’s heard you mention a boyfriend before. Matt, maybe? He didn’t care to know about who you spent your days with. Now it’s all he wants to know. Needs to know where the man who hurt you is. If he’s suffering right now.

“I kicked him in the balls.”

“What?” 

“Brett.” Right, that’s his name. Fucking Brett. He even sounds like a tool. “I kicked him in the balls. He…he’s never gone this far before. I—”

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.” Jack hates the way his voice shakes. Because he desperately needs to know. To know what you went through so he knows how to help you heal. Because, yes, Jack Abbot has a fucking crush on you. He kind of gets why they’re called that. It feels like his heart is being squashed beneath an ambulance right now. Fucking crushed. So he can’t help adding on; “But I’ll listen. If you do…want to.”

He focuses on your stitches after that, carefully tying thread and making sure that each cut is properly cleaned and closed. You don’t say anything. Jack doesn’t push.

It’s a little embarrassing, honestly. As a nurse, you’ve seen hundreds of people come in showing clear signs of abuse. You’ve heard Kiara rant about the signs. And yet—you fell for it. Brett’s stupid smile and the attention he gave you. Even if that attention hurt, at least he wasn’t ignoring you. Dana’s voice plays in your head, repeating the words she has said to her nurses a million times. 

“If he hurts you, fuckin’ leave.”

It just—Brett was kind when you first met. Took you on dates and paid without you having to ask. He held your hand at the movies. But, it slowly fell apart. He went on less and less dates with you, barely even wanted to be seen with you in public. He claimed it was the stress of his job. You had nodded along like a goddamn puppet. When he hit you for the first time, it was an accident. That was what he told you and that was what you believed. You believed it for a long time. 

Everything just feels so obvious now. And a whole lot less painful. You’ve never been on a morphine drip before. It’s great. You tell Jack as much when he returns with Robby for shift change. Damn, you’ve already been here all night?

“I’m sure it is, sweetheart.” Jack laughs, but you can see tension in the way the lines around his eyes aren’t as deep as they usually would be. His smile doesn’t stretch quite as far across his face. His laughter doesn’t rumble. It just floats. Wrong, wrong, wrong. “Try to get some rest, though. Okay?”

“Dr. Robby, Jackie’s being mean.” You whine. You’re high on pain meds at the moment. You try not to feel too embarrassed about it. You’re already embarrassed enough. I mean, how fucking stupid—

“We can’t have that, can we Jackie?” Robby’s voice is teasing, but you don’t catch it. You look past Robby to see Dana talking with Lena. The blonde woman suddenly turns toward your room with wide eyes and stomps away from the central desk. You reach out for her instinctively, reaching past Jack as he mistakenly tries to take your hand. Robby laughs.

“Hey, sweetie. How’re you doin’?” Dana doesn’t even greet either of the doctors. Just pushes past them and grabs your hands, squeezing gently as she settles on the edge of the bed. Her eyes roam over the parts of your skin she can see. One arm in a sling and the bruises radiating down your other. The handprint around your neck. She squeezes your hand a little tighter. Dana’s gaze feels burning against you and she seems to notice, turning to the men still in the room. “Don’t you two have other patients? She’s gonna be fine. Go.”

Robby shoots you one last smile, grabbing onto Jack as he drags his friend out of the room. Dana turns back to you.

“Who did this? I’m gonna fuckin’ kill ‘em, okay? They’ll never hurt you again, I promise.”

And that’s what breaks you. Dana’s hands remind you of your own mother’s, soft and warm as they wrap around you. You fall into the embrace, ignoring the way it makes your entire body hurt. It’s worth it, and Dana’s gentle touch more than cancels it out. Tears fall as you try to keep your breaths steady. Your throat still hurts. Dana’s hand slides up and down your back, a practiced motion that only a mother can do.

“I’m so stupid, Dana. How could I not see it? He never—I thought maybe he loved me, but—” A sob racks across your entire body. The movement hurts, but the release feels even better than morphine. “I couldn’t see it. He—god, how could I not see it?

Dana doesn’t shush you. She doesn’t interrupt or whisper reassurances in your ear like Jack had. (Jack, not Dr. Abbot. Jack.) She simply holds you, her hand never stopping that same motion. Lena finally calls out for Dana from the nurses’ station. She pulls back, looking you over one more time. 

“It’s not your fault. It was never your fault. I promise. You did nothing wrong.” You nod once, more to satiate Dana than anything else. If she notices, she doesn’t say anything. Just rubs gently down your back one more time before pushing off the bed. “If you need me, call. You know where I’ll be.” Her voice is teasing, but there’s an edge that lets you know she’s serious. You nod again, meaning it this time. “Oh, and I’m sending in the interns. They’ve been worried sick since you came in with that eye.”

You groan, but don’t bother fighting it. They’ll find their way to your room if Dana tells them or not. 

“—You can stay with me and Huckleberry.” Is the first thing Jack hears as he heads toward North 7. He hasn’t even dropped his bag yet. Barely got any sleep after Robby dragged him out of the hospital and all but ordered Jack to go home. He trusts Robby with his own life, but leaving you there on that bed? One of the hardest things Jack has ever had to do. 

(Top of the list would be walking away from the literal ledge the moment he learned half his leg was gone. Second would be walking away from his wife’s grave. You should be proud. You made it into the top three. Jack thinks maybe he just has an issue with walking away from anything.)

“Is there a party happening? Why wasn’t I invited?” He says, stepping into the room. You smile at him, looking more grounded than before. They must have taken you off the morphine. That means you’re going to be discharged soon. Santos and Whitaker sit in plastic chairs next to your bed, seemingly not a worry in the world about the ED outside your room. They stiffen at the sight of Jack. “Such a slow day that two of our own doctors can be sitting around with a single patient?” They stand quickly, scrambling out around Jack. 

“The offer still stands!” Santos calls out before disappearing into the chaos with Whitaker. Jack sees you shake your head and wave with your good arm.

“Did you have to scare them off like that? They’re gonna be on night shift at some point during their rotation, you know?” You raise a single brow as you shift your gaze from the interns’ retreating backs to meet Jack’s eyes. Jack just laughs as he sits in the chair Santos had just vacated. The sound rumbles in his chest. He doesn’t miss the way your mouth ticks up at the corners. 

“What were you guys talking about?” He asks instead of responding to you. You huff, making a motion like you want to cross your arms. You don’t make it very far before relaxing against the bed again. The sling around your arm rustles with the movement. His bag falls gently to the ground as he glances at your vitals on the screen. Jack just can’t help it. He needs to know you’re still okay. 

“Oh! I, uh, live with—or, I did live with Brett. And I don’t exactly want to go back—”

“Hey, you’re okay now. I promise.” Jack doesn’t have to look back at the screen to know your breathing and heart rate have both picked up. He can hear it just fine. So he reaches out, gently rubbing a hand over your chest. He can hear your bpm slow and he smiles. “There’s my girl. You’re okay.”

Your hand grips onto Jack’s on your chest and he just smiles, letting you. It’s a single moment of quiet that Jack rarely finds within the usual chaos of the ED. He wants to sit in it forever. Just the two of you, hands intertwined. But you sigh, low and a little rough, snapping Jack out of whatever reverie he was trapped in. 

“I talked to the police today. Robbie stayed with me the whole time.” Jack’s hand grips yours tighter as he takes a breath. You squeeze back and send him a tight smile. More of an attempt at reassurance than anything real. “They…I told them everything. Brett is going to jail. The cops said he’ll probably get at least a few years? But, um, strangulation can get charged with up to ten years? I don’t know, I just…never want to see him again.”

“Courts will probably let you file for a restraining order.” He really hates how tight his voice sounds. Jack is supposed to be calm under pressure. He’s supposed to be the rock that you can hang on to. Refuge from the raging tide around you. But he feels more like a storm right now, barely containing the crashing waves inside. He takes another slow breath in. The smell of antiseptic fills his lungs. He breathes out. “If you need a place to stay, I’ve got a guest bedroom I’m not using.”

“Wow, I guess doctors do make a shit ton of money.” You laugh, and you don’t cough this time. Jack will take that as a win. He watches as you look him over once and he can’t help shifting in the uncomfortable plastic chair. “Your apartment really has an extra room? That you just…don’t use?”

“House.” Jack says before he can stop himself. His hands feel awkward in his lap and Jack thinks he might understand why Robby is always grabbing at the back of his neck or his jaw. He clears his throat. “It’s not an apartment. I’ve got a house. Paid off the mortgage and everything. I, uh, think my guest room might be more comfortable than Santos’ pullout.”

“Oh, I—“ You start to shake your head and Jack just squeezes your hand again. There’s a knock at the door. Jack looks up to see Robby, nodding toward the nurses’ station.

“Just think about it. What did Santos say? The offer still stands.” He can’t help smiling as you chuckle at his words. Jack pushes up from the chair and releases your hand, laying it gently at your side. “Looks like Robby’s ready to escape, so I gotta go. I’ll check in later, okay?”

You shake your head, but he ignores the motion, smiling and turning toward the door. It clicks shut behind him as he follows Robby toward the nurses’ station. 

“Hey, Jackie.” Dana laughs at Robby’s teasing from where she’s leaned against the counter next to him. She’s already wrapped in a thick coat, scarf around her neck. Jack hates how she still manages to look scary like that. Then he swipes a hand out to swat at Robby’s ribs. His friend just chuckles. “Brother, you’re so far gone. You know that, right?”

Jack sighs, glancing back at the room you’re in. Santos and Whitaker are back inside, this time wearing coats and bags slung over their shoulders. They’re clocked out, so Jack can’t exactly nag them about getting back to work now. He turns back to Robby and shakes his head. “I know. Not like I can do anything about it, though. She just escaped that…” He can’t even bring himself to say it. Doesn’t think he would be able to quell the crashing waves inside him if he said it aloud.

“Give her time, Jack. I’m sure it’ll all work out.” Dana’s voice is like sunlight parting the cloudy skies of Jack’s mind. It’s annoying how well her and Robby know him. “Now get your shit together, Doc. You’ve got rounds with Robby.”

Her hand lands on his shoulder, soft gloves warm through his scrubs. Jack nods, feeling a bit too much like a kid who just got lectured.

“I’m sorry, Dr. Abbot did what?”

“He offered to let me stay in his guest room. What am I supposed to do?”

“Take him up on it, obviously! Look, man. I love you, but my apartment is already crowded with me and Huckleberry—”

“Hey!”

“So just say yes and live in luxury with Doc Abbot for a bit.”

“...Fine.”

You swat Jack’s hand away as he tries to grab your bag, slinging the tattered backpack over one shoulder. “I’m fine, Jack. You have work tonight. Rest your leg, idiot.”

Jack sighs and you laugh at the dejected look on his face. He opens his mouth to say something and you hold up a hand to stop him. Yes, you still have stitches across your stomach and parts of your chest. Yes, you’re still healing. But your bag is pretty much empty and you’re not made of glass. You can do this much. Need to, actually, to feel like a human being again. Something about being the one in the hospital bed…you never want to do that again. You can hear Jack huff, but he doesn’t argue. Just pulls out his keys to unlock the front door of his house. 

It’s a nondescript brownstone, tall and thin. Only a ten minute drive from the hospital, even in the worst of traffic. You count five steps to the front door and wonder why Jack didn’t find a place without. You can see the way he favors his good leg as he grips the railing and you stay two steps behind him, just in case. 

“If you’re insisting on carrying that bag, you don’t get to baby me because of an injury I got over ten years ago, kid.” Jack says, not unkindly, as he slots the key into his front door. He doesn’t even glance back at you. You can feel your cheeks heat, warmth spreading from the end of your nose to the tips of your ears. But you don’t move from your place behind him. He’s right. He usually is. It’s very annoying. 

“When are you gonna stop calling me ‘kid’?” You follow closely as Jack pushes the door open and steps inside. The first level is nice. Bare and a bit cold, but nice. It looks more like a show house than somewhere with an actual resident calling it home. You don’t comment. Just watch as Jack drops his keys into a tray by the door and lets you push the door closed. 

“When you’re not two decades younger than me.” His smile is soft and easy. It feels almost like you’re seeing something you shouldn’t, something personal and private. But, you suppose, if the two of you are going to be living together for any amount of time, privacy isn’t quite an option anymore. 

You want to argue that you’re not that much younger than him. But…he’s right. Rounding a bit, but he’s correct in his estimate of your age. It makes your cheeks heat even further and you’re glad Jack isn’t looking at you. He knows how old you are. He knows how much younger than him you are. He still invited you into his home. Still laughed at your joke about him seeing your tits.

Oh god, you made a joke about him seeing your tits.

You can feel your face burning and you’re pretty sure it’s actually on fire. You made a fucking joke about Jack Abbot seeing your tits. You cough, hoping it sounds like you’re clearing your throat and not like you’re trying to get rid of the embarrassment threatening to choke you. “You know that’s physically impossible, right?”

“Well then I guess you’ll just have to live with it.”

“I guess it’s true what they say, then.” You sigh, using the action as an excuse to simply take a deep breath. Your cheeks are still hot, but you no longer feel like you’re about to combust. Jack tilts his head, brow furrowed, and you grin. “Can’t teach an old dog new tricks.”

“Oh, you did not just call me old, sweetheart.” Jack laughs, a little incredulously, as he shakes his head. You lift your hands to your hips, raising a single brow. 

“Well, you are two decades older than me.” You throw his own words right back at him. That familiar rumbling noise builds in his chest. You smile and think that living with Jack Abbot won’t be so bad.

You grab Trinity’s elbow as soon as she walks through the door, dragging her to the lockers. She nearly drops the yogurt cup in her hands and tries to argue, but doesn’t fight your tugs. You look up and down the hall quickly before leaning toward her. “I need to move in with you, Trin.”

Trinity raises her brows, face looking famously unimpressed as she shoves another spoonful of yogurt into her mouth. “What happened with Dr. Abbot? It’s been, what…” She glances down at her bare wrist as if checking the time before looking back at you. “Twenty hours? And why are you even here? You’re not healed yet.” 

A small smile grows on your cheeks. As much as Trinity pretends not to care, pretends not to feel, you know just how much she really does worry about her friends. You reach out, pretending to brush something off her shoulder. A reassuring touch disguised as something Trinity cannot mistake for pity. You’re not even sure if Trinity realizes she leans just the slightest bit toward the movement. 

“I’m picking up Jack. I wanted to get some groceries, so he let me borrow his car. Did you know he drives an old Bronco? It’s so cute.” 

“And you don’t want to stay because…?” Trinity plops down on the bench, putting up her feet and eating another spoonful of yogurt. She motions to the spot by her feet with her free hand. You take a deep breath in, sitting on the edge of the shitty plastic seat.

“I saw him shirtless yesterday.” You practically squeak. Trinity immediately pulls her feet off the bench, shaking her head as she moves to get up. You reach out, grabbing her sleeve. “Trinity.” You whine, drawing out the name. She sighs and shovels the rest of her yogurt into her mouth before gesturing begrudgingly for you to continue. “He had just showered before his shift last night and he was just wearing his cargo pants and his hair was still wet and the freckles, oh my gosh, they’re every—”

“No. That is where I draw the line. I do not need to know that, please.” Trinity holds out a hand, as if to create a physical barrier between the two of you. You grab her hand, pulling it down and looking at her almost pleadingly. Trinity sighs. “Okay, you think he’s hot, whatever. Is that all?”

“He saw me staring.” You say slowly. Trinity sits up just a little bit, her mouth opening in an o. You nod. “But he wasn’t offended or grossed out or anything. He just…apologized and asked if I was uncomfortable. He wrapped his towel around his chest, Trin. Because he wanted me to be comfortable.” Your voice has quickly changed from cautious to low and wet, tears at the base of your throat, threatening to rise. “I can’t…like somebody again. Not yet. Not after…everything that happened with—I just can’t.”

“Hey, that’s okay. If you really need to move in with us, that’s fine. But…are you sure you don’t wanna rebound off those…freckles?” Trinity shivers dramatically as she says it. She’s teasing, you know she is. But you can’t help the laugh that bubbles up. You smack at her shoulder and she smacks right back at yours, albeit gentler since she knows the bruises beneath your shirt. 

“Jack is worth more than a rebound, Trin.” You say, not unkindly. “I just can’t. Not right now. Maybe soon. I don’t know.”

Trinity reaches out her hand again, except she doesn’t playfully smack you, she pats your shoulder. The action is a bit awkward and she doesn’t meet your eye once before pulling away. You have no idea how these actions come to her so easily when she’s teasing someone. 

“You can take as long as you need, girl.” Trinity says quietly, shooting you an easy smile. You glance down at your phone, checking the time. 7:03. You show Trinity and she jumps off the bench, heading toward the central desk to clock in. “Good luck!”

You wave after her, laughing softly. Maybe you’ll be okay.

“I  can’t…like somebody again. Not yet. Not after…everything that happened with—I just can’t.”

Jack tries to take a deep breath as he steps away from the locker hall. He hadn’t meant to overhear. Jack knows that you need time. He understands. After his wife died, he—well, it took him six years to meet you. It just hurts to know that he may have had a chance. With you. But he can’t bring that up. Jack can’t bear to see the look on your face when you reject him. All because he’s impatient. It’s okay. He can wait. 

Almost eight days later, you slip out of the ED with a sigh. It had been a long shift. Your first one back. You could tell that everyone was being especially gentle with you. Like you’ll fall apart. Like you’re still in that goddamn hospital bed. But you put up with it because you know that your coworkers need to feel like they’re taking care of you. They’re medical professionals, it’s literally what they do. The shift is over now, though, and you’re glad for it.

Jack holds the door open for you, his hand hovering close enough to feel the warmth through your scrubs but not touching. You step through the doorway, looking away from Jack to hide your warm cheeks. You’ve almost gotten used to the gentlemanly side of Jack. He cooks, he holds open doors, he says good night. Every night. The hardest part is that you can see yourself falling for him. You can see yourself going on dates with him and letting him walk around the car to open your door for you. You can see it all and it burns something deep inside. But you’re not ready for that. Not yet. 

Except—

You can’t help the way memories flit through your mind. Even after a week, you can’t bring yourself to look for a new apartment. Every time you open the stupid app on your phone, you see Jack in the corner of your eye. Reading a medical journal on the couch, glasses perched on the end of his nose. Grumbling as he searches through the kitchen for something he doesn’t have to cook. Snoring in the plush recliner after a long shift. Tiny little moments that only you get to see. It feels special, somehow. Like Jack knew you would see him like this. Unguarded and soft. And he still let you into his home.

It’s like something is tugging at you from the inside out, pulling you in two different directions. No matter how much you may like Jack, you can’t. Not yet. You can feel something shifting ever-so-slightly inside of you, moving toward Jack’s soft smile. Maybe someday you’ll get there. You hope so. 

Jack’s brownstone is cool as you push open the door. You’ve given up on trailing behind Jack on the steps, keeping an eye on him. Especially since he gave you your own key. You toss your key into the bowl by the door, unable to stop the small smile off your face as you see him do the same. It makes your chest warm to see your keys next to each other. Like they belong there. 

“Alright, Doc. Show me.” You say without warning. Jack stops where he is, tilting his head as his brows push together. You roll your eyes. “Your leg. You’ve been favoring your right leg all day. Let me see.”

You’re not unkind as you ask, but you know Jack doesn’t want pity. He doesn’t want you to beat around the bush and try to needle the information out of him. If you know Jack, you know he appreciates a straightforward approach. You figure he’ll appreciate the gentle demand more than he would a nervous question. So you watch, unmoving, as Jack sighs. He drops his bag against the wall and shuffles past you toward the living room. 

He quietly sits on the edge of the couch, tugging up the leg of his pants. Black metal shines in the morning light as it streams through the windows. You click on a lamp, sitting down on the low coffee table in front of him. The prosthetic clicks as Jack presses a button on the side, releasing the leg. He sets it carefully aside and tugs at the thick socks over his leg, revealing the bare sleeve with a ridged pin at the end. You narrow your eyes at the pin locking system.

“Isn’t suction better for someone on their feet all day?” You ask, watching as the sleeve rolls down slowly to reveal the stitched-together skin. Jack halts for a single second before continuing. 

“Pin seemed more reliable. And faster.” He mutters, looking you over once. Most of your bruises have healed, but the one around your neck is still dark against your skin. You try to ignore the way his eyes pause on the mark. “How do you know that, anyway?”

You reach out, grabbing the sleeve that he threw aside and turning it right side out again, shooting Jack a look. “I did one of my rotations at an orthotics and prosthetics clinic in Philly. Wasn’t for me. Too boring.” You grin, looking down at the leg. It’s healed well, but you can see irritation at the end, soft red. “You should really take more breaks, Jack. I’m getting your crutches. Don’t move.”

Jack opens his mouth, probably to make some kind of joke about how he can’t really go anywhere. You laugh before he can even speak and push up, holding out your hand for the leg. Jack looks between you and your hand before smiling, a tiny thing, and handing you the prosthetic. It’s heavier than you thought it would be, strong and solid. You carry the leg upstairs, leaning it against Jack’s nightstand and grabbing the forearm crutches and awkwardly carrying them down the steps. He reaches for the crutches as you stand in front of him again, but you hold out a hand. 

“I’m serious, Jack. You have to take care of yourself.” Your voice is firm and you can see something shift in Jack’s gaze before he nods. Slowly. In a way that tells you he’s actually considering it. That might be enough. 

The flowers were innocuous enough. You used to love white lilies. Long petals and a sweet scent that you used to search for in perfumes. It was a beautiful flower. Still is. These aren’t white lilies. They’re not any kind of lily. You know lilies. You used to love them. Brett smashed a vase of them on the ground a week after you moved in together. Apparently he was allergic. Apparently it was an accident. You cut your hand trying to pick up the pieces of broken glass. A vase you got from the thrift store, shimmering with intricate patterns etched into the surface. Your blood had stained white petals in small drips. No more flowers in your tiny shared apartment after that.

Some poor delivery guy had gotten lost in the maze of halls that makes up the Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center. Lena had teased you as a cardiology nurse brought the flowers down. Your name was scrawled across the card, tucked into the petals. The handwriting was unfamiliar and looped wide in dark ink. Your hands shake as you read the note. Paper flutters to the ground and you take a single second to process the words.

Replacing me already?

You reach down, picking up the paper that fell. A picture of you. A picture of you on Jack’s front porch. A picture of you on Jack’s porch, Jack’s arm around your shoulder. You look so happy in the picture, grinning wide and bright. You remember the day, the shirt you wore under your scrubs. 

“Hon? Something wrong?” Lena’s voice is soft and neutral. She doesn’t want to scare you off. You realize you must look terrible. After months of hiding how shitty you feel, for Lena to note it so quickly… 

“Uh, need some air.” You say quickly. Paper crinkles in your fist as you grab the bouquet and turn in a random direction and start walking. The flowers seem to weigh too much, pulling you down. Maybe you’re just not strong enough. You wonder if you’ll ever be strong enough. You drop the bouquet in the first trashcan you see. It falls heavily to the bottom of the bag. You note the color idly. Biohazardous waste. Exactly where those flowers belong.

The words echo in your mind as you run up the steps. Paper rustles in your hand. You stop, just before the door labeled Roof Access, and look down. The photo is wrinkled, damp with sweat from your palms. Your mind buzzes, noise blurring around the edges.

What if he hurts Jack? Jack can take care of himself, even with one leg. What if he comes after you? Well, you’re only making yourself a target here alone on this roof. What if he comes to the hospital? No one here would let you get hurt. You have answers to every question you can consider, but none of it makes your breaths slow. None of it changes the fact that he knows where you sleep at night. 

(You wonder idly if the flowers are against the restraining order. You know the picture probably is. Maybe you shouldn’t have thrown away those flowers. Maybe you should have called the police. Maybe you would have if panic hadn’t spread through your body like poison. God, you really hope those flowers weren’t poisonous.)

The door creaks as you push it open. Cool winter air bites at your cheeks, your arms. Scrubs, you realize, were not made for Pittsburgh in the middle of winter. A breeze blows by and the railing bites cold into your hand. The city sprawls out beneath you. It’s so quiet. You half expect sirens to fill the air as you think the word. Shen would laugh if he were here. He’s downstairs. Where you should be. But it's so quiet. You bend down, moving between the railings until you’re standing on the other side. The distance to the ground is dizzying. 

The door creaks behind you and Jack’s familiar footsteps sound across the roof. You usually can’t hear his footsteps. God, it’s quiet up here. “Hey, kid. Heard you’re getting some air.” There’s something taut in Jack’s voice. Under the easy smile and slow movements. Something pulled so tight that you know it will snap sooner or later. So, you decide to tell him the truth. 

“I’m not gonna jump. I mean, I’ve thought about it.” You turn around, facing Jack. He’s right against the railing. Just a foot away. You smile and squeeze the paper still wrapped tight in your fist. “Did you know I’m afraid of heights? Deathly. Never even been on a rollercoaster before.”

“Really? I’ll make you go on one this weekend. They’re fun, trust me.” Jack laughs, but it’s wrong again. Tight, tight, tight—

“I watch people die all day long, Jack. But I can’t face it myself.” Your voice cracks as you slowly lower yourself to the ground, knees weak. You lean back against the railing, a good yard between you and the edge. It’s too close. Your hands are trembling. “Isn’t that ironic? Maybe I’m just a coward.”

“Well, if that makes you a coward, you can go ahead and join the club.” Jack groans as he sits down on the other side of the fence. His fingers brush against your tight fist. You flinch away instinctively, bringing the photo to your chest. He follows your movement, hand hovering over yours. “Can I?”

A car horn honks on the street and you slowly release your fingers. Jack takes the crumpled paper from your hand, flattening it out as he looks at the photo. You can’t bring yourself to look at him as he reads the note. A cold breeze blows across the roof and you shiver. The cool metal of the railing presses against your spine and you wrap your arms around yourself. Maybe you should have brought your jacket.

Jack’s profile glows in the dim light and you think that this is terrible. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Jack Abbot is beautiful and strong and so fucking kind. You can’t fall for him. Not when you’re still healing. Not when you’re supposed to be focusing on yourself. It’s terrifying. Scarier than the flowers. Scarier the note and the picture. Because that threat is something you can ignore. You can tell the police and forget it ever happened. But Jack is a constant in your life. He’s real, right next to you. The metal poles of the railing frame his face. You want to look away. Maybe you can get a job at another hospital. Maybe you can forget all about Brett and the lovely man on the roof with you. 

You realize, suddenly, that Jack is always next to you. At home, his home that you have started thinking of as your own. At work, where you could be on opposite ends of the ED and you think you’d still know exactly where he is. And everywhere in between. You carpool together. You eat takeout for breakfast together. Ellis made a joke last week to a patient about how you two come as a pair. Do not separate. But—

“I’ll move out.” Your voice shakes and you wish you could say more. I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t want to be hurt. If I leave before that happens, I’ll be okay. I’ll be fine. Please, let me leave. I might just love you.

“If you want to.” Jack’s voice is tight. You try to meet his gaze, but he stares down at the picture in his hands. You notice for the first time that Jack is smiling in the image. Smiling at you. There’s something familiar in his gaze that you catch even in the grainy photo. Something you’ve seen on your own face enough to recognize it now that you’re looking. More than affection. Maybe love. You want to say something, ask Jack what he’s thinking. Ask why he sounds so…wrong. “But you’re welcome to stay. As long as you want.”

Want. That burns a hole through your heart. You’ve been told before by people that you are allowed to take what you need. Take up space, take up air. Whatever you need. So maybe you’ve been avoiding what you want. You need more time. Need to think about this more before jumping into another relationship. Need to consider your future and your health. But you so desperately want Jack Abbot. You want to curl up next to him on the couch while he reads his boring medical journals. You want to make fun of him while he rummages through kitchen cabinets. You want to wake him up when he falls asleep on the recliner and make him go to bed. You want to wrap yourself around him in that same bed and listen to his annoying snores.

“I do. Want to. Stay.” Your voice is stilted, mostly because you’re not used to this. Voicing what you want. Saying out loud the things you usually would hide deep in your chest. You can see Jack’s shadowed face shift in the low light, his lips quirking up at the corners. He finally looks up at you, hazel eyes shining. Those eyes are not fair and you cannot bring yourself to care.

“Well,” Jack grins, wide and toothy. One of his canines is chipped. You’ve noticed it before. It’s adorable every time. He looks down at his watch and you silently mourn the loss of his smile. “It’s 5:58 and I think Ellis and Shen can cover for an hour. C’mon.”

“What?” You tilt your head as Jack pushes off the ground and holds out his hand. You grab it without hesitating and let him help you through the gap in between rails. He doesn’t drop your hand, even as you stand next to him. On the safe side of the fence.

“You should go home. Rest. And then report Brett to the police. I’ll help.” 

A grin spreads across your face and your cheeks warm at Jack’s words. You move until you’re in front of him, hand still wrapped softly in his. “You’re cute.” You say, not even really noticing the words as they leave your mouth. Your smile grows as the tips of Jack’s ears burn pink. You could tease, but you decide you’ll pity him for now. “I can make it through another hour, Jack. Really. I promise.”

Jack hesitates and you lean up, brushing a kiss against his cheek. Stubble scrapes across your lips and you feel Jack’s hand tighten around yours. “Okay.” He whispers, breath sweeping across your face. It’s warm. Smells like coffee and those gross energy bars that Jack eats religiously. You want to know how they taste from his mouth. “Then home?” 

The word is soft against your skin. Gentle in a way you haven’t felt in a long time. You hope everything works out. You hope Brett disappears and never comes back. You hope that loving Jack Abbot won’t destroy you. You know he won’t let it. So you smile. You nod.

“Yeah. Then home.”

[briefinquiries]

Tommy Shelby x Reader: By Order of Blood

Summary: Tommy Shelby thought sending you away would keep you safe, until the carriage was intercepted. Now, as he cradles your trembling, broken body, he swears two things: he will never let you go again… and the men who touched you won’t live to see another sunrise.

Word count: 8.5k

Warnings: angst, violence, injury descriptions (mentions of blood, torture, SA), PTSD, nightmares, and panic attacks, emotional distress, and revenge-driven violence (also includes lots of hurt / comfort).

A/N: Lost all motivation to write my normal stuff recently, but currently rewatching peaky blinders and feeling all sorts of ways about my boyyy tommy shelby.

"Tommy, please. Don't do this." Your voice was barely above a whisper as the weight of the moment pressed down on your chest like a stone.

You reached for him, fingers trembling as they grazed the fabric of his coat. 

But he didn’t budge. He stood rigid, back straight, his jaw locked so tight you could practically see the muscle ticking underneath his skin. A cigarette burned low between his fingers, a thin wisp of smoke curling in the dim light.

His face was unreadable, a mask of cold detachment. It was the same one he wore when giving orders that decided life or death. 

"You’re leaving tonight," he said, his voice quiet but firm.

You shook your head before he was even finished speaking, your breath catching. "No– no, I don’t want to leave."

Tommy exhaled slowly, as if he was gearing up for a fight. "This is not about what you want."

Your throat tightened. "Tommy, please–"

"You’ll be safer away from me."

You let out a dry, hollow laugh. "Safer?" The word tasted bitter on your tongue. "Tommy, I’m safe when I’m with you. The further away you are, the less safe I’ll feel."

For a second, you thought you saw something flicker in his eyes. Hesitation. Regret. Maybe even doubt. But then, just as quickly as it appeared, it was gone. Buried beneath layers of steel.

His shoulders stiffened, his fingers tightening around the cigarette. "You’ll have guards."

"I don’t want guards." Your voice wavered. "I want you. What if something happens, Tommy? What then?"

His breath hitched, but he remained stoic. "It won’t," he said firmly.

You searched his face, desperate for something, anything, that would tell you he wasn’t as sure about this as he was pretending to be. That this was tearing him apart, too. But all you saw was cold resolve. Complete certainty. 

