Warnings: heavy angst, MDNI!!! Domestic violence, physical abuse, graphic descriptions of injuries, internal bleeding, blood. Please read with care. It explores the reality of being blind to violence out of fear and survival.
Summary: Working the night shift at The Pitt is hard enough without carrying the weight of a violent secret. Jack Abbot has been watching his best resident slowly fade for months until a desperate attempt to leave her abuser turns into a fight for her life.
A/N already working on part two!! Also, correct me if I wrote something wrong on the medical part 🫡
Jack was leaning against the central nursing station when he saw you. You were at the far end of the corridor, tucked into the shadow of a supply cart, thinking you were out of sight.
You weren't.
Jack watched as you pressed the phone to your ear, your knuckles white as bone. Even from twenty feet away, he could see the slight tremor in your shoulders. Your voice didn't carry but the frantic pacing did. It was the movement of someone trying to find a solution that wasn't there.
"Again?"
Jack didn't turn his head. He knew Lena’s voice without looking. The head nurse stood beside him, her eyes fixed on the same spot.
"Third time this shift," Jack muttered, his thumb tracing the rim of his jaw. "She’s been on that call for ten minutes. If the paramedics roll in with a code right now, she’s not going to be in the headspace to lead it."
"It’s not just the phone calls, Jack," Lena said softly, her voice heavy with sadness. "Look at her wrists."
Jack straightened up. He’d noticed the long sleeves you wore, the way you winced when you reached a high shelf and the heavy layer of make up that didn't quite hide the yellowish purple smudge blooming along your jawline.
He waited until you hung up, until you leaned your forehead against the cold metal of the supply cart and took a shallow breath. When you finally stepped back, rubbing your eyes until they were bloodshot and glassy, he intercepted you.
"Abbot," you croaked, your voice thin and brittle. You didn't look at him. You looked at his chest, at his ID badge, anywhere but his eyes. "Sorry. I was just checking on... a personal matter."
"A personal matter that has you screaming and unfocused at 3 a.m," Jack’s tone wasn't kind. "You’re late on your rounds. You missed the handoff on the MVA in Bed 4."
"I’m sorry. It won't happen again."
"It’s already happened again," Jack countered. He stepped closer, dropping his voice. "You’re a resident at one of the busiest trauma centers in the city. You can't afford to be compromised. You’re shaking and trailing three steps behind the rhythm of this floor."
You finally looked up and the raw exhaustion in your gaze made him flinch internally. "I'm just tired, Dr. Abbot. The night shifts are catching up to me."
"Don't lie to me," he said, the words landing like lead. "I see the bruises. I see the way you jump every time your phone vibrates on the counter. This isn't tired."
You stepped back, your posture suddenly defensive, arms crossing over your chest to hide the very signs he’d pointed out. "You don't know what you're talking about. You’re my attending, Jack. Not my therapist. If my work is subpar, write me up. Otherwise, leave it alone."
Jack watched you walk away. He saw Shen emerge from a patient room, catching your eye for a split second. Shen didn't say anything, but the look of pity he shot toward you was enough to confirm that everyone knew.
Everyone saw the cracks.
Jack stayed at the station. He wanted to reach out, to pull you into an office and demand the truth, to offer a way out. But as he watched you disappear into the shadows of the hallway, he realized the most agonizing part of the ER: you couldn't treat a patient who refused to admit they were bleeding.
He picked up the phone to page the next intake, his heart hardening while realizing he was watching his best resident slowly vanish, one night shift at a time.
_
Jack was just arriving at ER when he heard the slammed car door.
It wasn’t the sound of someone arriving; it was the sound of an exclamation point. Jack saw you. You were backing away, your hands up in a defensive posture, your scrubs already darkening with rain. Following you was a man whose voice cut through the sound of the rain, low with a terrifying rage.
"I told you to leave it alone!" you cried out, your voice cracking. "I’m late, I have to go—"
"You don't go anywhere until I'm finished," the man snarled.
Jack stopped ten feet away, his hand tightening around his bag. He saw the moment the man lunged. It wasn't a punch; it was a swift grab. He seized your upper arm, his fingers digging into the soft tissue with enough force to jerk your entire body toward him. You let out a choked gasp of pain, your heels skidding on the wet asphalt.
"Let go," you whispered, your eyes darting toward the ER entrance in a panic. "Please, someone will see."
"Let them look, you're being a bitch," he hissed, pulling you closer until your faces were inches apart.
"That's enough."
Jack’s voice wasn't loud but it was precise. He stepped out of the shadows, he didn't look at you, he kept his eyes locked on the man’s hand, still clamped around your arm.
The boyfriend looked up, eyes narrowing. "Back off, pal. This is private."
"It stopped being private the second you touched her on hospital property," Jack said, stepping into the man's personal space. "Let her go. Now."
"Jack, please," you stammered, your face pale and glistening with rain. "It’s fine, we’re just—"
"It isn't fine," Jack snapped, his eyes finally flickering to yours for a fraction of a second. "I’m Dr. Jack Abbot. I run this ER. And if you don't take your hand off my resident in the next three seconds, I’m calling hospital security. They’re already standing thirty feet behind those glass doors. Want to find out how fast they move?"
The man’s jaw worked, his eyes darting to the security desk visible through the lobby windows. He loosened his grip, giving your arm a final sharp shove before stepping back.
"She's all yours, Doc," the man spat. He pointed a finger at you, a silent promise of a conversation to be finished later, before climbing back into the car and peeling away.
The silence that followed was heavy. You stood there, your head bowed, your breath coming in ragged hitches. You reached up to rub your arm, your fingers hovering over where his grip had been.
Jack didn't offer a hand. He didn't offer a hug. He knew you’d break if he did.
"Get inside," he said, his voice low and tight. "Go to the breakroom. Take all the time you need before starting your shift."
"Jack, I—"
"Not here," he cut you off, his heart hammering against his ribs in a mix of fury and fear. He looked at the red marks already blooming on your skin, matching the older, fading bruises he'd spotted weeks ago. "We have a shift to run. But don't think for one second that we’re going back to pretending I don't see this."
He walked past you toward the sliding doors, leaving you standing in the rain, the cold reality of the night finally stripped of all its excuses.
_
The sun was beginning to bleed over the Pittsburgh skyline as the night shift finally drew to a close. The high adrenaline had faded, replaced by a heavy ache of exhaustion.
Jack stood by the lockers, his jacket already on, watching you. You were moving with a frantic energy, you were vibrating with the need to disappear before he could corner you.
"Day shift is here," Jack said, his voice echoing in the nearly empty hallway. "Go home."
You flinched but didn't turn around. "I just need to finish the notes on the cardiac arrest in Bed 2. I don't want to leave Robby with a mess."
"He already took the handoff. He told you to go home ten minutes ago." Jack walked over, stopping just far enough away that you wouldn't feel crowded. "And we need to talk about what happened."
You finally turned, and for a second, Jack was struck by the mask you had donned. It was a perfect, practiced smile, the kind used for difficult patients. "Oh, Abbot, honestly. It was just a silly argument. Tensions were high because I was running late. You know how it is."
"I know what a violent grip looks like," Jack said. "I saw his face. I saw yours. That wasn't a silly argument, and those marks on your arm aren't from a misunderstanding."
"He's just... he’s under a lot of pressure lately," you said quickly, the words tumbling out as if you had rehearsed them in your head a thousand times. "His job is stressful, and I’ve been pulling so many doubles here... he just misses me. He gets frustrated. It’s actually kind of sweet, if you think about it. He just wants me home."
Jack felt a cold chill run down his spine. Hearing you rationalize the bruises made his stomach churn. "Sweet? He shoved you in the rain, in front of your place of work. That’s not love. That’s some abusive bullshit."
"You’re overreacting," you laughed. You tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear, a gesture that inadvertently revealed the darkening thumbprint on your jaw. "You see the worst of humanity every day in here, Jack. You’ve lost your perspective. We’re fine. We’re going to talk it out today, have a nice breakfast, and it’ll be like it never happened."
"But it did happen. And it’s going to happen again." Jack stepped closer, his eyes searching yours, pleading for a flicker of the logical resident he knew was in there. "Look at me. You’re a doctor. If a woman came into this ER with those same marks and told you that story, what would you tell her?"
You went rigid.
"I’d tell her to mind her own business," you snapped, your voice trembling. "I’m not a patient, Jack. I’m your resident."
You grabbed your bag and shouldered past him, your stride quick and desperate.
"I can't help you if you won't let me," Jack called after you.
You didn't stop. You didn't look back. You just pushed through the doors, heading straight toward the exit.
Jack watched you walk away, a silent witness to a tragedy he couldn't stop, feeling the crushing weight of the thing medical school prepared him for: the patients you can’t save because they don’t want to be found.
_
The silence of the ER was shattered by the frantic sound of shoes against the floor.
Jack was just clipping his pager to his belt when he heard the collective gasp from the triage desk. He turned and his world stopped.
You were stumbling through the sliding doors, one hand pressed uselessly against your ribs. Your blue scrubs were no blue; it was dark red. One eye was swollen shut, a deep gash splitting the eyebrow, and your lip was torn so badly you couldn't even call out for help.
"Help—" The word died in a wet wheeze as blood came out your mouth.
"Need a doctor here!" Dr. Langdon’s voice cutted through the shock of the room.
Jack dropped his coffee. He didn't remember running, but suddenly he was there, catching you just as your knees buckled. The weight of you was terrifying: limp, cold and smelling of iron.
"I’ve got you, I’ve got you," Jack muttered, his hands shaking as he tried to find a pulse in your neck. His brain was screaming Trauma. Grade 3 hemorrhage. Probable flail chest. But his heart was just screaming your name.
"J-Jack, he.. he" you whispered through a mouthful of blood. Your one open eye, glassy and unfocused, searched his. "I... I tried-"
"Don't talk." Jack commanded, his voice breaking. He looked up, his expression was primal fury. "Let's get her to Trauma 1! Now! Dana, I need two units of O-neg!"
As the team lifted you onto the trauma bed, a suffocating silence fell over the staff.
They weren't just treating a patient; they were treating one of their own.
"Get those scrubs off her! Carefully!" Jack roared, his voice cracking like a whip.
Dana’s shears moved with practiced speed, the blades gliding through the fabric you’d worn just yesterday. As the blue material fell away, the room seemed to go cold. There wasn't an inch of skin that wasn't mottled in shades of plum and yellow. Defensive wounds lined your forearm, fingernail gouges and deep bruises where he’d pinned you down.
"Pressure! I need pressure on the abdominal bleed!" Jack commanded, his gloved hands pressing firmly against your midsection. He felt the sickening pulse of arterial spray against his palms. "She’s tachycardic. Heart rate 140 and climbing. BP is 70 over 40. We’re losing the window."
"Jack, I can't get a line," a nurse called out, her voice rising in panic. "Her veins are collapsed."
"Go intraosseous!" Jack didn't look up. He couldn't. If he looked at your face, at the blood bubbling at the corner of your mouth, he would lose his mind. He had to stay in the anatomy. He had to see you as a series of leaks to be plugged, not the woman who liked her bagels burnt or the resident who always forgot her stethoscope on the charging station. "Drill the tibia! Now!"
The whine of the IO drill filled the room, a mechanical scream that felt like it was drilling directly into Jack's skull.
"I’m in!"
"Start the MTP," Jack ordered. "Give her the first cooler. Stay ahead of the coagulopathy."