A hollow feeling spread through your stomach as the truth settled in your bones. He had already made up his mind. And there was nothing you could say to make him change it.

Panic pressed against your ribs. You wanted to tell him that being away from him would be worse than any danger that lurked in Birmingham. But you couldn’t find the words.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke.

Then, Tommy took one last drag from his cigarette before putting it out with slow, deliberate movements. When he finally looked at you, his blue eyes were unreadable.

"The carriage is waiting."

The words hit you like a blow, stealing whatever fight you had left.

You felt yourself nod, but you didn’t say anything. There was nothing left to say. Without another word, you turned and walked away, the sound of your footsteps echoing in the silence.

And Thomas Shelby let you go. 

…

The wooden seat beneath you felt cold and unforgiving. But not nearly as cold as the hollow feeling in your chest.

You sat stiffly, arms folded across your body. Your stomach churned– a mixture between fear, anger, and grief. Each emotion fought for dominance, and yet all you could do was stare blankly at the road stretching endlessly ahead of you, your surroundings blurring past the window.

You tried to rationalize his actions and remind yourself why he made the choices he did. But this didn’t feel like protection anymore. 

It felt like a punishment. 

The hours dragged. The rhythmic clatter of hooves and the occasional creak of the carriage were the only sounds filling the silence. You hadn’t spoken a word to the driver or to the men Tommy had sent to guard you. You refused. Who cared if they thought you were some entitled brat?

But then, suddenly, something in the air shifted.

You weren’t sure what it was at first. Maybe it was just a feeling, an unease that coiled in your stomach like a vice. But then you noticed the hooves come to a gradual stop. One of the guards riding ahead straightened in his saddle, glancing toward the dense trees lining the road.

Your pulse quickened, but before you could even part your lips to ask what was wrong, you heard the gunshot.

A sickening crack followed by shouting. One of the men slumped forward on his horse before crashing onto the dirt road in a heap. The horses screamed, rearing violently. The carriage lurched, sending you slamming into the side with a sharp gasp.

Another shot. Another thud. 

The second guard fell before he could even draw his gun. Then the driver let out a strangled yell, yanking hard on the reins. 

But it was too late.

Figures emerged from the darkness of the trees, their boots pounding against the dirt, moving fast. Panic seized you. Without thinking, you scrambled toward the door, heart hammering, fumbling for the latch. You could still get out, still run, still–

But when you threw your weight against it, the door didn’t budge.

The impact from the gunfire, the carriage rocking on the uneven road– it had bent the frame inward. The wood creaked, but the metal hinges were jammed tight.

"No, no, no–” you pleaded. You pushed harder, shoulders slamming against the door.

Then, the other door was yanked open violently, nearly ripping off its hinges. You barely had time to turn before rough, gloved hands grabbed you, wrenching you forward. You thrashed against them, kicking, clawing, screaming for them to let go. 

"Shut her up!" A voice snapped. 

And just like that, the back end of a gun slammed into your gut, knocking the air from your lungs. Your vision blurred as your body doubled over. Fingers fisted in your hair, yanking your head back so hard your scalp burned.

One of the men leaned in, his breath hot against your cheek.

"I guess Shelby should’ve sent more men."

Your heart pounded violently in your chest as the other men chuckled darkly.

Your hands shook as you tried to fight, but there were too many of them, too many voices, too many shadows closing in around you. You screamed again. 

Then, a final, crushing blow to the side of your head sent the world tilting. Your knees buckled. 

And then– total darkness.

…

The office smelled of whiskey and smoke as the low glow of candlelight flickered against the walls. Tommy sat behind his desk, fingers wrapped around a glass he hadn’t yet touched.

Across from him, Arthur was talking. Something about business, numbers, men needing paying, but Tommy wasn’t listening. He had been distracted all night.

His mind kept circling back to you. It didn’t matter how many times he told himself he made the right choice– that sending you away had been for your own good, that it was the only way to keep you safe. That image of you, eyes wide, pleading, your fingers brushing against his coat before he had forced himself to turn away remained at the forefront of his mind.

"Tommy, please," you had begged. 

He had ignored the way it made his chest ache, forcing himself to shut down the part of him that wanted to keep you close.

Because this was the only way.

Right?

But if it was the right choice, then why the fuck did it feel like such a fucking mistake?

"Tom?" Arthur’s voice cut through his thoughts.

Tommy blinked, setting the untouched glass down with slow, deliberate movements. His fingers tapped against the wood, a restless habit. "What?"

Arthur frowned, watching him closely. "You haven’t heard a single thing I’ve said, have you?"

A muscle in Tommy’s jaw twitched. 

Arthur exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face. "Jesus, Tommy. Forget about it. You did the right thing, yeah? She’s safer out of Birmingham. You said so yourself."

Tommy leaned back in his chair, running a hand down his face. He shook his head, reaching for the cigarette pack on his desk, desperate for something to quiet his mind. But just as he struck the match, the door burst open.

Tommy’s head snapped up.

John stood in the doorway, breathless and pale.

"Tommy–" he panted, eyes wide with urgency. "The carriage– we just got word– it was intercepted–"

For a moment, the words didn’t register. A slow, heavy silence fell over the room. Tommy just stared at him, cigarette burning between his fingers, unmoving. Then, a sharp, cold wave of panic slammed into his chest.

His chair scraped against the floor as he shot to his feet. "What?" His voice was dangerously quiet.

John swallowed hard. "One of the scouts came back. The men– the guards you sent– they’re dead. Driver too."

The room tilted. A deafening ringing filled Tommy’s ears, drowning out everything else.

No, no, no. No. 

"Where?" Tommy demanded, his voice now urgent, raw, trembling with barely contained terror.

"We don’t know yet–"

Tommy’s chest heaved, his breath coming sharp and ragged. "Find out," he snapped, grabbing his coat. His hands were shaking. "Find out right fucking now."

Arthur was already up, grabbing his gun. "We’re going after her, Tommy."

Tommy ran a hand through his hair, pacing, trying to think, trying to breathe, trying not to fucking lose it.

He had sent you away.

He had sent you away.

His heart pounded violently, his throat tight with a kind of fear he had never felt before.

Not anger. Not fury. Not vengeance.

Fear.

Because if they had taken you…

If they had hurt you…

Tommy couldn’t finish the thought.

Because the moment he did, he wouldn’t be able to fucking breathe.

…

When you woke up, the first thing you registered was the pain. 

The deep, aching throb in your skull. The metallic taste of blood coated your tongue, thick and suffocating.

Your body felt heavy, your limbs sluggish as you tried to move, only to realize that you couldn’t.

Panic slid into your chest, sharp and immediate as you became aware of the restraints, of the rough, biting feel of rope digging into your wrists, binding them behind the back of a chair. Your breath hitched, vision swimming in the overwhelming darkness that surrounded you.

You struggled against the restraints, muscles screaming in protest, but the chair barely creaked beneath your weight. The air was damp, thick with the scent of rotting wood and stale sweat. Somewhere in the distance, you heard the faint melodic drop of water.

A basement. Maybe a warehouse. Somewhere completely forgotten.

A door creaked open and your breath stilled. There were footsteps– slow and leisurely. 

A shadow loomed at the edge of the room, then a man stepped forward, boots scraping against the concrete floor. The dim light of a lantern illuminated his features, dark eyes full of amusement, a smirk twisting his thin lips.

"Well, well," he drawled, tilting his head. "Look who's awake."

Your stomach coiled in disgust as he came closer, circling you like a predator playing with its prey. You clenched your jaw, forcing yourself to stay still, to keep your expression blank.

The man stopped just beside you, tapping a finger against his chin, mockingly thoughtful. "You’re prettier up close," he mused. "Is that why Shelby keeps you so close? Well… not this time I guess."

A beat of silence. Then, his voice dropped into something colder, sharper. "Where’s he keeping his next shipment?"

You didn’t answer but his smirk only widened. "Playing the silent game, are we?"

He moved closer to you, and before you could react, a sharp, stinging slap cracked across your cheek.

Your head snapped to the side, your vision blurring with the impact.

"You’ll want to answer me," he said menacingly. "Or this is going to get a hell of a lot worse for you."

You clenched your teeth, forcing your breath to stay even. 

He let out a disappointed sigh. "Stubborn little thing, aren’t you? Brave, even?" He stepped closer, gripping the arms of your chair, leaning in until his breath was hot against your ear. "But tell me, sweetheart… how brave do you think you’ll be when we’re through with you?"

You refused to let him see your fear. But inside, terror clawed at your ribs, sinking in deep.  

The man stepped back, studying you. His smirk hadn't faltered, but you could see the frustration flicker in his dark eyes.

"Not talking, eh?" He exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders as if this were some inconvenience, some tedious task he had to complete before moving on with his night.

Then, without warning, his fist slammed into your stomach.

Your body jerked violently against the ropes, a strangled gasp ripping from your throat as the air was stolen from your lungs. White, hot agony flared in your gut, the chair beneath you rocking from the force of it. You coughed, your body instinctively trying to double over, but the ropes held you upright, forcing you to endure it.

Still, you said nothing.

The man let out a humorless chuckle. "Tough girl, huh?"

Another blow. To your face again. You bit the inside of your cheek, swallowing the cry that threatened to escape.

"Tell me," he continued casually, shaking out his fist, "where the Peaky Blinders keep their weapons."

You lifted your head slowly, breathing heavily through your nose. Then, you spat blood onto the floor at his feet.

A muscle in his jaw ticked. And then, his hand fisted in your hair, yanking your head back so sharply you let out a strangled gasp.

"I was hoping you’d be difficult," he murmured, tilting his head. "It makes this so much more fun for me."

Deep fear curled around your bones like ice. Because you knew exactly what men like him were capable of. He let go of your hair abruptly, your head snapping forward from the force of it, pain splintering through your already throbbing skull.The next blow came before you could brace yourself. It was a heavy, brutal punch to your nose. Pain exploded behind your eyes, your body lurching sideways, nearly toppling the chair. Your ears rang, the room spinning wildly.

Your nose was dripping. It took you a second to realize it was blood, warm and thick as it trailed down your lips. Still, you didn’t speak. 

He let out a long, slow breath, tilting his head as he studied you. "I can do this all night," he said lightly, as if he weren’t already beating you bloody. Then, something darker crossed his expression. 

"But maybe," he continued, voice lower, silkier, more dangerous, "I could find other ways to make you talk."

Your stomach churned at the sight of his gaze, predatorial. Every muscle in your body seized as he took a step forward, one hand reaching for his pocket. Then, metal glinted under the dim light.

A knife. Not small, not discreet, but long, sharp, wicked.

He flicked it open with an almost lazy motion, rolling it between his fingers like a coin, as if the weapon was nothing more than a casual accessory to him. "You know," he mused, tilting his head, his eyes dragging over your bound, broken form with something close to amusement, "I've always wondered how many pieces a person can be cut into before they bleed out."

He crouched beside you, the blade dancing along his fingers, before slowly pressing the cold steel under your chin.

"Tell me what I want to know," he murmured, his voice almost gentle, like a whisper of silk against your skin. 

More silence. 

He smirked. A devilish grin spread across his face. “Maybe I'll start with the fingers."

Your heart pounded violently, every nerve in your body screaming at you to run, fight, do something– 

But what were you supposed to do? The ropes bit into your wrists, your limbs too weak, too battered, your breath too shallow.

"Think I'm bluffing?" he asked, watching your reaction. "Think I won’t carve you up, nice and slow?"

The knife dragged downward, grazing lightly along the column of your throat, just enough to prickle your skin, to remind you how easily he could cut deeper.

He leaned in closer, his breath hot against your cheek.

"Because I will, sweetheart," he whispered, almost fondly. "And when I'm done, I’ll send the pieces back to Shelby. One by one."

“I don’t know where the weapons are,” The words spilled out before you could even think, desperate, shaky, but holding just enough bite to make them believable. “Tommy doesn’t tell me those things– says it’s not a woman’s business to know– that we’d break too easily if we got questioned.”

Your breath hitched, your pulse roaring in your ears as you held his gaze, willing yourself to look small, weak, unimportant.

He laughed. Low, dark, amused. He leaned in again, the overwhelming stench of sweat and smoke rolling off him in waves.

"You think I believe that?" His voice was smooth as he tilted his head, watching you with something cruel, calculating. Your breath came in short, shallow bursts, your hands twisting uselessly behind your back, fingers numb from the ropes cutting into your skin.

You didn’t answer. Because you knew better. Men like him didn’t want the truth. They wanted excuses to hurt you.

He sighed, feigning disappointment. "See, sweetheart, here’s the problem with your little lie." He reached into his coat pocket, pulling out a scrap of paper, something smudged with dirt and blood.

"One of your guards had this tucked in his coat. An order from Mr. Shelby himself," he said, unfolding it with a lazy flick of his wrist. "Says to keep you safe. Says not to let you out of their sight."

The bastard grinned as he tossed the paper onto your lap. "Now, why would Thomas Shelby go through all that trouble for someone who doesn’t know anything?"

You felt cold all over. He knew. No amount of lying was going to save you now.

"Yeah," he murmured, standing upright. "That’s what I thought."

His hand shot out suddenly, gripping your jaw, forcing your head back. You winced, but didn’t look away. A cruel smile spread across his face. "That’s good," he murmured. "I like when they look at me."

Then, cold steel pressed against your cheek. You flinched violently, your breath stuttering, but he only grinned wider, his grip tightening, holding you in place. 

"You’ll tell me what I want to know," he promised, his fingers digging into your bruised skin. "Sooner or later."

The blade slid downward, slow, deliberate, tracing the delicate line of your jaw.

Then, it pressed in. A sharp, searing pain bloomed beneath your skin, and you gasped, body jerking instinctively, but the ropes held you tight, trapped.

A thin line of warm blood trickled down your cheek. He hummed in satisfaction. His thumb dragged across your bottom lip, slow, taunting. "Maybe I’ll give you some time to think about it," he mused, releasing you with a sharp shove.

…

Tommy paced the office like a caged animal, fingers tugging through his hair, his mind racing faster than his body could keep up.

The room was too small, too fucking suffocating, and the longer it took to get information, the more his chest tightened, the more his hands shook.

"Where the fuck is she?"

No one had an answer.

Tommy turned on John. "Who told you? Who gave you the fucking word?"

John swallowed, shifting on his feet. "A scout, one of our boys in Small Heath– he saw the wreckage. The guards, the driver… all dead, Tommy."

His stomach dropped.

Bodies.

But no mention of her.

He felt sick. Cold. A new kind of fear he hadn’t felt since the war clawed its way up his throat like bile. He clenched his fists, forcing himself to focus. If they had taken you alive, that meant they wanted something from you.

He had to find you. Now. A sharp knock on the door cut through the tense silence. Isaiah stepped in, breathless, eyes wide.

"We’ve got something."

Tommy’s head snapped up so fast his vision blurred.

"Where?"

Isaiah wiped a hand down his face, shaking his head. "We don’t know for sure, but one of the lads caught wind of a group setting up shop in an old distillery just outside the city– on the outskirts near the river."

"Who?" Tommy’s voice was deadly calm, but the way his hands shook slightly at his sides betrayed him.

Isaiah hesitated. "You’re not gonna like the answer, Tom."

Tommy’s chest tightened. "Say it," he demanded.

Isaiah exhaled. "Sabini’s men."

The room went deathly quiet.

Arthur swore, kicking the leg of a chair so hard it splintered.

Sabini.

That filthy fucking bastard had been waiting for an opportunity to strike, and Tommy had handed it to him on a silver fucking platter when he sent you away. Tommy felt his pulse roar in his ears, drowning out every other sound in the room.

He turned to Arthur. "Get everyone. We move now."

His brother didn’t hesitate. As Arthur stormed out, barking orders to the rest of the men, Tommy grabbed his coat, his revolver already in his hand.

He didn’t just want to kill them.

He wanted to wipe them from existence.

Because they had taken you.

And Thomas Shelby was going to burn the fucking city down to get you back.

…

Your wrists were raw from the ropes, skin rubbed red and torn from how hard you had fought– fought for nothing, fought for no one to come, fought just to survive another minute, another second.

You were too weak to fight anymore. Your entire body was screaming in agony, every nerve burning, every muscle aching with exhaustion.

Your stomach throbbed violently, a deep, searing pain radiating from one of the larger gashes that had been carved into your skin. You could still feel the sting of the blade as it sank into your flesh, the warm trickle of blood spilling down your ribs, soaking into the shredded remains of your clothes.

What was left of them, anyway.

Your dress had been ripped apart, torn from your body in jagged, humiliating shreds, exposing bruised, violated skin.

The men had touched you, their hands roaming, gripping, forcing you still, their laughter ringing in your ears as they stripped you down like you were nothing more than something to be used.

You had fought, God, you had fought, thrashing, kicking, but their hands had been stronger, crueler, unyielding.

Now, you could feel the cool air biting at your skin, the exposed places where they had left their marks– dark bruises, bloody scratches, shame carved into your very bones. Your arms shook, the fabric clinging to what was left of you, offering little protection, little dignity.

You felt disgusting.

Ruined.

And even though they had been interrupted before they could take it any further, the damage was already done.

The way they had laughed. Cruel, mocking, like your pain was amusing, like your struggle meant nothing.

"Shelby won’t want you now."

The words had sliced deeper than the knife, burrowing into your chest, your ribs, your bones.

"Damaged goods."

"Bet he won’t even look at you when we’re done."

It was all still there, burned into your mind, bleeding into your skin like an invisible brand you would never escape.

And your ribs– God, your ribs. Every inhale was a battle, every breath felt like knives digging into your sides, sharp and relentless. You didn’t know if they were bruised or broken, but the deep, throbbing ache that rattled through your chest made you certain that something was damaged beyond repair.

Even the slightest movement sent sharp, unbearable pain lancing through you, making your vision blur, making bile rise in your throat.

Your face was swollen, beaten, the metallic taste of blood thick on your tongue.

Your body flinched violently as hands roamed over you, rough fingers gripping, bruising, tearing fabric, exposing too much. A cruel chuckle ghosted over your ear.

"Not so tough now, are you?"

The words barely registered through the haze, but the hot breath against your skin did, the weight of a body pressing against you. Suffocating.

You turned your head, gasping sharply, choking on a sob as your body tried to shrink away, but the ropes held you firm, like an animal waiting for slaughter.

Another pair of hands gripped your thigh, fingers digging hard enough to bruise.

You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to disappear inside yourself, trying to will yourself into a place where this wasn’t happening, wasn’t real.

Then– footsteps, shouting.

Not inside the room, but outside.

The hands stilled.

More voices now, low, urgent, laced with something that sounded close to alarm.

"Go check it out," one of the men shouted.

A few of them grumbled, hesitating, as if reluctant to leave, but then another loud thud echoed from beyond the door, followed by the distant clatter of metal hitting the floor.

The man above you cursed, pushing off of you abruptly, leaving behind a nauseating heat where his body had been pressing against yours.

"Fucking deal with her," he ordered the one who stayed behind before storming toward the door.

You heard them shuffle out, their boots heavy against the floor, the door creaking as it was pulled shut behind them. One remained. 

Then– Gunfire. A sharp, brutal crack shook the walls. The man froze. Another shot. Then another. Shouts of panic cried outside the door, the unmistakable sound of bodies hitting the ground. And then the door burst open.

The man barely had time to turn, barely had time to lift his knife, barely had time to do anything, before a bullet tore through his skull, the shot echoing like thunder.

His body crumpled to the floor.

More boots pounded into the room. Your swollen, half-lidded eyes struggled to focus, your mind fading in and out, but you knew– you knew those voices. Someone dropped to their knees beside you.

"Fuck– It’s her." The voice was urgent, but familiar. "She’s alive. Love, it’s me– it’s John. Can ya hear me?"

He moved to untie you, but you let out a small, broken noise. Weakly, you tried to turn away, as if you could somehow hide your exposed body from him– hide from what had been done to you.

"Shit– someone get her a coat, something!" John hollered. 

More hurried voices. More boots scuffing against the ground.

Then a voice rang out. "Get out of the fucking way!"

The tone was raw, shaking with rage, sharp enough to cut through the chaos like a knife. Everyone moved aside instantly.

Tommy’s blue eyes locked onto you, widening as he took in the bruises, the gash on your stomach leaking blood, the torn fabric barely covering your body.

Then, under his breath, so low it was barely a whisper, he muttered, "Jesus Christ.” 

His coat was off his shoulders in an instant. He crouched down and carefully draped it over you, covering as much of your exposed skin as he could. The weight of it should’ve been comforting, should’ve felt like protection, but you flinched. The sudden movement sent a fresh wave of pain coursing through your body, making your breath hitch sharply in your throat. Tommy’s jaw tightened. His hands hovered, like he was unsure if touching you would only make things worse.

John knelt beside him, fingers moving to quickly undo the ropes. 

Your body swayed forward as the last rope fell away, your muscles too weak to hold you upright, but Tommy’s hands shot out instantly, catching you before you could collapse completely. He felt the way you tensed. The way your body tried to shrink away, as if you weren’t sure whether his hands were safe ones or not. 

“Can you walk?” His voice was low, controlled, but his heart was fucking pounding.

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t even manage to look up at him– like you didn’t even register his question.

Your head hung limply forward, resting weakly against his shoulder. Your breath came in shallow bursts as the weight of exhaustion and pain dragged you down.

That was all the answer he needed. Without hesitation, he scooped you up into his arms. The moment he lifted you, a sharp, strangled cry tore from your throat as the wound on your stomach pinched.

“I got you,” The sound of your pain sent a violent shudder through Tommy’s body, his grip instinctively tightening. “I know, love. I know.”

Your head lolled against his chest, another small whimper escaping your lips as his arms adjusted their hold, careful but unrelenting. His breath was uneven as he stood, keeping you pressed tightly against him, shielding you as much as he could.

Your pain was his pain now.

Your suffering was his burden to bear.

And he was going to make every last one of those bastards suffer for what they had done to you.

The night air was cold, but Tommy barely felt it. His grip on you didn’t waver, his arms locking you against his chest, shielding you from the world as he carried you through the bloodstained corridors of the warehouse.

Every step he took was controlled, deliberate, but inside he was barely holding it together. You were too still, your body too limp in his arms. 

“Almost there," he murmured, his voice softer than he’d ever let it be, barely audible beneath the pounding of his own heart.

You didn’t respond. But when his arms shifted slightly, having to adjust his hold as he stepped over a body on the ground, you let out a small whimper of pain. His grip tightened instinctively.

"Shh," he soothed, his lips brushing against your temple, voice raw. "I’ve got you."

The car was waiting outside, its headlights cutting through the darkness, and the backseat door already open. Arthur was barking orders to the men, his voice clipped and deadly, but the moment Tommy stepped outside, all movement stopped. The others watched as he carried you– silent, grim, waiting.

They had seen Tommy Shelby furious before.

But this was something else entirely.

Without a word, Tommy laid you down in the backseat, before climbing in himself. He adjusted his coat so that it covered you again before guiding your head to rest more comfortably on his lap. 

The door slammed shut and the engine roared to life. The moment the car jolted forward, you let out another soft whimper, your fingers weakly reaching for him. 

"It’s alright," he murmured, as his hand brushed through your matted hair. "You’re alright."

You heard his words, but they felt far away… like a voice carried through water, muffled, distant. Your head shifted slightly against his lap as you forced your swollen eyes open. 

And then you saw it.

Blood.

Deep red, seeping through the white fabric of his shirt, thick and dark, staining the material all the way down to his waist. Your breath hitched. For a second, you didn’t understand. Your dazed mind struggled to catch up, struggled to process how he might’ve gotten hurt. 

Then it clicked. It wasn’t his blood.

It was yours.

Your fingers twitched weakly, brushing against the soaked fabric.

"Tommy–"

The word came out slurred, almost inaudible.

His hands tensed around you instantly. "I’m here, love," he said quickly, his voice sharper now, urgent. "I’m right here."

Your vision blurred. The world was tilting again. The blood, so much blood– 

"Tommy, am I dying?"

His arms tightened around you, his grip firm, protective, as if holding you together was enough to keep you here. 

"No," he said immediately, but there was something frantic beneath his voice now, something breaking. "No, you’re not dying. You’re alright."

You blinked slowly, the exhaustion dragging you down. 

Tommy turned his head sharply.

"Drive faster," he snapped, his voice thick with something close to desperation.

Arthur was already pushing the car to its limit, the tires kicking up dirt and gravel as they sped toward home. Tommy’s hand cradled your cheek, his thumb stroking gently along your skin, even as his grip shook.

"You’re alright. But you have to stay awake," he said, almost pleadingly. 

You tried. And really, you wanted to. 

But the last thing you felt before the darkness pulled you under was the way his fingers trembled against your skin.

…

You felt the car lurch to a stop, the tires skidding against the dirt, but the world around you was hazy, your body heavy, weighed down by exhaustion and pain.

You jolted further awake when Tommy shifted, pulling you onto his lap before he pushed the door open.

Then, a rush of cold air. Sharp as it bit at your skin. Tommy stepped out, his grip on you unwavering, unrelenting. There were voices, then footsteps. The sound of boots pounding against the ground. 

Polly’s familiar voice. "Oh, my girl," she gasped. “What have they done to her?”

You tried to lift your head, to focus, but your vision swam, the world tilting in and out of darkness. 

Polly was moving fast, her skirt rustling as she rushed toward you, her hands reaching for you before you even realized what was happening.

"Get her inside," she ordered, her tone sharp, controlled, but beneath it there was fear.

Tommy didn’t hesitate. You felt the urgency in his body, the tension coiling tight in his arms as he carried you up the steps, past the doorway, into the dim warmth of the house.

Everything was spinning. 

When he set you down, the wound in your stomach pinched and a warm rush of liquid poured from it. You clutched at it– felt the blood pooling between your fingers. 

"Tommy, put some pressure on that!" Polly’s voice cut through the haze, sharp and commanding.

Your breath hitched, your body already trembling from exhaustion, from blood loss, from the deep, horrible throbbing wrapping around your ribs like a vice.

Tommy moved instantly, his hands already reaching for you. You felt him brush your hands away before pressing a towel firmly against the open wound on your stomach. 

The moment the pressure hit, white-hot pain exploded through you.

You screamed.

 Your body arched off the mattress, hands flying to his wrist, gripping hard, your nails digging into his skin, trying to push him away.

"I know," Tommy rasped without budging, his jaw clenched so tightly it looked like he might break his teeth.

You tried to twist away, but his hands didn’t move, didn’t falter, didn’t let up.

Your vision swam, a high-pitched ringing buzzing in your ears, agony coiling through your body like fire, licking up your ribs, burning through your spine.

Polly was moving fast, grabbing bandages, ripping fabric, preparing whatever she needed, but all you could focus on was the pressure, the unbearable weight of Tommy’s hands pressing against your stomach.

"Fuck," Tommy cursed under his breath. "Pol, do something. Help her–"

"I need supplies, Tommy," Polly snapped. "I need you to go get them."

You saw Tommy hesitate.

"Tom," Polly’s voice was firmer now, demanding. "Go. Now."

A beat. Then, the pressure on your stomach lifted as he moved away. The moment Tommy’s hands left your body, you felt the loss like a cruel snap of cold air.

Your breath hitched, your body instinctively tensing, but Polly’s hands were already there, replacing his. 

She pressed tightly against the wound, and fresh agony ripped through you, another strangled cry spilling from your lips.

"Shh, darling," Polly murmured, her voice softer now, gentler than before, but still edged with urgency. "I know, I know. We’re going to get you all fixed up."

You let out a soft, weak noise as Tommy moved, as if your body somehow knew it was losing its only source of warmth, of safety.

"I’ll be right back," Tommy’s voice was hoarse, raw, full of something broken.

And then, the door swung shut. 

Your fingers clutched weakly at the sheets, your body writhing slightly, trying to escape the searing pain, but Polly held firm. "Easy," she murmured, one hand moving up to smooth your hair back from your face, her touch gentle despite the blood coating her fingers. "Just breathe."

You tried. But every inhale sent sharp daggers through your ribs, every second felt like your body was tearing itself apart.

"That’s it," Polly encouraged, even as her hands remained firm, even as she continued pressing into the wound. "Just keep breathing, sweetheart."

Footsteps. A door swinging open.

Then, his voice.

"Here," Tommy said, sounding breathless as he stormed back into the room. His hands were full of supplies.

Polly barely glanced up. "Put them on the table."

He did, his movements fast and urgent. But the moment he turned back to you, his face fell.

His blue eyes flickered to the blood pooling around Polly’s hands, to the torn fabric soaked with red, and then, to your face.

Your body was trembling, your breath coming shaky and weak, your skin far too pale.

Tommy’s hands curled into fists. Polly looked at him before releasing the pressure on your wound.

"It’s not clotting," she said, flat, grim. Polly exhaled sharply, grabbing the needle and thread. "We’ll have to stitch it up."

His jaw clenched, his throat working around words he couldn’t say, his hands hovering uselessly at his sides. Without a word, he took his place back beside you, his hands finding your shoulders, his grip steady, firm, unyielding.

Polly met his gaze. "Hold her down."

And with agony in his eyes, he did.

A sharp, searing sensation that tore through your body like fire, ripping you from the darkness and into the cruel reality of the moment. Your eyes flew open, your breath catching instantly as a white-hot, unbearable sting shot through your stomach.

A scream tore from your throat before you even knew what was happening.

"Keep her from moving!" Polly’s voice was urgent, firm, cutting through the haze of pain and confusion as she clutched the bottle of alcohol she was using to clean your wounds.

Then, strong hands gripped your shoulders.

"Shh, love, I know, I know."

Tommy pinned you down, his weight pressing against you just enough to keep you still, but not enough to hurt you.

You fought against it anyway, your body thrashing violently, panic and agony blurring together as Polly’s hands worked quickly, pressing something sharp against your skin. Another wave of pain crashed through you, and you sobbed, gasping, your body twisting uselessly beneath Tommy’s grip. 

"Please–" Your voice cracked, weak and frantic, as the burning sensation only grew worse. “Please, stop–”

Tommy’s grip tightened, his breath harsh against your ear as he whispered, "I know,” he repeated. “You have to let her do this."

You couldn’t do it, couldn’t bear the pain, the sting, the relentless wave of agony pressing down on every nerve in your body.

But Tommy wasn’t letting go. His hands stayed firm, keeping you still as Polly continued, her voice clipped, professional– but you could hear the pain in it too.

"It’ll be over soon," she murmured, but it barely reached you over the sound of your own ragged sobs.

Another sharp pain seared through your ribs, and your body arched violently, another broken cry ripping from your throat. Your fingers latched onto Tommy’s arm, gripping him so tightly your nails dug into his skin.

He didn’t flinch.

His voice was hoarse, desperate, like this was hurting him just as much as it was hurting you. "I got you," he murmured, his breath warm against your temple. "I’m right here, love. Just hold on. Just hold on."

But you couldn’t.

You felt yourself slipping away, the pain too much, too unbearable.

Your sobs grew softer, weaker, until the darkness swallowed you whole.

…

Sleep clung to you like a heavy shroud, pulling you under, keeping you trapped beneath the surface.

But then… voices.

Low, hushed, urgent.

You weren’t awake, not really. But the words drifted through the haze, barely reaching you, like an echo through water.

"I don’t know what happened in that room," Polly said, soft but grave, laced with something heavy, unspoken. "But our girl was hurt beyond what the eye can see."

There was silence– so suffocating that you could feel it settle over the room like a funeral shroud.

Then, Tommy’s voice, low, rough, dangerous in a way you had never heard before.

"What are you saying, Pol?"

A pause.

"You saw the bruises on her thighs, Tommy. The way her clothes were torn."

The words barely registered before a deep, unbearable shame clawed its way up your throat.

You wanted to pull the blanket tighter around you– to disappear, vanish, sink back into the darkness where none of this was real.

But your body wouldn’t listen. Your fingers twitched, barely moving against the sheets. Another silence. Longer this time. Heavier.

Then, Tommy’s voice, but it was different now. Not sharp, not angry. Shaken.

“Jesus Christ."

Another pause.

Then, a sound you never thought you’d hear from Tommy Shelby. A shaky exhale, almost like a breath that had been trapped in his chest for too long, forced out in a way that wasn’t entirely controlled.

You wanted to open your eyes.

Wanted to reach for him, for Polly, for something that made you feel whole again.

But your body was too broken, and your mind was too tired.

…

The room was quiet when you woke up.

Not the kind of peaceful quiet that brought comfort, but the kind that felt hollow, empty, like something had been ripped away. Your body felt heavy, every inch of you aching, wrapped in a deep, throbbing pain that radiated from your ribs, your face, your legs.

For a moment, you didn’t move. Didn’t even breathe too deeply.

Just listened.

The soft crackling of the fireplace. The distant murmurs of voices downstairs. The faint scent of whiskey, tobacco, and something familiar lingering in the air.

Then, movement

Your eyes shifted, and that’s when you saw him.

Tommy.

He was sitting in a chair beside the bed, his head bowed, his elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped together like he had been praying but never finished the prayer.

His hair was disheveled, his coat abandoned somewhere, his sleeves rolled up. He looked worn down.  Like he had been carrying too much weight for far too long.

Your throat felt tight. When you shifted slightly, trying to ease the ache in your body, the mattress creaked softly beneath you.

Tommy’s head snapped up instantly. His blue eyes locked onto you, and for a brief second they widened, raw and unguarded, before he jolted forward, hurrying to your side.

"Hey–" His voice was rough, low with exhaustion, relief, and something deeper, something broken. “Hey, hey, hey. I’m here. I’m right here.” 

You tried to speak, but nothing came out. Your throat tightened painfully, your lips parting as if to form words, but all that came was silence. Then– tears. Hot, silent tears spilled over your cheeks, streaking down your skin before you could stop them.

Tommy’s breath hitched, his face contorting slightly, as if the sight of you like this physically hurt him.

"Hey," he repeated, his hands reaching up, cupping your face carefully, his thumbs wiping away the tears as fast as they fell. "It’s alright. You’re alright."

But you weren’t. And you both knew it.

More tears spilled, your body trembling despite the warmth of the blankets, despite the fact that Tommy’s hands were steady, firm, and safe. You let out a weak, shaky exhale, your breath stuttering.

Tommy’s jaw tensed, the pad of his thumb still brushing along your cheek.

"You’re safe now," he whispered, his forehead nearly pressing against yours. "You hear me?"

You closed your eyes and nodded weakly, but the tears kept falling. They wouldn’t stop– wouldn’t slow, no matter how hard you tried to breathe through it, to swallow it down, to push it away like it wasn’t happening.

His hands never left your face, gentle, steady, as if he thought you might shatter completely if he let go.

He watched you closely, his expression tight, unreadable, but his eyes gave him away. They were soft. Without a word, Tommy shifted, slowly, carefully, and sat on the edge of the bed. His weight made the mattress dip. And then, he reached for you. Not all at once. Not suddenly. Just gently. One of his arms slid behind your back, the other under your legs, his movements slow, deliberate, giving you time to pull away if you wanted to. But you didn’t.  So, when he finally pulled you into him, when he gathered you against his chest, you just let him. Because the desire to be held so gently by him outweighed the pain in your stomach. 

A soft, shuddering sob broke from your throat the second your face pressed into his shoulder. His arms tightened and his chest rose and fell beneath you.

"I’ve got you," he said.

You just cried harder. Cried into his shirt, into his chest, into the only thing that felt remotely safe.

And Tommy just held you.

Like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.

… 

The hands were everywhere. Gripping, clawing, pressing against your skin.

Hot breath ghosted over your ear, cruel laughter filling the darkness as rough fingers bruised their way over your body.

"Not so tough now, are you?" 

You thrashed, but you were trapped, bound, helpless. No matter how hard you fought, kicked, screamed, you couldn’t get away.

"Shelby won’t want you now."

"Damaged goods."

"Bet he won’t even look at you when we’re done."

No. No, please.

You screamed.

You jerked awake violently, gasping, drenched in sweat, heart pounding in your chest like it was trying to escape. The room was dark, shadows stretching across the walls, but the nightmare was still there, lingering, suffocating.

A figure moved beside you, reaching for you–  Too close. Too fast.

"Don’t fucking touch me!" The words ripped from your throat before you even registered them, your voice sharp, frantic, trembling with terror. 

"Hey, hey, hey. It’s me. It’s just me."

You sucked in a sharp breath, your pulse roaring in your ears as the terror began to splinter, reality bleeding through the nightmare. Your eyes darted to his face.

Not them.

Tommy.

A shuddering sob broke from your lips as you reached forward. Tommy caught you immediately, his arms wrapping around you, holding you firmly but carefully.

"Shh, you’re alright," he murmured against your hair. "You’re safe. I’ve got you."

His warmth grounded you, but the nightmare still clung to you like poison, lingering in your skin, in your bones. You inhaled, your cheek resting against the curve between his shoulder and neck. His scent wrapped around you, familiar and safe. He smelled of whiskey, tobacco, gunpowder, something darker, something uniquely him.

The fabric of his shirt was soft, worn, and beneath it, you could feel the subtle heat of his skin, along with the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. It was faster than usual, uneven, like he wasn’t as composed as he wanted to be.

The silence stretched between you for a long time, a heavy, fragile thing hanging in the air.

Then, Tommy’s voice finally broke it. "What did they do to you?"

You stiffened. Every muscle in your body locked up, panic flaring hot in your chest. Your breath shook, your fingers twisting into his shirt as your mind raced, panicked, hesitated. 

If he knew, would he still want you?

"Shelby won’t want you now."

"Damaged goods."

"Bet he won’t even look at you when we’re done." 

The cruel messages from the men lingered in the forefront of your mind. You were damaged. Used. Broken. What if he’d see you differently now? What if he never touched you the same again? What if he’d– 

"Please,” he cut in. “I have to know." 

Slowly, you swallowed, your throat tight, aching, before you finally forced the words past your lips. "They–" your voice was barely a whisper. "They touched me, Tommy."

The air in the room shifted as Tommy stiffened. Then his jaw clenched, his breath sharp and ragged through his nose. Before you could process it, he was moving. Standing up and turning toward the door. For a second, your brain didn’t register it– or understand.

Then, it hit you. 

He was leaving… Heading straight for the door. Panic slammed into your chest, raw and frantic.

"Tommy–" Your voice broke, but he didn’t stop.

No, no, no– 

"I’m sorry, I– I tried," you choked out, your throat burning, your hands reaching for him but too weak to move from the bed. "I swear, I fought. I– I should’ve fought harder, I–"

Tommy froze in place.

You didn’t realize you were crying again, but the words kept spilling out, rushed and broken, desperate to keep him here, to explain how hard you fought. "I’m sorry," you gasped, barely able to breathe. "Please– please, don’t go– don’t leave me– I’m so sorry–"

Tommy turned sharply, crossing the room in two strides, and then, his hands were on your face, cradling you, forcing you to look at him.

"No." His voice was firm, steady, but his eyes… His eyes were shining, raw, and shattered. "This is not your fault."

Your breath hitched, but he didn’t let go.

"I should’ve been there," he whispered, voice thick with agony, regret, fury… at himself, at the men who did this, at everything. "You hear me? I should’ve been there. And I should never have sent you away. I was wrong. And I’m so fucking sorry."

A tear slipped down your cheek, and Tommy wiped it away with his thumb, his touch careful.

“I thought–” you stammered. “I thought you were going to leave.”

"Christ, I’m not leaving you love," he murmured, his voice so quiet, so broken it nearly undid you completely. "I just–" he swallowed thickly, his jaw tightening. "I want to go back there and kill every last one of those bastards for what they did to you."

You closed your eyes, your body shaking, exhausted, drained. But when you leaned forward, Tommy caught you instantly, pulling you into him, holding you tightly against his chest.

"Please stay," you whispered, your voice thin, fragile, desperate. "Please, Tommy– don’t go."

His hands tensed against your face, thumbs still brushing against your cheekbones, his blue eyes searching yours, reading every ounce of fear buried beneath the words.

"I’m not going anywhere, love," he murmured, his voice low, rough with emotion, as if saying the words out loud solidified them in stone.

A quiet, broken noise escaped your throat– not quite a sob, not quite relief, but something in between.

His hands slipped down, his arms gathering you close. Your forehead pressed against his chest, his warmth grounding you.

He dipped his head, his lips brushing against your temple, barely a whisper of contact, but the weight of it was enough.

"I never should’ve sent you away," he murmured, his voice softer now, but still laced with the guilt he would never forgive himself for. "And I promise you, love, I won’t make that mistake again."

Your fingers weakly clung to his shirt, your body melting against him as the last of your strength gave out. 

And Tommy held you together.

[briefinquiries]

Tommy Shelby x Reader: In the Lion’s Den

Summary: When your estranged father shows up unannounced in Birmingham, slipping into your home like he still has a right to be there, you do what you’ve always done, stay quiet, keep the peace, and pretend the past can’t hurt you. But Tommy Shelby isn’t a man who misses the signs, and when he discovers the bruises you tried to hide, he makes one thing clear: no one lays a hand on what’s his and walks away unscathed.

Word count: 5.2k

Warnings: domestic abuse, physical violence, and trauma, including past and present abuse by a parental figure, choking, panic attacks, and PTSD. Mentions of war trauma, blood, minor injuries, and threats of violence

A/N: welp, I’ve fallen back down the peaky blinders rabbit hole.

The day started like any other.

The warmth of the fireplace crackled softly in the background as you sat curled on the couch, a book in your lap. Tommy was at his desk, going through paperwork, cigarette smoke curling lazily in the air. It was a rare quiet evening, one of those moments where the weight of the world seemed just a little lighter.

Then, there was a knock at the door.

Your brow furrowed slightly. It was late– far too late for visitors. Unless it was Arthur staggering by, drunk again. You glanced at Tommy, who sighed, flicking his cigarette into the ashtray before standing. He made his way toward the door, his steps slow and deliberate.

“If Arthur's pissed on the doorstep again, I swear to God…”

Tommy pulled the door open, expecting Arthur’s drunken frame to be swaying on the other side, slurring apologies for waking the house.

But it wasn’t Arthur.

His stance shifted ever so slightly, his sharp blue eyes scanning the man before him.

You barely registered Tommy’s hesitation because the moment you saw him, the breath in your lungs turned to ice.

Because suddenly, there he was. 

Standing on your doorstep, smiling like he belonged there.

Your father. 

Your hands clenched in your lap.

“Surprise,” he drawled, stepping forward slightly. “You’re not going to invite your old man in?”

Your body remained frozen. “What… what are you doing here?”

Your father let out a chuckle, his eyes scanning the entryway as if he was appraising it. Then, he stepped forward without waiting for permission. “What? A father isn’t allowed to come see his only daughter once and a while?”

You blinked, your stomach twisting. “How did you get the address?”

He waved a hand. “Your brother gave it to me. Had to practically bully it out of him.”

Your jaw tightened. 

“What a place,” he mused, looking around before his eyes landed on Tommy. “And you must be the husband, aye?”

Tommy stood there, unreadable, his gaze cool and detached. He stepped forward, offering his hand, because that’s what men like him did– offered respect until given a reason not to.

Your father shook it.

“Thomas Shelby,” Tommy introduced himself, his voice measured.

Your father smirked. “Oh, yeah, I’ve heard of you alright.”

Tommy merely hummed, but his attention flickered back to you. He saw it then– the way your arms had wrapped around yourself, your fingers gripping your sleeves, your body tensed like a coiled spring.

You barely spoke all evening.

At dinner, Tommy tried to gauge your mood, throwing you small glances, subtle touches, but each time, you withdrew. When his hand brushed yours under the table, you flinched.

Just slightly. But Tommy noticed.

That night, after you’d made up the spare room and your father went to bed, Tommy pulled you into the hallway. His fingers tilted your chin up, his thumb brushing against your jaw.

“Everything alright?” His voice was soft, but there was something in it– something heavy.

You forced a small smile. “Of course. Just tired.”

Tommy studied you for a long moment, his gaze searching. He didn’t look convinced.

You exhaled, glancing toward the closed door of the spare room, then back at him. “I’m sorry he just showed up like that. I– I didn’t know he was coming.”

Tommy shrugged slightly, his thumb still absently stroking your cheek. “It’s alright. Family’s always welcome here. Lord knows mine barges in whenever they damn well please. It's kind of nice having it be yours for a change."

You let out a dry laugh, but it was hallow as your stomach twisted. “Right. Thank you.”

He watched you for a beat longer before sighing. “You sure you’re alright?”

You nodded, almost too quickly. “I’m fine.”

He exhaled through his nose, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face gently. Tommy watched you for another second, his thumb pausing at your cheekbone before he finally nodded.

“Alright, love.” His voice was quiet, but you knew him well enough to hear the doubt behind it. He wasn’t convinced.

You both made your way to the bedroom in silence. Tommy moved around the room, shrugging off his vest, unbuttoning his shirt. You sat at the edge of the bed, staring at your hands, the weight of your father’s presence pressing heavy on your chest.

You should have told Tommy the truth.

You should have said something.

But you couldn’t. You didn’t know if it was the shame that stopped you– not wanting Tommy to know where or what you really came from… 

He saw you as strong, capable, resilient.

But if he knew… If he knew that you used to be a girl who flinched at raised voices, who held her breath when footsteps neared, who learned how to measure a person’s anger like a storm on the horizon, would he still look at you the same?

The thought made your throat tighten.

You lay beside Tommy, facing away from him, curled in on yourself. A moment later, his arm draped over your waist, pulling you into his warmth.

“You’re tense,” he murmured against the back of your neck.

“Just tired,” you said again. 

He studied you for a moment before sighing, obviously unconvinced. But he kissed your shoulder anyway. “Get some rest, then.”

It took a long time before you finally did.

…

The days stretched on.

Your father made himself comfortable in your home, slipping into the space between you and Tommy like he had a right to be there.

He drank Tommy’s whiskey like it was his own, spoke to him like they were equals, like there was no history of violence, no reason for you to avoid looking him in the eye.

And yet, you did what you had always done…

You played the part: the dutiful daughter. The quiet peacemaker. The one who let his sharp words roll off her back like they didn’t cut.

But the part that made you sick to your stomach, was how easily you fell back into it. How, in his presence, you became her again– that pitiful version of yourself… that scared little girl who walked on eggshells, who measured her words carefully, who held herself so still when he passed by, like movement alone might set him off.

You hated it– hated that he still had that power over you. Hated that, despite the years of distance, despite the fact that you had built a new life for yourself, he still made you feel so small.

You tried desperately to keep Tommy from seeing that version of yourself. You smiled when you needed to. Laughed at the right moments. Acted like everything was fine.

But the longer the visit stretched out, the harder it was to hide your discomfort.

Days passed. Then nearly a week. Your father showed no sign of leaving.

One afternoon, while Tommy was away at work, you found your father in the hallway, stretching, rolling his shoulders like he’d spent the day laboring instead of lounging.

You took a deep breath.

“Dad.”

He looked up, raising a brow as if you had interrupted something important.

“How long are you planning to stay for?” you asked, keeping your voice even, cautious.

He shrugged, running a hand through his graying hair. “Dunno. Not sure yet.”

You shifted your weight, forcing yourself to hold your ground. “I just– Tommy has a lot going on, and I don’t want to impose.”

Your father scoffed, waving a dismissive hand. “Oh, please. Your husband’s got plenty of room. He’s not hurting, is he?”

You swallowed your frustration and tried again.

“Did you tell Mom you were coming?”

His expression changed. 

The lighthearted arrogance drained away, replaced by something darker, more dangerous. His posture stiffened, and his gaze turned sharp.

“That’s none of your business,” he said coldly.

You should’ve stopped there. Should’ve let it go. But something inside you, some small ember of defiance, pushed forward. “It is my business. And this is my house–”

The slap came so fast, you barely saw it coming.

The sharp crack echoed in the hallway, and before you could register what had happened, you were stumbling back, one hand flying to your cheek as heat bloomed across your skin.

Your breath hitched. Your father loomed over you, his face twisted in a sneer. “You don’t get to speak to me like that. Do you understand me? What I say or don’t say to your mother is between me and her. Understood?”

You nodded quickly, pressing your lips together, trying to swallow down the lump in your throat. “Sorry– I– I was just–” you stopped yourself. “Sorry.”

Your cheek burned and your heart pounded in your ears as you turned on your heel and walked away.

You closed yourself into the bathroom, locking it behind you before turning to the mirror.

The mark was already forming. A bright red outline, the shape of his palm clear against your skin. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes. You inhaled deeply, steadying yourself, gripping the edge of the sink until your knuckles went white.

…

That evening, you made dinner. A nice dinner. A meal you knew Tommy liked– something warm, familiar. A distraction. Maybe even something to please your father.

You set the table carefully, your hands only shaking slightly as you arranged the plates. You kept your face turned slightly away, hoping the dim lighting would mask the worst of it.

When Tommy got home, the door creaked open, and the familiar weight of his presence filled the space.

You were stirring something at the stove when his arms slipped around your waist from behind.

His touch was warm and grounding. His lips pressed a soft kiss to your shoulder as he murmured, “Smells good in here.”

You smiled– forced and practiced. “I thought I’d make us something nice.”

His arms tightened briefly. “God, it’s been a long day,” he murmured.

Then, as he leaned in, pressing another kiss just below your ear, he turned his head slightly, just enough for his gaze to catch the side of your face.

You felt him go still. His hands, steady on your waist, tensed.

His lips parted. “What’s this?” he asked, finger ghosting along the edge of your cheek.

Your stomach twisted. You knew what he had seen. The mark. The redness that you couldn’t fully hide. 

You turned your head slightly, brushing him off. “Oh, it’s nothing. I–” You exhaled, forcing a lighthearted tone as you stepped away from his embrace. “I walked right into that hallway shelf. Must not have been paying attention. I was stupid.”

Tommy didn’t say anything for a long moment. You could feel his eyes trained on you, sharp and assessing, as you moved around the kitchen. Before he could challenge your excuse, another voice cut in.

“Tommy!”

Your father stepped into the room, grinning, swirling a half-full glass of whiskey in his hand. “Good to see you, son. How’s business today?”

Tommy and your father sat at the table, engaging in light conversation. Your father asked about business. Tommy responded, his voice steady, polite.

But his eyes kept flicking to you.

You barely spoke. You moved carefully, quietly, only nodding when necessary.

Tommy noticed. He saw the way you kept your head slightly down. The way your smile didn’t quite reach your eyes. The way your hands trembled slightly when you reached for a glass.

You forced yourself to sit through dinner, every bite feeling like it might turn to ash in your mouth. Every sip of water was just an excuse to avoid speaking.

You were suffocating. You needed to get out.

So, when the dishes were cleared, and the conversation between Tommy and your father began to stretch into the evening, you pushed your chair back and stood.

“I think I’ll turn in early,” you murmured, keeping your voice light. “Didn’t sleep very well last night.”

Tommy’s gaze snapped to you immediately.

Your father barely glanced up. “Night, sweetheart,” he muttered, already swirling the last of his drink in his glass.

Tommy, though– he studied you. You didn’t meet his eyes.

He opened his mouth like he might say something, might challenge you, might ask you to stay, but after a moment, he simply nodded.

“Alright, love.” His voice was careful. Measured.

You forced a small smile before slipping from the room.

…

It was late when Tommy finally came to bed.

You heard him before you saw him, the slow creak of the bedroom door, the quiet sound of his footsteps across the floor.

He moved carefully, as if not wanting to wake you.

You kept your breathing steady and your eyes closed and pretended to be asleep. 

The mattress dipped slightly as he crawled in beside you. For a moment, there was nothing but silence. Then, slowly, his hand came to rest on your hip. His touch was gentle, hesitant. You didn’t move. Didn’t react.

A deep sigh left his lips, and you felt the warmth of his breath against the back of your neck. His grip on your hip tightened slightly, just for a moment, before he exhaled again and let it relax.

You waited for him to say something– to ask, maybe demand answers. 

But he didn’t.

Instead, he did what Tommy Shelby never did. He hesitated.

And it was at that moment you realized, he was waiting for you.

Waiting for you to come to him.

But you weren’t ready. So, you remained still, your heart hammering against your ribs as his thumb trailed lazily along your hip. Then, he stretched his arm carefully around your waist and pulled you close.

… 

You kept up the act– kept making dinner. Kept playing hostess. Kept pretending like the walls of your own home weren’t closing in on you.

A few nights later, you found yourself in the kitchen, stirring a pot on the stove, when you heard the front door swing open.

The sound was jarring, clumsy, forceful, followed by the sound of staggering footsteps. 

The hair on the back of your neck stood up before you even turned around. Your father stepped into the kitchen, his shirt wrinkled, his eyes glassy, the stench of whiskey thick in the air.

He wasn’t just drunk, he was angry. A cold wave of fear ran down your spine.

You froze, hands gripping the edge of the counter as he loomed in the doorway.

“Look at you,” he slurred, waving a hand at the dinner on the stove. “Little housewife, cooking for your big, important husband.”

“Dinner’s almost ready,” you said, picking up a glass cup from the counter and trying to keep your voice steady. “You should sit down.”

His eyes narrowed. “What? You're giving me orders now?”

Your grip tightened on the glass. He took another step closer.

“You always were a smug little thing, weren’t you?” He muttered, shaking his head. “Always had something to say.”

You held your breath as he took another unsteady step forward, his eyes dark and unfocused, but sharp enough to cut straight through you. “I didn’t mean–”

“Now that you've married a Shelby, you're arrogant, too. Tell me,” he interrupted, the word twisted with venom. “Was it him who kept you from coming home all this time? Or was it you? Think you’re too good for your own family now? With your rich fucking husband at your beck and call?”

Your grip on the glass tightened. “You’re drunk.” You tried to turn away, but your father reached out to clutch your wrist. 

“Don’t walk away from me.” His grip tightened, his fingers digging into your skin like a vice.

Your stomach twisted violently. “Let go,” you said, your voice shaking despite your efforts to sound firm.

He didn’t. Instead, he yanked you back toward him, forcing you to stumble. The glass in your hand wobbled precariously, liquid sloshing over the rim.

“The king of fucking Birmingham, aye? And you’re what? His housewife? Or his whore?”

“Stop it,” you cut in, trying to wrench your wrist free. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“I don't care who you're married to. You don’t get to fucking tell me what to do,” he spat.

Your pulse hammered, panic rising in your chest. “Dad, just stop– you’re drunk.”

He let out a bitter laugh, the sound jagged, cruel. “Drunk?” He sneered. “I’ve been drinking since before you could fucking walk, girl. You think you know better than me? Think that slimey Shelby husband of yours turned you into something special?”

“Tommy,” you swallowed thickly, forcing the words out. “Is a good man. I know that term might be hard for you to comprehend–"

A dark flash crossed his face. And then– the slap. It struck you with enough force to snap your head to the side, the sting burning hot across your cheek. The room blurred for a moment, your ears ringing.

Your father didn’t give you time to react. Before you could move, before you could process, he shoved you hard against the wall.

The glass slipped from your fingers, hitting the floor and shattering, fragments scattering across the kitchen tiles.

Your back collided with the surface, your breath leaving you in a sharp gasp. The pain barely registered before his hands were on you again– this time around your throat, squeezing. 

Your hands flew up, clawing at his wrists, your body struggling instinctively. But his grip was tight, unrelenting.

Your chest heaved.

Your lungs burned.

A strangled sound escaped you, but it wasn’t loud enough. Not enough to stop him.

His breath was hot against your face as he leaned in. He was seething. His teeth clenched together as his eyes bore down on you with pure hatred. 

Your vision blurred. Your limbs weakened. The edges of your consciousness began to flicker, the darkness creeping in.

In the hazy distance, you vaguely heard the sound of the front door opening, followed by heavy footsteps.

Then, the pressure around your throat disappeared instantly as your father was ripped away from you. You collapsed to the floor in a heap, gasping, your hands flying to your throat as air rushed back into your lungs. Your body shook violently, but you barely noticed.

Because in front of you, Tommy had your father by the collar, slamming him against the kitchen table with enough force to rattle the dishes.

The look on Tommy’s face was lethal.

Your father coughed, groaning, trying to push himself up. But Tommy was on him before he could move.

His fist connected with your father’s jaw– once, then twice. The crack of bone meeting bone echoing through the room.

Blood splattered across the floor. Your father groaned, but Tommy wasn’t done. He grabbed him again, dragging him up by his shirt, slamming him against the wall this time.

Your father choked, spitting blood.

Tommy leaned in, his voice eerily calm now. “You ever touch her again, and I’ll kill you with my barehands. You hear me?”

Your father wheezed, coughing weakly. “Fuck you–”

In an instant, Tommy pulled his gun.

He pressed the barrel beneath your father’s chin, tilting his head back slightly, forcing him to meet his gaze. The air in the kitchen was thick, the only sound the ragged breathing of the men in front of you.

Your father’s eyes widened, his drunken haze fading into something closer to fear.

Tommy’s finger flexed on the trigger.

Your stomach twisted violently.

“Tommy,” you pleaded, voice barely above a whisper.

His grip didn’t loosen.

At least not right away. His chest heaved, his knuckles white around the handle of the gun. 

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Tommy exhaled sharply and lowered the gun.

“Get the fuck out of my house,” he spat before releasing your father’s collar. 

Your father crumpled to the floor, coughing, gasping.

Your father didn’t wait to be told twice.

His hand clutched where Tommy had struck him, his movements shaky as he scrambled to his feet. Blood dripped from his split lip onto the kitchen floor, but he didn’t bother wiping it away. He staggered toward the door, barely able to walk straight, a mix of pain and drunken stupor slowing his steps.

He didn’t even bother to grab his things. Or have the courage to look back at you.

Just stumbled toward the exit, his breath ragged and uneven, one last curse muttered under his breath as he shoved the door open and disappeared into the night.

Tommy followed him to the threshold, his cold gaze never leaving the man’s retreating figure.

Then, click. The sound of the lock sliding into place echoed through the house.

Tommy exhaled sharply, pressing his palm against the door, as if physically barring your father from ever stepping foot in this house again. His shoulders were tense, the muscles in his arms flexing as he gripped the wood tightly.

Your focus shifted to the glass– the shattered pieces lay scattered across the floor, sharp edges gleaming under the dim kitchen light.

Your hands trembled as you scrambled forward, sinking to your knees, desperate to clean it up. You needed to fix this. You needed to make things right.

Tommy was angry. You knew he was.

And if there was one thing you had learned in your life, it was how to keep the peace. How to stay quiet, to smooth over the damage, to do whatever it took to make things okay again.

So you reached for the shards, ignoring the way your fingers shook. One after another, you gathered them in your hands, barely noticing when a sharp edge knicked your skin.

A thin line of red beaded at your skin, but you kept going.

If you could just get it all cleaned up– 

Strong hands stopped you, fingers curling around the wrist you had collected pieces in.

“Love.”

The word was soft, but firm.

You hadn’t even realized he had moved, but now he was crouched in front of you, his hands gently prying your fist open so that he could take the glass from you.

You tried to protest, shaking your head. “I– I just need to clean this up, Tommy, I–”

“Leave it,” he said quietly, reaching his arm up and discarding the shards on the countertop.

Your lip trembled. “I– Tommy, I–”

You couldn’t finish the sentence. Because the panic was setting in now, hitting you all at once. Your hands shook violently, the tremors traveling up your arms, your whole body beginning to quake. Your breath came in short, sharp gasps, your chest rising and falling too fast.

You were unraveling.

“I– I can fix it, Tommy, I have to–” Your words broke apart into a sob as you tried to pull away from him, your limbs weak and frantic all at once. “I can fix it–”

Tommy didn’t let you go. “Hey, hey, hey,” he said gently. "It's alright."

Your eyes flickered back to the rest of the shattered glass, your mind spiraling. “It’s a mess, I made a mess, I– I didn’t mean to, I–”

“Love, stop…” His voice was a tether, grounding you even as you spiraled.

But you couldn’t stop.

Your fingers clawed weakly at his arms, desperate for something, anything, to keep you from sinking completely.

“I’m sorry,” you choked out, your whole body trembling so badly you could barely keep yourself upright. “I– I didn’t mean to–”

Tommy swore under his breath. Then, without hesitation, he pulled you in. His arms wrapped around you, strong and steady.

You let out a broken sound, your fingers gripping his shirt in fists as sobs racked your frame. You were shaking so hard it felt like you might come apart completely.

But Tommy held you together.

His hand cradled the back of your head, anchoring you to him. “Shh,” he murmured, his voice thick with something you couldn’t quite name. “Stop, just stop.”

The words tumbled out anyway. “I– I swear I didn’t mean to make him angry, I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to–”

You felt the way his breath hitched, the way his hold on you tightened just slightly. 

“Do not apologize,” he said, voice low and steady. “Do not apologize for that man. You hear me?”

You shook your head, barely able to breathe. “But I– I should’ve just–”

“No.” Tommy’s tone left no room for argument.

His hand slid from your back to cup your face, forcing you to meet his gaze. His blue eyes were burning now– not with rage, not with violence, but with something unwavering.

“Now you listen to me,” he murmured, his thumb brushing away a tear from your cheek. “He did this. Not you.”

A sob caught in your throat, but he didn’t let you look away. 

Tears blurred your vision, but the panic still gripped you tight, its claws lodged deep in your ribs. You shook your head weakly. “I– I should have done something.”

Tommy’s gaze darkened, his hands firm but gentle as they cradled your face. “Like what?” His voice was unwavering, pushing you to say it.

You swallowed, your breath coming in shallow gasps. “I should’ve just kept quiet. But I pushed him. I should’ve known better.”

The moment the words left your lips, shame burned through you like acid. It felt filthy to say it out loud.

Tommy inhaled sharply, his grip tightening ever so slightly. His thumb skimmed over the fading red mark on your cheek, the bruises forming along your throat, and something behind his eyes fractured.

“He would’ve done it anyway,” Tommy said, his tone quieter now. “No matter what you did. No matter what you said. Because men like that don’t need a reason to hurt people.”

Realization washed over you.

He didn’t blame you.

Tommy didn’t blame you.

You had spent your whole life believing it was your fault. That every slap, every harsh word, every cruel punishment was something you had earned.

But Tommy didn’t see it that way. He saw him as the problem. He saw him as the one at fault.

Not you.

The weight of that realization shattered something inside you, splintering through your chest like glass. You let out a broken sound, your body crumbling under the weight of all of it.

And Tommy caught you. He pulled you into his arms again, crushing you against him, holding you so tightly it felt like he was trying to anchor you to the world, to him.

And you let him.

You clung to him, your fingers twisting into his shirt, needing to feel the solidness of him, the warmth, the safety.

Tommy pressed his lips to the top of your head, lingering there as his breath shuddered against your skin. And he didn’t let go. Not when your sobs finally quieted, not when your breathing finally steadied, not even when your body had stopped trembling in his arms.

He just held you.

His hands ran slow, soothing strokes down your back, grounding you in the steady rhythm of his touch. His breath was warm against your hair, his chest solid beneath your cheek, rising and falling in time with yours.

For a long time, neither of you spoke. 

Then, finally, his voice broke the silence. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

You stiffened slightly, but his grip didn’t loosen.

“I would’ve thrown him to the wolves the second he walked through the fucking door,” he murmured, his jaw tightening against your forehead. “Christ, I thought you wanted him here.”

You swallowed, gripping the fabric of his shirt in your hands, but you didn’t answer. You didn’t know how.