Suddenly, your body buckled. A wet cough forced a spray of bright red blood onto Jack’s face shield. The monitor let out a long, continuous, high-pitched wail.
"She's flatlining! V-fib!"
"Start compressions!" Jack screamed.
Langdon stepped up and began the rhythmic task of pumping your heart for you. Every time his hands came down on your chest, the sound of your fractured ribs grating together echoed in the small room.
"Charge to 200," Jack commanded, grabbing the paddles. His hands were slick with your blood, making the handles hard to grip. "Clear!"
Your body jolted under the current.
"Nothing. Still in V-fib. Again! Clear!"
Jack watched your head loll to the side with the force of the shock. He saw the earring you were wearing—a small, silver stud he'd gift you last christmas.
*Don’t you dare,* he thought, his jaw aching from how hard he was clenching it. *Don't you dare leave me here.*
"Come on, sweetheart," he whispered, the word lost under the noise of the suction and the barking orders. "Come back to us."
On the third shock, a jagged rhythm appeared on the monitor. It was weak but it was a rhythm.
"We have ROSC," Frank breathed, wiping sweat from his brow with a bloodied sleeve. "She’s not stable. Abbot, look at the ultrasound."
Jack looked at the screen. Your abdomen was filling with fluid, internal bleeding that no amount of pressure could stop.
"She needs an OR. Make the call," Jack said. He leaned over you, his face inches from yours, his voice a low, fierce growl that bypassed the professional and went straight to the personal. "You listen to me. We are taking you up. You stay away from the light. Do you hear me? Do not dare to leave us."
Jack didn't let go of the bedrail. He ran alongside you.
The elevator doors slid shut as the last thing the staff in the ER saw was Dr. Abbot’s back, standing over your broken form, terrified that if he blinked, the darkness you’d been living in would finally claim you.
summary: jack abbot has made it his life's mission to take care of you, so obviously he doesn't take it very well when he finds out you've been living on the abandoned floor of the ptmc. (3k)
characters: jack abbot / fem!reader, roommate whitsantos crumbs
contents: sugar daddy jack abbot universe, established relationship, protective!jack, hurt/comfort, cw for brief mentions of harassment and allusion to smut 18+ (MDNI)
( NAVIGATION ) | ( MASTERLIST ) | ( AO3 )
There is nothing about you that Jack Abbot wouldn’t immediately notice.
He nurses a sweaty can of beer in his right fist from where he sits on the opposite side of the park bench, keeping several agonizing inches of space between you in front of the rest of your coworkers. It leaves a wet ring on the thigh of his camo fatigues when he forgets to drink it, far too busy looking at you looking at Whitaker, who rants about a hefty surcharge on his Lyft account across the way.
“I thought she was a nice old lady! How was I supposed to know she was racist?”
“Well, you know what they say,” Santos croons from beside him, cheers-ing with her near-empty can. “No good deed, St. Fuckleberry…”
Jack knows you’re about to laugh before you’ve even done it. He’s got it down to a science, almost. He knows the signs too well: the way your eyes crinkle at the edges first, and the way your nose bridge scrunches slightly second. A laugh sputters from your mouth a second later, coated in sunshine and painting the starry night a vivid shade of flaxen gold.
The rays hit him square in the chest.
He can almost time when you’re about to take a drink, too — the way your fingers fidget around the chilled aluminum, right before your tongue darts out to wet your mouth. You tip your head back with the can to take a quick sip, then lick your lips again when you bring the beer to your lap again.
It’s subtle and mostly unconscious, but Jack can’t help but notice all of it.
The same way he can’t help but notice how flustered you get when he asks, “Did you get that dress I bought you?”
Your head snaps in his direction. Your eyes widen with a set of owlish blinks. The smile you had before softens slightly as your shoulders tuck in, going painfully shy in a flicker.
It’s not so much the reminder that Jack scoured the internet for the butter-yellow dress Kate Hudson wore in How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days — after a passing comment you made about it during movie night some weeks back. It’s more so the reminder that you didn’t get it because you no longer had a real address to receive it at.
Because you’d rather die than tell him you’ve been sleeping in the PTMC for the past week.
“Uh… No. I-I don’t think so,” you stammer.
Jack’s brows lower. “Really? The e-mail said it was delivered yesterday.”
You glance away again — fingers fidgeting, tongue darting. “Maybe it went to the wrong place?” you shrug and bring the can up to your mouth again.
Jack notices how you shift awkwardly on the bench beside him; how you struggle suddenly to meet his gaze, and how you try and fail to tune back into Whitaker’s rambling. There’s something more going on inside your head, something more you’re not telling him, but he figures prying after a twelve-hour shift probably isn’t the best idea.
“Yeah…” he says slowly. “Maybe…”
There’s a long beat of silence between you thereafter, filled by members of the dayshift exchanging staggered goodbyes. Jack takes a quick sip of his beer. He swallows hard, adam’s apple bobbing, and turns to you with the sheen of alcohol coating his lips.
“I should probably start heading out to,” he clears his throat. “Want me to walk you home?”
You fake a shy smile, instead of telling him that you have no real home to go to.
“I’m a big girl, Abbot. I think I can get there on my own,” you lilt drily. Jack’s stare hardens into an unwavering deadpan; not mean, just firm. You cave with a roll of your eyes. “You go ahead. I’ll walk with Trinity and Whitaker— They live closer to me, anyway.”
Jack hesitates for a lingering beat.
He wants to tell you that it makes him feel better when he walks with you, that sometimes he thinks he lives and breathes only to protect you, but he’s self-aware enough to know how insane that sounds. So he just nods with a slow exhale.
“Okay… Just— Call me when you get home?”
You give him a soft smile that doesn’t quite meet your eyes. “Of course.”
Jack takes the long way out to give you enough time to pack up your things and head out in the opposite direction with Santos and Whitaker.
He cuts around the block instead of heading straight out, positioning himself just far enough away from the entrance that he can still see it. When he turns the corner, he spots you brushing shoulders with Trinity and tipping your head back to laugh at something he can’t hear from here.
The sound of your giggling is carried on the summer’s evening breeze, along with your words as you veer suddenly towards the side of the hospital again. “Shit— I left my keys in my locker. You guys go ahead, I’ll catch up with you.”
You slip inside through the automatic doors.
Jack straightens his back and tightens his hold on the strap of the camo bag slung over his shoulder. He gets a strange feeling in his chest that he just can’t shake and decides to follow you back inside the PTMC. He figures it’s better to be safe than sorry — better to seem insane by following you like a creep instead of risking something bad happening to you, anyway.
He weaves through the noisy emergency department with strong shoulders and a sharp gaze. He checks for you in the locker room first, then the break room second, then doubles back for Shen at the workstation.
“Said she left something up in ortho,” the attending shrugs through a short sip of his iced coffee. Then he jokes,“What do you wanna bet she’s screwing around with Park the Shark?”
Jack's chest flares, but he tries not to let it faze him as he makes a beeline for the elevators.
He knows you’re lying — you wouldn’t have said something different to Trinity otherwise — not unless you really were sneaking around with Dr. Park, that is. Jack has to shake the thought physically from his head, which Shen had unknowingly planted there, the entire ride up to the eighth floor.
No one goes up there anymore — no one other than you and Jack — and it’s the only other place he hasn’t yet looked to find you. The west wing of the upper floor has been nothing short of abandoned, and is eerily quiet compared to the E.D. below, save for the faint buzzing of fluorescent lights that are bound to die out any day now.
As he passes the old rooms, left clean and untouched, he hears a faint song playing from behind a shut door. One of those old 2000s pop songs you always play in the car when you’re together. He knocks first and, when he receives no answer, pushes it slowly open with a call of your name.
This room, unlike the others, is not abandoned. Not exactly. There are blankets folded neatly on the edge of the bed; a duffel bag tucked in the corner by the nightstand; and a pile of books stacked on the windowsill. A laptop sits open on the pillows, where music spills from its speakers.
“‘Cause every time we touch, I get this feeling; and every time we kiss, I swear I could fly—!”
It’s all so organized, so lived in. Jack feels his chest tighten accordingly. He wonders how long you’ve been staying here, how long you’ve been lying to him.
The drumming water faucet shuts off from behind the closed bathroom door. He hears your voice behind it, singing softly to the music, and freezes when the door clicks open a few moments later.
“Can’t you hear my heart beat so, I can’t let you go! Want you in my—” You cut yourself off with a scream when you find a figure standing in front of your bed.
Your hand rises instinctively to your mouth to muffle the sound. Your chest deflates with a breath of relief when you realize it’s Jack, then tightens again when you realize that it’s Jack.
“Fuck…” you huff. “You scared me…”
Your free hand readjusts the fluffy white towel wrapped around your body, still warm from the shower and glistening with droplets of water. As the steam rolls out from behind you, he gets a whiff of your sweet body wash — and, as you shift awkwardly on your feet, he notices that you’re wearing a fluffy pair of house slippers. All of which tells him you’ve been staying here for way, way longer than he initially thought.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Jack squints, a little harsher than he means to be.
“What are you doing here?” you retort. “You scared the shit out of me.”
“I was worried about you,” the man shoots back, firm hands propped on his hips as he sways slightly on his aching prosthetic. “And obviously for good reason— What is this? Are you living here?”
Your mouth opens to argue, but you hesitate with a wavering breath in. You adjust the towel on your naked form and fight back a shiver as the humming AC cools the water on your skin.
“I’m… I’m just… I’m in between places right now. That’s all.”
Jack lets a short, disbelieving chuckle. His stern stare never wavers as you duck past him for the desk across the room, where your pajamas sit on the back of the chair.
“In between places?” he echoes. “What does the even mean?”
You sigh, gaze averted, and try to get dressed without dropping your towel.
“You remember when I told you about my creepy landlord? You know, the one who won’t stop calling me?” you ramble, sliding on a pair of underwear before reaching for your sweatpants. “Well, I was going to move to a new place, and I had already started the process of moving out, but I didn’t get approved for the apartment I wanted—”
The canvas of your bare back is revealed to him when you throw the towel to the side and reach for the sweatshirt laid out before you. Your voice goes slightly muffled as you shove it over your head.
“—And I can’t go back to my old place, obviously, so I just… Moved in here. You know. For the time being.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Jack presses. “I would’ve helped you.”
“I know,” you roll your eyes. “Because you’re always helping me. Because I can’t do anything for myself—”
“That’s not what I said—”
“You don’t have to say it,” you snap, flashing him a wide-eyed glare. “That’s just what it is. And I can’t keep going to you every single time I have a problem that needs fixing.”
Jack shrugs, oblivious. “Why not?”
Your face twists at his confusion.
“Because I can’t just rely on you for the rest of my life, Jack! That’s not— sustainable,” you rant, gesturing wildly with your hands. “I mean, what if you get bored of me? What if this stops— being fun for you, and I become a burden? Then where does that leave me?”
The words hang in the quiet, still, sweet-smelling air between you for several long moments.
Jack’s stern expression melts into something softer as a white-hot feeling sears his chest from the inside out.
“You aren’t a burden to me, honey— You’ve never been a burden to me,” he tells you, closing the distance between you in a few short strides.
You peek through your lashes to meet his gaze when he towers over you. The corner of his mouth flickers into a smile as he huffs a breathless laugh.
“I mean, not to sound like a selfish asshole here, kid, but this is more for me than it is for you… I don’t buy you stuff just because you want me to; I do it because it makes me happy. I take care of you because it makes me feel good…” Jack trails off, going foreignly sheepish as he crosses his arms and bounces his shoulders in a lazy shrug. “Us being in love with each other is just a… super cool bonus.”