Because how could you explain that some wounds never really heal? That no matter how far you run, no matter how much time passes, the fear always lingers– deep, insidious, always waiting for an excuse to crawl back up your throat and choke the words before they ever leave your lips?

You felt Tommy sigh against you. His arms tightened, just slightly, like he was bracing himself.

And then, his voice dipped lower. “I should’ve pushed harder,” he murmured. “I knew– I knew something was wrong. And I let you tell me it wasn’t.”

That got your attention.

Your breath hitched, and you pulled back just enough to look at him, your hands still fisted in his shirt.

“Tommy, no.” Your voice was hoarse, shaky, but firm. “This isn’t your fault.”

His jaw tensed.

“I just wasn’t ready to talk about it,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper. 

Tommy studied you for a long moment, his blue eyes unreadable. Then, finally, he nodded, exhaling slowly.

“How long?”

You gazed up at him questioningly.

"How long has he been hurting you for?"

His blue eyes burned into yours, steady, patient, but unrelenting.

You took a breath, one that barely filled your lungs, and whispered,

“I think I was six the first time. I accidentally left the laundry out in the rain. Ruined his favorite suit."

You felt the shift in him. The way his hands, still cradling your face, tightened slightly. The way his breathing turned just a shade too slow, too controlled, like he was forcing himself to stay calm.

"I figured I deserved that one. It was an expensive suit and… well, we didn't come from money."

You swallowed, your throat tight, forcing the words out even as they scraped against something raw inside you.

“But the next time it happened, it was something smaller. I don’t even remember what I did.” You let out a weak, humorless breath. “I think I knocked over a drink. Or maybe I spoke when I wasn’t supposed to.”

You shifted slightly, staring at the spot on the floor where the glass had shattered earlier, as if it might somehow piece itself back together.

“Eventually, the reasons stopped mattering, I guess,” you murmured. “He’d get angry over anything. If you looked at him the wrong way, or even if you were just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

Your fingers twisted into the fabric of Tommy’s shirt, a subconscious need to hold onto something solid.

“When I was nine, he threw me against the table." Your throat felt tight, but the words were coming now, unraveling like thread. “I hit the edge. It cracked a rib, I think. I couldn’t breathe right for weeks.”

Tommy exhaled, sharp and controlled, like he was holding something down, something dangerous.

“The next day, he brought me flowers.” A bitter smile tugged at the corner of your mouth. “To say he was sorry.”

Your voice wavered. “I don't know why but kept them in my room until they wilted. Because no matter how badly he hurt me... I think I still wanted to believe he loved me.”

The words felt foreign coming out of your mouth, like admitting them made them more real. More pathetic.

"I don't know what happened," you admitted. "He showed up here and I just... I panicked. It felt like I was that nine year old girl again. Just trying to make him happy, despite how scared he always made me. It felt like... Like I didn’t belong to myself anymore."

Tommy's hand rose to cup your face, his fingers brushing tenderly over your bruised cheek. His thumb traced the fading outline of your father’s fingers, and his gaze darkened, his lips pressing into a firm line.

Then, after a long pause, he spoke. “Fear that deep that never goes away,” he murmured, his voice quieter now, distant. “Not completely.”

You blinked at him, something heavy settling in your chest. He wasn’t just talking about you anymore.

“France?” you whispered.

His jaw tightened slightly. “Aye.”

His thumb brushed absently over your skin, but his gaze had drifted, staring past you now, as if he was seeing something else entirely.

“I used to think I’d come back and it would be over,” he continued, his voice steady, but different. He was using that careful, guarded tone he used when speaking of the war. “That the things I saw, the things I felt... they’d stay behind, buried in the trenches where they belonged.”

A humorless breath left him. “They didn’t.”

A silence stretched between you. You wondered if he had ever admitted that the war hadn’t ended when he stepped back onto English soil.

Just like your past hadn’t ended when you left home.

Your fingers curled slightly against his chest, your breath uneven. “How do you live with it?”

Tommy’s eyes refocused on you.

“I haven’t quite figured that one out yet,” he admitted.

His thumb brushed absentmindedly over your collarbone. “But it helps to find things that keep you here.” His voice dropped lower, his eyes locked onto yours. “Things worth staying for.”

Tommy exhaled, his fingers pressing lightly against your skin. “And maybe one day, you wake up, and you realize that even though it's still there, that fear doesn’t own you anymore.”

You swallowed thickly, your voice barely above a whisper. “And what keeps you here, Tommy?”

His hand on your chest tightened slightly, his fingers curling over your heart. His breath brushed against your skin. Then, softly, almost so softly you didn’t hear it, he sighed. “I thought that was obvious.” 

His hand slid up, fingers trailing along your jaw before cupping your cheek with a tenderness that made your chest ache.

“I’ll always protect you,” he murmured, his voice low, steady. Certain. “I mean it,” he said. “You never have to be afraid in this house again. Not while I’m breathing.”

The way he said it– it wasn’t just a promise.

It was a fact.

A truth carved into the very foundation of who he was. 

You swallowed thickly, pressing your forehead against his chest, letting his warmth, his presence, his words wrap around you like armor.

Tommy’s arms came around you again, strong and steady, holding you like he never planned on letting go.

[deerfawnn]

drunk

pairing: jack abbot x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) summary: in which you get drunk, and jack abbot takes it upon himself to take care of you. content warnings: implied age gap, sort of a size difference?, reader's drunk so she's veryyyy dizzy, they are kind of aware of the fact that they like each other but also they're doing nothing about it, i think that's it? lmk if i missed something a/n: hii!! this is my first jack fic ever, so i'm quite nervous!! but i hope you like this <3

The bar was loud enough to be comfortable, quiet enough to pretend you were having actual conversations. You'd stopped trying to follow conversations along about an hour ago.

Your finger traced the condensation on your glass.Under the table, your foot found Jack's. You'd started this maybe thirty minutes ago, toying with his foot idly while he talked to Robby about whatever. You weren't listening anymore.

Jack let you.

He didn't pause his conversation or acknowledge it at all, except he also didn't move his foot away. So you kept going, brushing against him, hooking your foot around his, pulling back, finding him again. A lazy game only you were playing.

After a while, your foot got tired. You stopped toying and just settled your foot over his, letting it rest there and he held it.

You'd been careful, obviously. You knew which leg was his prosthetic. But honestly? You were pretty sure he'd have let you do it anyway. Jack was like that with you. Let you get away with things he'd never let anyone else try.

Jack kept talking and holding your foot. But when you stopped moving, he turned.

You were slumped slightly in your seat, one hand against your cheek, finger still tracing the glass mindlessly. The position made your lips pucker slightly, your focus entirely on the nothing you were drawing on the condensation. Bored. Tired. Drunk enough that you'd forgotten to pretend otherwise.

Jack had to suppress a smile at that. He lifted your foot gently, then set it back down and slowly untangled his from yours.

"You okay?" he mumbled, low enough that Robby wouldn't hear over the bar noise.

"Yeah." You kept tracing the glass.

Jack turned his body fully toward you now. His hand came up, barely touching, just fingertips as he brushed your hair away from your face, tucking it behind your ear from the side he was seeing.

"I'm not sure you are, sweetheart."

He let his hand drop from your hair, and for the first time all night, got a proper look at your side profile.

You finally lifted your head off your hand and turned to him. "No, I am. I promise." You rubbed your eye softly.

Jack shot you a look, that look, the one that said he didn't believe you but wasn't going to argue.

He turned back to Robby, to whatever conversation they'd been having. But he stayed close. And as he did, his hands found the scarf you'd been wearing all night. He started to work it loose, realizing exactly how overheated you must have been.

You let him.

Because it's Jack. And Jack takes care of you. Always has. Always will.

Even Robby didn't budge, kept talking like nothing was happening, because honestly? This was just how Jack was with you. How he'd always been and Robby had stopped mentioning it months ago.

At some point, Jack finished with the scarf and spoke without looking at you. "You should stop wearing that so much." He folded it carefully. "It's May."

You were slumped against the back of your seat now, warm and loose and not really tracking much. "It's really pretty, though." You sounded like a child. But that was a given. You were drunk off your ass.

"Yeah. It is." Jack glanced at you and shook his head fondly.

While you slouched and let the bar noise wash over you, he reached for your bag and opened it. He carefully tucked the folded scarf inside, then set your purse back down within your reach.

Usually you'd hang out with Trinity at the bar, but she'd gone God knows where with Victoria at some point, leaving you stranded at the table with Jack and Robby and their never ending medical talk. Not that you minded, necessarily. Jack was here.

Plus you were tired. You hadn't slept well, hadn't slept well in days, honestly, though you'd never admit it. So you had no idea why you'd even come in the first place. Maybe it was because this was the first day off you'd had in ages. And sitting at home alone, watching baking competitions while you ate chocolate straight from the wrapper, had sounded kind of sad. So you'd come out.

Maybe it was also your chance to see Jack in outside clothes. Not that you didn't enjoy seeing him in his scrubs, you did, obviously, you weren't blind, but there was something about him in regular clothes that hit different. The way his jeans fit. The shirt he’d worn tonight was dark grey, the sleeves tight against his biceps.

Too bad you were too drunk to really appreciate it tonight.

The bar seemed louder now. You weren't sure if that was your drunkenness perceiving it that way or if the crowd had actually picked up. Either way, the noise was starting to press against your skull in a way that wasn't entirely pleasant.

You noticed a little drip of beer left in your glass, just a swallow, really, and you picked it up and drank it, plopping the glass back down satisfied that the little yellow was fully gone now.

Your not quite existent thoughts were interrupted by Jack’s hand brushing up and down your back. "How are you feeling?" He leaned in closer, mouth near your ear.

Ah. The bar had gotten louder. You weren't imagining it.

You turned your head, slightly caught off guard by how close he was, close enough to count his eyelashes, but you didn't pull back.

"Okay." You mumbled it, then turned your head away again, facing forward. Jack stared at you anyway. You could feel it.

"Jack."

"Hm?"

"Stop staring. I'm fine."

He chuckled, a sound you felt more than heard. "You're not fine."

His hand stopped moving, resting flat against the middle of your back. "Come on. I'm taking you home." His thumb started moving again, just brushing back and forth.

You sighed loudly, turning your head back to him. "Will you carry me home?" You were joking. Obviously. Being ridiculous. Drunk and warm and not wanting to move.

"Sure." Jack said it like it was nothing. Like carrying you home was the most natural thing in the world. He was already scooting off his seat.

"Jack!" You smiled despite yourself, rubbing your eyes tiredly again.

He smiled back, softly. And you knew, even drunk, even with your head spinning slightly, that he would have carried you either way. Joking or not.

That was just Jack.

The bar swayed slightly as you scooted out of the booth. Or maybe that was just you. Hard to tell at this point.

Jack was already standing, waiting at the edge of the seat with his hands.

You stared at his hands. Not on purpose.

Okay, maybe a little on purpose. But in your defense, they were right there, in front of you, and you were drunk enough that staring felt justified. His fingers, the way his knuckles looked, the silver band on his ring finger.

You stared anyway. Your drunk brain had apparently decided this was fine. Normal and acceptable behavior.

Luckily for you, Jack was good at reading the room. Or, more accurately, good at pretending he hadn't noticed whatever embarrassing thing you were currently doing. He tilted his head slightly, trying to catch your eyes. "Come on, sweetheart."

You finally glanced up, shaking whatever expression was on your face into something less obvious, and took his hands. He pulled you gently off the seat, and then the world decided to keep moving even though you'd stopped.

You stood there for a moment. Then another moment. Then a moment too long. Your eyes squeezed shut as you gripped his hands, waiting for the dizziness to pass.

Jack didn't move, instead he stood there, watching you with something soft in his expression that you couldn't see because your eyes were still closed.

After a beat too long, he got worried. "Hey." His voice was quiet. "Don't sleep on me." He let go of one of your hands and touched your cheek. Barely.

Your eyes opened immediately. "'M not asleep." The words came out mushier than you intended. "Just dizzy. Really dizzy." You blinked at him, trying to focus. "Please don't let go."

"I won't." He dropped his hand from your cheek but kept the other one firmly wrapped around yours. "You okay with me just holding your hand, or do you need more support?"

"Waist." You didn't even hesitate. Didn't even have it in you to be embarrassed about how quickly that came out.

Jack smiled. "Okay."

He didn't say anything about how that was exactly what he'd been hoping for. Didn't let on that his heart did something dumb when you said it. Just gently grabbed your arm, draped it over his shoulder, and slid his own arm around your waist. "You good?" He turned his head to look at you, close enough that you could see how hazel his eyes were.

"Good." You smiled up at him.

The walk to his car was long. Way too long, honestly. Jack had parked outside and every step felt like three. You stumbled twice. He just tightened his arm around your waist and kept going.

At some point you realized you hadn't said goodbye to Trinity or Victoria. You mumbled something about it, half panicked and Jack just shook his head. "It's okay. Robby will let them know."

Eventually, finally, you reached his car. And then he had to let go of you to get the door open. You groaned loudly. The kind of groan that belonged in a teenager having a tantrum, except you were a grown adult who was simply too drunk and too tired to care about dignity.

Jack started chuckling.

"You find all of this too funny." You leaned heavily against his car, glaring at him with zero actual heat. "I don't like it." He was still chuckling as he opened the door. Soft chuckles that made him shake his head slightly. "Stop making fun of me." You tried to sound stern. It came out sleepy.

"I'm not." He was smiling. "I promise." His hand found your waist again and you felt yourself relax into the touch before you could stop it. "Watch your head."

He guided you down into the seat carefully, one hand on your waist, the other hovering near the top of the door frame like he'd catch you if you forgot to duck. Which, honestly? You might have. The night was fuzzy.

You plopped down into the seat, your head lulling against the headrest like it was too heavy to hold up on its own. The leather was cool against your warm cheek. Nice. You might just stay here forever.

"There you go." He said it quietly.

Jack pushed the door wider, so he could bend down to your level. The interior light spilled over both of you as he leaned in, reaching across you for the seatbelt.

"You smell nice," you mumbled.

He clicked the belt into place. "I smell like a bar."

"You smell nice." You said it again, correcting him.

Jack paused, looking at you properly now. The kind of look that missed nothing. He realized then that you were much drunker than he'd thought.

He smiled anyway, shook his head slightly. He reached up and carefully tucked your hair behind your ear like it was muscle memory now, so you could see him better.

Not that you were looking. Your eyes were closed again.

But then his fingers brushed your skin, and your eyes fluttered open, startled by the closeness. He didn't mention your staring, didn't comment on how your breath caught slightly. Just held your gaze for a moment, before speaking quietly.

"You want to go to your place or mine?"

Your eyes went wide. Wide enough that if you'd been sober, you'd have been mortified. "Is your place an option?" The excitement in your voice was impossible to miss.

Jack's eyebrows lifted slightly and he pulled back a fraction. His hand rested on the side of the door, steadying himself.

"Yeah." His voice was measured. "I'm concerned about you. You've had way too much alcohol. I'd rather not have you out of my sight."

You tilted your head, processing this. "I can take care of myself."

His arm traveled up to the top of the door frame now, leaning in slightly as he looked down at you. The position made him seem bigger somehow. "I know you can." He reached down, catching your hand just as you were about to rub your eyes again. His fingers wrapped around yours gently, stopping you. "But I'd still like to help."

You stared at him. Then your eyes dropped to his hand holding yours. "Okay." It came out small. Nothing like your usual self.

Jack smiled. Then he let go and straightened up, pulling the door closed.

You watched him through the window as he walked around the front of the car, the night dark behind him. He opened his door, slid into the driver's seat, and glanced over at you. "Doing okay?"

"Yeah."

He nodded back, satisfied with that, and started the engine.

The ride was quiet. Your eyes were closed, just letting the movement of the car rock you gently while the warmth from the seat seeped into your tired body.

"I can't wait to see your home." The words came out before you fully realized you'd spoken them.

Jack glanced at you briefly, then back at the road. A red light was coming up, and he slowed the car to a stop. "Why's that?"

You tilted your head against the seat, turning to look at him properly. The streetlight above cast warm orange light through the windshield, catching the lines of his face.

"'Cause I just wanna know more about you." The words hung in the air between you, and you watched the slight shift in his eyes, the way he held your gaze a moment longer than necessary.

Then he nodded. "Guess you will in a couple of minutes."

You smiled. "Do you have a cat?"

"No, I don't have a cat." He paused, glancing at you again as the light turned green and he started moving. "You think I'm capable of taking care of a cat?"

You raised your eyebrow at him, still smiling. "You're doing a great job with me right now." He'd been taking care of you all night. All the time, really, if you thought about it. Which you tried not to. Usually.

Jack turned his head toward you for a second, but long enough for you to catch the look on his face. He was surprised, maybe, like he hadn't expected you to say that. "You're comparing yourself to a cat?"

You shrugged. "Cats are nice. I'm nice."

He smiled. "Yeah. You are nice."

You felt your face warm, shy in a way you hadn't been a moment ago. "Yeah?" you asked, voice smaller now.

"Very nice." He said it like he meant it.

You made a happy sound. The kind of sound you couldn't have stopped if you tried, because Jack Abbot just called you very nice, and he was your boss, and also your crush, and also currently driving you to his apartment, and none of that made sense but all of it felt right.

"You're nice too," you said softly.

Jack didn't respond. Just kept driving, eyes on the road, but you caught the barely there smile at that.

You stared out the window for a while, watching streetlights blur past. But your brain was still turning, still willing to say things you'd never say sober. "Ellis said you're nicer to me than to everyone else."

There. You'd said it. Put it out in the world.

Jack's hands tightened on the wheel. Ah. He got it now. Drunk you was honest. Vulnerable. The kind of vulnerable that usually hid behind jokes and deflection and pretending not to care.

"Would that be a problem?" he asked, testing the ground.

You shook your head, still looking out the window. "No." you paused. "I just wonder why."

The car slowed. You heard the engine cut out, felt the sudden stillness settle around you. You glanced outside but you didn't really look. Pretended to, though.

"Seriously?" he asked.

You met his eyes. And suddenly you weren't just drunk anymore, you were aware of how the car felt smaller now.

"You're asking too many questions tonight, Jack." You grumbled it, but it came out nervous. The kind of nervous you get when you ask something you weren't sure you wanted the answer to. "Just answer the question."

He chuckled. Almost nervous, if Jack Abbot even got nervous. And you realized, dimly, that you'd never heard him nervous before.

"I'm not answering this one." Your heart dropped, but he kept going. "Because you know the answer already."

He was staring at you and you stared back, frozen, because yes. Yes, you did know. You'd known for a while, probably. Known in the way he looked at you, the way he found you in a crowded room, the way he let you get away with things he'd never let anyone else try. Known in the foot under the table, the scarf folded into your bag, known in the way he was driving you to his place.

But hearing it straight up like this while drunk off your mind was something you hadn't expected.

You looked away first. Your heart was too loud, your face too warm, your brain too fuzzy to process the weight of what just happened.

The silence stretched.

Then, softly Jack spoke again. "Come on. Let's get you inside."

You bit your lip, watching as Jack got out of the car. The door closed with a solid thunk, and then he was walking around the front, headlights catching him briefly before he disappeared into shadow, then reappearing at your door. He opened it softly, the night air rushing in cool against your warm skin, and leaned down to undo your seatbelt.

"Didn't mean to make you uncomfortable." He said quietly. "I'm sorry."

You shook your head immediately. "Not uncomfortable." You reached for his hands without thinking. "Just…" You searched for the word. It floated somewhere in your fuzzy brain, just out of reach. "Shy?" You smiled up at him, hoping that was the right one.

He smiled back. "Shy is good."

You smiled back, warmth spreading through your chest. Then he was helping you out of the car, guiding you up and out until you were standing, leaning against the doorframe for balance. He shut your door and the car beeped twice as it locked.

You stayed leaned against the car for a moment, looking at him. He stood in front of you now, arms crossed loosely over his chest, watching you.

"I know your answer." You said softly, barely meeting his eyes. "You know. Before. I know it."

He uncrossed his arms, let them hang at his sides. "Good."

You smiled at him and he smiled right back. "I hope you say it properly one day."

"I plan to, sweetheart." He promised. "Trust me."

You watched him for a long moment. "Soon?"

The word came out smaller than you meant it to. You reached for his hand, not as dizzy anymore or maybe just not noticing it, and he took it immediately. His thumb brushed across your knuckles.

"Soon." He smiled softly.

You smiled back, heart full to bursting, before finally letting him guide you away from the car. He kept looking at you as you walked, making sure you weren't about to fall. You weren't. You were mostly dizzy on love, if that made any sense at all. It probably didn't. You didn't care.

He helped you up the steps to his building, one hand firm on your waist, the other ready to catch you if you stumbled. You managed just fine, though, even found yourself grinning at the ordinary miracle of walking and of his hand warm through your shirt.

At his door, he fumbled with keys for a second before finding the right one. The lock clicked open.

"You're rich," you mumbled as you stepped inside.

He chuckled behind you. "Well, I'd hope so after twenty years of being a doctor."

You giggled at that and you heard him smile even before you turned to see it. He pushed the door open wider, and you managed to walk in on your own, looking around as the space opened up in front of you.

"Woah." yeah, he was most definitely rich.

Jack locked the door behind you, and then he stepped closer, hands coming up to brush softly at your waist, steadying you as you took it all in.

"You like it?" His breath warm against the back of your neck as he helped you out of your jacket.

"You're not messy!" you said, maybe too loudly. "Everything's organized."

You pulled off your shoes and tried your best to put them away neatly by the door. They ended up slightly crooked but together, which felt like a win.

Jack sighed behind you, worried more than anything. You heard him hang your jacket and bag up.

When you turned around, he was watching you with that look. The one that probably meant that he was calculating your blood alcohol content, probably whether you needed water or food or just to be sat down before you fell over.

"You're worrying," you said.

He raised an eyebrow. "I'm always worrying."

"About me?"

He held your gaze for a long moment. "Yeah. About you."

You smiled and then you stepped further into the apartment, still taking everything in, when Jack glanced down at your feet. His eyes caught on two different socks and he grinned to himself.

"Jack, you have a really nice house," you mumbled, wandering toward a shelf against the wall. It was covered in random things. A dusty trophy from some old sports thing. A couple of framed photos, faces you didn't recognize. Some diplomas. A stack of books with worn spines.

"Thanks, sweetheart." His voice came from somewhere behind you. "But we should really get you to sober up."

You turned your head toward him. He was standing there watching you, arms crossed loosely over his chest, a small smile playing at his mouth.

"Am I sleeping here?" You weren't on your tiptoes anymore, trying to see the top shelf. Instead you turned to him, meeting his eyes.

"Would you like to sleep here?" He asked it gently, giiving you the choice.

"Would you like me to sleep here?"

He didn't hesitate. "Of course I do."

"Okay." You tucked a piece of hair behind your ear, suddenly shy again. "If I'm not a bother, I'd like to stay."

He crossed the distance between you, hand finding your lower back as he led you down a short hallway. "You're never a bother."

He stopped at a door, pushed it open, and flicked on the light. His bathroom was clean, just like the rest of his place. He motioned you inside. "Wait here."

He pulled the toilet seat down and you plopped down gratefully, suddenly aware of how tired you actually were.

Jack disappeared. You heard him in the kitchen, water running, a cabinet opening and closing. You let your head rest against the wall behind you and your eyes drifted to his shower.

There was a small collection of bottles lined up along the ledge. Shampoo, conditioner, body wash. Nothing fancy. Just regular guy stuff. But you found yourself staring anyway, head tilted, squinting slightly as you tried to read the labels. Trying to figure out what kind of shampoo Jack Abbot used.

You were still squinting when he appeared in front of you, holding a glass of water. You startled just slightly.

"Drink up." He held the cup out, waiting. You mumbled a small "thank you" before reaching for it, but your hands were less coordinated than you'd realized, and instead of taking it properly you just covered his hand with yours.

He let you. His other hand came up to brush your hair gently away from your face. You felt his fingers graze your temple, your cheek, tucking strands behind your ear the way he always did.

When you lowered the glass, he caught the corner of your mouth with his thumb, brushing away a stray drop of water.

You sighed, content and suddenly so much less thirsty. "Thank you."

Jack took the glass from your hands and set it on the counter, out of the way. Then he crouched down in front of you. "How you feeling, sweetheart?"

You considered the question. Actually considered it, instead of just saying fine like you always did. "Tired," you admitted. "But good. Really good."

He nodded slowly. "Dizzy? Nauseous?"

You shook your head. "Just tired. And warm. And happy." The last part slipped out before you could stop it. You felt your cheeks warm, but you didn't take it back.

He smiled. "Happy's good."

He reached up to softly remove the hair clip from your hair. You felt the tension release as your hair fell loose around your shoulders.

"I look like a mess. I'm sorry." You mumbled it, eyes dropping to your lap. "I got all dressed up for you, and now I'm drunk sitting on your toilet, and I'm going to regret this so terribly tomorrow."

Something flickered in Jack's eyes. Something that he didn't let himself say out loud, like how at least you'd wake up in his bed, at least he'd be there when you did. He stopped himself. But he couldn't help latching onto the other part.

"You got dressed up for me?"

His voice was soft as he reached up again, finding another clip, then another. Little ones now scattered on his sink. He sank back to his knees in front of you, winced slightly, because kneeling on a prosthetic leg wasn't comfortable. But he stayed there anyway. His hands found your knees as he brushed back and forth slowly.

"Yeah. I wanted to look pretty for you."

The words landed somewhere in his chest. He smiled gently, thumb tracing a small circle on your knee. "You always look pretty."

You shook your head immediately, already sighing. "No I don't. Not right now."

Jack shook his head right back at you. "Yeah you do."

You opened your mouth to argue and he just shook his head again. You stopped immediately.

"Uh uh. Enough of that." He shook his head again. "I'm your boss. I'm the one who has the last word here."

You stared at him for a second, then you grinned. "Okay."

He smiled back and started to push himself up. You caugh his reaction this time, the slight grimace, the way he braced himself on the sink, the small groan he tried to hide.

"Are you okay?" you asked concerned.

He waved it off. "Fine. Old man stuff." He stood there for a moment, catching his breath, then looked down at you. "You want to sleep in these clothes?"

You considered it, chewing on your lip for a second. Then you shrugged. "Actually, I wanna wear your clothes."

That stopped him cold. He halted mid step, turning to look back at you. You were smiling up at him with that huge grin. You knew exactly what you were doing. You were aware, on some level, what those words did something to him.

"You're terrible, you know that?" he mumbled, but there was no heat in it. He reached for your hand, pulling you gently up from the toilet seat.

You took his hand, steadying yourself against him, and grinned even wider. "You like me. That means I can't be that terrible."

He shook his head, smiling despite himself. He led you out of the bathroom and down the hall.

His bedroom was nice. A dresser with a few things on top. A lamp on the nightstand. A window with the blinds half drawn, letting in slivers of streetlight

"Nice bed," you mumbled softly, taking in the way he'd properly made it, sheets tucked in, pillows fluffed, a blanket folded at the foot.

"It's good enough," he replied, already moving toward his closet.

You stood there watching him, not even trying to hide it. He was choosing something for you and your drunk brain found that unbearably sweet.

He turned around holding sweatpants and a t-shirt and tilted his head slightly. A question. Okay?

You nodded, reaching out to take them from his hands. The fabric was warm and you hugged them without thinking.

"I'll be in the bathroom. Just call for me when you're done."

You nodded again, suddenly more tired now that you were in his room with his lamp casting warm light and his bed right there looking so comfortable. He slipped out, closing the door softly behind him.

In the bathroom, Jack leaned against the sink for a moment. He turned on the cold water, splashed some on his face, stared at himself in the mirror. You were here. In his home. Sleepy and honest and practically admitting you liked him. Dressed up for him. He pressed his palms against the counter and exhaled slowly, aware of his heart beating faster than it had any right to.

He changed quickly. Sweatpants, a clean shirt. Brushed his teeth. Tried to look normal, tried to calm down, tried to remember how to be just Jack instead of Jack who had you in his bedroom wearing his clothes.

Then you called his name.

He opened the door and walked down the hall. And yeah, the sight didn't help his heart at all.

You were standing by his bed, well, standing was generous. More like swaying gently, having clearly tried to fold your clothes and put them on the chair in the corner. The folding hadn't gone well. Your shirt was half draped over the chair back, your jeans in a heap on the floor next to it. But you were wearing his clothes. His shirt swallowed you whole, the hem falling to your thighs. His sweatpants were rolled at the waist and still too big, pooling slightly at your feet.

He smiled to himself, trying to get his heart to calm down as he reached for the bed, pushing back the sheets, getting it ready for you.

The silence behind him lasted just a little too long.

Ah. You wanted a compliment. "You look as pretty as ever." he said over his shoulder, smiling at you.

"I like your clothes," you giggled, happy over receiving the compliment you'd been waiting for. You shuffled closer until you were standing next to him.

He turned to look at you fondly. "Like them on you, too."

His hand gently found your waist and he guided you backward, lowering you onto the bed until you were sitting, then lying down, your head meeting the pillow he'd just fluffed. You went easily. He thought about how different this was from your usual shyness, how you'd normally get flustered and look away if he got too close. But here, now, you were more than happy to jump into his bed.

But, who was he to judge? He loved having you here.

"God, I'm so tired." You mumbled it, hand coming up to rub your eyes again. "And drunk. So drunk."

Jack still stood above you, watching. He loved the way you curled slightly toward the warmth of his pillow and the way you looked so perfect in his bed.

"I know, sweetheart." He said softly "Just rest now." He reached down and pulled the blanket up over you.

He, then, reached for your shoulder and turned you onto your side. "That's better," he mumbled softly, fingers brushing your hair away from your face. His hand lingered for just a second on the curve of your cheek.

"Sleep well," he whispered. "I'll get you some ibuprofen for your headache and some water tomorrow, yeah?" He gestured vaguely toward the nightstand, even though you couldn't see it. "They'll be right here. On the night table."

You just hummed in response, already slipping under, already gone. You burrowed deeper into his pillow.

He started to pull away, to move toward the door, when your hand shot out. "Don't leave." He looked down at you, at your hand wrapped around his wrist. "What do I get out of being in your bed if you're not here?" you murmured, turning onto your back to look up at him properly.

His heart stopped. He was sure he didn't hear you right.

"Please?" you added, softer now.

"Yeah. Okay." he replied quietly as he rounded the bed slowly, walked to the other side, and laid down at a distance. So much distance you could have fit another person between you. He laid on his back, staring at the ceiling, hands folded over his stomach.

You propped yourself on your forearms behind you, head tilted, staring at him with an open mouth. And then you started giggling.

"Jack Abbot." His name in your mouth was so wonderful, he wanted to close his eyes for a second to cherish it. "Are you nervous? Do I make you nervous?" You seemed genuinely delighted by this discovery. Thrilled, even.

He shot you a look. And yeah. Okay. He was laying very far away from you. The kind of distance a teenager would put between themselves and a date on the first night. He was old enough to not be nervous about this.

But here, now, with you in his bed wearing his clothes and looking at him like that? Of course he was nervous.

"Sweetheart." His voice came out quieter than he meant. "You're in my bed. What do you expect?" Honesty. He'd decided on honesty. "Of course I'm nervous."

You tilted your head, and then you were moving closer, until you were leaning on one elbow, looking down at him from above. Your hair fell forward, brushing against his shoulder. You'd brushed your teeth earlier, used his toothpaste, and you smelled like mint and him. It did something to him. "That's cute."

He huffed out a laugh, reacting the only way he knew when feeling this seen. "Sure."

You giggled again, that wonderful sound that seemed to live somewhere in his chest now, and then your hand found its way up to his chest. And that's when his heart stopped.

Not really. Obviously not really. But it felt like it stopped. Felt like everything stopped.

Your fingers traced patterns on his chest, circles, lines, nothing recognizable. Then they drifted lower, tracing random shapes on his stomach through the fabric of his shirt.

"I am really drunk," you murmured, "but I still know that I'm going to regret this tomorrow." You were watching your hand. "But being drunk also gives me an excuse to touch you. So I'm using it."

"You don't need an excuse to touch me." He watched you, enjoying the view of seeing your pretty face so close. "I promise you, sweetheart."

You tilted your head, looking at him, processing his words slowly, the way drunk people do.

"I'll take you up on that." You said softly. "A lot."

Jack Abbot had never ever felt more thrilled. "You do that, baby."

His hand found the back of your shoulder, gently guiding you down until your head was resting fully on his chest, right over his heart, letting you feel what you did to him.

His hand came up to the back of your head. His big hand engulfed it completely, fingers spreading through your hair, brushing through it slowly. His thumb moved gently against your scalp.

He felt you startle slightly at first and then relax. Your hand finally stopped moving on his stomach. He reached down with his other hand, grabbed the sheets, and pulled them up over you both.

Then he felt your ankle hooking gently over his, just like at the bar. And he smiled to himself in the dark.

He kept brushing through your hair. He remembered watching you once. You'd been stressed about something, pacing the break room, and you'd done this thing where you ran your own fingers through your hair, over and over, until you calmed down.

He hoped this helped.

He could feel it in the way you relaxed further, the way your breathing evened out, the way your body went heavy against his.

You were quiet for a long moment, so long he thought you'd fallen asleep, but then you spoke quietly. "I hope I remember this tomorrow."

He smiled before whispering, “I’ll make sure you do.”

[richeeduvie]

CRY INTO HIM

A cruel patient has you in tears in the supply closet, and when Jack is the one to find you, the need to comfort is only made up of instinct.

cartoonishly cruel patient, low self-esteem, Jack’s baffled, you don’t think urself as the prettiest girl in the whole wide world, just some light angst with a whole load of soft, gruff comfort. jack's sexy in his threats and disbeliefs concerning how you don't think your beautiful. been writing a fairshare of smut recently, been missing the boring moments of love and fluff 🫩 this would’ve been out ten hours ago if my internet wasn’t shitty.

// FIC DIRECTORY // CRASH!AU TAG // newest smut tidbit // WC: 3.5k //

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.

You’re pretty sure you’re built for the collar of vitriol and degradation that patients throw around your neck. For the ones who call you the worst sort of names when they’re scared, or just enraged as they pretend it’s fear that’s causing their harassment.

For the families who need someone to blame in the midst of their grief. For the patients who eye you like you're a bag of meat in kittycat scrubs that you dared to wear for Free Scrub Friday. Etcetera, etcetera. 

You’ll take it, reroute the hurt and the way your stomach swallows your heart, keep your hands steady while you start an IV, keep your voice light as your confidence waivers.

That’s what being a nurse is.

“I’m your nurse tonight, I’m gonna take your vitals, and then we’ll get you some—

So, if you manage to burst into tears, you know it’s bad. Or…well, maybe you’re just getting worse when it comes to what makes you cry, even though you’re sure that’s just Jack and Finding Nemo.

You’re hoping this is just a worse sort of case, the one that would get to anybody—even the nurses who don’t decorate themselves in glitter and bows and cheesy, unintentional flirtatious grins. 

“No. Get me a different one.”

The star of the show is the man in 12. He’s middle-aged with stable vitals and no exact reason for the kind of pettiness he’s carrying. The pain he’s in for is just as petty. And loud. Abdominal pain that’s been a “ten out of ten” for two weeks. You think he’s been drinking for three more.

You squeeze the BP cuff you were going to put around his bicep. 

“I–Sir—”

“Get me a different one. Please.”

His demand is flat as he looks you up and down. You’re a healthcare product he’s disappointed in, apparently. Okay. Nothing new, but you still blink and swallow like you misheard his jab. Your heart is willing to give him the benefit of the doubt.

“A different—?”

“A different nurse,” The man repeats, louder. Slower, as if you’re stupid for being confused. “One that preferably doesn’t look like....” He gestures vaguely with a burp. “...You.”

…Oh. 

Well, can’t be everyone’s type, not with the way you look—not with the way you look even when you think you’re pretty. Even though…a nurse shouldn’t have to be anyone’s type to do their job. There was no beauty contest in the hiring process, from what you can remember. Whatever, sir.

Your smile doesn’t falter as you reach for the script of routine. 

“I can absolutely take care of you, but if you have a preference for a male nurse or, I’ll admit, someone who looks more experienced, I ca—”

“Listen, Honey. I’m in pain. I don’t need some ugly little girl fumbling around on me.” 

You blink. You swallow. 

The word ugly lands like a slap on your face. Ironic, considering that’s what he’s calling ugly. 

Ugly. 

It’s not like you haven’t heard it before, it’s not even the worst thing you’ve been called. But…none of that softens the blow. It doesn’t lessen the hurt in how he’s found your soft spot. 

You keep your tone even, again, despite the way your confidence just washes down the drain. Go you!

“That’s not appropriate.”

The patient laughs—a near snort, and you’d swear you can feel him enjoying this. 

“Oh, here we go. The lecture. You nurses all think you’re underpaid saints. God forbid, a guy don’t want some butterface twenty-something sticking needles in him.” His eyes flicker over your chest, your badge, your mouth. “Just expecting attention, acting sweet, and God forbid, that guy tells you the truth instead.”

You feel a heat drag a burning of humiliation along your neck. You think your palms are going damp, and you realize that you’re still holding the BP cuff, and now…it feels like a toy in your hands. 

“Sir, if you are…if you’re going to continue to speak to me like that, I’m going to step out, and we can try again when you’re calmer. 

He leans forward, scoffing as he rubs his nose, and as his voice drops, you’re very sure he’s purposeful in his poison. 

“If you don’t get me a new nurse when you step out, I’ll tell someone who can actually do their job right that you refused to treat me because you didn’t like what I said.”

“I didn’t like what you said, Sir—”

“Girls like you, you think you’re something because men look at you sometimes. Up close though…”

He makes a sound, a soft click of his tongue, before slumping back on the bed. 

“You’re not even pretty. It’s all the decorations you’ve got that are killing me. You’re trying, I’ll give you that, sweetheart.”

Your breath hitches. 

That opens up a wound, no—a scar, something old, something pre-Pitt. 

Something that’s making sure you know he’s only telling the truth, and it’s a splinter in your heart. 

You don’t melt down in front of him, because oh, wouldn’t that be material? You just feel your eyes stinging, your body betraying you as it follows your insecurities instead. 

“Okay…um—”

You turn away fast, like you’re reaching for supplies, anything to hide your face as you feel tears gathering anyway, hot and humiliating. 

Go you. 

“I’m gonna—I’m just gonna step out for a second and get—”

“Thank you.”

You fumble out of the room as your heartache compresses itself into one goal. Don’t let anyone see you like this, you absolute mess. You’ll be as ugly as he said you are. 

You make it to the supply closet, slipping inside. The door doesn’t latch all the way. There was no way you were going to make it to the bathroom without sobbing for free admission. 

The door stays cracked open, a sliver of fluorescent light spilling from the hallway. 

You press the heels of your hands to your eyes. You try to breathe. 

You don’t believe him. Not…not fully. But he wanted to hurt you. And he did. That’s the worst part. It’s like he walked in looking for someone to bruise, and he just happened to find the easiest one to make cry. You’re a crybaby. You’re nothing but tears, and sensitivities you hide with bubbilness and sparkles. Stupid! 

You swallow hard, shoulders shaking. A tear slips. 

Then another. 

And suddenly, as your breath catches, you realize you’re sobbing. Yep. Okay. That tracks. 

You’ve done so much, and you’re here in a closet because a stranger called you ugly. 

Well. That’s what happens when someone hits a nerve, right? 

You laugh through congestion and snot, wiping your face as you lean your forehead against the cool metal shelf. 

“Get it together—”

A shadow falls across the sliver of light. 

Your name falls out, graveled and low with all the familiarity that makes you freeze. Your stomach drops at the door creaking. 

Of course, it’s Jack. Of course, it’s the one person you don’t want to see you like this, is the one who finds you, because the universe loves you. 

You scrub at your cheeks again, turning your face away. You try to make your breathing even, like the claim you’re fine is a plausible one. 

“Just…just resetting.”

Jack doesn’t answer right away, and that quiet is what makes you look up despite everything. 

He’s standing in the doorway, broad-shouldered as his eyes take in the red of yours, the way you…at some point, you guess, ended up clutching a pack of gauze. 

…You think he looks…surprised. 

It’s a genuine, almost boyish shock, which seems impossible for such a well-aged man like Dr. Jack Abbot. You’d think he thinks a universe where you aren’t invincible is an alternate one. 

You’ve gifted me these types of tears, Jackie. More than you think. But it’s not your fault, I’m as sensitive as you are mean. 

“What happened?”

The surprise is gone as quickly as it went. You can tell by his neck rolling his head forward, eyes focusing on you through his brows, as his stare is just as harsh as his question.

He’s at your side in an impossible second, palm resting flat on the small of your back. 

He doesn’t blink as he waits for your answer. You laugh weakly. 

“Nothing.”

Again, Jack just stares at you, and that doesn’t help your heart to soften in its pained beat. His jaw only tightens, and you think he’s measuring the cost of getting the truth out of you. 

You know very well he can afford it. 

“This is not nothing. Tell me what happened.”

You swallow. Your throat aches. 

“Just a patient.”

“Which one?”

“It doesn’t matter, Jack—” You insist, wiping your face once again even though there’s nothing left to wipe. You hate that your hands are shaking, you hate the way you want to lean into Jack’s hot touch. “I just—it was stupid—”

“Did he touch you?”

Jack shifts closer in his low, lamenting question.

… You don’t know what to make of the anger he peers into you, as you’re sure he’s imagining a patient touching you. 

“No.” Your answer is immediate. No, he just made sure to remind me how ugly I am. “No, he didn’t touch me.”

“Did he threaten you?”

You hesitate for half a second. And wouldn’t it be Jack to catch it? Of course, not like he’s looking anywhere else to miss the slightest tell.

“Sleepy.” 

You exhale. There was no way you’d come out of this undefeated. 

“He said…he’d make stuff up if I left, that I refused to treat him just because I didn’t like what he said.”

Your voice cracks. 

“He was just being a jerk.”

You can’t stop the tears from streaking down your cheeks, and it’s where Jack looks like he’s holding a storm in his breath, where his hand finds its way to your neck, his thumb rubbing the end of your jaw. 

You watch him watch you through the blur, and you’re sure it’s his warm, soft-rubbing touch that soothes you as much as it engulfs you. That’s Dr. Abbot’s hand for you, always. 

“He’s got you in tears,” Jack swallows. “And you think this is nothing?”

The laugh that comes out of you is wet. “I know. I’m embarrassing. You tell me enough. You can—you can go.”

Jack doesn’t move. He just takes in a short breath. It leaves him in a slight huff. 

“Not going anywhere. You’re not embarrassing. I don’t—”

This is instinct, he thinks, Sleepy. He wonders if you can tell. It’s not a fucking choice, he just heard kiddo’s voice break and his body that’s already swallowed by filth, and, in turn, you decided mine, mine, mine before he could edit it into something relatively appropriate. 

Jack expects nothing less from the girl who’s ruined him. 

Your lips wobble, and God—Jack’s sudden, gruff gentleness when you feel ugly and small almost worsens your cries with relief, with his comfort. 

It’s gonna be him. It should be, always, but you’ll be thankful if this is the only moment where you have him soft. 

“Talk to me. What did he say?”

“Jack—”

“What did he say specifically?” 

You look down at the gauze in your hands. You don’t really want to give the words life again. 

But Jack is here. Jack is waiting. Jack is listening. His steady, stern presence makes it harder to keep the lid on. You can’t—you can’t deny him. You don’t know why being stubborn with him became impossible. 

“He called me ugly. A butterface.” You’re ripping off a bandage with how you blurt it out. “A–and he said I wasn’t even pretty up close. The way he said it—it was like my face was a trap. He just…knew exactly how to say it.”

Your confession is what gets Jack to drop his touch from your neck, and in the moment after, he goes completely still.

For a heartbeat, you think you’ve done it, you’ve said the thing that will make his face soften the way it does when he’s hurt you, when you think he’s jealous but can’t think of yourself deserving of Jack’s feelings like that enough to fully claim said jealousy. When his flirtatious jabs turn controlling or entitled. 

“You didn’t tell me he was blind.” 

He crosses his arms. 

“Ugly?”

His question repeats the word, flat. You wipe your cheek with the back of your wrist, sniffling, shame and humor burning behind your eyes. 

“You really know how to flatter a gal. But…yeah. It sucks that he just…made my face a point. Brought up the elephant in the room. It’s ridiculous. I shouldn’t care.” 

Jack’s brows pull together. His voice drops. 

“No.”

You blink. 

“No…what?”

“No, that’s—” He looks genuinely…baffled. For the first time, you’ve thrown Jack off-balance when you didn’t mean to. “Kid, that’s bullshit.”

A tiny, startled laugh escapes you, but Jack’s every-color gaze locks on your face, and you wouldn’t have to know his features as well as you to know he’s frustrated. You make your face, trying to soften his glare with humor. Humor’s safer than sincerity. 

“I mean…I’m not, like, a model. He wasn’t totally wrong. I try. It’s fine.”

Sometimes humor is sincerity. See the previous sentence. Ha. 

Jack tilts his head a fraction, and you’re just waiting to see how the joke lands. 

With how the exhale through his nose comes out in a sound that’s almost a throaty scoff—not cruel, just more like he’s outraged on your behalf, you think it’s crashed. 

“Jesus Christ. Jesus fucking Christ.”

He’s shaking his head, and your cheeks heat with every second he seems disappointed. 

“What?”

“You’re not—” 

Kiddo thinks she’s ugly, the world might as well be made of fucking pudding. 

You watch Jack take a deep, deep breath. He’s trying to keep restraint tight, and you can’t know why, because his chest is stretching against his scrub top beautifully. That helps with the tears. 

“You are not ugly.”

You huff a laugh. “Okay, Jack—”

“Do not brush me off. I may let your jabs and bits slide enough that you think you can brush this off, but Sleepy, I swear to God—I can admit my temper’s scaling.”

His temper’s about to find a target. It’s usually you, but not today. Not in this moment. Just at the idea, you could actually fucking believe you’re not the most beautiful woman in the world. At whoever’s the dumb fuck that put the idea that you’re ugly in your head. 

“I’m…brushing it off because I have to go back out there and do my job.”

“And you can, you always do.” 

There’s a pause after his demanding fact, and you realize you’re being defensive because the idea of being this vulnerable with the man you dream about at night, his face between your legs with his fingers down your throat, well…really, you can’t lose points for being defensive here. 

“But you don’t get to stand here and tell me you’re ugly like it’s true. Like you’ve been walking around thinking this low of yourself, like your self-esteem’s some fucking joke.” 

…Why is he so peeved by this? 

“It’s just—some people are pretty, some people…adorn themselves in sparkles and fun makeup and hope flirting and sweetness are enough to distract others from this.”

You gesture to your face, hand circling as your lips pout dramatically. 

“Uh, ow!—”

And you don’t know what, Jack practically slaps your hand down, face casual as he holds onto your wrist after. 

“Excuse me, Dr. Abbot—”

“You walk into a room, and people look at you. It’s always you. And I don’t know what the hell is wrong with you that you can’t hear yourself speak. You hearing yourself?”

You roll your eyes, trying not to collapse from the stern warmth of his hold. That, the tears, his unrelenting gaze, and comments that are somehow demeaning and uplifting…it makes for a bad cocktail. 

“They look because I’m loud.”

“No.” Jack denies you immediately, stepping half a pace closer, and his voice turns gruffer as you can hear his spit move along his tongue and teeth. 

…Somehow, with this being fourth worst shift you’ve ever had, you could die happy. You can smell the whole of him when he’s close like this. 

“They look at you because you’re…you’re beautiful. Very beautiful.” 

You freeze. 

He’s made the occasional joke that you could never believe, the most recent one being how “He couldn’t care that you’re pretty. Blood getting everywhere, including the mug, makes sure of that.” But this, it finds your stomach flipping wildly, and every other muscle burns so hot that you’re sure you might melt. 

How can the most beautiful man in the world think that?

“I’m not saying that to—” He shrugs. “It’s just…fact.” 

You’re stunned enough to only keep your mouth open, a baffled codfish in scrubs. Jack’s jaw only works. 

“It’s fact, and you’re crazy if you wanna act like you’re some busted little thing.” He shoves his hands in his scrub bottom pockets. “Busting my brains, alright. Who else?”

You can’t even take in a breath with the raw…intensity behind Jack’s words. He’s insulting you, because you think that’s just because he’s—he’s offended, like the idea of you thinking you’re ugly is an insult to reality. 

“Jack, calm down—”

“I am calm, I’m stating a fact.”

You watch him, the roll of his head and his quick, furrow-browed blinking. 

“You really think I’m beautiful?” 

His thinking you’re beautiful feels like an insult to reality, but god, you’re selfish enough reality to mean nothing. You want to be flattered. You want to sink into him. 

“It’s not about me thinking. You are. Obviously.” 

His gaze drops only to snap back, and his voice returns slightly more controlled. You watch his shoulders loosen, and you think it’s a forced sort of calm. 

“Listen to me.” 

He squeezes your wrist, and that touch edges down to your hand. He squeezes there before just…holding.

It’s the lightest hold, and what you thought before sticks true now. 

I could die happy here, Dr. Abbot. I’ll listen to you forever and a day. 

“That guy said that because he wanted to hurt you. That’s all. And because of that, you’re not going back in there alone. We’re not giving him another nurse to harass either.”

“Jack—”

“I’m not asking. I’m coming with you. He needs to get treated by a doctor anyway. He can find himself another hospital if that’s not a suitable form of treatment.”

You hesitate, and you’re thankful he doesn’t mind waiting for your hesitation. 

Sometimes, his protection can feel so cruel, but here, hand on yours, it feels like relief, and that fact blooms your belly all too sweetly. 

You nod. Jack drops your hand, and you’re pathetically reeling from the loss of his touch. 

But you don’t mind at all when he replaces it with his palm between your shoulder blades.

He opens the supply closet door, pausing as you step out just before him.

“Sleepy?”

“Hm?”

Jack’s eyes hold yours. Something raw flickers there, and boy, does it make you tingle.

Though he’s hoping you’re not sober from your tears enough to know it’s just ruin and attraction, intense and ready to kill, that he’s trying to bury under anger and righteousness. He’s right. The prettiest girl in the whole wide world think she’s ugly.

He’s right to be angry and righteous in the filth, he just doesn’t know when he stopped caring enough to deny there was that sort of rage for kiddo in the first place. 

He rubs the slight of your spine with his thumb. 

“If you ever say that shit about yourself again, I can tell you, there’s more where that slap came from.”

[abbotsyogamat]

Blood Orange

NSFW Jack Abbot x Fem!Reader

Summary: Your body feels like it’s caving in on itself and your doctor boyfriend is convinced he can make it better with a little work.

Content: NSFW 18+ ONLY MINORS DNI, graphic discussion about periods and discomfort, period sex/first experience with period sex for both characters, porn WITH plot, protected piv, quote from a real medical research article that you can find here and not in a citation below because American Medical Association does not use in-text citations and I don't plagiarize!!, Jack Abbot: Academic Weapon Against His Will in a Suit™️, Jack Abbot: Do You Kiss Your Mother With That Mouth?, sex toys, masturbation, one last warning if you didn't catch it for BLOOD

Author Note: My first time writing smut, and it turned out absolutely CRAZY...oops!! Thank you to the awesome anon who sent this in for the challenge. I felt really inspired by the opening scene of the movie Fair Play (hehehe iykyk). See if you can catch the reference in my title banner (which I made all of by the way; they make me feel very accomplished) and in other spots of the fic. Feel free to check out my new masterlist, pinned to the top of my blog, to see everything else I’ve written. I have a couple of requests that aren’t Jack fics, so keep eyes peeled for those. As always, thank you for your kindness and support. I do not have a beta reader or an editor, so please be kind :)

You were convinced there was a little creature that was living in your uterus. No, not a baby, not even close to a baby. Rather, it was likely it was a gremlin. This gremlin, rather than being awoken at midnight, raged all day, every day. He tore up your inside in a way that brought you cowering to your knees and calling off work.

In the time you had been dating Jack, about a year at this point, he had become keenly aware of the pain you experienced on a month-by-month basis. After managing to have your period on the cruise you both took six months ago (you had tracked your cycle to the ends of the earth and were still wrong), he knew the gory details. On the third day of that five-day cruise, the gremlin tore its warpath, subjecting you to spending the last two days in bed, barely able to move. Jack had been the one to clean up the mess, washing things out in the sink the best he could before making a laundry request for your stateroom.

When you got back from your trip, he had insisted he go with you to the gynecologist, knowing he needed to vouch for you, your pain, and the experience you had just had. After what felt like an eternity of testing and millions of ultrasounds, it was discovered that you had polycystic ovarian syndrome. PCOS had been ruling your life for years, and you never even knew. Jack felt terrible that he hadn’t caught it sooner, down on himself because he was a doctor and had failed in diagnosis.

While medication and a diet change were helping to make things more regular, nothing would touch the pain. You would still take a week off work, begging your boss to understand, while you were trapped in bed. Jack began to research what he could do to help you. He could only come up with one answer while he was reading his medical journals.

He brings the article to you on his phone.

“Hey,” he murmurs, leaning down to press a kiss to your hairline. “Go ahead and read this. It’s an option.”

You knew Jack researched surgeries and procedures. You’re half expecting it to be a plug for laparoscopic ovarian drilling to help reset your hormones, but it isn’t.

“The present findings do not support the hypothesis that sexual arousal alone modulates subjective pain in women. This might potentially be due to the possibility that genital stimulation and/or orgasm (instead of sexual arousal per se) are key in sex-related pain reduction…”

Your brow furrows. Sex was an option for your pain? It felt too simple. Frankly, it sounded gross.

“Jack, I don’t even want to move right now, let alone have to get on top,” you groan, thinking about the logistics of how period sex would work with a man with a prosthetic leg. “I’m not saying you have to have sex with me. But what I can do is if you want to try this way to reduce your pain, I can buy you something to do it with.” You stare blankly at him, processing his words. “Honey, I’ll buy you a vibrator. A dildo. Anything you need to try this if you want. No pressure at all. This is just an option.”

This is how Jack Abbot ended up in the family planning aisle of Target at 9:00 AM on his day off. He buys a vibrator wand and a smooth dildo, hoping he knows what he’s doing. He wasn’t a man to go and buy a sex toy, especially after what he saw with them working in an ER, but if they had the prospect of making life more comfortable for his woman, he’d do it a thousand times over.

He leaves the bag on the nightstand. A simple post it note is on the screen of your phone when you roll over to grab it.

Out to coffee - working on that research paper Gloria put me on against my will. Hope this helps if you want to try it.

You can see the colors and vague idea of what’s inside the bag through the thin plastic. While the pain is still manageable, you get up and look through the contents, figuring that trying at least the vibrator wasn’t a terrible idea. Yours had died anyway last time Jack had insisted on using it while he bent you over the bed, the neck of the wand having snapped when he crushed it against the footboard by mistake.

After charging it, you found yourself nude in the bathtub. With the number of times you had made a mess of the sheets and your clothing over the course of this relationship, you couldn’t bear to do it again. A bathtub was at least easy to scrub clean.

That’s how you end up with your neck against the bath pillow Jack had gotten you for Valentine’s Day, thighs parted. You swirl the head of the wand around the skin of your inner thighs, relaxing with an exhale from your nose as you drag it closer toward your center. The vibration caused a noise that was so lewdly wet that it made you gasp, your heart beating out of your chest. After a few moments of this, you notched the head of the vibrator at your clit, where it stayed for quite some time, circling the collection of nerves.

You had to admit that you were feeling better. Jack and his medical research had a point for once that wasn’t the importance of him forcing your vitamins down your throat or cutting out excess gluten. You start getting into things more, making the speed faster on the vibrator and drawing a quiet moan from your own lips. This was the most bliss you had felt in well over six months while in the position you were in. After a few more moments, your eyes roll back, and your thighs trap your own hand holding the vibrator. You let it thrum against you for a few more moments before turning it off with a gentle click. You had evicted the pain from your abdomen with a success that left you speechless. Eventually, you stand with shaky legs and clean up yourself, the bathtub, and the vibrator.

Days later, the pain was getting worse. You had tried masturbating at least three separate times the contraction of the muscles in that area as they neared orgasm had caused you more pain. That feeling now left you in tears in the bathtub, which only alerted Jack from the kitchen as he stood at the island in the middle, peeling a blood orange from the fruit basket. The shock of the sound caused his thumb to miss, puncturing the fruit in a way that caused the juice to land in ruby red splotches against his dress shirt. He had just come home from a meeting regarding the research he was doing without his explicit consent to participate, and had just had this suit dry cleaned earlier that week. He hated dressing up, but he hated ruining the dress-up clothes even more; probably an old uniform habit from the Army. He swore under his breath in frustration before heading to the bathroom door to knock.

“You need me in there, baby?”

Your eyes widen, and the tears stop as if on cue. He had heard you in here?! Great. Truly, just great. You shake off your shock and clear your throat. You really did need him, especially if this pain wasn’t normal.

“Yes, please,” you call out gently. The door opens to reveal Jack in his suit from his meeting. He takes a deep breath as he looks at you, his eyes growing hazy in the way that you have never been able to not go weak for. Despite the blood, you had never been more beautiful. You reel him back in. “Is it normal for it to hurt before I cum when I’m on my period?” He’s taken aback by how blunt your question is, but softens back out in his demeanor as he sees how troubled you are. He carefully sits on the closed toilet seat, brushing a hair off your forehead. “Is it a sharp feeling? Quick, but it goes away?” You nod in response to his questions. “Probably just stress and normal muscle contractions, baby,” he assures you. “If you’ve been going at this for a little while, you’re probably a little overstimulated.” You seem to relax at his answer. “Have you tried any of the other things I got you?” You shake your head. “The other toys made me too nervous.”

The gears start turning for both of you. He wanted to see you fully comfortable, and you just wanted relief. He could see the need for soothing in your eyes, and you thought he looked fine as hell in that suit.

It’s worth a shot…

“What if we had sex?”

Your question causes Jack’s eyes to widen. Even when he had been married and dated his late wife before their marriage, period sex had never been a thing. He wasn’t even quite sure he had ever tried it to begin with. “Would that be something you’d want to do?” His tone takes the gentle one you’re familiar with when he’s talking you through a medical decision. “I’ve never done it, but I’m not opposed if you’re going to find relief. I don’t want to see you hurt.”

“Can we just, like, see if it works?” Your whole chest and neck are flushed, and Jack isn’t quite sure if he can hold himself back anymore. “Go get a towel out of the cabinet. I’ll meet you in the bedroom in a minute, okay?” You follow his instructions and, in turn, receive a kiss on the cheek. Knowing he had bought some time, Jack loosened his tie and tried to get his mojo. He was an emergency medicine doctor, and there was only a little blood. This would be fine...right? He hurriedly eats the second half of the blood orange that had ruined his shirt before entering the bedroom.

He sneaks up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist as he rests his chin on your shoulder. Soon enough, his hands are wandering, slipping down to trace over your hips. “Don’t worry, sweetheart,” he whispers in your ear. “I’m not going to make you work for it.” You can smell the orange on his breath, and when he finally turns you in his arms to kiss him, you can taste it too. You lose yourself in the kiss, holding his face in your hands before trailing down his chest to grab hold of his tie.

The minute your hands are on his tie, he starts shedding his suit coat and unbuckles his belt to let his pants drop. You can feel the cool metal of his prosthetic’s socket and his cock springing free as Jack works to remove his underwear. You whimper at the feeling and reach one hand down to stroke him, but he diverts your hand. “Don’t you worry about taking care of me, sweetheart. Remember, this is for you,” he grumbles along your shoulder, slowly kissing his way back up the side of your neck and bringing your face back to his own.

Jack walks you a few steps backward toward your bed, doing his best to spot where you had draped the towel. He helps you to adjust your positioning on the bed as he slips a condom over his length. Not your standard practice, given that you've been in your relationship for a little while now, but in this situation, he knew it was a good idea, in the name of cleanup. Pulling you to the edge of the bed, letting your legs wrap around his waist, he hesitates. “You sure you want to do this? I’ll do whatever you want, but are you sure?” That same medical decision tone. You answer him with a soft “yes,” and you both groan in relief as he pushes himself into you.

“Fuck,” Jack hisses through his teeth, finding his rhythm as he just lets his mouth run. “So fucking warm, sweetheart. You did so well getting her all ready for me.” For the coolest and most confident person on his shift, he got nervous in these vulnerable situations and couldn’t be quiet. “So glad I get to help my girl feel better today.”

Your fingertips reach his dress shirt, pulling him down closer to you to kiss him as he destroys your pussy, the sound of him pushing through your slick folds filling the space. It was certainly a new sound, but one you thought you could get used to. "Listen to that pussy, sweetheart," Jack mumbles against your lips. "Like she's fucking crying for me to take care of her."

Jack suddenly increases the speed and force of his hips, the feeling causing you to whine and throw your head back. Your back arches off the bed, pushing up your breasts. He meets your chest halfway between the two of you, sucking your left nipple into his lips. Your hand cards into his salt and pepper curls, tugging him out of a combination of pleasure and the soreness of your breasts from your period. He releases it gently, kissing over your sternum in a path to your right breast. "I know, sweet girl," he coos, tongue flicking over your right nipple, the skin pebbled and sensitive. "Sweeter than that fucking orange I ate when I got home. My sweet girl. So sweet for me. Can't wait to have a taste when this week is over."

“Jack,” you whine, his name finally falling from your lips. He grunts as he feels you tighten your legs around his waist, his cock forced deeper by your actions. "Deeper, baby? That's what you want, huh?" Manicured fingertips claw at the buttons of his dress shirt, and he finally unbuttons it, throwing the shirt and tie to the floor. You pull him back down to you with a hand at the back of his neck. "Jackie, please," you beg. The nickname Jackie was always a sign that you were almost right where he wanted you. It wasn't his favorite name you called him, but it always turned him on in times like these.

"Please what, baby?"

"Gotta cum, Jack, please! Feels so good!"

"Yeah? Feels good, sweet girl? Promised I would take all that hurt away."

"Feels so good, Jackie, please!"

He reaches in between you, his thumb quickly finding your clit amongst the mess you had made. It's almost instantaneous. He barely nudges it, and you unravel beneath him, likely due to your prior efforts of trying to get off while he was at his meeting.

This time, there was no sharp contraction.

This time, your eyes opened wide in shock, "fuck" flying out of your mouth on what felt like a broken record repeat for several seconds. Your thighs trembled. Your nails scratched at Jack's pectorals. In the intensity of your orgasm, you hadn't even noticed that Jack had followed suit, his hips beginning to stall in a series of unevenly paced thrusts to bring him down from the intensity of his own release.

You both stay where you are for just a moment, shocked that everything had been as sensual and enjoyable as it was.

"Did we just...?"

"Yeah, we did."

"Did it hurt?"

"No, I actually liked it."

"Do you feel better?"

"I don't feel any pain!"

"You look so fucking beautiful."

"You look like you've slaughtered a chicken!"

Jack freezes at that reply. "I'm sorry?" You gesture at his pelvis, the stain of your activities blooming across the neatly trimmed hair surrounding his length. "Not to mention your poor dress shirt," you start before being cut off.

"What happened to my dress shirt? I knew I got orange all over it while I was having a snack..." He slips out of you, careful not to make too much mess in the process, and goes to pick up his dress shirt. "Oh my god," he laughs, holding up the shirt. In addition to the stains from his earlier snack up by his collar, there were several splotches of evidence of your activities around the bottom hem. "It looks like the one that Alden guy wore in that movie you made me watch on the cruise!" You point at it, sitting up on the towel a little bit. "Fair Play!" Now you're both laughing, which hasn't been common during your period in the months since your diagnosis with PCOS.