You blink up at him with wide, wet eyes. “Really?”
“Yeah,” he nods. “And you know what would make me feel really good?”
You hesitate for a moment, eyes narrowing in suspicion. “…What?”
“If you stopped squatting in an abandoned hospital room, and come stay with me at my place,” Jack says. “And if not with me, then at least in my guest room. That way, I know you’re sleeping in an actual bed. And have access to a real kitchen— What have you been eating, anyway?”
You cower under his squinted stare.
“I don’t know... Uber Eats on a good day. And whatever’s in the vending machine on a bad day…” you answer shyly. “And cafeteria food on a really bad day…”
Jack nods slowly, smacking his lips against his teeth.
“Yep,” he deadpans. “You’re coming home with me.”
Home, as it turns out, wasn’t so bad.
You had been to Jack’s place before, to be sure, but never with the intention of staying long term. It makes the place feel a bit foreign to you as you try to find your footing within it, when you arrive with nothing but a bathroom bag and your haphazardly-packed duffel, ‘cause Jack assured you he’d get all the rest of it for you later.
You leave your things in his guest room while he orders you something for dinner. You eat together in his living room, like usual, and wind up inevitably in his bedroom before the night is over.
Casino plays on the television, bathing the dark room in its flickering neon glow. You lie on your stomach with your legs kicked up behind you, while Jack slouches against the headboard, legs spread to accommodate your body between them. He holds your right foot against his chest with a pair of wide hands, massaging the ache in the ball of it with his fingers.
“God, I would die for that coat…” he hears you mumble to yourself, as Robert De Niro slides the white fur over Sharon Stone’s shoulders. (He makes a mental note to find that one for you, too, and send an email to recover the dress from yesterday.)
“Isn’t this so much better than a hospital bed?” Jack wonders aloud.
You scoff a faint laugh, lifting your heavy head from your fist to flash him a deadpan look. “I think the floor would be better than that hospital bed.”
Jack chuckles quietly to himself before realizing, “…That’s why you’ve been complaining about your back so much, isn’t it?”
You feel him shift behind you, bed frame creaking under his weight. Your foot falls to the mattress as he sits between your legs, careful to keep the weight off his amputated limb as he kneels on the mattress.
His warm, calloused hands smooth under the fabric of your sweatshirt. His thumbs dig into the unrelenting ache between your shoulder blades. You exhale a slow sigh and drop your head between your arms, melting under his touch.
You don’t realize he’s leaning over you until his lips brush your neck. You fight back a shiver when his silver scruff brushes the delicate skin.
“From now on…” Jack mumbles against you, low and quiet and just shy of menacing. “I want you to come to me the next time you need or want anything, alright? Anything.”
Your breath catches. Something warm pools in the pit of your stomach.
“Don’t keep it from me… Don’t brush me off…” Jack continues with a voice like honey as his hands press firmly against your back. “Come to me— directly. That’s my job now. Understand?”
You don’t trust your voice, so you just nod in response. Jack can feel it with his lips still pressed against your skin. You can feel his mouth curling into a smile as his hands smooth down the length of your spine, with a tenderness that sends chills pebbling across your skin in his wake.
You forget how to breathe when his fingers curl in the hem of your sweatpants.
“Who takes care of you, honey?” he murmurs lowly in your ear.
“You do…” you hear yourself say, half-muffled with your head still bowed.
Jack grins. He pulls your bottoms and your underwear down the curve of your ass in one fell swoop.
“Can’t hear you, baby,” he says in gritty monotone before sitting back on his haunches.
You lift your heavy head, blinking away the haze of desire clouding your vision when you glance at the man behind you. You find him kneeling there, with a hand shoved down his pajama bottoms, massaging himself the rest of the way hard.
Jack smiles wider when he catches you staring. He feels his cock twitching in his fist at your heavy-eyed and wanting gaze.
“Who takes care of you?” he echoes, more firmly this time, but with a teasing squint in his light eyes.
The corner of your mouth lifts in a mischievous half-smile. “You do,” you repeat, more eager this time.
Jack nods once, almost approvingly so, and sighs as he squeezes hard at his stiffening cock. “Hell yeah, I do…” he murmurs to himself, proud.
Summary : You spoil Jack's world. He refuses to let you fall apart.
Character: Jack Abbot x rich wife!reader
Words Count: 9,802
Chapter 1 , Chapter 2 , -
More Jack Abbot stories : 2nd Masterlist
A/N: I’m shocked!!! I didn’t expect you all to love Private Patient this much. As a token of my gratitude, here’s Chapter 2. I hope you enjoy it.
Ooh and this story is in the same timeline with Robby’s story You’ve Found Me Anyway
The morning your bed wasn’t cold
The morning was different. For the first time in years, the crushing weight in your chest had vanished, replaced by a stillness you hadn’t known was possible. There was no racing pulse, no mental checklist of the day’s liabilities. Just quiet.
It took a moment to realize the source of the heat was Jack.
His arm was draped loosely across your waist, a steady, grounding weight that felt like it had been there for a lifetime. He was breathing slow and deep, completely at ease in a way that made your own defenses crumble. You stayed still, watching the way the dawn light caught the rough stubble on his jaw. You didn't want to move; you didn't want this to be a one-time residency.
He shifted, his dark eyes opening halfway before settling on you with a quiet intensity. “You’re awake.”
“You snore,” you murmured, your voice still thick with sleep.
“I don’t.”
“You do.”
“Barely,” he countered, a ghost of a smirk playing on his lips.
The air between you felt thick, charged with a gravity that went beyond the physical. You turned onto your side, propping your head up on one hand. “I slept well. I usually don't.”
“I can tell,” Jack said, his gaze dropping to your lips for a fraction of a second before meeting your eyes again.
The atmosphere shifted, turning a little more serious. “It would be annoying,” you said softly, “if this only happened once.”
Jack looked at you properly then, fully awake, his focus narrowing. “It doesn’t have to,” he said. He let the words hang there, heavy with implication. “Depends on how much effort you’re willing to put in.”
You narrowed your eyes, though there was no real bite in the look. “That sounds expensive. I’ve already donated enough to your hospital.”
“To the hospital,” he corrected, his voice dropping an octave. “Not to me.”
You let out a short, breathless laugh. “You’re unbelievable.”
“That’s what I’ve been told.” He sat up, the sheets pooling at his waist as he glanced at the clock. “I’m off today.”
“Lucky me.” You reached for your phone immediately, the "CEO" stirring back to life.
Jack watched your fingers fly across the screen. “What are you doing?”
“Telling Greg to book a restaurant.”
He blinked, then glanced at the time again. “It’s nine in the morning.”
“By the time we get there, it’ll be lunch.” You didn’t even look up.
There was a long, expectant silence. Jack leaned back against the headboard, watching the clinical efficiency with which you handled your life. “Where are we going?”
“New York.”
He stared at you, searching your face to see if this was some high-level tease. You were already typing the flight coordinates.
“…You’re serious,” he muttered, more to himself than to you.
You glanced at him over the edge of the phone, a small, knowing smile tugging at your mouth. “Very.”
******
A few hours later, Jack was sitting in a quiet, high-end restaurant in New York, still trying to process how quickly the day had shifted. One moment he was in bed, half asleep. The next, he was here, a plate set in front of him by a chef he vaguely recognized from somewhere.
He looked at you across the table. You seemed completely at ease, like this was just another normal decision.
His phone buzzed.
Shen: ‘didn’t you complain about gas prices yesterday? why are you in new york at some fancy restaurant? what did you even do?’
Jack glanced at the message, then typed back, ‘I just warmed up my patient’s bed.’
The reply came almost instantly.
Shen: ‘yeah right. billionaire bed.’
Jack looked at the screen for a second, then locked his phone.
“Yup,” he said under his breath. He didn’t bother denying it. Some things weren’t worth arguing.
And honestly, he wasn’t about to say no to the privilege.
**********
The time you walked into Jack’s world again
By the time Jack got back on shift, the teasing had already started.
Dana didn’t even look up from her chart. “So. New York.”
Robby leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “Fancy restaurant. Celebrity chef. That you?”
Jack put his stethoscope around his neck, “I ate.”
“That’s all you’re going with?” Dana asked.
“That’s all that matters.”
Robby let out a low laugh. “Didn’t even deny it.”
Jack didn’t. There wasn’t a point. He had enjoyed it. All of it.
“I heard she’s here,” Robby added, glancing toward the entrance. “That’s why I’m still around.”
“Yeah,” Dana said. “She wants to check the renovation.”
Robby nodded toward the front. “The director practically ran downstairs when security spotted her car. Hard to miss a black Rolls-Royce parked outside.”
*****
You hadn’t planned to stay long.
Just a quick visit. Check the progress, say hi, then back to the company.
But the moment you stepped inside, the hospital director was already there, greeting you like he had been waiting.
“Thank you for your donation,” he said, almost breathless. “It’s made a huge difference. The new air conditioning, the upgraded system… we couldn’t have done it without you.”
You gave a small, polite nod. “You helped me when I needed it. I’m just returning the favor.”
He hesitated. “That kind of support… it’s worth millions.”
You didn’t react. “It’s nothing.”
The director blinked, clearly not expecting that answer. Millions, and you called it nothing.
You shifted slightly, already moving on. “Excuse me. I’d like to see the E.R before I head back to the office.”
“Yes. Of course,” he said quickly, stepping aside.
You stepped further into the Pitt, slowing down just enough to take everything in. Nurses moved quickly between beds, voices overlapping, monitors beeping in uneven rhythm. It wasn’t controlled the way your world was. It was louder. Messier. But it worked.
Your gaze shifted across the room until it landed on Jack.
He was at the table, focused on a chart. One hand braced against the surface, posture relaxed but steady. He looked up like he felt you there.
You walked toward him.
“I thought I was an annoying patient,” you said as you stopped beside him. “Turns out there are much worse.”
Jack glanced past you briefly, then back. “Welcome to the Pitt. Especially night shift. It gets wilder.”
You let out a quiet breath. “Every day I deal with childish business partners. I almost lost my patience. How do you handle this?”
“Therapy,” he said. “And I like the adrenaline. I spend some of my time with a SWAT team.”
You blinked. “What?”
Dana, passing by, didn’t miss a beat. “Yeah. He spends his day off getting shot at.”
You hummed, like it was just another detail. “So… you’re good with guns? That’s great. I got an invitation from the King of the U.K. for a hunting week.”
Dana froze for a second. Jack looked at you, brows lifting slightly. Did you just mention the king like he was an old acquaintance?
“No,” he said. “That’s not the same thing.”
Before he could say more, Robby stepped in, clearly having waited for the moment. “Since you’re here,” he said, half-grinning, “do you want to give us orders? You did fund half of this place.”
You tilted your head slightly, almost tempted. Then you shook it. “I could. But I won’t. I’d ruin the system you’ve built. And I don’t feel like making more work for my doctor.”
Jack gave a small nod. “That's an improvement.”
Robby chuckled under his breath.
You stepped a little closer, eyes dropping briefly to his name tag. “Dr. Robby…”
“Yeah?” he said.
A small pause, then your expression shifted with recognition. “That’s why your name sounds familiar. You’re the reason my father’s cardiologist borrowed our private jet.”
Robby blinked. “What?”
“My company sponsored her seminar,” you continued. “She left right after her talk. Skipped the Q and A.”
Robby ran a hand over the back of his neck. “She mentioned something about that. Did it… mess things up?”
You shook your head lightly. “No. Everything was handled. She said someone close to her needed help.”
Robby’s expression softened. “Yeah. That sounds like her.”
“Well,” you said simply, “it worked out. For both sides.”
“Thank you,” he said, a little more sincerely now, before stepping away.
You glanced back at Jack. “Small world.”
“Thanks to your jet, he’s doing better,” Jack said. “He’s not alone anymore.”
You looked at him for a second. “That sounds poetic.”
“I heard it somewhere.”
You studied him, then said, “You should come to my office sometime. Different kind of chaos. You might understand why I’m stressed.”
Jack met your gaze, calm as ever. “I don’t need to see it to know you don’t slow down.”
A small pause.
“But I’ll come anyway.”
That landed.
You gave a faint smile, stepping back. “Good.”
Jack added, almost casually, “Robby’s been the main topic for a while. Someone flying across the world like that.”
You shrugged. “From what I hear, he needed it.”
Then your eyes flicked back to Jack. “You have access too, you know.” You leaned in, pressing a brief kiss to his cheek, before turning and walking away.
Dana stared after you for a second, then slowly turned to Jack. “Did you hear that, Jack?”
Jack didn’t move right away. His hand rested on the table, eyes still on the direction you’d walked out.
“Yeah,” he said.
Dana crossed her arms. “And?”
Jack finally looked back at her, calm as ever. “I’m not using a jet for groceries.”
*******
The time you spoiled The Pitt (again)
The food arrived without warning. There was no formal announcement, no corporate explanation—just a mountain of boxes. Real ones. They were still radiating heat, the scent of charcoal and rosemary cutting through the sterile, metallic air of the hospital.
Mateo opened the first container and froze, the steam hitting his face. He let out a long, shaky breath. “God bless that woman,” he muttered, reaching for a portion of prime rib with the reverence of a man discovering gold. “I haven’t eaten a meal like this on a Tuesday in years.”
The ER staff didn't hesitate. They descended like a tactical unit, grabbing high-protein fuel between the chaos of incoming patients. Across the hall, a nurse from Radiology slowed down, her eyes widening at the spread.
“Is that… actual steak?” she whispered.
Mateo didn’t even look up from his container. “No. It’s oxygen. Keep walking.”
It didn’t stop with the food. A week later, the ER looked different. A new rest suite had been installed—not a lumpy chair in a dark corner with a moth-eaten blanket, but a sanctuary. It was soundproofed, temperature-controlled, and filled with clean beds and soft, recessed lighting. It was a space designed for doctors and nurses to actually recover.
There was no name attached to the donation. No brass plaque. But in the Pitt, everyone knew whose signature was on the check.
Then came the cafeteria. The mystery "vendor" had upgraded everything. The coffee no longer tasted like burnt rubber, and fresh pastries appeared every morning. Santos stood at the counter one afternoon, holding a ceramic cup and staring at it as if it might vanish.
“This is dangerous,” she said, inhaling the rich aroma. “I might never leave this department.”
Jack noticed. He noticed every single detail. But he didn't say anything, not even when the silence in the ER became a little more comfortable. Not until he walked into his own office one night and stopped dead.
The chair was new—ergonomic, high-tech, and perfectly fitted. The desk adjusted with a silent, expensive hum, and the lighting had been repositioned exactly where it needed to be to reduce eye strain. He stood there for a long minute, taking in the quiet luxury of it.
Dana leaned against the doorframe, watching him. “You mentioned your back once,” she noted.
Jack didn’t look at her. “I didn’t ask for this.”
She said with a soft smile. “You don’t have to.”
The rest of the hospital caught on quickly. The tension grew between floors. Surgery started complaining to the Chief; Radiology began asking pointed questions about budget allocations. Admin stopped pretending they were in the dark.
“Why does the ER get everything?” someone muttered loudly in the hallway as a new shipment of high-grade scrubs arrived.
“Because we survive the worst,” Mateo shot back, passing by with a grin. “And we have better friends than you.”
Later that night, the department was uncharacteristically still. Ellis leaned against the nurse’s station, watching Jack’s back.
“I pray that Dr. Abbott marries her,” she said under her breath, her voice full of sincere hope.
Shen didn't even look up from his charts, but he immediately held out a fist. “Amen to that.”
They bumped fists in a silent pact. Jack, halfway to his door, stopped just long enough for the words to register. He didn't turn around to acknowledge them, but the corner of his mouth quivered in the shadows.
“I’m still trying to get her to eat a vegetable that isn't a garnish,” he muttered to the empty hallway.
Mateo snorted from across the room, and Shen just shook his head.
“Man’s fighting the real battle,” Shen whispered. “Godspeed, Abbott.”
******
The time you handled the Hacker
You didn’t expect to feel the tension the moment you stepped into the Pitt, but the air was thick with it. Phones were ringing incessantly, and the usual hum of the department had sharpened into a controlled panic. People were moving fast, their faces tight with a stress that had nothing to do with medicine.
“What’s going on?” you asked, already scanning the room with a practiced, analytical eye.
“Cyberattack,” Robby said, his fingers flying across a station that refused to respond. He didn't even look up.
Jack was a few feet away, pacing with a phone pressed to his ear. He glanced at you as you approached, his expression grim. “System’s locked. We’re switching to manual charting, but it’s a mess. They’re asking for a ransom.”
You blinked, your voice dropping into a low, dangerous calm. “A hospital? They’re hitting a hospital?”
“Patient records, emails, surgical histories,” Jack said, his jaw tight. “They’re threatening to sell the entire database if we don't pay by the hour.”
You exhaled slowly, the gears already turning. You didn't ask for permission. You just pulled out your phone and dialed. “Greg. Get our IT security team on this. Now.”
Jack lowered his phone, his brow furrowing as he studied you. “Why are we calling your office, exactly?”
You didn't look at him, your focus already on the next move. “Because we’ve dealt with this before. And since I’ve invested heavily in this facility, that makes this my problem, too.”
Jack studied you for a long beat, the weight of the situation shifting. He saw the shift in your posture—the way you stepped into a crisis not as a visitor, but as a commander. “…Thank you,” he said, his voice quieter, more private.
You glanced at him, the hardness in your expression softening just enough to press a quick, reassuring kiss to his cheek. “You’re welcome.”
It didn’t take long. Ten minutes later, your phone vibrated.
“Yeah?” you answered. You listened for a moment, your expression never wavering. “Oh. You found them already?” Another pause. “Drone is ready? Good.”
Robby slowly turned his head toward you, his eyes wide. You lowered the phone slightly, looking between him and Jack as if you were asking about the weather.
“Do you want them neutralized?”
The silence that followed was absolute.
“…Who?” Robby asked, his voice cracking slightly.
“The hackers,” you said, sounding almost confused by the question. “We have their physical location. It’s an apartment complex three towns over.”
Jack stared at you, his medical mind trying to reconcile the woman he knew with the cold efficiency of the question. “What exactly do you mean by ‘neutralized’?”
On the other end of the line, Greg’s voice was audible in the quiet room—calm, precise, and chillingly ready. “Target confirmed. Awaiting instruction.”
You tilted your head, your voice dropping to a lethal chill. “They’re using patient data. They’re holding sick and vulnerable people hostage for a paycheck.” You gave a small, elegant shrug. “I don’t like that. I don't like it at all.”
Robby looked at Jack, his face pale. “I don’t think we need to go that far—”
“Wait—hold on!” Dana’s voice cut in from across the room. She was holding a headset to her ear, a look of shock on her face. “IT says the encryption is breaking. The system’s coming back up. They’re regaining control.”
A beat of heavy silence followed. Jack didn’t take his eyes off you, his gaze searching yours. “No casualties,” he said firmly.
You held his stare for a second, measuring the line he wouldn't cross. Then, you nodded.
“Alright,” you said into the phone. “Stand down. Secure the data, then send the GPS coordinates and the identity logs to the police instead.” You paused. “And make sure the police have enough to make it a very loud arrest.”
“Tsked.” Greg clicked his tongue. “Understood. Aborting the strike.”
You hung up and slipped the phone into your bag as if you’d just finished a routine business call. Around you, the monitors flickered back to life. The rhythmic beeping of stabilized heart monitors returned, and the noise of the Pitt smoothed out into its normal, frantic rhythm.
You glanced at the nearest screen, then at the hospital director who had just rushed in. “Seems like it’s handled.”
The director nodded, breathless and clearly struggling to keep up with the pace of the last five minutes. “Yes… yes, it appears so.”
“You should seriously upgrade your IT security,” you added, your tone perfectly professional. “My team left a list of the vulnerabilities they found while they were in your system.”
“…We will. Immediately.”
For a moment, no one said anything. It wasn't because they didn't have questions—it was because they didn't even know where to start. Jack exhaled quietly, running a hand over his face. In his world, problems meant triage, protocols, and slow, steady procedures. In yours, problems simply disappeared before they could escalate.
He looked at you again, seeing something he hadn't fully grasped before. You weren't just powerful; you were dangerous. You were a woman who moved pieces on a board most people didn't even know existed.
Santos didn’t even look up from the chart she was typing, her fingers moving with renewed speed. “Badass,” she muttered under her breath, accepting the new reality as an established fact.
Robby leaned in closer to Jack, his voice dropping to a frantic whisper. “Man, whatever you do… don’t ever get on her bad side.”
Jack shifted, folding his arms across his chest. He watched you navigate the room, his gaze fixed on you with a mixture of pride and a deep, settled understanding.
“Don't worry, Robby,” Jack said, his voice steady and warm. “I’m always on her good side.
*******
The time the ER came first
The charity event was everything it was supposed to be: polished, controlled, and obscenely expensive. Jack stood beside you, one hand resting loosely at the small of your back, listening more than speaking. He didn’t belong in a room full of venture capitalists and socialites, and somehow, that only made him stand out more.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. He checked it once, his eyes narrowing into that sharp, clinical focus you knew so well.
"ER," he said.
You didn’t hesitate. "Go."
He looked at you, searching your face to be sure. You tilted your head slightly, a small, knowing smirk playing on your lips. "They need you, Jack. And I don’t date a doctor who ignores his patients."
That was all the permission he needed. He leaned in just enough to press a brief, lingering kiss to your temple before turning and disappearing into the crowd without another word.
The Pitt was a symphony of chaos until the sliding glass doors hissed open.
For a second, the room went quiet. It wasn't a total silence, just a collective pause as the staff realized who had just walked onto the floor. Jack stepped through the doors still in his midnight-blue suit, the tailored lines of the fabric looking impossibly sharp against the sterile, white-tiled background.
"What’s the status?" he asked, his voice cutting through the noise like a blade.
Shen blinked, momentarily stunned as he looked Jack up and down. "Where the hell did you come from? A Bond movie?"
"Charity gala," Jack muttered, already moving toward the trauma bay.
Ellis answered immediately, her professional rhythm kicking in. "Male, mid-thirties. Penetrating trauma, left abdomen. Hypotensive. FAST exam is positive."
Jack was at the bedside in seconds, his hands moving with practiced ease even as he stood there in silk and wool. "Vitals?"
"BP eighty over fifty. Heart rate one-thirty," she said.
He nodded once, his gaze fixed on the monitor. "He’s bleeding internally. We don’t have time to wait for a CT."