After the laughter has ended, you're both looking at each other with nothing but love and admiration for each other.

"Sweetheart?"

"Yes, baby?"

"I'm really happy this is helping you feel better. I'm glad we've found a solution."

"I've got the best doctor in the city to thank for that."

Jack smiles softly and crosses back over to you at the edge of the bed, hugging you close to his chest. He kisses the top of your head.

"Now, can you tell Gloria that so I can get out of writing for this damn research committee?"

He makes you laugh again. There is no pain, only warmth.

[cryonme]

𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐖𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐠

gif by @iluvseb

jack abbot x reader

summary: you and jack were best friends, but jack was never one to hide what he wants, and what he wants is you, but you're too scared to lose him.

word count: 8.1k

tw: slowwwwww burn, being afraid of intimacy and relationships, mentions of drunk driving, mentions of death (not a main character), mentions of dissociation and not breathing, nightmare, reader gets abandoned on a date (not by jack), mention of grief and losing a loved one. jack yearning in a huge way.

authors note: i poured my heart soul blood sweat and tears into this fic and you better like it!!!!!! jk, but seriously i hope i did a good job and hope you all love it! mwah!

You and Jack Abbot became fast friends the moment you stepped into the Pitt for your first night shift.

You were late. Like, seriously late. The kind of late where people start checking their watches and trying to get ahold of you.

Late, late.

And for your first night on night shift. You held the strap of your backpack in one hand and had a tight grip on your iced coffee in the other. You really thought you had plenty of time to get there, and honestly you did. But then, there was an accident ahead of you on the highway, and you were stuck in bumper to bumper traffic, and you barely had any service. You tried to answer your text messages and phone calls from your coworkers, but nothing was going through.

You’d been working on day shift for a year, barely even crossing paths with night shift doctors, and if you did it was a quick nod or “good luck”.

And you’d heard plenty about the night shift attending, Jack Abbot. He was no nonsense, quick on his feet, sharp.

Definitely not the kind of guy you want to spill coffee all over yourself in front of on your first night.

And yet here you were.

You knew you were gripping your cup too tight, being able to feel the lid slightly popping off and the liquid sloshing out over your fingers. But you couldn’t stop.

And really, you should have. Because now your coffee was all over you, and your attendings shoes.

Nightmare. You thought. This is my nightmare and I need to wake up now.

You froze as you stared down at his now coffee-colored shoes, trying to push down the heat blossoming into your cheeks. To make it worse, his own cup of hot coffee was spilled across the floor.

Jack could see the panic rising. Your breaths were quick and you stood at a loss for words, apologies and explanations bubbled on your tongue but nothing except for small stutters escaped your mouth.

“How about this?” Jack offered, no introduction was needed. He knew you. “You go get us new coffees at the Starbucks in the cafeteria, and I’ll forget you were late.”

“I’m already late-“

“It’s gonna be a long night, kid. Get us some coffees, alright?” He laughed, patting your arm and slipping a $20 bill into your hands.

“Leave a nice tip.”

It didn’t take long after that for you and Jack to slip into a routine on your night shifts together. Alternating days to bring each other coffee, walking to the 24 hour diner for blueberry pancakes after easier shifts, meeting on the roof with crappy hospital coffee after harder shifts.

It was nice, having a friend at work. Someone who understood what you needed and when you needed it. Someone you could sit with when things just felt too heavy, someone that didn’t demand explanations from you.

Life wasn’t always easy for you. Friends, family, relationships, school. None of it felt effortless. It felt like you were constantly putting in more effort than everyone else was, and it eventually caused burnout, which caused relationships to sever. No one ever really stuck around. Which made relationships even harder, you didn’t want to risk getting close to someone only for them to leave just like everyone else.

But Jack stuck around.

The clink of a metallic can hitting the counter shook you from your thoughts, your eyeline for some reason zeroed in on Dana and Lena’s shoes, the two nurses deep in conversation amidst their shift change.

A pink Monster.

“Workin’ a double today, right?” Jack’s gravelly voice filled your ears like music. The voice that had become your main source of comfort.

You just nodded, grabbing the can and dragging it closer to you so you could rest your face on it, coddling it like a precious jewel.

“Yeah.” You sighed, letting your eyes flutter closed. “Sure am.”

Jack chuckled at the sight of you using your energy drink as a pillow, his eyes fond as ever.

“You got this, kiddo.”

“I’m gonna die here.” You whined.

“I’ll be here to pick you up when you’re done, alright?” He still had a lingering trace of humor in his voice still, patting your back.

“Happy sleeping.” You grumbled as he walked away from you.

“He’ll be here to do what now?” Parker asked, finally breaking her silence after listening to the whole conversation.

“He gives me rides home after doubles sometimes.” You yawned, digging your fingers into your eyelids. “S’not a big deal.”

Parker scoffed, bringing a hand up to rest on your hip. “Dr. Abbot doesn’t just give residents rides home. What’s the deal?”

“No deal. We’re friends.”

“Right. Whatever makes you sleep at night.”

You were. You were just friends. You’d been spending time together for 3 months now and Jack hadn’t made so much as even a small sliver of a move. No lingering touches, no stolen glances, nothing.

And if there were signs that you noticed, you actively chose to ignore them.

-

“Hey, Abbot!”

Your voice floated through the backyard. It was a rare day. Schedules and days off overlapped perfectly, the sun was shining but not sweltering, comfortable enough to be outside. You mentioned to Jack that it would be fun to have your available friends from the Pitt get together, and of course, Jack thought whatever you said was a great idea, and offered his place up in an instant.

You moved towards him with a smile on your face, beaming almost as brightly as the sun shining down on your skin. You were wearing a white babydoll dress paired with yellow boots that went up just below your knees.

Jack couldn’t help but look twice.

You had a plate of food in each hand, both piled high with pasta salad, tortilla chips, mini sandwiches and strawberries.

He was sitting around his patio table with Robby, Shen and Parker, drinking beer while he showed them his new outdoor TV.

You set the plate down on the table in front of him, and he had to stop himself from bringing his hand up to rest on the back of your thigh.

He looked up at you, and boy was Jack Abbot a goner.

“Thank you.” He rasped, surprised by the own softness in his voice.

“Of course! I’m gonna go sit with Dana by the pool, she’s waiting for me.”

You smiled before turning to skip off in the direction of the pool.

“Hey, where’s my plate of food?” Shen called after you, cupping his hands around his mouth.

“You have legs!” You called back, not bothering to turn around.

“Yeah, just friends.” Parker teased, taking a sip of her beer, repeating the words from your conversation a few weeks ago.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Jack asked.

“Don’t act naïve, brother.” Robby leaned forward and grabbed a few pieces of pasta salad with his fingers, popping them into his mouth.

“Really, man? There’s a fork right here.” Jack picked up the fork, pointing it in the direction of his friend’s face.

Robby shrugged, “More fun to make you mad.”

Jack shook his head, taking the fork and taking a bite of pasta salad anyway.

“She’s my friend.”

He said the words but his gaze was fixated on you, sitting on a pool chair with Dana, trying to balance your plate of food on your thighs. Dana said something that made you laugh, throwing your head back, covering your smile with your hand.

He hated that you did that.

Your shared coworkers and friends could speculate all they wanted, he wasn’t budging.

Obviously, you were not just his friend. He was completely taken with you, from the moment you spilled your coffee onto his shoes, he knew he wanted to keep you close. But Jack hadn’t exactly been lucky in love and relationships, and he had to do this right. You were guarded, not open to the possibility of you and Jack being something, you didn’t have to say it for him to know. So, he waited. And he knew he’d continue to wait for as long as it took.

Sitting there in that moment, watching you laugh with Dana as the sun hit your skin just right, making you practically glow, he knew he’d wait forever.

-

“You wanna tell me why you’re in the bushes or should I call for a psych consult?”

It was a chaotic night that turned into a really beautiful morning, and the entire night shift crew was itching to escape from the hospital, including Jack, who usually wasn’t in a hurry to do anything, really. Except for traumas.

But he stopped in his tracks as he exited the building when he saw you, with your entire upper half buried deep into the shrubbery that was planted outside of the hospital, only knowing it was you because he recognized your old, dirty shoes that you refused to replace.

You rolled your eyes, though Jack couldn’t see, and yelled out a response, though your voice was muffled by all of the leaves and sticks surrounding you.

Jack walked closer, leaning down closer to the plant, his ear practically touching it.

“One more time?”

“There’s a cat in here!”

Of course you had your entire upper body shoved into a plant to get a cat.

“I have my hands on it, but I can’t get myself out.”

Jack couldn’t help but smile, this whole situation being incredibly amusing.

“You’re stuck in a bush?”

“Jaaaaack!” You whine, your voice drawing out the vowel. “Help me!”

“Alright, alright, one second.” His word worked through a laugh as he shrugged his backpack off before he secured his hands around your waist, trying really, really hard not to read too deeply into the position you were both in, and pulled.

You came right on out, your hair frizzy with twigs and leaves sticking from it, but you had the cutest little brown tabby in your arms, and your eyes were sparkling.

“I got it!”

Jack chuckled, plucking all the twigs and leaves out of your hair. “You sure did.”

“Will you come with me to the pet store?”

And that’s how Jack found himself at a Petsmart at 8 AM after a 12 hour shift, following behind you with a shopping cart as you threw things into it, still holding your new cat in your arms. Jack was surprised the cat hadn’t jumped out of your arms and ran off, but it seemed pretty happy.

“What are you gonna name him?”

“Robby.”

Jack nearly choked on his own breath, having to push down his very unwanted jealousy over a cat name.

“He kinda looks like him, don’t you think?” You turned your body so Jack could see the cat’s face, and he hated to admit it, the cat did look a lot like Dr. Robby.

And he had to remind himself; it was him that you asked to come with you to the pet store, not Robby.

“What if it’s a girl?” He asked, taking the giant bag of cat food you picked out and hauling it into the grocery cart.

“It’s not, I can tell. I have a sixth sense about these things.”

Jack helped you load up your car, piling your truck high with a probably unnecessary amount of cat toys, treats, food, and anything else you could possibly need for a cat.

You were extremely nervous as you led Jack to your apartment, this being the first time either one of you has been in the other’s home, and even though you knew this day would come inevitably, you were just really hoping your place wouldn’t be first.

But despite that, your place was exactly as Jack had pictured it. All the lights were dim, vintage art and posters littered the walls, a used looking green couch was shoved into the corner, various quilts and pillows thrown onto it. Books were shoved into bookshelves that were obviously overflowing, purses hung on doorknobs and candles of different scents that somehow worked together lit throughout the area.

It wasn’t neat and tidy, but not messy either.

It was perfectly you.

“Why don’t you feed Robby while I get the litterbox set up?” He said easily, as if it was just another day of you two coming home together after a long shift, sliding into domesticity and routine.

It threw you, freaking you out more than you’d like to admit, him just so easily slipping down your hallway to set up a litter box in your bathroom, his arms lined with bags from your errand.

Easily. Like it was the most normal thing in the world for him.

You felt boxed in in your own home.

He emerged once he was finished, clapping his hands then rubbing them together, as if he had just built a house, not put together a litter box.

“I have to take Robby to the vet.” You announced, not giving him a second glance as you scooped your new cat back up into your arms, keys in hand and headed for the door.

“Oh.” Jack seemed startled.

Was he expecting an all-day invitation?

He exited the apartment with you, and watched you fumble with your keys, obviously something in the past 5 minutes had startled you. He placed a steady hand over yours, taking your keys out of your hands and gently putting your apartment key into the lock, twisting and securing it shut.

You grabbed your keys back, mumbling out a thanks before disappearing, down the stairs, leaving Jack’s feelings hurt and confused as he stood alone in your corridor.

The only thing that he received from you that day was a picture of a piece of paper from the vet’s office.

And that’s how you ended up with a girl cat named Robby.

-

“Someone get Abbot!”

He had been emerging from a trauma room when he heard the call of his name, having just taken off his glasses, gloves and surgical gown, but was immediately ready to throw fresh ones right back on, knowing another life needed him elsewhere.

There was a terrible accident, a drunk driver hit a family headed to the airport in the early hours of the morning.

The guy was fine, walking away with a concussion and a few broken ribs. The family, however, was in a much worse condition. Jack had just worked tirelessly on the mom for over an hour, he was able to stabilize her and get her up to surgery. The dad was stabilized quickly and moved to a central room, still unconscious and intubated, one of the daughters was with you, and one was DOA.

The driver had rammed right into the backseat, where the two daughters sat.

The emergency contact informed them they were on their way to see Grandma for her birthday.

It was one of those nights where Jack could just feel the weight of the world.

He went to grab another pair of gloves, but was stopped by Ellis, who must’ve been the one who called for him.

“It’s not like that.”

Jack wanted to say something, but the words caught in his throat, if it wasn’t like that, then what was it? But by the way Ellis was looking at him, with one hand firmly gripped on his shoulder, he could tell it was you.

“Where is she?” He asked, clearing his throat, trying to disguise the level of concern in his voice in front of his coworker.

“Trauma 1.”

Jack felt queasy, the door to trauma 1 was slightly ajar, a smear of blood painted the handle of the door. No one had come in to clean up yet.

Because you were still in there.

Jack shoved his way through the door, keeping his movements slow and gentle as to not startle you, he was completely unsure of what he was walking into.

The room was eerily quiet, except for the faint, steady noise of a monitor flatlining. The room was a mess, blood soaked rags littered the floor, gloves and surgical gowns tossed to the ground, doctors and nurses no doubt being so tired once it was over that they didn’t bother to aim.

And there you were, up on the gurney, knees on either side of this little girl, heaving as you performed chest compressions. Sweat was clinging to your hair and dripping down your face in thick beads and staining your scrubs. At first, Jack thought you were crying, with the amount of water dripping from your face. You were muttering something under your breath.

You were trying to save an already dead patient.

How long had you been doing this for?

Jack guessed the other doctors had tried, and failed to get you down from there, to snap you into reality, or else they wouldn’t have had to get him straight from a trauma.

Jack walked closer, wrapping an arm around your wrist. You tried to pull away from him but he held his grip.

“Come on, stay with me.” Is what you were muttering, Jack realized, but your eyes were glazed over as the words tumbled out of your mouth.

“Sweetheart.” Jack kept his voice low and soft, trying to gently coax you back.

You faltered for a moment at his voice, pausing on compressions.

He said your name and you looked at him. Jack could see in your eyes that you were there as they began to mist over, paired with your bottom lip quivering.

“Hey.” He cooed, bringing his free hand to grab your other arm, gently tugging you down from the gurney. “She’s gone, honey. Leave her be.”

Those words got you. You gasped, but your breath caught in your throat with a sob and you basically fell off of the raised gurney and into Jack’s arms, thankfully catching you before you slipped onto the floor.

Jack wanted to take you out of that trauma room so badly, but there was a risk of you fighting him if you still didn’t understand what was going on. And as much as he hated to admit it, he had to keep you there, to hear the monitor flatlining, to see the blood covering the floor.

You felt like the fabric of reality was ripping right in front of you.

You had her.

You swore you had her.

But as much as you were in a trance while doing her compressions, as soon as you snapped back, you remembered the past hour of compressions you did on that poor little girl long after Ellis called it.

“I don’t-“

You tried to explain, but you don’t even know if you could come up with the words if you tried. Jack was holding you, it felt like less of a hug and more of a grip. Like he didn’t trust you to not get back up there and start another round of compressions.

“Don’t talk, just take a second, alright?”

You did as he said, and Jack’s heart broke when the tears started to break free from your eyes, spilling onto his arm.

“They lost both of their kids.” You sobbed, letting your face fall against Jack’s arm. “They’re waking up to no kids!”

Jack closed his eyes for second, readjusting you in his arms so he was holding you more gently, feeling assured that reality has hit and you wouldn’t try to get back up there.

He held you like that for a long time, your body practically dead weight in his arms, Jack being the only thing keeping your body from hitting the floor. His heart broke with you, the situation was gut wrenching.

He was just so thankful that the clock read “7:15 AM” when he checked it as the doctors from the morgue came down to take the girl’s body.

He was also thankful that he decided to take you out of the room a few minutes before they did.

He sat you down at the hub with Dana, who had just clocked in for her day shift, and was more than happy to sit with you for a few moments while Jack went to grab your stuff from your lockers.

His heart sank when you saw you left a protein bar in there; a smiley face scrawled on the wrapper in black sharpie. It had been so busy, he never even checked his locker.

He sat on the cool floor, leaning his head against the wall as he carefully unwrapped the protein bar, folding the wrapper neatly and sliding it into the chest pocket of his scrubs.

He knew he had a few minutes, you were in good hands with Dana, and Robby should be around too, no doubt he’d give you a few minutes of attention.

He let his own tears fall as he ate the protein bar, the whole stress of the day broke on his shoulders. The anguish of the thought of two parents waking up to no children. His selfish heartache of holding you, helping you and not having you.

You were tearing him apart before, just with your smiles and sweetness and the way you looked at him, and now he was completely wrecked. The thought of you sitting in a chair with your shoulders slumped and bloody scrubs made him feel sick. He wanted to protect you from it all, but that was impossible when you were right there in it with him, shoulder to shoulder, elbow deep in the mess.

His only option was to hold you through it.

He got his bearings, shoving himself up off of the floor, grabbing his backpack on his way up and stood for a moment in the hall, rolling his neck, eyes closed.

You had to come with him back to his house, that was non-negotiable. He was more than happy to open his home to you, to keep an eye on you and make sure you slept through the night. His hesitance came from how you reacted when he was in your apartment. The way you shut off completely, slipping away from him and then coming right back a few days later like it never happened. The last thing he wanted was to scare you away, but what he wanted even less than that was for you to wake up from a nightmare alone.

You were still sitting with Dana when Robby came by, letting out a low whistle. Dana gave him a hand motion to cut it out and he rolled his lips into his mouth.

“Doin’ okay, kiddo?”

You didn’t respond, eyes searching.

Looking for Jack.

Dana mouthed to Robby, and he had to push down the smirk as he nodded, giving you an affectionate pat on the shoulder before being whisked away by an intern presenting a case.

One thing Robby did, was notice. Especially when it came to Jack, who had such an apparent fondness to you, it was hard not to notice. Despite the situation being horrific, Robby couldn’t help but feel ridiculously pleased that Jack was going to be taking care of you.

“There he is honey, comin’ back to ya.”

Dana told you in a soft voice, pointing her finger to where Jack was walking towards you.

And there he was, your knight in shining medical scrubs, carrying not only his backpack but also your own. He wasn’t smiling, but his face was soft, mouth upturned as he kept his gaze focused on you.

“You ready?”

You nodded and let Jack help you up out of your chair, and allowed him to hold onto you and keep you steady as he walked you out to the parking lot, and let him hoist you up into his truck.

Your arms and legs were on fire, after nearly an hour of performing compressions, you felt like you got hit by a truck.

That thought made you teary.

How selfish and thoughtless you were. Using the same thing that just ripped a family apart to compare how sore your body was.

“I’m gonna take you back to my house, is that okay?”

Jack’s voice snapped you from your thoughts. Obviously, you weren’t in a headspace to go home. You knew that. You knew you had to say okay and let him do this.

To let yourself be helped.

Jack’s house was quiet, tidy. There seemed to be an exact spot for everything, all of the little miscellaneous things you usually shoved into drawers and corners had a perfect home.

But it still felt lived in. Perfectly Jack.

The exact opposite of your place.

You were quiet during your time spent in his house that morning, hardly any words were spoken between you besides instructions on the shower and where you could find snacks if you needed them.

Jack got you set up in his guest bedroom, not wanting to scare you by letting you have his room, even though he really wanted to let you sleep there because the AC was better and the mattress was softer.

You just wanted to sleep, not really caring where. The hot shower helped with your sore limbs but had also made you that much more exhausted, you just wanted to fall into bed, and at this point you didn’t even care which one.

He whispered a goodnight, but you didn’t respond.

He laid in his room in the dark for hours, watching the very faint outline of the fan spinning on his ceiling, wondering what the hell he was supposed to do with you when you woke up. Just… take you back to the Pitt to get your car? Get your freshly cleaned scrubs out of the dryer and ride together back to work? Take you home so you could get ready, then take you to work?

His mind was reeling and he was starting to get anxious trying to plan his next move with you, having never dealt with you in this capacity before, he was extremely unsure.

A sharp cry ripped through the house and Jack froze, unsure if he was just hearing things as he finally was slipping into sleep. He knew he had to get up, check your room, but something, some weight was holding him down like a boulder on his chest.

Another one.

Jack yanked the blankets off of him, aimlessly reaching for his prosthetic in the dark. He was fumbling trying to get the hunk of metal secured to his foot, and your cries were growing louder, but his hands were shaking and he couldn’t secure it. He threw it on the ground with a frustrated groan and grabbed his crutches, hoisting himself up and going as fast as he possibly could on the two sticks down the hallway. It took him a second to open your door, trying to keep his balance but he finally got it open.

He set his crutches against the wall as he steadied himself against your bed, leaving the door open and the hallway light on, so the light in the room wasn’t harsh but not completely dark either.

Jack gripped your shoulders in his hands, firm. “Hey, come on. Wake up for me.” He shook you gently, not wanting to startle you but not wanting you to be stuck in this nightmare any longer.

You were crying so hard in your sleep you weren’t breathing, your face getting redder by the second and Jack was beginning to panic, shaking you just a little bit harder as his heart raced. If you didn’t start breathing soon he would have to go get his go bag, and he was on crutches. He cursed himself for not being more prepared as he kept begging you to wake up. He disconnected his hand from your shoulder and tapped your face, forceful enough to jolt you awake.

Your eyes shot open and you sat up, clutching a hand to your chest as you gasped, which turned into chokes and coughs through your sobs.

Jack was so relieved he felt like he could cry, rubbing your back as you coughed and gagged onto the sheets, saliva dripping from your mouth and onto his hand but he didn’t care because color was coming back to your face.

“Let it out. You’re okay. It’s over.”

Your chest heaved as you tried to get used to being awake from your nightmare, and you were so tired you fell into Jack, letting him rub and massage your sore muscles in your limbs and torso, reveling in the relief his hands brought to your body.

“You’re safe, sweetheart.”

-

“You wanna grab pancakes after this? I’m starving.”

Jack was tired. Even just using his vocal chords felt like dragging weights. But, he had to admit, it had been a relatively easy shift, and he always had it in him to shit and spend a little bit of extra time with you.

“I, um, can’t.”

The two of you were sitting at the computers, finishing up your charts as the clock creeped closer to 7, the ED was settled, quieting down as night shift doctors and nurses pushed through their final home stretch.

Jack was taken aback.

You can’t?

Not to be that guy, but what the hell else could you possibly have to do besides get pancakes with him?

Reading the expression on Jack’s face, you responded. “I have to go straight home and get to sleep. I have plans later.”

Jack raised an eyebrow, “Plans?”

He knew for a fact you didn’t go anywhere besides the Pitt, the diner, and sometimes the Thai place around the corner of your apartment.

So Jack knew, for sure, that you weren’t somebody that just had plans. You hadn’t outright told him, but he pieced together from stories that you didn’t really have any friends and your family was halfway across the country and you only spoke on birthdays and Christmas.

Heat crept into your cheeks as you noticed Jack was onto you.

“I have uh- I’m going to dinner. On a date.”

Jack fought to keep his face neutral, but he fell apart. He thought, after that morning spent at his house, that things were shifting. He thought maybe he was making it out of the woods. That maybe, just maybe, you were entering the territory of more than friends.

So, it wasn’t that you had a fear of intimacy.

You just didn’t want him.

His heart was in his hands, outstretched to you as an offering, and you didn’t want it.

He had finished his charts a long time ago, just sitting there typing away at nothing as an excuse to wait for you. So, he logged off of the computer, and grabbed his backpack, pushing himself up out of the roller chair. “Enjoy your date.”

He hadn’t meant to be petty. Well, maybe he did. He just felt extremely rejected and pathetic. All of this time spent together, all the hours of getting to know each other, all of the patience he practiced because he knew close relationships were scary for you. It felt like all of it just got flushed down the toilet and he was so frustrated. Completely defeated.

A pang of guilt shot through his chest as he got into bed at home. He was your only friend, and you were confiding in him about something you were probably excited about, and he just left you sitting alone and feeling bad. It wasn’t your fault he went in too deep with you and caught feelings when you didn’t reciprocate.

He wanted to text you, or call you, or reach out in any way to let you know he was sorry, he didn’t mean to be so mean, and to call him if you need anything.

But his body was screaming at him for sleep, having already pushed himself for one too many hours to work out and catch up on some yard work, along with a couple episodes of his docuseries about WW2, he felt too worked up to get straight into bed, it being close to 2 PM when he finally got under his blankets, and he let sleep take him away before he could think any further on saying anything to you.

He woke up to his phone buzzing, the picture he took of you at PTMC with a bandaid on your finger and a pouty face illuminated the screen, lighting up the small patch of space where his head was.

He fumbled with it for a moment before he finally got a grip and answered. “Hello?”

“I’m sorry.” The words immediately spilled out of you, Jack could tell you were crying. “I didn’t know who else to call.”

Jack knew immediately that the date had gone south, it didn’t take a genius to connect the dots and piece that together.

“Send me your location.”

You continued to cry as you pulled the phone away from your face to send Jack your location. He was already up and fastening his prosthetic on, not caring to change out of his sweats and t shirt to come get you. Jack checked the notification, feeling relieved that where you were was so close to his house.

“I’ll be there in 10, okay? You wanna stay on the phone?”

You said yes, your voice sounding so small and defeated it made Jack feel even worse than he already did.

“Okay, we can do that.”

It wasn’t long before Jack pulled up to the bar you said you were at, instantly going into panic mode at the sight of you sitting outside on the curb, with your head between your knees, phone pressed to your ear.

Your head snapped up at the sound of his truck, and Jack was already getting out of the car. He didn’t know what the situation was, whether you were drunk or stood up or if he had assaulted you in some way, and Jack was prepared for pretty much any outcome.

He crouched down in front of you, arms resting on his thighs and his hands clasped together.

“I just wanna go to bed.” You whined as your eyes met his.

Jack nodded, “I can make that happen.”

Next thing you knew your hands were in his, his strong arms pulling you up from the pavement. You were a little tipsy, so your walk was wobbly.

“Alright, easy, Bambi.” There was humor in Jack’s voice, a slight smile playing at his lips as he got you into the car, which made you feel relieved, maybe he wasn’t that mad at you.

As he began to drive, all you could do was stare at him, his jaw was sharp from clenching his teeth, his muscles in his freckled arms twitched as he gripped the steering wheel, hair tussled and eyes swollen and droopy from sleep. Just looking impossibly perfect and Jack.

Your heart squeezed when you saw what you, at first, thought was just a piece of trash on his dash, until you realized it was the wrapper of the protein bar you had given him a few months ago, recognizing the messily scrawled smiley face on it.

Jack had kept it because it was you.

“You wanna tell me what happened?” His tone was flat, unamused.

Your shoulders fell. “We had a couple drinks. He ended up inviting his friends and I lost him from there. He left me at that bar alone.”

That guy was insanely lucky that Jack didn’t know his name or what he looked like. And for your sake, he hoped he never found out.

“I’m sorry you had to come get me.” You choked out, feeling incredibly embarrassed and small in Jack’s truck.

“I will always come get you.”

Jack said it matter of fact, because it was. He meant that deeply. It brought him a lot of relief that you still called him even when you thought you weren’t on good terms. It meant that you knew, deep down, that no matter what, Jack would do anything for you.

Jack sighed and said your name, running one hand through his hair while he kept the other on the wheel.

You waited as he took a pause after your name fell past his lips, the way he said it sounded as though the vowels grieved him.

“I’d do anything for you. You have to know that.”

It felt overwhelming. His words and the close proximity. You knew that, of course you knew that. These past months of being strictly friends didn’t mean you were blind. Things started feeling too real with Jack, and you were so scared of real.

Real mean there was something to lose. Something to break.

You had to be friends because if there was something to lose, you could not lose Jack. Not ever.

You stared ahead as the taillights of cars ahead of you began to blur, the lights stretching across your vision.

You don’t know why you said it. Maybe it was the alcohol or maybe it was because he just said something too but you said it, and once it was out there, there was no taking it back.

“How come the whole time I was on that date I felt like I was cheating on you?”

The tension was thick, you swear you could’ve reached up and grabbed it. And you wish you could have so you could tear it apart and stop it from ruining whatever it was you had with Jack Abbot.

Jack sighed, a sound that sounded almost like a laugh rumbled from his chest, but it was too cynical, too exhausting to be a laugh.

“Because we’re not just friends and you know it.”

-

Jack was so, so frustrated.

You had another moment, another moment where he thought “Finally, this is it. We made it over the hill” and you just pretended like it didn’t happen. Pretended like you’ve been friends this whole time and nothing is wrong and there’s nothing to talk about.

And the worst part was Jack let you because he loved you so damn much, and arm’s length was better than nothing.

And now he was frustrated because he could hear the door to the roof swing open, and your footsteps. He didn’t have to turn around to know it was you, and it didn’t take a genius to figure out that this is where you could find Dr. Jack Abbot after a hard shift.

“I’d really hate to scrape you off of the sidewalk after tonight.”

You spoke, there was no confidence in your voice, the words slightly dying on your tongue.

You were cautious.

Jack exhaled through his nose in some sort of laugh, but he didn’t turn to look at you.

You rested your forearms on the bar, looking out over the city. There was a faint strip of pink highlighting the horizon, signaling that the sun was rising and a new day was beginning.

Jack wasn’t doing well, you could see it. The corners of his mouth were turned down and his eyes looked less hazel and more brown than usual. It looked like gravity was trying to pull his body down but he was putting up a fight.

Wrecked.

It was the worst shift you’ve had since the family in the drunk driving accident 6 months ago. It may have been Jack’s worst shift to date.

There was a woman, a woman he couldn’t save. Her injuries were too extensive and she was bleeding all over her body internally and they just couldn’t get a handle on it.

Nobody could have gotten a handle on it.

The woman’s husband laid into him hard when he delivered the news. He pointed fingers at Jack, saying he was going to sue, saying he was an unfit doctor, telling him he had no idea how it feels.

How it feels to have the entire fabric of your life ripped out from under your feet in a split second, knocking you on your ass and leaving you impossibly alone?

He wanted to say that, but instead he just let the man continue to tear him apart. To call him incompetent, careless, privileged, a murderer.

Jack kept his hands behind his back while he continued to yell at him, refusing to lose his temper on a man who just lost everything. He remembers that feeling. That feeling of being in so much pain and grief that there’s nowhere to put it, all you can do is point fingers and hope you can find someone to blame to try and make it feel better.

“I’m so sorry for your loss.” Was all Jack said before he ducked out of the room, making a beeline for the roof and holding his hands together behind his back with such a firm grip his muscles twitched.

“That guy was out of line.” You said.

“That guy was grieving.” He countered. His voice wasn’t harsh, but his response was quick enough to make you frown and feel like you had said the wrong thing.

You didn’t say anything for a moment, and for a beat you thought you were going to stay silent.

“He was grieving, Jack, but that doesn’t make it okay. It’s okay to admit that what he said was out of line and that it hurt your feelings.”

He said your name, trying to get you to stop talking.

“It’s okay to admit that it brought up bad memories for you.”

“Please- “

“Jack, please. You’re hurting and grieving too- “

“Damn it!”

Jack turned around, pushing the heels of his palms into the railing and hanging his head, taking deep breaths as his chest heaved.