He began peeling off his suit jacket, tossing it toward an empty chair with a flick of his wrist. He unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled the sleeves up past his elbows, revealing the toned, scarred forearms of a man who spent his life in the trenches. A nurse stepped in, whisking the jacket away, while another tied a surgical mask into place over his face.
"Let’s move," Jack commanded. "Prep for an exploratory lap. Type and cross, start the blood."
Mateo, prepping the tray, muttered under his breath, "I bet that shirt costs more than my annual salary."
Jack didn’t even look at him as he snapped on his gloves. "Then let’s not ruin it, Mateo. Scalpel."
They moved fast. There was no hesitation, no wasted motion. Jack guided the team through the hemorrhage control, his voice staying level and rhythmic as he clamped and repaired. It was a high-stakes dance, and Jack was the lead.
"Pressure’s stabilizing," Garcia announced, her voice filled with relief.
"Good. Keep it there."
Minutes stretched, then finally settled into a steady hum. The bleeding stopped. The patient held.
"He’s stable," Garcia confirmed.
Jack stepped back from the table, pulling off his gloves with a sharp snap. "Nice work, everyone. Get him up to the ICU."
By the time he walked out of the scrub room, his sleeves were rolled down and his suit jacket was back in place. He looked like he’d just stepped off a yacht, not out of a bloody abdomen.
"I have to go," he said, heading toward the exit. "Can’t disappoint my date."
Shen huffed, shaking his head as he watched him go. "Yeah, go. Before she decides to upgrade another department out of boredom."
Outside, the night air was cool and quiet. And there it was, the black Rolls-Royce, idling at the curb like it had been part of the pavement the whole time. Jack walked up, opened the heavy door, and paused.
You were sitting in the back, the soft glow of the interior lights catching the diamonds at your throat. He raised a brow slightly. "You left the party?"
"The gala already got my money," you murmured, leaning back against the leather seat and watching him with a predatory sort of admiration. "And my date needed a ride home. I figured I should come pick him up."
Jack slid into the seat beside you, the scent of the hospital fading as the door shut out the world. He looked at you, truly looked at you, and the adrenaline of the ER was replaced by a different kind of heat. He hadn't expected you to wait, let alone come to his doorstep.
You let your fingers trace the sharp line of his jaw, your voice dropping to a flirty hum. "And I have much better plans for that suit than a hospital trauma bay."
Jack caught your hand, his thumb grazing your palm as he pulled you closer, his eyes dark. "Is that so?"
"Consider it a reward for your service," you whispered.
*******
The time Jack’s day didn’t get interrupted
“Cherry blossoms should be in full bloom next week,” you said, your thumb gliding over the vibrant displays on your phone. “Japan. I think we need a change of scenery.”
Jack didn’t even look up from the chart in his hands, his pen moving in a steady, rhythmic scratch. “I can’t go with you.”
You glanced at him, the luxury of the suggestion hanging in the air. “Why?”
“I have a deposition.”
You paused, your fingers going still. The word carried a weight that didn't belong in a casual conversation. “…You got sued?”
“A patient case,” he said, finally closing the chart with a heavy thud. “She wanted a free birth at home. Complications arose. She had a stroke, and we had to rush her into surgery to deliver the baby.”
You frowned, your mind already dissecting the liability. “Did she survive?”
“Yeah.”
“The baby?”
“Also fine.”
That made you blink, the logic of the situation failing to meet your standards of reality. “…Then why are you being sued?”
Jack exhaled, a sound of weary resignation. “Battery. Lack of consent for the intervention. It happens more than you’d think.”
“And you have to be there personally?”
“I have to be questioned.”
You tilted your head, your eyes narrowing as you processed the inefficiency of it all. To you, a problem like this wasn't a hurdle; it was a nuisance to be cleared. “You need a better lawyer.”
“I have the hospital’s legal department,” Jack began.
“No,” you cut in, already reaching for your phone with practiced precision. “You need a better one. Someone who doesn't just defend—someone who ends it.”
Jack watched you, a mixture of amusement and concern crossing his face. “You don’t have to do this.”
“Too late.” You pressed the phone to your ear, your voice dropping into that low, authoritative register. “Greg. I need the best litigation team available. The ones who make people reconsider their entire life path.” A pause. “Yes. For him. I want it handled by noon.”
You hung up and looked back at Jack, the matter settled in your mind. “Done.”
A week later, the sterile white of the hospital was thousands of miles away. Jack was standing under a canopy of pale pink, the air cool and smelling of spring.
Petals drifted slowly through the air like organic confetti, catching in your hair and brushing against his sleeve. The Kyoto park was quiet, an almost surreal contrast to the frantic, metallic noise of the Pitt. You walked beside him as if this was perfectly normal—as if whisking a trauma surgeon across the ocean in the middle of a legal battle was just another item on the week's agenda.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out to see a string of messages from Robby.
Robby: Abbott, what the hell?! The plaintiff’s firm just called and apologized. APOLOGIZED. How did you get that lawyer? That guy is a shark in a three-piece suit.
Jack glanced at you. You were watching a group of children near a koi pond, looking entirely peaceful. He looked back at his phone and typed a single line, “Perks of the job.”
A second later, the reply came back.
Robby: Fuck you. Bring me back some sake.
Jack’s mouth curved into a slow, genuine smirk as he slipped the phone back into his pocket. You turned to him, noting the shift in his expression. “What?”
“Nothing.”
He reached out, his hand steady and warm as he brushed a stray petal from your shoulder. His fingers lingered for a second, a silent acknowledgement of the world you had cleared for him.
“Just… good timing,” he said.
And for once, his day didn't get interrupted. No pagers, no depositions, and no one to answer to but the woman who made the impossible look effortless.
*********
The time Jack walked into your world
Greg saw Jack first and straightened his posture instinctively. “Hello, doctor.”
Jack nodded once, his focus already drifting past the assistant toward the glass wall. “How is she doing?”
“Like usual,” Greg replied, checking his watch with a frown. “She missed lunch again. Oh, and she still won’t eat vegetables.”
“That can’t be good.”
Jack’s gaze shifted. Inside the meeting room, you were sitting at the head of the table, spine perfectly straight, expression a mask of controlled frost. Across from you, a young man in a tailored suit was talking fast, his hands moving in a desperate attempt to sell confidence.
Greg leaned a little closer to Jack. “She’s stuck in there. Son of one of the executive board members.” He glanced at the time again. “Give it a minute. She’s about to snap.”
Inside the room, you tapped your pen once against the mahogany table. It was a rhythmic, deadly sound.
“Turning trash into electricity,” you said, your voice deceptively calm. “That’s your pitch?”
“It’s a strong project,” he replied quickly.
“It is,” you agreed. “So I keep asking for one thing. Where has this worked?”
A pause. “We’re still collecting the waste. It’s in progress.”
“So there’s no real example yet.”
“It’s… developing.”
You tapped the pen again, slower this time. “You’re asking for investment without a working model. No proven results. No success rate.”
He straightened, trying to reclaim the room. “We have projections—”
“And you’re asking for how much?” you cut him off.
“Eight million.”
You nodded once, then folded your hands neatly. A small, polite smile touched your lips—the kind that never reached your eyes. “Sure. I’ll give you the money.”
His face lit up. “Thank you—”
“But,” you added. The single syllable acted like a physical barrier. “I want a guarantee. If you fail to deliver within one year, I want to double the investment back.”
His smile vanished. “What?”
“You came here expecting easy money,” you said, your tone leveling out into something cold. “I’ll give it to you. But easy money comes with a price. We have the capital. The question is, can you execute?”
Silence filled the room.
“If you can’t,” you added, leaning in just an inch, “we will chase you for it.”
The confidence drained out of him, his face pale. “We’ll… come back with stronger data.”
“Good.”
When the door opened, he walked out with his shoulders noticeably lower.
Inside, you finally leaned back and exhaled, the mask slipping. Your hand moved to your stomach, pressing lightly against the sharp discomfort of an empty, stressed-out system.
“Was that a bit too straightforward?”
You looked up, startled. Jack was standing there; you hadn’t even heard the door click.
“They offered me nothing,” you replied, brushing off the encounter as you tried to regain your composure. “Beggars shouldn’t ask for more.”
Jack stepped closer, stopping just beside your chair. He leaned down slightly, lowering his voice until it was a private rumble. “You don’t smile at anyone here.”
A beat passed.
“…But you do with me.”
You met his eyes, the hardness in yours melting. “Of course.”
His gaze dropped briefly to the untouched, pristine space on your desk. “You haven’t eaten.”
“No,” you said softly. “That’s why my stomach hurts again.”
Jack reached down and set a lunch box in front of you. You blinked, looking at the simple container. “Is it…?”
“Your lunch.”
You opened it, the steam hitting your face, and then you looked at him. “Did you make this?”
Jack looked suddenly, uncharacteristically uncomfortable. He cleared his throat. “If there’s no flavor, ask Greg for salt. And eat the veggies.”
You laughed—a soft, real sound that echoed in the empty room—and took a bite. It was simple, warm, and better than any five-star meal you'd had in New York. You didn’t realize how long it had been since someone had looked after you this way.
“…Thank you,” you said, your voice quiet.
The door opened again. Greg stepped in, tablet in hand and ready for the next round. “Boss, your schedule—”
“She’s done for today,” Jack said flatly.
You looked up at him, stunned. “…I am?”
“You are.”
There was a pause. You looked at the lunch Jack had made, then at the mountain of work Greg held, and finally back to Jack’s steady, stubborn gaze.
“Alright,” you said, leaning back. “Clear my schedule today, Greg.”
Greg blinked. “Really?”
“Call the vice director,” you said, waving a hand dismissively. “We pay him enough. Give him more work. And you… you can go home.”
Greg broke into a wide grin, giving two thumbs up. “Yes. Absolutely.” He glanced at Jack, a look of pure gratitude on his face. “You’re welcome here anytime, Doc.”
Then he vanished before you could change your mind. In the sudden quiet of the office, you looked at Jack.
"So," you murmured. "Where are you taking me?"
********
Jack didn’t like golf.
He didn’t say it out loud, but it showed in the way he held the club—a little too stiff, like the polished graphite didn't belong in his hands. Still, he followed you across the rolling green without complaint. He was quiet and steady, his focus less on the game and more on the way you moved.
You, on the other hand, moved like you owned the place. Which, in a way, you did.
And as he thought. This golf course is also one of your businesses.
A man in a sharp black suit approached from the perimeter, stopping just short of stepping onto the manicured grass. He didn’t look at Jack; his eyes were fixed solely on you.
“Miss,” he said quietly, his voice carrying a practiced neutrality. “Your father is here.”
You didn’t react immediately. You adjusted your glove, your eyes still fixed on the horizon of the course. The air seemed to chill by a few degrees.
“Of course he is,” you said.
The atmosphere in the private lounge was heavy, the kind of silence that only exists in rooms where every piece of furniture costs more than a year of a surgeon’s salary. The moment the door closed, the pretense evaporated.
Your father didn’t bother easing into the conversation. He sat behind a desk of dark, polished wood, leaning back with a look of bored disapproval.
“A doctor?” he scoffed. “Out of everyone, you pick a doctor? At least choose someone with status. A hospital director. Someone who understands the weight of our name.”
You didn’t even blink. The clinical coldness you usually reserved for boardroom predators settled over your features. “No.”
He frowned, the skin around his eyes tightening. “No?”
“What about you?” you shot back, your voice smooth and dangerous. “Your mistress isn’t exactly qualified for our 'status' either.”
That made him pause, his posture stiffening. “She’s not part of this discussion.”
“Oh, she is,” you said calmly, taking a seat across from him without being asked. “You’re comparing standards, aren't you? Let’s be thorough.”
His jaw tightened, a muscle jumping in his cheek. He looked toward the door, where Jack was waiting somewhere out of sight. “He’s not rich. He has nothing to offer this family.”
You almost smiled at that, but it wasn't a kind expression.
“My partner saves lives,” you said, your voice dropping to a low, lethal register. “Yours spends money. If you’re looking for a return on investment, I’d say I’ve made the better choice.”
Your father’s gaze shifted toward the window, looking for any lingering argument. “He only has one leg,” he said, his voice dropping into a tone of dull observation, as if he were pointing out a scratch on a vintage car.
You didn’t even hesitate. The defense was instantaneous, sharp and cold as a blade. “That’s not a flaw,” you countered. “That’s a scar of honor. He served his country while you were sitting in boardrooms.”
A small, heavy pause settled between you. You tilted your head slightly, watching him struggle to find a rebuttal. Your eyes remained locked on his, steady and unforgiving.
“I thought you were patriotic,” you added, the irony dripping from every word. “Didn’t you donate millions for new weapons last year? It’s funny how you love the machinery of war, but can’t stand the sight of the men who actually used it.”
That shut him up.
“I’m not asking for your permission,” you said. “You asked. I answered.”
Silence.
Then, quieter but sharper, “Besides, what do you actually care?”
He sighed because he hated where this conversation was going.
“You turned my life into a competition,” you continued. “You set me against your mistress. You turned half the board to her side. You pushed me to work day and night until I ended up in the hospital.”
“It was just a minor surgery,” he dismissed. “Gastric. You’re fine.”
Something in you snapped.
“For you, it’s entertainment,” you said, your voice tightening for the first time. “Watching me struggle.”
A breath, uneven.
“For me… it wasn’t.”
You held his gaze now. No distance. No control to hide behind.
“He was the one who made me stop,” you said. “He was the one who made me get treated. He looked at me like I was a person who needed help… even when I refused it.”
Your voice dropped.
“Even when I thought I didn’t deserve it.”
That hit harder than anything else.
Your composure slipped just enough to show it. The crack you never let anyone see.
The room went quiet.
You didn’t wait for his response. He doesn't have the right to see your tears.
You turned and walked out before he could say anything that would make it worse.
*****
When you stepped out into the hallway, the heavy silence of the lounge followed you like a ghost. Jack was already there.
He was leaning against the wood-paneled wall, hands buried deep in his pockets, looking like a man who had nowhere else in the world to be. The moment he saw you, he straightened, his focus narrowing.
Jack didn’t just look at you; he saw through you. He caught the slight tension in your jaw, the way your eyes were just a fraction too bright. To anyone else, you were the picture of composure. To him, you were a woman who had just survived a war.
You didn’t say a word. You simply walked toward him, the distance between you vanishing until you stopped, just inches away. You stood there, suspended in the space between you, your breath coming in shallow, jagged hitches.
Jack didn’t wait for an invitation.
His hands came up, certain and slow, pulling you into his space. He gathered you in carefully, as if he already knew exactly where the bruising was. One arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you flush against him, while his other hand settled at the back of your head, tucking your face into the crook of his neck.
You let out a long, shuddering breath against his chest—a sound quieter than you expected, but heavy with the weight of everything you’d been carrying.
“You’re alright,” he said softly, his voice a low vibration against your temple.
A pause settled over you both, the luxury of the club fading into the background.
“Your father’s an idiot,” he murmured, his breath warm against your hair.
You let out a small, broken scoff against the fabric of his shirt. “The worst in the world.”
“Yeah,” he whispered, his hand moving in a slow, grounding pass along your back. “I figured.”
For the first time all day, the performance stopped. There was no need for control, no need to be the woman who ran empires. You stayed there, resting your forehead against his shoulder, letting his strength hold you up while you finally let yourself go quiet.
The crash came fast.
The moment the car door clicked shut, the adrenaline that had been keeping you upright evaporated. You didn’t argue about the next meeting or complain about the headache pulsing behind your eyes; you simply leaned your head against the cool leather of the seat and let the world go dark.
Jack, sitting beside you, felt the change instantly. As your head slumped toward his shoulder, the heat radiating from your skin was impossible to ignore. He reached out, his calloused palm grazing your forehead.
He didn’t even need a thermometer. “You have a fever,” he said, his voice dropping into a low, professional steadiness.
Greg, watching through the rearview mirror, gripped the steering wheel tighter. “It happens when the stress piles up. Her body just… shuts down.”
Jack’s jaw tightened, his hand lingering near your temple. “This isn’t just stress.”
Greg hesitated, then sighed, a dry, weary sound. “She’s been like this for years. Always pushing, always trying to prove something to that man. Always trying to make him… proud.”
The words landed heavily in the quiet of the car. Jack looked down at you—pale, fragile, and far away—then shifted his gaze back to Greg.
Greg let out a hollow breath. “Because this whole thing? The company, the pressure, the constant fights? It’s a test. The succession. He wants to see how far she can go before she breaks.”
Jack didn’t like the answer. He didn't like the cold, calculated cost of your inheritance. He looked back at your face, seeing the toll of a lifetime spent trying to win a game that had no finish line.
“That’s not how you measure someone,” he muttered, his voice thick with a sudden, protective heat.
He didn't care about the succession or the empire. He just shifted closer, pulling you more firmly against his side, offering the only thing your father never could: a place where you didn't have to prove a thing.
Jack didn’t explain much. He didn't have to.
"I’m going to meet him," he said.
Greg didn't need a map or a reason. He simply checked his watch and nodded. "He smokes cigars at five. Terrace level. You’ll find him there."
The terrace was a sanctuary of calculated isolation. It was quiet, expensive, and designed to make the rest of the world feel small. Your father sat in a low, leather chair, one leg crossed over the other with a cigar resting between his fingers. The smoke curled lazily into the afternoon air, controlled and deliberate. Everything about the man broadcasted power.
Jack stepped into that space as if the prestige didn't exist.
Your father barely spared him a glance, his eyes fixed on the horizon. "You’re the doctor."
"Yeah."
Jack didn't sit. He stood with his weight balanced, a soldier in a garden.
"As her doctor," Jack began, his voice dropping into a low, steady resonance, "I don’t ignore the source of the problem."
That pulled your father’s attention. He turned his head slowly to look at him properly.
"And you’re the reason she’s sick," Jack added.
A small, dismissive scoff escaped the older man. "She’s under pressure. In our world, that’s normal."
"No," Jack countered. "That’s damage."
Your father waved a hand, the cigar glowing bright for a second as he dismissed the air between them. "If this is a lecture—"
"It’s not," Jack cut in, his tone sharp and clinical. "I’m here to make sure what’s hurting her doesn’t keep happening. I’m a trauma surgeon; I don't just patch the wound. I stop the bleeding."
Silence settled between them, heavy and suffocating.
Your father shifted slightly in his seat. It was a subtle movement, but Jack’s eyes were trained for it. He caught the way the man's shoulders adjusted, the way his breath came just a fraction heavier than before. His fingers tightened briefly around the cigar, revealing a faint, rhythmic tremor.
Jack’s gaze sharpened. "You should get yourself checked."
The reaction was immediate. Your father’s brow furrowed. "...What?"
"Your blood pressure," Jack continued, his voice devoid of emotion. "You’re flushed. Your breathing isn't even. There's a slight tremor in your hand. You’re compensating, but your body is redlining."
Your father frowned, his posture stiffening. "I’m fine."
Jack didn’t argue. He just looked at him with the cold, honest stare of a man who had seen a thousand hearts stop beating.
"You’re not," he said simply.
A long pause followed. Your father shifted again, this time more deliberately, straightening his spine as if posture alone could override biology. But his breath still caught slightly on the exhale.
Jack saw the vulnerability through the expensive suit. Then, quieter, he spoke again. "You won’t last a year like this."
The air on the terrace changed. Your father stared at him now, his irritation edged with a flickering shadow of something else. "Is that supposed to scare me?"
Jack shook his head once. "No."
A beat.
"It’s supposed to give you time."
The silence returned. Jack stepped back, the conversation already over in his mind.
"Fix things with her," he said. "While you still can."
"Are you threatening me?" your father asked, his voice dropping to a dangerous, low register. "I could have you removed from here. From everything."
Jack didn’t react. Not even a flicker of doubt crossed his face. He simply stood his ground, immovable.
"Try it."
Your father went quiet. The threat hung in the air, empty and useless.
Jack held his gaze, a dark, knowing glint in his eyes. "I have her. And last I checked, you’ve already stepped down. She’s the one running everything now."
A brief pause.
"And she has lawyers who don’t lose."
Something in your father’s expression tightened. It was the look of a man realizing the board had been flipped while he wasn't looking.
Jack gave the smallest hint of a smirk—a cold, jagged thing—then turned and walked out, leaving the room as if it had never belonged to anyone else.
******
You woke up slowly, the dull ache of a fever still lingering under your skin. For a second, you didn't move. You knew this feeling well—the aftermath. It was the familiar tax your body collected after you pushed yourself too far, after another round of psychological warfare with your father.
You hated the weakness of it.
Your eyes shifted, and that’s when you realized you weren’t alone. Jack was beside you, half-leaning against the headboard, his presence a grounded, immovable weight in the quiet room. One arm rested loosely near your side, his posture suggesting he had been there for a long time.
He noticed the moment you stirred. “You’re up.”
Your voice came out softer, thinner than usual. “Did I just shut down again?”
“Yeah,” he said, his gaze steady on yours. “You didn’t even realize I carried you.”
You blinked, turning your head slightly to look at him. “Really?” A small pause followed as you processed the image of him effortlessly taking the weight you couldn't carry. “…I missed that.”
The corner of his mouth lifted just a fraction. “You were out cold. Didn’t miss much.”
You exhaled, letting your head sink deeper into the pillow. The room was calm—too calm compared to the storm of the afternoon. Then, the sharp buzz of your phone broke the silence. You frowned, reaching for it with a heavy hand. Your eyes scanned the notification on the screen and froze.
“What?”
Jack’s attention shifted immediately. “What is it?”
You turned the phone toward him, your thumb trembling slightly. “My dad.” A beat passed as you stared at the words. “He wants to have dinner.”
The silence that followed was heavier than before. Jack looked at the screen, then back at you, reading your reaction more than the message itself.
“He’s never asked first,” you said quietly, the disbelief clear in your tone. “Not once. It’s always a summons, never an invitation.” You glanced back at Jack, suspicion creeping in. “Did you do something?”
Jack held your gaze for a second, his expression unreadable.
“I made it clear that I don’t let my patient get put back in that condition,” he said, his voice as calm as a deep tide. He didn't blink. “And I don’t repeat myself.”
The weight of it settled in your chest. You looked at him a second longer than necessary, something shifting behind your eyes. Not a shock. Not confusion. Realization.
“…You went to see him,” you said. A beat. “And came back alive.”
Jack frowned slightly at that. “I told him you’re the CEO now.” His tone stayed even. “That was enough to shut him down.”
You let out a quiet chuckle, shaking your head against the pillow. “Yeah… you didn’t just shut him down. You pressed right where it hurts.” Your eyes flicked back to him. “He hates that I won.”
“He should start getting used to it,” Jack said.