For a moment, the only noise was the sounds of traffic and the broken, strangled breaths coming from deep in Jack’s chest. You pushed it, you know you did. But he needed to hear it. He’s been brushing things off for too long, letting things roll off of his back and pretending like it wasn’t bothering him. But you saw through it and he was bound to break at some point, so it might as well be now.

“You can’t keep doing this to me!”

“Doing wh-“

“Don’t do that.”

You knew what you were doing. You knew but you were too scared to admit it. You thought maybe if you pretended like you didn’t, he’d drop it.

You didn’t think he’d bring it up now.

“We’re friends, Jack.”

His hand smacked the railing and you gasped at the sound of his skin colliding with the solid metal, the clanging sound echoing around you.

He sucked in a sharp breath and pulled his head up so he could look at you.

“Alright, say it.”

You were stunned. Of all the times you insisted you were friends, Jack never pushed it, he never pushed you.

You just stared, the wind whipping through your hair.

“Say you don’t feel it too, and I’ll drop it.”

You couldn’t speak. All of this time, all the times you said you were friends it was easy to say it because it was true. Feelings aside, you were friends.

He was still leaning on the railing, ignoring the sharp, shooting pains that were starting in his fingers and shooting up his arm.

You grabbed his wrist and he held his breath at the contact.

Your other hand came up to rest on his bicep, slightly squeezing as your thumb caressed back and forth.

“I can’t breathe when you touch me like that.” Jack admitted. His voice broke. You were breaking him. This was everything. The patient’s husband downstairs, every pent-up feeling Jack had been bottling up for your sake, so you wouldn’t run away. So he wouldn’t lose you and so you wouldn’t lose him. He was bursting at the seams.

You didn’t let go.

You leaned forward to rest your head on Jack’s shoulder, wrapping your arm around his bicep and he felt like he was going to melt into the cement.

“I’m sorry, Jack.”

He knew you weren’t apologizing for the night. You were apologizing for everything in the past year. For ignoring every time Jack showed you how he loved you more than a friend, for pretending everything was fine when it wasn’t, for going on the date and making him pick you up, for being so stupidly in love with him that you had to walk away.

He couldn’t help it, he melted into you, burying his face into your neck as you brought a hand up to hold the back of his head, running your fingers through his curls.

“Please.” He whimpered, Jack Abbot whimpered in your arms.

“I’m here, Jack. It’s okay.”

Jack knew you were about to walk away, he knew this was it. That whatever fear you had was becoming too strong and you were slipping away. He was going to lose you.

“Stay.” He pled.

“Please, don’t leave.”

Don’t leave me. Don’t leave this.

He pulled away from you only to take your face in his hands, his grip firm as he looked at you, his eyes intense with feelings you recognized, feelings that made you want to run.

Love. Adoration. Complete, soul crushing devotion.

Jack was yours.

And all you had to do was say yes.

“I love you.”

The words took your breath away, making you weak in the knees but Jack kept you up, determined for this to finally be it. This had to be the moment that breaks your friendship to allow it to bloom into something more. His face was stained with tears and he was trembling and his hand was aching but he was holding you up, keeping you tethered to him because, God, he couldn’t lose you.

You shook your head as your own tears started to fall.

Your hands were gripped onto his arm and Jack was holding onto the small shred of hope that your touch was bringing him, that maybe now this was it and he finally had you.

“Sweetheart.”

His voice was cautious, pleading. Sobs were crawling up his chest as he pleaded with you, he was so close. He was so close to everything he ever wanted and yet he felt like you were a million miles away because you weren’t saying anything.

“Jack, I’m so scared.”

“I know, honey.” His grip wasn’t so firm on you anymore as he cradled your face in his hands. “Oh, I know.” His voice was getting softer with each word he spoke to you, his anger dissolving the longer he had you in his arms and his lip quivering as you fell apart in his hold.

“I’m sorry.”

“No…” Jack shushed you as you apologized. “Don’t apologize for being scared, sweetheart. Please, don’t.”

“I can’t lose you.”

Jack shook his head. “I’m not leaving you, not for anything.”

You stared at him for what felt like forever, the wind of the roof whipping around you and the chaos of the pitt ensuing underneath your feet, but in those few moments it was just the two of you, and he was so beautiful as the sun began to rise and hit his face with a soft glow, brightening his eyes, making them look nearly golden in the light.

You knew then that you wanted Jack Abbot and any fear you felt before felt unbelievably small as he held you in his arms, his eyes wordlessly promising you that you were safe, he had you, and he looked at you like you were a treasure to be cherished.

Like you were his girl.

You nodded and that’s all Jack needed to press his lips to yours and the walls you worked so hard to keep up and in place crumbled around you as you moved against one another. Your hands in each others hair, on your waist, your back, your arms. He finally had you against him and suddenly he couldn’t get enough as he lifted you up so you were sitting on the railing, his lips never once leaving yours.

You pulled away from him, your lips swollen and out of breath as you breathed his name. He pushed the hair out of your face with a gentle hand, a beautiful smile beginning to crack through the devastation that was there only a few minutes ago.

He would’ve given you the world in that moment if you asked for it, looking so beautiful on the rooftop with he wind in your hair and morning sun on your face. If that’s the affect of his lips on yours, he’s going to kiss you forever.

“It’s okay to be scared. But let me prove you wrong.”

[mehchuis-deactivated20260406]

No More Quiet: A Jack Abbot Fic

Summary: Jack Abbott knows better than to get attached to temporary things. Jack doesn’t notice how much you’ve worked your way into his routines until the idea of you leaving makes something in his chest tighten. And by then, it’s already too late.

MDNI!!! (I WILL BLOCK YOU BE FR), Slow burn, Roommates to lovers, Roommate!Reader x Jack Abbot, SMUT!!! Minor Angst but mostly smut

You had been his therapist’s idea…

Well, not you specifically, but a roommate in general. He said Jack was “too comfortable in his own loneliness,” whatever that meant.

He had scoffed at the idea. 

But he hadn’t fought his therapist, though; rather, he’d followed the advice anyway, because ignoring professional recommendations had landed him exactly nowhere good before. So he’d posted the sublease listing. Short-term. Quiet household. Medical schedule. Not looking for socializing.

You answered within forty-eight hours.

On paper, you were perfect: quiet, independent, financially reliable, low-risk, and low-maintenance.

You’re an adjunct faculty member who circulates teaching at two of the universities in downtown Pittsburgh – perfectly serious and perfectly busy.

Jack wasn’t sure he’d notice living with you at all at first, because of just how busy you were.

You kept to yourself more often than not, kept your messes confined to your space.

The only addition to the living room was your reading chair and books; the only addition to the dining room was your dishes; the only addition to the kitchen was your kettle and your food…

He didn’t notice the way you crept into his life, his routine, his expectations.

He didn’t notice the way he was expected to help you mop the floors on Sundays, or do meal prep that same night for the week with you.

He didn’t notice the way he started looking forward to coming home.

Not at first.

And just like a frog in boiling water, Jack hadn’t noticed how important you’d become to him until it was too late.

In those first few weeks, you barely saw him; instead, you saw the evidence of him. A mug abandoned near the sink. His boots and crutches by the door. The low murmur of the TV through his bedroom wall at ungodly hours. You existed in parallel lines, polite but distant, the way two careful adults agree to share oxygen without sharing anything else.

It suited you.

You were busy.

Adjunct life meant living by calendar alerts and late-night grading sessions, shuttling between the University of Pittsburgh and Carnegie Mellon like a ghost with a tote bag. Your world was syllabi and commuter coffee and the quiet relief of coming home to somewhere that wasn’t temporary for once.

And Jack Abbott was… fine. Quiet. Contained. Polite in a way that felt deliberate.

You figured that was that.

It started small.

A second mug in the drying rack after you’d made tea.

It read: Pittsburgh Veterans Association… Clearly not yours.

You noticed because you were particular about your things. Your kettle lived in the same spot. Your books stayed in “careful” stacks beside your reading chair. Your life was portable but precise.

The mug appeared three mornings in a row.

On the fourth, you walked into the kitchen and found him there.

Jack stood at the counter in gray sweats and a faded Pitt hoodie, broad shoulders slightly hunched like he was trying to take up less space than he actually did. Steam curled from the kettle you’d left cooling. 

He looked caught.

“Oh.” His voice was rough, like he hadn’t used it yet that day. “Hope you don’t mind. I, uh, your kettle works better than mine.”

You studied him for a second longer than strictly polite.

“Most things do if you descale them,” you said mildly, moving past him to grab a mug.

Something flickered across his face.

Not offense… Interest.

“Huh,” he’d said.

That was the first crack.

After that, he started being… around.

Not intrusively, just there.

Jack was careful in a way that suggested practice – like someone who had learned, slowly, the hard way, how to exist without stepping on any toes. But the overlap between your lives began to grow in quiet, almost invisible ways.

He was in the kitchen more.

On Sundays, when you dragged the mop bucket out with a long-suffering sigh, he appeared in the doorway.

“You always do the whole place?” he asked.

You didn’t look up. “Yes.”

A beat.

“Even my room?”

You paused, but still didn’t look up, “…Yes.”

Then: “Hand me the mop.”

You did look up then.

Jack shifted slightly under your stare but didn’t take it back.

That was how Sunday floors became a two-person job. You did the bedrooms and the kitchen, Jack did the bathrooms and the living room.

Meal prep followed.

It wasn’t planned.

You were chopping vegetables with mechanical efficiency one evening, laptop open on the counter with half-finished lecture notes, when Jack wandered in, freshly showered, hair still damp.

He hovered.

You ignored him.

He hovered longer.

Finally: “You always make that much?”

“Yes.”

“For the week?”

“Yes.”

Another pause.

“…Need help?”

You turned slowly.

Jack Abbott did not look like a man who offered to dice onions recreationally. He looked deeply uncomfortable even asking… Which, annoyingly, made it harder to refuse.

“You can wash the peppers,” you said.

His shoulders loosened just a fraction.

“Got it.”

That was the second crack.

Because then you started prepping for two.

Weeks passed.

Winter harshened.

And somewhere along the way, Jack stopped being background noise.

You noticed the sound of his keys before the door even opened.

You noticed when his shift ran late, or – rather – early.

You noticed the particular way he stood in the kitchen when he was tired – hands braced on the counter, head bowed like he was holding the weight of something invisible. Something deeper than just a long shift.

You noticed the way he favored one leg after those long shifts. The way sometimes he refused to use his crutches, like they’d burned him once before. 

You noticed, but you didn’t think too hard about why.

Jack did, too.

Unfortunately.

And it hit him on a Tuesday.

Nothing special about the day. Nothing dramatic or obscure.

He came home dead on his feet, shoulders aching, brain fried from twelve straight hours of other people’s emergencies.

The apartment smelled like cardamom and something roasting. You were at the stove in some soft house clothes, your glasses sliding down your nose, stirring something with slow, absent focus while a podcast murmured from your phone.

Domestic.

Quiet.

Warm.

Jack stopped in the doorway.

Something in his chest went tight.

Dangerously tight.

You looked up.

“Oh. You’re home early.”

Early.

Like he had a time now. As if his absence registered to you, which did something to him he didn’t want to name.

Jack swallowed.

“Yeah,” he said, voice rough.

You studied him for a moment – too perceptive for his comfort.

“There’s food,” you said finally, gentler. “If you want some.”

Something in his ribcage shifted.

Frog in boiling water.

Too late to jump.

After that, it got worse.

Or better.

Depending on who you asked.

Robby noticed, because of course he did.

Jack just didn’t expect him to be so… forthcoming with it.

“How’s Mrs. Abbot?”

“She’s not–” Jack paused, “If you mean my roommate, then she’s good, and she’s also a Doctor in her own right, too, y’know.”

“Protective,” Robby smirked. “Either way, you seem more grounded, brother.”

Next, Shen, Ellis, and Lena noticed the fridge.

He hadn’t thought twice of his meal prep that day, but Shen noticed handwriting that decidedly wasn’t his on the label.

“So,” Shen starts with a wry smile, “when were you gonna tell us about Mrs.Abbot?”

“Mrs.Abbot?” Ellis grins wildly. “Oh, this wasn’t even on the betting board–”

“Hush, you two–” Lena chimes in, and for a second, Jack thinks she’s on his side, “If he wants to hide his ladywife from us, then that’s his prerogative.”

“I am not–” Jack shakes his head, “Ladywife? What is this Game of Thrones?”

He pauses, “I have a roommate. That’s all.”

He says it flat. Controlled. Clinical.

Which should have been the end of it.

It is not the end of it.

Because Shen is still smiling in that wild, knowing way of his. Ellis looks like Christmas came early. And Lena – traitor that she is – is watching Jack like she’s cataloging symptoms.

“Right,” Shen says mildly. “Roommate.”

Jack exhales slowly through his nose.

He hates all of them… But he can’t blame them.

Because they’re not the reason something in Jack’s heart lights up when they say “Mrs.Abbot” – even if you’d technically be Dr.Abbot because you had your PhD.

They’re not the reason he feels calmer when he has lunch prepped for him, like a promise kept in the silence of Sunday meal preps and mopping floors.

They’re not the reason a part of him feels hope for the first time in a long time.

Because sometimes, when you were grading papers in your chair, and he’d be off shift, he’d think of how nice this would be if it weren’t temporary. How nice it’d be if you were his.

But he pushes that down, deep down.

Because you were you: serious, soft, caring.

And Jack was… Jack.

He was certain he wasn’t what you were looking for.

So he buried it, with the practice of years wanting things he didn’t get to keep.

Temporary, he reminded himself.

You were temporary.

But he says stay on a Sunday.

The apartment smells like garlic and cardamom, your doing. Soft music hums from your phone while you portion meals with quiet precision. Meal prep night. Routine. Safe.

Temporary, he chastises himself.

His leg is bothering him.

You notice immediately.

Of course you do.

“Sit,” you say, already reaching for the cabinet.

“I’m fine.”

You look at him, steady and unimpressed.

“You’re favoring one leg. Sit, Jack.”

He sits.

Because apparently that’s just a thing he does now.

You move easily around the kitchen, like you’ve always belonged here. Sleeves pushed up, glasses slipping down your nose, humming faintly while you work.

He wants to push your glasses back up, and he realizes he’s been watching for too long.

A dangerous habit he’s been developing.

“I can help–”

“Not if you’re hurting,” you cut in.

Then, sighing, you smile at him, something softer in your eyes. “You always this bossy with your roommates, Doc?”

Something in his chest pulls tight.

You slide a few containers toward him.

“For the week,” you pause, “for lunches.”

Jack looks at it.

Then, at you.

“You keep doing that.”

Your brow furrows. “Doing what?”

“Planning for me.”

It comes out rough. Honest in a way he didn’t mean.

You pause, “I make more than enough,” you say quietly. “It doesn’t make sense not to share.”

Jack hates how much that answer disappoints him.

You were simply being kind, practical.

Comfortable silence settles. Until your fingers brush his passing another container, this one labeled: FRIDAY.

You both still.

Just for a second… But it’s enough.

“You know,” he says slowly, “you don’t have to keep acting like this is… temporary.”

The words slip out before he can stop them.

Your head tilts. “What do you mean?”

Abort, his brain screams, stop!

He doesn’t.

Instead, he says:

“You’ve got a place here,” he says quietly. “You don’t have to keep one foot out the door.”

Your breath catches – barely.

Jack hears it.

You study him carefully.

“Jack,” you say slyly, “are you asking me to be your roommate?”

“Yeah,” he says, not quite meeting your eyes.

But he doesn’t look away completely, either.

This time, you’re smiling. “So you want me to renew my lease?”

Dangerous question.

Because it’s quieter when you’re gone. Because somewhere along the way, you stopped being temporary to him.

Jack swallows.

“Yeah,” he pauses for a while. “It’s… quieter when you’re not here.”

Your expression shifts into something soft.

“Okay, renewed it is,” you say, certainly this time. Then, you add, “No more quiet.”

No more quiet.

Something in Jack’s chest tightens at that.

The words hang in the air for him, despite your going back to your methodical cutting of vegetables.

No more quiet.

Two weeks go by.

Two weeks of jokes from Shen, Ellis, and Lena about the ever-elusive “Mrs.Abbot” who keeps making Jack’s lunches. 

Two weeks of pointed looks from Robby, telling him to just tell you how he feels.

Two weeks of meal prep, mopping, and calm, domestic moments.

Two weeks go by peacefully, knowing you’re staying this time.

Two weeks go by before the shit hits the fan.

Jack doesn’t usually double back once he’s left for a shift.

It’s inefficient. Disruptive. The kind of mistake he prides himself on not making. But halfway down the block, his leg starts that deep, familiar throb – the one you always notice before he does – and he remembers the tube of IcyHot sitting uselessly on the bathroom counter.

You’re going to give him hell if he pushes through another twelve without it.

So he turns around.

The apartment is dark when he slips back inside, careful and quiet out of long habit.

He drops his keys in the dish by the door, already mentally running through the night ahead. Walking softly down the hallway towards his bathroom because you’re probably asleep–

When he hears it.

Soft.

Breathy.

Jack freezes. Brows knit. But, there it is again. A low, muffled moan, followed by the unmistakable creak… creak… creak of a bedframe coming from one door down.

Your room.

For a moment, his brain just… stalls.

Then it clicks.

Oh.

Oh.

His stomach drops.

You had someone over.

Of course you did.

You were an adult – an attractive one at that. Busy but not dead. There was absolutely zero reason you wouldn’t have a life outside of grading papers and reorganizing the spice cabinet like a woman possessed.

Still… something ugly and sharp twists under Jack’s ribs.

And the part of him that’s hell-bent on self-harm cranes his neck, because you’d left the door cracked.

And if he could just see who’d brought those pretty sounds, he could maybe–

Oh.

Oh.

You most certainly did not, in fact, have someone over.

You – sweet, soft, professional, serious, you – were currently folded over, one hand gripping the bedframe, the other fucking a hot-pink toy into your absolutely soaked hole.

Holy shit.

Jack’s breath catches in his throat.

But he’s stuck–

And like a man possessed, he cranes his head just enough to really look at you.

You were moving faster, now, urgently. Your bedframe: creak, creak, creak. Your moans getting a little more raw and–

Jack felt his pulse drop low and his pants tighten.

And it hits him exactly what he’s doing–

Jack pulls back like he’d be burned. And with military precision, he grabbed his IcyHot and fled the apartment.

Quiet as a mouse.

Praying to a God he doesn’t know if he believes in, that you hadn’t noticed him close the door on his way out…

And if he palms himself through his scrubs at the image of you on his way into work, that was nobody’s business.

And if he later jerked himself raw at the memory of you in his shower while you were at work, that was nobody’s business.

And if he wondered, before bed, about who you were thinking about – well, that was nobody’s business.

Jack didn’t want to think about what his obsession with this was about. Because it certainly went past the awkward recollection… And it definitely went past just curiosity…

Jack tells himself he’s over it.

Professionally over it.

Clinically over it.

Mature-adult-with-boundaries over it.

It is a lie so transparent it would be embarrassing if anyone were around to call him on it.

Because three days later, Jack Abbott is losing his damn mind.

It starts small.

Again.

You always notice his leg before he does – that hasn’t changed – but now there’s something else threaded through your attention. Something sharper. More aware.

Like you’re clocking him the same way he’s been clocking you.

Jack hates that he noticed.

Hates more that he hasn’t been able to stop noticing anything about you since Thursday night.

The sounds.

The sight.

The way your mouth had fallen open–

The way your head bent down, like a prayer–

He shoves the memory down so hard and so fast that his jaw aches.

Sunday night finds you both in the kitchen again. Routine. Familiar. Safe.

Except it’s not.

Not anymore.

Because you’re at the counter, sleeves pushed up, methodically portioning rice like the world’s most composed woman.

And Jack is leaning against the opposite counter, arms folded, watching you in a way that has become increasingly less subtle.

You feel it.

Your shoulders shift almost imperceptibly.

“Do you need something?” you ask mildly, not looking up.

His voice, when it comes, is rougher than usual.

“…You always cook in that?”

You pause.

Slowly look down at yourself: soft house shorts, one of your older sweatshirts, nothing scandalous by any means. 

Nothing that should be making his pulse kick like this.

Your brows knit.

“Yes?” you huff, not quite a laugh.

Jack’s jaw ticks…

Because now that he’s seen–

Now that he knows–

Every soft domestic moment is contaminated with the memory of you undone. Messy and breathless.

He pushes off the counter.

Crosses the kitchen.

Stops closer than he usually does.

You notice that, too.

Your fingers still on the lid of a container.

“Jack?”

Quiet.

Careful.

Jack’s eyes drop – just for a second – to your hands.

Then back to your face.

“You lock your door now,” he says, but it’s not a question.

Your breath catches. Barely.

But he sees it.

Always too observant for his own good.

“Sometimes,” you say carefully.

Jack hums low in his throat.

Something possessive and deeply unhelpful curls warm and dangerous in his chest.

Because you hadn’t.

Not that night.

His voice drops, quieter.

“You didn’t.”

Your fingers tighten slightly on the container lid.

There it is.

Tension.

Sharp enough to taste.

You finally look up at him fully.

“You doubled back that night,” you say slowly.

Not accusing. Not embarrassed. Just… aware.

Jack holds your gaze.

Doesn’t lie.

“Yeah.”

Silence stretches.

Thick.

Charged.

Your throat moves when you swallow.

“You don’t normally do that…” you trail off, “did you need your IcyHot?”

He almost laughs at the earnestness of it.

Almost.

Because you are either the bravest woman alive or you have absolutely no idea what you’re doing to him right now.

Jack steps closer. Not touching. Not yet.

But close enough that your breath stutters just a little.

“Yeah,” he says quietly, “I did.”

Your pulse is visible at your throat now.

Fast.

Jack’s control – already hanging by a thread since Thursday – pulls tighter. Hotter. More dangerous. 

His voice drops another notch. “You usually that loud?”

Your inhale is sharp.

Eyes going wide behind your glasses.

You look caught.

You don’t answer.

Which, unfortunately for both of you, is answer enough.

Something in Jack snaps a little.

Not control, not fully, but something possessive and hungry slides loose under his ribs. He leans one hand on the counter beside you. Not trapping. But close enough that the air shifts.

“Jack,” you say, very softly.

Warning…

Or invitation…

Hard to tell.

His eyes drag slowly, deliberately, down your face. Your throat. Your mouth. Back up.

“You got real quiet after that night,” he says.

Your fingers flex.

“Did you want me to bring it up over breakfast?” you ask, voice thin but holding.

His mouth almost twitches.

God, you’re brave.

Or reckless.

Or both.

Jack leans just a fraction closer.

Close enough now that he can see the way your pupils have blown wide.

Feel the warmth of you.

“You been avoiding me?” he asks, quietly.

You hesitate–

That is the worst possible thing you could have done.

Because something dark and hot blooms low in Jack’s chest.

Obsessive.

Possessive.

New.

“You been avoiding me?” He repeats, a little firmer this time.

Your breath stutters. “No.”

Lie.

He can tell.

Jack exhales slowly through his nose.

Then, very deliberately, he reaches past you. Grabs the container you’d been working on. Snaps the lid into place. The sound is sharp in the quiet kitchen.

Final.

Domestic.

Intimate in a way that makes your shoulders go tight.

His voice drops to something rougher.

“Next time,” Jack says quietly, eyes locked on yours, “you should probably lock the door.”

Your lips part.

He holds your gaze for one long, charged second–

Then, before he can step back, step away, you say:

“What if I don’t want to?”

Jack freezes because he wasn’t expecting that.

You bring a hand to where his arm rests.

“What if I want someone…” You breathe, “next time?”

Jack’s pulse is racing now – hard and heavy against his chest.

And for one dangerously long second, he’s staring at you, trying to make sure he heard you right. But your hand is still on his arm, warm and intentional and there–

And something in Jack’s restraint finally shatters.

His breath is leaving him low and rough now, like he’s already halfway gone. His eyes drop to your mouth again, this time not subtle or careful–

It pulls at something low and warm in your core.

“Don’t say things like that,” Jack finally manages, low and burning.

“Why not?” you murmur.

And that does it–

Jack finally moves.

Fast enough to steal your breath but controlled – always controlled with him – with a hand coming up and cupping the nape of your neck, the other slotting against your waist.

Weeks of restraint finally cracking at the edges because Jack is fully in your space now, fully against you.

And this kiss is heated, possessive, and claiming.

You reach for him, grasping at his arms, snaking a hand into his hair – and tugging. And that clearly does something to him because he groans low into your mouth.

You gasp a small, surprised sound against his mouth, and Jack’s grip tightens reflexively – like the noise goes straight to his spine.

You feel surrounded by him – the kiss is dizzying. Electric.

Before you know what’s happening, he’s slotting a thick thigh in between yours and pressing up.

“Jack–” you gasp into his mouth.

“Yeah,” he breathes against your lips, roughly.

Then he kisses you again, this time deeper. Harder. Like he’s trying to remember every inch of you.

Slower in a way that somehow feels dangerous – like he’s savoring it now that he’s started.

His thumb slides lightly along the side of your throat, not squeezing, but grounding, claiming in a way that makes your pulse jump hard under his touch.

Your hand is fisted in the front of his hoodie now, and Jack makes a low sound in his chest at that.

You’re kissing him, and when you bite his lower lip in tease, he pulls back just enough to say:

“Careful,” but it lacks any real warning.

Because he’s the one leaning in closer.

You tilt your head up without thinking, and that small, unconscious movement pulls another rough breath out of him. The kiss turns warmer, heavier – still controlled, but barely – like he’s walking a very thin line and knows it.

When he finally pulls back, it’s only far enough to look at you, really look at you.

Your lips are bruised and plump from kissing, pupils blown wide, lids low like you’re in a haze – you look beautiful – like you’re his.

And the possession must show on his face because you’re leaning into his touch and–

“I’m yours,” you whisper, “have been for a while now.”

Jack hears it.

Every word.

I’m yours.

Something dark and hungry in his chest finally snaps its leash.

His breath leaves him sharp through his nose, eyes going blown and bright in an almost dangerous way. Your hands are still in his hoodie, your mouth still parted from where he kissed you, and Jack–

Jack is done pretending he has this under control.

His hand tightens at the back of your neck.

“Careful,” he says again, but now it sounds wrecked.

Not warning.

Not restraint.

A promise.

Then he moves.

Fast.

The shift is sudden enough to steal your breath.

One second you’re braced against the kitchen counter, the next Jack is walking you backward, step by steady step, his body crowding yours in a very intentional way.

Very deliberate.

You stumble once.

His arm is immediately firmer around your waist.

“Easy,” he murmurs, low and rough, like the word was pulled out of him.

Your pulse is racing so hard you’re sure he can feel it where his thumb still rests warm at your throat. He watches it jump – watches you – like he’s cataloging every reaction.

Like he’s been wanting to do this for weeks.

The hallway feels shorter than it ever has.

Your back meets your bedroom door with a soft thud.

Jack pauses.

Just for a second.

Breathing heavy, eyes locked on yours like he’s giving you one last out – one last moment to stop this before it becomes something neither of you can pretend or fake away.

You don’t take it.

Your fingers curl tighter in his hoodie instead.

That’s all the permission he needs.

The door opens behind you in a quick push, and then he’s walking you inside, slower now, but somehow more intense for it, like every step is a choice he’s very aware he’s making.

Your bed hits the back of your knees.

You inhale sharply.

Jack’s hand slides from your neck, down – slow, deliberate – until it settles firm at your hip.

Grounding.

Claiming.

His voice is rough when he finally speaks.

“You sure about this?” he asks, but he doesn’t sound doubtful.

He sounds like a man hanging on by a thread.

Your answer is barely a whisper.

“Yes.”

Jack exhales like something in him finally gives.

Then he leans in–

Not kissing you yet.

Just close enough that his forehead nearly brushes yours, breath warm against your mouth, tension pulled so tight between you it almost hurts.

His grip on your hip tightens once. Firm. Claiming.

“Say it again–” he murmurs, voice low and wrecked. “–so I know I didn’t imagine it.”

Your heart is pounding.

His eyes drop to your lips.

Waiting.

“Yes, Jack,” you whisper.

Kissing hard and possessively and claiming into your open mouth.

Touching your sides with a pressure beneath his hands that tells himself you’re there, that you’re real. You’re his.

And you’re gripping into his shirt and his hair and tugging lightly, and oh, that does something to him because he groans low into your mouth.

Before you know it he’s got his hands on the edge of your sweatshirt, and he’s pushing it up around your chest.

Lightly tracing his hands up your sides, reaching your sensitive chest. You weren’t wearing lingerie by any means, but you – thankfully – weren’t in a sports bra. But Jack still groans when he cups you like a man possessed.

He’s pressing a thick thigh in between your legs again and it’s exactly the encouragement you need to pull your sweatshirt and bra off in one swift move.

“Jesus–” Jack breathes, “you’re perfect.”

And he presses his thigh deeper into the ever-growing wetness between your legs.

“You this worked up over me?” and he presses a little harder.

“Yes–” you whisper and buck into his thigh, riding it as much as he’d let you.

“Nuh-uh,” he coos, “Not so fast sweetheart.”

“Jack–” you groan, “Please–”

He’s pulling you to the edge of the bed now, hips almost off the end. Then he slides to the floor between your legs and taps your hips once, twice, to get you to push them up.

When you do he takes your shorts and panties off in one quick motion.

But before you can protest or feel embarrassed at how exposed you are–

He’s kissing the inside of your thighs, trailing up, up, up.

You’re breathless when he reaches your weeping core–

Back arching into his strong hands, thighs over his shoulders.

And he’s before you even think about begging he’s on you. Licking a long, slow stripe up your wetness, savoring it, before finding your sensitive clit.

He’s licking and sucking and before you can react he’s slipping a finger into your soaked hole–

“Jack!” You cry out, hands in his hair, bucking into his face.

He mumbles something in response but he’s muffled by you rutting into his mouth.

“Feels so good” you manage to get out, but it sounds garbled and hazed.

You were getting dizzy with lust now, you were positive you were soaking his poor face but you couldn’t bring it in yourself to care that much when he felt that good.

Warmth was pooling low and heavy in your core and you felt it begin to crest when Jack slipped a second finger in and curled, finding that sweet, spongey spot inside you.

“Jack!” you moan, gripping his shoulder with one hand and the other pushing his face into your core, still not letting up on sucking and licking your poor clit.

When he slips a third, thick finger into you you swear you see stars–

“Jack–” you slur, “I’m–”

He responds in time with curling his fingers up and in– and sucking hard on your puffy, overstimulated clit.

You’re crying out for him to slow down, because you can’t keep going– but he’s not letting up.

You’re gripping his hair, pushing his face so hard into you you’re not sure he can breathe.

If anything it pushes him further.

You almost ask him to stop–

But you’re pushed over the edge before you can manage to say it.

You come undone breathlessly, softening your grip on Jack’s hair, but he’s still fucking three fingers into you, and he hasn’t let up on your poor clit.

“Jack–” you murmur, “That’s– I can’t–”

But he’s fucking you through the overstimulation, his strong hands keeping your thighs in place on either side of his head.

You know his leg will be killing him but you can’t feel too bad, because he’s licking and sucking and fucking his long, thick fingers into you like a man starved.

“You can take it.” He mumbles, “She can take it”

And you blush because he’s talking like you’re not there.

And maybe you weren’t.

Because you can’t tell how much time has passed through your overstimulated haze.

All you know is that you’re building up again, this time, quicker, heavier, deeper.

And he’s fucking into your slit faster now, wet slapping filling the room.

You didn’t know when you started tearing up but you’re on the verge of crying now.

It’s too much and not enough all at once.

And just before a tear slips out, just before you ask him to stop–

You’re falling apart all over again.

But it’s wetter than normal, and oh God you peed–

But Jack doesn’t look fazed when he pulls his head back from you.

He looks feral.

“You know you could–”

“I’m so sorry” you overlap–

“Sorry?” Jack laughs at that, “Honey you just came on my face, nothing to be sorry about.”

“I think I–”

“You’ve never done that before?” This time his eyes look dark.

“When would I have–”

“Not with your toys?” He interjects, teasing.

You’re blushing at that but you squeak out a simple:

“No.”

“Good.” He says – unapologetically possessive.

He kisses each of your thighs before standing, taking off his shirt, then his pants, then his leg; before crawling over to where you lay on the bed.

He’s kissing you now, holding himself over you – bracing you in with his strong arms.

Your hands are on him, gentler than before, but still gripping and firm.

I’m here, it says.

And he’s kissing you back, I know.

You snake a hand down to your wetness, sliding fingers through your sensitive folds before taking the wet hand to Jack’s aching shaft and stroking, hard.

He groans into your mouth.

With one hand your pumping his weeping shaft in your hand, with the other your gripping where his jaw meets his neck, so he keeps kissing you.

You thumb across his slit and he stutters in your hand–

Jack pulls away from kissing you, “You keep doin’ that, and I’m not gonna last long.”

You smile at that. “Okay old man–”

“Who you callin’ old?”

You hum in response, letting go of his shaft to readjust your legs so he can fit in between you.

Propping himself up on one arm, he grabs his shaft and lines himself up with you.

Rubbing his tip across your folds, once, twice–

He’s pushing in before you can tell yourself to breathe.

You’re suddenly glad he used three fingers because God he’s big–

He’s got his face in the crook of your neck now, breathing heavy and slow, like he’s controlling himself still.

“Let go,” you whisper, “it’s okay.”

“I won’t last–”

“That’s okay,” you say, “just means I feel good”

He huffs a laugh into your neck before nipping at it.

“Yeah,” he pauses “you do.”

He starts moving, slowly.

In, out, a little deeper. Repeat.

Once he’s at the hilt, you’re gripping his shoulders with a fury.

He settles there for what feels like forever.

“Jack, please–” you moan.

And he’s pumping in and out a little faster now – encouraged by your breathy moans.

But he’s fucking deep into you – like he doesn’t want you going anywhere.

“Fuck me like you need me–” you whisper.

And that is the straw that breaks the camel’s back.

Jack begins truly fucking into you now.

Like a chat, he’s whispering in between kisses and strokes, “I do, I do, I do–”

And he’s close, he has been for a while, but you saying that pushes him further.

His thrusts are getting sloppier.

Messier.

Desperate.

He’s rutting harder now, bruising your hips with each sloppy thrust.

“Where do you want–”

“Inside” you breathe.

He doesn’t stop moving though, so again, you say “I want you inside, Jack, I’m on the pill.”

“I–”

Your legs wrap around his back, holding him close; your hands thread themselves around his neck, “I want all of you.”

And you’re kissing him hard and deep as his thrusting becomes broken.

Before you know it, he’s cumming with a groan into your mouth.

You feel warmth spread through your wrecked walls.

And for a few seconds after, the room is nothing but breathing.

Yours: uneven, wrecked, trying to catch up with your lungs.

His: slower, deeper, like he’s forcing himself back into control piece by piece.

Jack stays exactly where he is, braced over you, forehead pressed into the side of your neck. His shoulders rise and fall with each breath, the weight of him solid and grounding.

Neither of you moves.

The quiet after everything is almost louder than the noise before.

Your fingers are still curled into his shoulder when you realize it. You loosen them slowly, brushing your thumb over the warm skin there instead, a small, absent gesture.

Jack exhales against your collarbone.

“Easy,” he murmurs, though he’s not really talking to you. More like reminding himself.

You let out a soft laugh that sounds half exhausted.

“Pretty sure you’re the one who needs to hear that.”

He huffs quietly at that, the faintest hint of a smile ghosting across his mouth where it rests against your skin.

For a moment he doesn’t lift his head. Doesn’t pull away. Just stays there like he’s recalibrating.

Then, slowly, he shifts.

Careful with his leg, careful with you.

He rolls slightly to the side so you’re not pinned beneath him anymore, but he doesn’t go far. One arm slides under your shoulders automatically, pulling you against his chest like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Your cheek ends up resting over his heartbeat.

It’s still going fast.

You trace a slow line over his sternum with your fingertip without thinking.

The room smells faintly like the cardamom from earlier dinner and something warmer now, not just sex, but something lived-in. The soft lamp on your nightstand throws gold across the sheets.

Jack stares up at the ceiling for a long moment.

Processing.

His hand moves before he seems to notice, thumb brushing once along your arm.

“…You okay?” he asks after a while, voice low and rough from earlier.

You tilt your head so you can look at him.

“Yeah,” you say softly. “You?”

He lets out a slow breath through his nose.

“Yeah.”

A beat passes.

Then another.

Your fingers drift absentmindedly across the faint scar near his ribs and you feel him go still for a second – not tense, just aware.

“You’re staring,” you murmur.

“I’m thinking.”

“That’s dangerous.”

That earns a quiet laugh from him. Short, but real.

His hand slides up to the back of your head, fingers threading gently through your hair. Not pulling, not possessive the way he’d been earlier.

Just… there.

Comforting.

The shift between those two versions of him makes something warm settle low in your chest.

For a while neither of you says anything.

Outside, somewhere down the block, a car passes. Pipes hum faintly in the walls the way old Pittsburgh apartments always do.

Jack finally glances down at you.

Really looks.

Your hair’s a mess, glasses abandoned somewhere in the kitchen, your expression soft and loose in a way he’s never seen before.

Something unreadable flickers across his face.

“…You meant that?” he asks quietly.

Your brow creases.

“What?”

Earlier.

The words you’d said that finally broke whatever wall he’d been holding.

You watch him for a second.

Then you nod once.

“Yeah,” you say simply.

Silence stretches between you again.

But it feels different now.

Not awkward.

Not fragile.

Just new.

Jack studies you like he’s trying to memorize something.

Then his hand moves, pushing a stray piece of hair back from your face.

“Alright,” he murmurs finally.

You lift a brow against his chest.

“That’s it?”

“For now,” he says.

The corner of your mouth tilts.

“You’re very dramatic for a doctor.”

“Yeah?”

You shift closer into his side without really thinking about it.

Jack doesn’t comment.

He just tightens his arm around you a little – firm, steady, like he has no intention of letting you drift far.

And for the first time since this whole thing started…

Neither of you seems in a hurry to move.

[ozarkthedog]

I want Jack to look at me like that 🥺

[yournamesnob]

Kiddo Masterlist

Pairing: dom!Jack Abbot x f!sub!nurse!reader

CW: D/s dynamic, kink, explicit sexual content, 18+, nsfw, mdni

Tags/warnings: soft dom!jack abbot, brat/good girl!reader, D/s dynamics, power imbalance (but consensual), explicit age gap (reader is mid 20s, jack is however old he is), pet names (kid/kiddo/baby), sub drop, aftercare, D/s relationship, might end up being daddy kink af but we shall seeee

Summary: You and Jack develop a dom/sub relationship

Status: Ongoing

requests are open for them <3

Chapter one - Kiddo

Summary: Jack takes care of you when you drop into subspace at work.

Chapter two - Cuddles

Summary: Going back to Jack's to unwind after shift and talk things through.

More coming soon...

[yournamesnob]

Cuddles

Previous chapter ⋆ Masterlist

Pairing: Jack Abbot x f!nurse!reader

Words: 3.1k

CW: D/s themes, kink

Tags/warnings: soft dom!jack abbot, brat/good girl!reader, D/s dynamics, power imbalance (but consensual), explicit age gap (reader is mid 20s, jack is however old he is), pet names (kid/kiddo/baby), needy reader, jack is whipped af, cuddling, light spanking

Summary: Going back to Jack's to unwind after shift and talk things through.

a/n: thank you so much for all the love on part one??? wild. here's part two

Disclaimer: YOU DO NOT HAVE PERMISSION TO REPOST MY WRITING ANYWHERE ELSE WITHOUT MY CONSENT. REBLOGS ARE ENCOURAGED THOUGH. YOU MAY NOT FEED MY WORK TO ANY AI DATABASES OF ANY KIND OR TO USE MY WORKS TO TRAIN AI. FUCK AI.

The rest of the shift goes by painfully slow.

You don’t exactly avoid each other, but there’s a heavy understanding that if you both so much as make eye contact across a room, there’s no higher power that can stop you from being absurdly obvious about all the ways your relationship has just changed.

So you follow Shen and Ellis around like a puppy and he doesn’t call your name whenever he needs assistance.

If anyone else finds it weird, no one says a word, and you are grateful for it since you’re finally back on nights for the foreseeable future.

It isn’t until ten minutes before shift ends that he finally allows himself to corner you.

You’re in the dispensary, getting a cocktail together for your patient in north five when he slides in behind you.

“Give me your address,” he tells you, soft and almost shy about it.

You don’t turn to face him, concentration elsewhere. “I thought we were going back to yours.”

When he doesn’t say anything you explain. “My building’s not exactly mobility friendly.”

“I’ll manage.”

You scoff, a light chuckle escaping and you can feel him tense behind you. Be it from shame or the dawning realization that he cannot simply bullshit you, there’s tension in the air between you now.

You turn to face him. “I want you to be comfortable too.”

His gaze sharpens slightly, as if trying to figure you out, find the hidden agenda in your voice, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

You stare back defiantly.

He may be…may want to become your dominant but you’re not just going to let him carry all that burden himself. You’re going to take care of him too.

“Wait for me ten minutes after shift change.”

“Yes, sir.”

His eyes darken instantly, a devilish smirk curling on your own lips.

The tension turns electric.

Neither of you moves.

“Oh pretty girl, you’re gonna have to be careful what you say to me from now on.”

“I didn’t before and I sure as hell won’t start now.”

Jack suddenly becomes so overwhelmed by excitement that he’s rendered comebackless.

You giggle at the realization and it forces a smile to grace his lips.

“I’ll see you in a bit,” you tell him.

He nods, finally moving back and leaving the confined space before the two of you do something you’ll definitely be made to regret by the annoying HR gods.

“Hey, there goes trouble,” Robby teases as he walks through the main entrance into the ED. “Not sticking around for a double?”

Jack shakes his head, practically slamming the data pad against his friend’s chest.

“Woah, shit, can I put my bag away first?”

“No,” Jack grumbles. “Let’s get to it, Robinavitch.”

That causes Robby to raise his eyebrows in shock. “Alright?”

Jack is thorough and efficient. It takes him less than ten minutes to hand over. And the second he’s done, he disappears to get his things, leaving Robby with his mouth hanging open, searching for his friend cluelessly.

He finds you waiting for him patiently in the locker room. You’re chatting up Dana, thanking her again for letting you use her shoes and reassuring her that you’re never going to do it again.

He can’t help but smile to himself at the confession. But it also weighs heavy on his soul.

He understands you because he does the same thing.

He uses the job to seek the same release you do.

And the knowledge that you have both been searching for the other is both the most precious gift he could ever ask for but also the reminder of one of his biggest failings — not having found you sooner.

“I’ll catch up with you later,” you tell the charge nurse as you grab your bag and walk towards the exit. “Have a good day, doctor Abbot.”

You smile at him, tilting your head towards the parking lot exit so he’ll know where to find you. If there’s one thing he’ll give you is just how good on an actress you are, unshakable and unbreakable, and he’s tried. 

He manages a grunt and a nod before he swiftly makes his way to his locker to grab his bag.

“You hurt her and I will kill you.”

He stills at the threat. Not because he’s afraid, he’d rather die than lay a finger on a single hair on your head. But he also deeply understands what Dana means.

This isn’t just a romantic relationship. This is…everything. This is trust. This is respect. This is opening himself up completely and showing up in a way that will definitely challenge both of you.

He turns to face Dana. “Don’t worry, I’ll beat you to it.”

“Good,” she pats his back. “You kids have fun.”

He finds you leaning against his truck.

God you truly are a vision.

You’re on your phone, answering something or mindlessly scrolling through social media, he cannot care less.

You only notice him when he’s practically towering over you.

You don’t flinch, you don’t jump, you just lock your phone, look up at him and smile.

That fucking smile is going to be the death of him, of that he’s certain.

His heart begins to race and he can tell you’re in the same boat as heat tinges your cheeks and neck. He reaches out for your hand, interlacing your fingers with his and bringing them up against his cheek.

“We’re not going to play today, okay?”

You nod, completely understanding.

“We’re just gonna talk—”

“And have breakfast.”

“And have breakfast,” he chuckles.

“Good, cause I’m starving.” You push yourself off the side of the truck and brush his nose with your own.

Jack is certain he’s never known softness before in his life.

Not like this.

His breathing falters, his eyes shut instinctively, savoring the moment, committing it to memory.

And then you kiss him, soft and fleeting, but it’s enough to make his heart leap.

Jack’s hand wraps around your thigh possessively for the entirety of the drive back to his place and you can’t help the dopey smile that blooms instantly. It makes him chuckle, grip only tightening in response.

The ride is comfortably quiet, a morning show drones on through the radio but neither of you are paying any attention to it. It’s somewhere between the third and fourth stop light that your eyes close and through the rhythm of the car beneath you or the way Jack is now rubbing gentle circles against your leg, you let sleep win.

You wake up to the beautiful cadence of his voice saying your name. You blink awake, sad that the best sleep you’ve ever had has been interrupted but elated that it’s his beautiful face you get to wake up to.

The truck is parked in front of a one story house. His house. You smile softly, shifting in your seat as you unbuckle your seatbelt, well, you try to. For some reason, you’re so groggy you can’t quite press the button properly.

Jack lets out an amused huff and you immediately pout. 

“’s not funny,” you whine in that pretty voice that lets him know you’re starting to get frustrated.

“I’m sorry, kiddo,” he genuinely apologizes but can’t stop the amused smile that shows off his dimples. “Lemme help you.”

He does, easily, and it makes you even more whiny. You groan, loudly, and it makes him laugh this time.

“Alright, let’s get you to bed.”

It takes him a few seconds to exit the truck, rounding it to your door and opening it up as far as it goes.

“C’mere.” 

He opens his arms, half expecting you to leap into them but he should know better. You shake your head, pouting aggressively as you try to twist your body away from his. 

“Oh poor baby,” he mocks a little, testing the waters. “I thought you wanted to be my good girl but I guess I was wrong.”

It’s all feigned teasing that he knows will force you right into his embrace. And the way you turn around instantly tells him everything he needs to know. Grabby hands eagerly call him forward and he instantly steps into your open legs, strong, steady hands wrapping under your ass to lift you into him.

Your arms snake around his neck, face hiding in the crook as he wraps your legs around his waist. 

“There you go,” he kisses your temple. “Was that so hard?”

You nod against him and he chuckles, forcing a giggle out of you.

“I knew you were trouble before but this is—” he unlocks the front door. “This is gonna be fun.”

You shiver unconsciously at his words and he feels it. You’re just as excited as he is. You’re just as enthusiastic about this new shift in your dynamic. For too long you were restricted to sarcastic comments, cutting comebacks, flirty and bratty responses, but now…now you could both act on them.

You don’t know how it happens but one second you’re walking through the front door and the next you’re sitting on soft, cold linens. You begrudgingly unwrap yourself from Jack’s warm body as he sets you down on his bed, grounding hands running up and down your thighs.

“I’m gonna go get our bags,” he tells you, lips hovering yours almost sinfully. “Why don’t you take a shower while I make us breakfast?”

Your eyes sparkle at the mention of food and he can’t help but roll his eyes, a smile to match your enthusiasm.

“Thank you,” you tell him, you mean it.

“Always, kid.”

He trusts you know your way around. You’ve been to his house once before, a dumb Christmas party Dana had bullied him into hosting because his place was the most central to all of you. But that doesn’t stop him from placing a soft kiss to your lips before he tries, and fails, to get away.

Your hands fist into his shirt, the stupid black fabric clearly keeping you from what you truly want to grab at. He shivers as your knuckles barely graze his abdomen, his mouth opening up slightly, and you do to him exactly what he did to you earlier.

Your tongue enters his mouth adorably, seeking a closeness that he knows if he gives you now, you’re definitely not getting any sleep anytime soon. 

But he can’t stop himself either.

He groans into your mouth, the sound causing a rush of heat to spark through you. 

“Jackie—” you whine and his grip on your thighs tightens.

“Fuck kiddo.”

You whine again. He knows what you want because he wants it too. It takes everything in him to pull away, to not have his heart break a little at the cry that leaves your throat.

“I know, I know,” he presses your foreheads together. “We’ve got time for that later, I promise.”

At that you finally calm down. A little. You hum contently, clearly having won some secret battle he didn’t even know you were fighting. 

“Shower,” he states. “Then food,” you nod, following along. “Then sleep,” you huff and he lands a light smack to the side of your leg, causing you to jolt. “And then, if we’re feeling up for it, then we can play a little. How’s that sound?”

You nod, enthusiastically and he smiles brightly. God, this truly had to be heaven because there’s no other logical explanation for just how blessed Jack feels in that moment.

He kisses you one last time before he finally peels himself off you, quickly leaving the room before his resolve crumbles and he falls right back down to his knees in front of you.

You do as he asked, satisfactorily removing the sweaty clothes off your body and throwing them into his hamper without a second thought, something deep in your stomach telling you you’d be back soon enough.

The shower was scalding hot, perfect water pressure hard against your aching muscles. It was grounding, the water bringing you back to the present, to where you are and not the muddled waters that tiredness and comfort kept trying to drift you into. You’d already dropped once in the last twenty four hours, you’re not exactly willing to let it be two.

You wash your hair, the musky smell of his shampoo and conditioner working against you. It takes everything in you not to succumb to the warmth, the comfort, the knowledge that you’re here, in his house, in his shower, about to get in his bed.

It starts to get scary really quickly, forcing you to get out of the shower before you really want to. You wrap his towel around you and practically run out of his room, feet still a little wet. You practically slip into his arms on your way to the kitchen. Steady hands wrap themselves around you, pinning you to his chest.

“Slow down, kid, I’m right here.”

You let out a shaky breath you didn’t know you’d been holding in, swiftly burrowing yourself into his embrace. The tears burst out of you without your consent, sobs rocking through your body like a storm crashing against a cliffside.

“I’m sorry, fuck—” you try to pull back but he won’t let you. “I don’t know what’s wrong.”

He shushes you gently, slowly walking you both back into his room.

“It’s okay,” he whispers. “You’re okay. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

You nod against him as he sets you back down on the bed. He pulls back from you for one second, you count, and takes off his shirt in one swift movement, his pants quickly following so he won’t get in bed in his dirty scrubs, before he pulls you taunt against him, your back to his front.

His arms wrap around you tightly and he stays with you until you relax into his embrace, until your grip on his forearms softens, until your breathing evens out and you fall asleep.

He stares at you for a long time. He thinks about leaving you to take are of the million household chores he’s left unfinished but the way your eyelashes flutter against your cheeks, the way you huff in your sleep, the way you shift closer to him with each breath — nothing else matters anymore.

“You still wear your ring.”

It’s not a question, it’s a statement. But it isn’t accusatory, it doesn’t make him feel like he’s being told to take it off. It’s just an observation, an opening for him to tell you more.

You stirred awake a few minutes ago, your hands instantly interlacing with his own as you unashamedly began…exploring.

“I do,” he takes a deep breath in and it tickles your ear. “Does it bother you?”

Your nose scrunches adorably. “No, not really. You must’ve really loved each other.”

“We did.”

A beat of silence follows as you muster up the courage. He doesn’t rush you, doesn’t push, and then—

“Do you think you’re open to loving someone like that again?”

Do you think you’re open to loving me?

He squeezes your hands in his. “I think I’m ready to try again.”

You smile brightly, openly, caring and understanding. He’s felt this way before, he must’ve, but there’s something so open and freeing about how you look at him, how you want nothing more than to understand him, care for him, open up to him. It’s a gift, an honor, one that he will not take lightly.

“Have you done this before?” You ask him, heart is hammering against your chest. He can feel it rattling your body, matching his own.

It takes him a second to answer. “Not like this— not like I want you.”

You can feel your entire body tingling. It takes everything in you not to grind your hips down against his crotch, the one you’ve become hyper aware is only covered by his boxers.

He can tell, definitely, because his mouth quirks up into a barely there smirk and you simply know he’s thinking of doing the exact same thing to you.

“How do you want me?” Your voice lowers down to a whisper.

“Honestly?”

You nod. He sighs, shifting as he struggles to take the leap of faith.

You squeeze his hand, turning your head to look up at him, encouraging and he sees it, the fire, the hunger, the absolute devotion in your eyes, the same one that he carries within himself. The same one he’s been holding back on out of fear of being too much.

“I want…everything, kiddo,” he sighs, the weight releasing from his chest like a torrential downpour after months of drought. “I want the honor of being your dominant but I can’t just be that, I think my heart would not be able to take it. I want you to be mine and I wanna be yours too.”

You smile brightly. “I want that too.”

He sighs dramatically in relief. “Good, cause I would’ve probably disintegrated from shame if you said anything else.”

You roll your eyes, snapping your hand from his grip in retaliation to his dramatics.

“Hey!” He complains immediately.

“The only one allowed to be dramatic from now on is me.”

His eyebrows shoot up, disbelief mastered all over his face. “Such a brat.”

“I am not! I am delightful.”

“Delightfully bratty,” he mocks.

“Shut up, you love it.”

“I do.”

You share a knowing look. Every memory, every touch, every misplaced breath you’d thought you had been reading too much into flashing in your mind, your chest, your stomach. It isn’t all in your head, he wants his, he wants you.

“How long have you been…?” You don’t exactly know how to ask it, but luckily for you, he just knows.

“You want me to sound like a creep, kiddo?”

You giggle. “I don’t think it’s creepy.”

His eyebrows rise in shock. “You’re worse than I am, aren't you?”

“I wouldn’t say worse,” you tease. “I just think I match your freak more than you think.”

Jack laughs, the vibrations heavenly in your little bubble.

In response, unsexily so, your stomach growls, and the two of you descend into an obscene fit of laughter.

“Breakfast?”

“More like lunch at this point.”

“Almost dinner, actually.”

You turn to the clock on the nightstand.

“It’s not even four, you really are geriatric.”

A hand snakes in between your things, a sharp slap snaps through the quiet room.

“Watch it, kid.”

You’ve never felt this electric. 

“Or what?”

“Or I’ll eat you for dinner.”

I love these two so freaking much

dividers by @enchanthings

[pittmebabyonemoretime]

frequent flyer // jack abbot pt.2

(a/n: had a migraine the other day :((((( made me get ideas for this one though so hope you like it!!)

genre: jack abbot x reader, jack is a doctor please ignore when I write about his shifts he works whenever to make the story work lol

pt. 1

Work had been a relentless cycle of back to back meetings and looming deadlines, the kind that made you lose track of the sun setting outside your bedroom window.

By the time you finally looked up, you realized you’d missed your usual daytime window for your monthly prevention shot.

So, for the first time in a long while, you arrived at the pitt during the night shift.

You checked in with Lupe. She gave you a knowing smile and told you they were already set up in the back. You walked toward the double doors, bracing yourself for whichever night shift nurse happened to be on duty, but as the doors hissed open, you were met with a familiar, handsome face.

Jack was leaning against the wall, a slight smile playing on his lips as he held his arm out, silently directing you toward the exam room.

"You get me today," he said, his voice seemed to settle right under your skin.

You returned the smile, though you felt the heat of a blush betraying you. "Thank you. Sorry I couldn't make it earlier today. Work got all messy and I had to work later than normal." You winced, reaching up to rub at the tension at the back of your neck. "Hoping I didn't trigger something by having to be on the computer all day."

Jack didn't say anything at first. He just watched you with those observant eyes as he prepped the injection. He moved with grace, tearing open an alcohol swab. As you lifted the hem of your shirt, he leaned in, swabbing a spot on your stomach.

"If you do," he said, looking up at you, his voice dropping into a soft register. "You come see me."

The sheer weight of the promise in those words sent a thrill through you. A physical jolt that caused you to shiver.

"Sorry," you breathed, trying to steady your heart. "The swab was cold."

He held your gaze for a second longer before pressing the needle home. You didn't flinch. You barely reacted at all.

"Took that well," he noted, his thumb grazing your skin as he pulled the needle away.

You bit your lip, trying to stop your mind from wandering to places it had no business being.

You’d be lying if you said you didn't think about Jack often, and certainly in that capacity, but having him right here, touching you, was enough to make your composure crumble.

"Thank you, Jack," you said softly. You reached out, tentatively patting the top of his hand.

Usually, that’s where the interaction ended. A polite touch, a professional goodbye. But this time, instead of letting your hand slide away, Jack turned his palm upward. He caught your hand in his, his fingers gripping yours.

"Always," he whispered.

For a long moment, the rest of the hospital ceased to exist. You two just stared at each other, the air between you thick and humming.

The spell didn't break until a throat clear echoed from the doorway. You jumped slightly as John leaned against the frame. "Hey, Abbot. We got something coming in five."

Jack didn't look away from you immediately. He gave your hand one last, lingering squeeze before finally letting go. He stood up, tossing his gloves into the bin.

"See you next month, kid"  He gave you one last look over his shoulder before disappearing into the hall, leaving you breathless in the quiet of the room.

…..

"Soooo," John said, leaning back against the circ desk as Jack met him for the incoming trauma.

"Don't," Jack said, his voice flat, not even looking up from the monitor.

"What was that about?" John asked, taking a slow, deliberate sip of his coffee while watching Jack’s stony expression.

"That was Y/N. She comes in to get monthly shots for migraines," Jack replied, his tone clipped, as if stating medical facts would erase the tension still humming in his fingertips.

"No, I know Y/N. Love her. Everyone loves her," John said, setting his coffee down. "What I’m asking is what was that I witnessed? The hand holding? The love eyes?" John began gesticulating, clutching his chest and fluttering his lashes in a way that made a nurse nearby giggle.

"You need to get your eyes checked," Jack said, turning to head toward the bay.

"No, I think my eyes are just fine," John called out after him, laughing as he followed.

Jack didn't reply. 

He couldn't. 

He really didn't know what was going on, or why the air in that small exam room had suddenly turned to static. He knew he would be thinking about it for days.

The way his thumb had swiped the side of your hip as he stabilized you for the injection, the way your skin felt under his touch.

But that was all. That was all he could do. Nothing more. 

…..

A few weeks later, you woke up in the middle of the night to a sharp, agonizing pain that felt like a hot blade was splitting your head in two. It was the kind of breakthrough that didn't just hurt. It incapacitated.

Groaning, you tried to roll out of bed to get dressed, but the world tilted violently. You managed to pull on a pair of sweatpants, but the effort was too much. You had to keep kneeling down on the carpet, pressing your forehead against the cool floor to stop the room from spinning.

No ambulance. Please, no ambulance, you pleaded silently with your own body.

You hated the spectacle of it, the flashing lights, the cost. But after dragging yourself to the bathroom and vomiting, only to crawl back to the bedroom, get up, and vomit again, the choice was stripped away from you. You were losing the battle.

With trembling fingers, you managed to call.

When the paramedics finally arrived, you were curled in a ball on the floor, barely tethered to consciousness.

As they lifted you onto the gurney, you managed to choke out one desperate question through the haze of pain. "Am I... am I going to PTMC?"

"Yes, honey," one of them replied, his voice distant and muffled as if you were underwater. "We're taking you to PTMC."

You let out a jagged breath of relief.

Jack.

And then, the world surrendered to the pressure. All you saw was black.

…..

Jack was sitting at the workstation, the clicking of his keyboard the only sound in the quiet lull of the unit, when the paramedics rolled the gurney through the double doors.

"Y/N L/N, 30 year old female," the lead medic announced, their voice cutting through the air. "Migraine. In and out of consciousness. Won't respond to questions. Elevated BP."

Jack felt a cold wave of sickness wash over him. His chair scraped harshly against the floor as he stood up.

"Ellis. With me," Jack commanded, his voice tight. He fell into step beside the gurney, his hand instinctively reaching out to touch your arm as they rolled you into a free room.

"Hey, sweetheart. Hey, can you talk to me? It's Jack." He watched your pale face, the way your eyes were squeezed shut in agony. When you didn't move, he leaned over and began a firm sternal rub.

"Ow," you rasped, the sound weak.

"Sweetheart. Hi. What's going on?"

You groaned, the sound vibrating with pain. You managed to choke out the word "lights," and Ellis reacted instantly, flipping the switches. The room plunged into a dim glow, and the tension in your face eased immediately.

You cracked your eyes open just a sliver, your vision blurry and swimming, and reached your hands out toward the silhouette you knew was him.

Jack took your hand, his grip steady and grounding. He turned his head slightly toward the door.

"Ellis, I think she's fine. You can go handle that other call I heard coming in." Ellis nodded, casting one more look your way before disappearing into the hallway.

"Jack," you whispered.

"I'm here, Y/N. I’m right here."

"I'm so sorry," you mumbled from behind the plastic of the oxygen mask, the guilt of being back here, like this, weighing on you as much as the pain.

"Don't be. Never," he said firmly. He reached out with his free hand, gently patting the hair on your head, his touch lingering. "We're going to get you some medicine going and you'll be okay. I've got you."

You didn't let go of his hand. Instead, you pulled it closer, holding it against your chest, right over your heart. "Don't leave."

Jack leaned closer, his thumb stroking the back of your hand. "I’m not going anywhere."

…..

The cocktail they’d pumped into your IV worked its heavy magic, pulling you under into a deep, dreamless sleep. When you finally blinked your eyes open, the harsh edges of the world were soft again, though your limbs felt like lead.

Jack was there the moment you stirred. 

He informed you that he was taking you home. His shift had ended ten minutes ago, and he wouldn't take no for an answer.

"You okay to walk?" he asked, his hand hovering near your elbow just in case. You nodded, feeling a bit unsteady but fine.

As you made your slow escape from the unit, you passed by the circ desk. Dana looked up from a chart, her face falling the moment she saw you, looking pale and worn.

"Oh kid, don't tell me," she sighed, her voice full of motherly pity. You just nodded, the exhaustion hitting you so hard you felt yourself about to cry. She bypassed the desk to pull you into a quick, tight hug. You managed to whisper that you’d see her later before Jack led you toward the exit.

Jack’s truck was familiar now.

You liked it. The height of it, the scent of him that lingered in the upholstery. You were able to relax the moment the door clicked shut, your head resting back against the seat as the early morning world blurred past the windows.

When you reached your building, he didn't just drop you at the curb. He walked you all the way up, staying close until you were standing right at the door of your apartment.

"Sure you're okay?" he asked, his eyes searching yours for any lingering shadows of pain.

"Yeah," you breathed, fumbling for your keys. "I'm just going to take more of this medicine you gave me and keep sleeping."

Jack lingered, his hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets. "Okay. Would you mind taking my number? I'd like you to call me if anything changes."

You bit your inside lip, trying not to smile like crazy despite how drained you felt. "Yes, of course."

"Okay. Take care of yourself, sweetheart." 

As you slipped inside and locked the door, you leaned your back against the wood, clutching your phone to your chest.

…..

It had been a week since your midnight visit to the ER. It was a Saturday, and you were planning on doing absolutely nothing all day. You were sitting on your sofa, wrapped in a blanket and watching some comfort shows, when your phone buzzed.

Jack: How's the head?

This was his first text to you.

Honestly, you didn’t know how it hadn’t been you to text first. The amount of times you had opened up your phone to type a message to him only to get nervous and close out of the app was embarrassing. 

You: Much better :) thank you again

It took him ten whole minutes to reply. Ten minutes of you staring at the television, unable to concentrate on a single word of your show. 

Jack: That's what I like to hear. Jack: Today's my day off. Any chance I could come by and meet Piper?

You looked down at your lap where Piper was curled up, purring and sleeping peacefully. Then you looked around at your apartment and then at yourself. Everything was a bit of a mess.

You: We would love to have you.

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