*******
The Time He Realized He Meant Everything to You
Jack never got sick. He was the one who stitched the world back together, a man built on adrenaline and steady hands. But even the best armor has a chink, and during a high-stakes SWAT call-out, a stray round found the space the Kevlar didn't cover.
This time, the bullet hadn't just grazed him. It had torn through his upper quadrant, shattering a rib and nicking the hepatic artery.
This time, Jack was the patient.
The Pitt was a blur of controlled violence. Robby, Garcia, and Al-Hashimi moved with a frantic precision they usually reserved for strangers, their faces slick with sweat under the harsh fluorescent lights.
"He’s losing too much blood!" Garcia shouted. Her hands were buried deep in gauze, pressing down on the entry wound in his upper quadrant with every ounce of her weight. "Pressure! I need more pressure! The packing is soaking through!"
"We can’t move him to the OR like this," Robby grunted. His face was a ghostly shade of pale as he used both hands to squeeze a bag of O-negative, trying to force life back into Jack’s collapsing veins. "His systolic is dropping through the floor. Stay with me, Jack. Stay with me, buddy."
Inside the fog of shock, Jack was fighting a silent, losing war. Every time his heart thumped, he felt a sickening, hollow slide deep in his chest—the sensation of his own life spilling out onto the trauma table. The voices around him were beginning to warble, stretching out into a low, distorted hum that sounded like it was coming from the bottom of a deep well.
Don't close your eyes, he told himself. The command was a flicker of a thought, weak and flickering like a dying candle. If you close them, you don't wake up.
He tried to draw a breath, but his shattered rib grated against the pleura, a jagged spark of agony that nearly pushed him over the edge into the black. His vision was tunneling, the edges of the room turning into a frayed, gray vignette. He could feel the cold now—a deep, marrow-chilling frost that started at his fingertips and was rapidly claiming his heart.
"He’s in V-fib!" Al-Hashimi yelled, the sharp, rhythmic alarm of the heart monitor suddenly flatlining into a terrifying, continuous shriek. "Get the paddles! Charge to two hundred!"
The team scrambled. Garcia never let go of the wound, even as the air in the room seemed to vibrate with the sheer desperation of their effort.
"Clear!"
Jack’s body arched off the table, a violent, mechanical jolt that felt like a lightning strike to his soul. For a second, there was only the smell of ozone and the heavy metallic scent of blood.
Fight, he thought, his mind clutching at a single image—you, sitting across from him at lunch, laughing at a joke he hadn't finished. Not yet.
Suddenly, a heavy, rhythmic thrumming vibrated through the trauma bay walls. It started as a low growl in the floorboards and escalated into a deafening roar. Outside the glass, the unmistakable downdraft of a heavy helicopter flared, kicking up debris and rattling the medical instruments on their trays.
Robby glanced toward the window, then leaned down, his mouth inches from Jack's ear. "Look. Your girl is here." He gripped Jack’s shoulder, his voice thick with a raw, desperate hope. "She just landed a private bird on our roof, Jack. You can’t disappoint her, right? You know she’ll sue this entire city into the ground if you quit on her. You stay. You stay for her."
The flatline on the monitor stuttered. A single, weak blip appeared. Then another.
Jack’s fingers twitched against the cold metal of the rail. The darkness was still pulling at him, but the roar of that engine felt like a tether. You were here.
You’re here? Jack thought through the fog. You were supposed to be in Japan. The Prime Minister... the meeting...
You had moved heaven and earth to reach him, and he realized with a sudden, sharp clarity that he couldn't leave you alone in a world that didn't deserve you.
"I've got a rhythm," Al-Hashimi breathed, his voice cracking. "It’s faint, but it’s there."
Robby let out a breath he felt like he’d been holding for a lifetime. “Thank you, Jack.”
“I’ll take it from here,” Garcia said, her voice firming up. “Let's get him upstairs. Now!”
As the gurney disappeared into the elevator, Robby stepped out into the hallway. He found you standing there, still in your professional suit, your hair windblown from the heli-pad. You looked smaller than he’d ever seen you.
“How is he?” you asked, your voice trembling, a stark contrast to your usual command.
“We stabilized him,” Robby said quickly. “He’s going into surgery now.”
“But?”
“There’s no but,” Robby insisted, placing a steadying hand on your shoulder. “We have the best surgeons in the state in that room. I promise you, Jack is going to make it.”
The dam finally broke. You let out a jagged, broken sob, and Dana was there in a second, pulling you into a hug.
“I can’t lose him,” you whispered into her shoulder, the "CEO" completely gone. “I can’t lose him.”
*****
Four hours later, the world had gone quiet.
The chaotic violence of the trauma bay was a ghost of a memory, replaced by the steady, sterile rhythm of recovery. The soft hiss of the ventilator and the slow, reassuring beep of the heart monitor were the only sounds in the private room.
Jack opened his eyes.
For a second, everything felt distant, as if he were submerged in heavy water. Then, the reality of his own pulse hit him, sharp and grounding. He was alive. He had been on the absolute edge—he knew the physics of the wound too well to think otherwise—and yet, he was still breathing.
The next thing he saw was you.
You were sitting far too close to the bed, your posture uncharacteristically slumped. Your hand was wrapped tightly around his, your knuckles pale from the grip, as if letting go would mean letting him drift back into the dark.
Something in his chest eased, a sensation far deeper than any physical relief.
“Aren’t you supposed to be in Japan?” he croaked, his voice a dry, jagged rasp.
You looked up immediately. Your eyes were red-rimmed and unmistakably shaken, stripped of the polished mask you wore for the world. “Is that the first thing you ask after four hours of surgery?”
“I thought it would be an icebreaker,” Jack murmured, a faint smirk pulling at his lips. “I swear I heard you crying in my dreams. It was loud.”
“Of course I cried, you idiot,” you said, your voice breaking despite your attempt to sound sharp. You shook your head slightly, a jagged breath escaping you. “Unbelievable. You wake up and that’s what you say.”
Jack let out a weak breath, something close to a quiet laugh. Even through the haze of the painkillers, he noticed the way you were trying to hold yourself together.
How come this man still tries to make a joke? you thought, staring at him. Even now.
He lifted his hand slowly. It felt heavier than lead, but you were already leaning in before he even finished the movement. His fingers brushed your cheek, rough and careful at the same time, wiping away a tear you hadn’t realized was falling.
He looked at you, really looked, past the exhaustion and the lingering panic. He looked right into the vulnerability you spent your life protecting.
“The meeting could be rearranged,” you said, your voice dropping to a whisper. “Being here with you is more important than any contract. Any of it.”
Jack’s chest tightened, a pull that had nothing to do with the surgical site. He understood the gravity of those words. You hadn’t just moved things around; you had walked away from the empire you spent every waking hour building. You had walked away for him.
“I made you afraid,” he said quietly, his gaze softening with a heavy, honest guilt.
You didn’t answer immediately. Instead, you rested your forehead against his arm, your grip on his hand tightening as if to anchor him there.
“Don’t leave me alone in this world,” you whispered against the sheets. “I need my night-crawl doctor. Who else is going to tell me I’m being ridiculous?”
Jack exhaled slowly, his thumb brushing lightly across the back of your hand. “I’m not going anywhere,” he said. His voice was weak, but it carried a certainty that filled the room. “You’re stuck with me.”
He paused, a flicker of the old Abbott returning to his eyes. “And someone has to make sure you actually take care of yourself.”
You let out a breath that almost sounded like a laugh, the tension finally beginning to drain from your shoulders. Your eyes drifted to the bandages wrapped around his torso, your fingers carefully tracing the edge of the gauze as if making sure he was solid, real, and still yours.
“It’s a battle scar,” you said softly. “A badge of honor.”
Jack closed his eyes for a second, leaning into your touch. “I’d prefer a quieter hobby. Golf doesn’t sound bad now. Maybe I’ll try tennis.”
You shook your head lightly, but your hand didn’t leave his. For the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel like you had to be in control of everything. You didn't have to be the boss; you just had to be the woman who loved him.
And for the first time in his life, Jack didn’t feel like he was walking into the fire alone. He tightened his hold on your hand just slightly, the rhythmic beep of the monitor sounding more like a victory than a warning.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he repeated, his voice dropping to a low, intimate register. “I’ve still got to get you to eat those vegetables.”
You huffed quietly, resting your head against him again. “We’ll negotiate that.”
Jack’s lips curved faintly. That was fine. He had time now. And more importantly, he had you.
summary: you assume jack likes you until the pitt starts betting on how long it'll take him and samira to get together; jack assumes you like him until you get called into work while on a date with your coworker. turns out, all it takes is a bad bet and an even worse date for you and jack to realize how in love the two of you are. (7k)
characters: jack abbot / fem!loser!reader, trinity santos, samira mohan, nick barker, mcvadi crumbs
contents: friends to lovers, idiots in love, implied age gap, angst with a happy ending, hurt/comfort, jealousy, humor, so much flirting, cw for medical procedures, medical inaccuracies, and probably several hr violations
( NAVIGATION ) | ( MASTERLIST ) | ( AO3 )
You make it halfway through your shift with a lighter wallet and a heavier heart than when you started it.
You can hear Princess shuffling through her stack of cash from the other side of the workstation, flaunting her winnings from a well-placed bet. You try and fail not to let it distract you as you scribble at the clipboard before you, with your heavy head propped on your clenched fist.
Charting was hard enough back when the computers were still running, back when it was easy — let alone when you have to make every single note by hand, and flit physically through a hundred different files just to cross-reference all the information.
“Is this what it was like back when you were a resident?” you’d asked Jack, when he dropped off an order slip by the filing cabinet, beside the bulky fax machine you were standing in front of and trying to tame.
He slid in beside you with a wide hand on your lower back, smelling like a dizzying mixture of sweat and musky cologne. He adjusted your labs in the tray without another word, turning it around and flipping it right-side up for you.
“Yeah, actually,” he’d nodded, dialing the proper number on the machine with his pointer finger, including the area code that you had forgotten to add. The corner of his lip flickered upward in a faint half-smirk as he joked with squinted eyes, “Back in the 1900s— when charting was done by candlelight.”
You felt your own mouth curling into a quiet smile despite yourself. “So this must feel really nostalgic for you then, huh?”
“Extremely,” he deadpanned.
“Well…” you sighed. “Got any tips for me then, old man?”
Jack exhaled a heavy breath and turned to face you while the heavy machine beeped and buzzed beside you. He tucked his hands into the front pockets of his camo pants and shrugged his broad shoulders. “Well, look at it this way— Today is gonna suck, but… That means every shift from now can’t possibly get worse than this one, right?”
“Yeah,” you scoffed. “That, or we just… keep descending into another circle of hell every day.”
Jack smiled wider at your cynicism, patting you softly on the shoulder before sauntering off the way he came. “That’s the spirit, kid.”
You still feel his hand on you even now, wide and warm over your thick black scrubs, while you trudge through the rest of your charting. You hate the effect he has on you; you hate how often he plagues your every thought. It takes a great amount of muscle memory, you find, not to accidentally jot his name down as your hand moves the pen on autopilot.
You don’t think it’d feel quite as pathetic if you thought that there might be an inkling he felt the same way about you. But now, all you are is an R4 with a stupid schoolgirl crush on her boss, and half a mental breakdown away from scribbling little hearts in her notes with his initials scrawled inside.
“You plan on getting in on this?” Santos asks in place of a greeting as she slides her swivel chair next to yours. She wears a faint smirk on her lips and a mischievous glint in her light eyes that gives you great pause.
Ink smudges on the inside of your wrist as you halt your scribbling to flash her a dubious look. “…On what?”
“Ahmad got bored after Princess won the last bet,” she tells you, reaching behind her to tighten the half-ponytail at the crown of her head. “Said the grid was too good to take down so soon, so… He started a new one.”
You scoff a dry laugh and turn away again.
“Yeah? What is it this time— Which one of us is gonna be the first to have a breakdown and quit? ‘Cause I’m pretty sure I’d win that one…”
“Close…” Trinity croons, leaning in like she’s about to tell you some sort of secret. Her eyes flit somewhere over your shoulder, in the vague direction of where Mohan stands with Jack across the room, before she confesses. “It’s about Abbot and Samira. I have it on good authority that they were getting pret-ty close in Central 4 together…”
“C-Close?” you echo on bated breath.
Your head whips over your shoulder to the other side of the workstation, where Jack and Samira exchange information about one of her patients. You hadn’t given their closeness a second thought before now. It’s like you blinked, and now the sight of them together makes you feel sick.
You hope Santos doesn’t see the hurt weighing down your features when you turn back to her. “What— What do you mean close?”
“I mean, Dr. Abbot was half naked while Samira was tending to his shoulder,” Trinity explains with a scoff and turns back to her own clipboard. “Honestly, I wouldn’t have thought anything about it until I heard her say, ‘It’s our little secret—’”
She mocks in a high-pitched voice, which sounds nothing like Samira’s, before laughing to herself.
“—Like, c’mon. You guys could at least try to be subtle about it.”
You know she expects you to start laughing with her, but you struggle to find the energy to do so now.
“Yeah…” you sigh instead, hardly audible as you struggle to speak through the sudden tightening in your chest. “Right…”
“You should go place a bet,” she tells you, half-distracted by the files before her. “You could win back the money you lost and then some.”
“With what?” you joke with a sad scoff. “The three dollars I have left to my name?”
She flashes you a deadpanned look. “If that’s all you have to lose, I think I’d take those odds.”
You figure Trinity’s right. You have nothing more to lose, in truth — not after the shit day you’ve already had, and the money you’ve already lost, and the teenage heart inside of you that’s already broken.
You finish up your charting, return the clipboard to the patient rack, and retrieve your wallet from the locker room. Because, as you see it, you’ll either leave this shift about a hundred dollars richer or with nothing at all; either totally vindicated or with a bank account just as empty as you feel on the inside.
You find Ahmad in the security room, and he flashes you a toothy grin as you slink through the doorway like a shy little storm cloud. He motions with the notepad he holds in a sun-kissed hand. “I knew you’d wanna get on the books, kid— What’d it take to convince you this time?”
“I don’t know,” you shrug with a mournful sigh. “I just… realized that I have nothing else to lose, I guess…”
Dr. Barker laughs from beside you.
“Well, that’s always the best reason to make a bet, in my experience,” he jokes with a pearly white smile, pushing the sleeves of his navy button-down up to his elbows to reveal the expanse of his tanned, scruffy forearms.
Nick Barker stands quite a few inches taller than you — which you hadn’t expected before now, since he’d spent most of his time in the E.R. sitting behind the portable radiology machine. He has to look down at you from the bridge of his broad nose from this angle, with eyes so dark they’re almost black.
He’s almost effortlessly handsome. Like, Disney prince sort of handsome. The kind of handsome that makes it impossible to look into his eyes without blushing like a schoolgirl.
“I’m normally a lot more responsible than this, but… I figured all things considered…” you trail off with a sheepish shrug.
“Yeah, you’re talkin’ to the girl who hasn’t taken a day off since I started here— Two years ago,” Ahmad scoffs. “I think you deserve to let loose every once in a while, Doc, all things considered.”
He taps you gently on the head with his notepad. You roll your eyes and reach into the pocket of your scrubs, cheeks burning under the weight of the sudden attention you’re getting.
“Just put me down for $10—” you say, but cut yourself off when Ahmad hisses through his teeth. “…What is it?”
“Minimum this time twenty,” he grimaces.
Your shoulders deflate with a sigh. “Seriously?”
“We had to up the ante this time, kid— Rules of the game.”
“Then I guess put me down for twenty…” you huff and pluck your wallet from your scrub pockets. “For… unrequited…”
“Unrequited by who?” Ahmad presses with his brows raised to his hairline.
“I don’t know. Samira, I guess,” you shrug, half-timid, ‘cause it’s not like you totally believe it either. You’re just trying to take a page out of Trinity’s book, really, and manifest something good for yourself for a change — pretending that Abbot isn’t into her in the hopes that it’ll make it somehow real.
“What?” Ahmad laughs like it’s funny. “You’re telling me you don’t believe in love?”
You flash him a solemn look in return. “I’ll start believing in something again when the systems come back up,” you answer in a monotone.
“Touche…” he nods slowly while Dr. Barker exhales a quiet laugh through his nose.
A familiar voice comes suddenly from the entrance:
“I think that is the single sanest answer I’ve heard all day,” Jack Abbot himself hums in a gritty deadpan.
You nearly break your neck with how fast your head whips over your shoulder, finding the man leaning against the doorway with his toned arms crossed over his chest and a smug smirk dancing on his lips.
Your skin prickles with a red-hot heat while your pounding heart drops to your stomach. If he wasn’t into you before, he certainly won’t be now — not with you making bets on his love life like a crazy person with nothing better to do. (Though, in many ways, that is exactly what you are.)
“Dr. Abbot…” Ahmad croons, trying to play casual despite knowing his secretive betting ring’s finally been found out. “That’s funny— We were just talking about you.”
“Robby may or may not have told me,” Jack confesses as he saunters slowly into the security room, boots heavy on the white linoleum. “Wanted me to tell him if there was something going on with Mohan and me, so he could recoup the money he lost in the last bet.”
“…Well, is there?” Nick wonders lowly.
“C’mon, Barker. Where’s the fun in that?” Jack scoffs a dry laugh, then goes strangely solemn again in a flicker. “Even though, as an attending, I think I have to say that I am very against this— I feel like this has H.R. violation written all over it.”
“Well, what Gloria doesn’t know, won’t hurt us, right?” Ahmad quips.
“I’ve been livin’ by those exact words for years, brother.”
Your hands are clammy and trembling for a reason you can’t name as you pull two crumpled bills from your wallet — a dingy, pastel Polly Pocket billfold you’ve had since you were twelve — as if you needed another reason to look any less cool in front of Jack. The pale pink interior is left glaringly empty, save for a few folded receipts and miscellaneous fortune-cookie slips.
“Wow…” you huff as you pass Ahmad the twenty. “That is all the cash I have to my name. I’m officially more broke than I was in med school— I didn’t even know that was possible.”
“I can take you out to dinner with my winnings, if you want,” Nick offers suddenly.
Your head snaps in his direction, and his eyes widen, as though surprised by his own forwardness. He swallows hard, pronounced adam’s apple bobbing in his throat, scruffy with a five o’clock shadow.
“You know, if you— if you wanna… let loose or whatever.”
Your lip flickers upward in a shy smile when Dr. Barker sighs and shakes his head to himself. A few rogue strands of dark hair fall from their gelled quaff and hang over his forehead until he pushes them back in place again.
“Sorry, that, uh…” He chuckles awkwardly at himself. “That came out weird.”
“I might be stuck in charting jail for the rest of the night, actually,” you say with an apologetic grimace, wringing your clammy fingers into knots. “Can I get back to you on that?”
“Yeah!” he blurts, a little quicker than he means to. He clears his throat and, in an octave lower, repeats himself. “Yeah. Totally. No worries.”
You dismiss yourself with a quiet smile and lack the courage to look Jack in the eye when you pass him on the way to the door. He watches you leave and waits for you to glance back at him with his heart in his throat. You never do.
Still, though, he can’t help but feel a little proud of himself; after watching you turn down the handsome radiologist every woman on this floor has been fawning over all day. He turns back around and hisses through his teeth, trying not to look as smug as he feels.
“Damn,” Jack deadpans. “That was cold, man…”
Nick’s dark eyes widen and flit wildly between the two men on either side of him. “Wait— Really?”
“Ice cold…” Ahmad affirms with a slow nod. “Girl said she’s broke, and you think she’s gonna say ‘no thanks’ to some free food? In this economy? Yeah… She’s not into you, man.”
Jack claps the solemn boy hard on the shoulder. “You win some, you lose some, kid… Don’t take it too hard.”
You forget all about the stupid bet and Nick’s offer some hours later, when Robby sticks you with Ogilvie and tells you to walk the MS4 through your canthotomy patient.
You talk aloud as you slice your scalpel through the young girl’s eye, where the socket is raging red and bulging from the pressure behind it. The boy doesn’t say a word the whole time, just holds the plastic cup where the bright crimson blood drains from the eye, and doesn’t move a muscle until it stops.
“I think that’s the closest I’ve come to puking since I started med school,” the boy confesses when it’s done, standing just over your shoulder while you fill out the patient’s med slip. “I didn’t even get that close during cadaver lab, when all of us started craving meat from the formaldehyde— I’m pretty sure five people dropped out that day alone…”
His voice trails off when Samira catches your eye, rushing by the desk with her wild curls falling from her claw clip. She wears the hard shift all over as she makes a beeline directly for Jack, planting herself ahead of the older man; so close she has to tilt her chin to meet his gaze.
Your hand freezes around the pen as you keep your eyes on the two of them, staring harder than you probably realize as you struggle to make out their conversation. Their words are drowned out by Ogilvie’s rambling, and the surrounding beep and chatter of the crowded E.R.
Mohan talks wildly with her hands and says something about “a letter,” while Jack nods along sympathetically and says something along the lines of “give me your number.”
Your chest flares with a white-hot feeling when you watch the man pass Samira his phone to plug her number into. It’s like the world has fallen out from under you and swallowed you whole, like you’re drowning in the fire of your own envy.
You’re barely seven hours on the job, and you’ve already lost all your cash — you’ll be doomed to the three-day-old leftovers in the fridge, if the newfound heartache hasn’t already snatched your appetite for the evening. That means you’ll be running on fumes tomorrow morning — still broke, still hungry, still heartbroken.
Then you remember Dr. Barker — Disney prince Dr. Barker — and his offer of dinner from earlier in the security room.
You make the terribly impulsive decision to take fate into your own hands and forget to properly dismiss yourself before dropping the finished order slip off across the room. Ogilivie is quick to follow close behind, lacking any real sense of personal space. He nearly trips over himself to keep from running into you when you freeze suddenly in place.
“You don’t have to follow me anymore,” you tell him.
“Oh… Well, then… What am I supposed to do?” the blonde boy shrugs.
“I don’t know. Do whatever you want…” you trail off and glance around the bustling work station. You spot Trinity standing at the chart rack and motion over to her. “Go help Dr. Santos with her next patient.”
The dark-haired girl turns at the sound of her name.
“Oh, please don’t—” She cuts herself off with a sigh when Ogilvie makes his way towards her anyway. “Fuck. Fine…”
You continue your trek to the other side of the crowded work station, where the portable radiology machine takes up the majority of the room. You can smell the man’s expensive, musky cologne before he ever comes into view.
“Hey, Nick…” you greet, then wince at how weird it sounds a second later. “I mean, Dr. Barker— Sorry—”
He glances up from his work at the sound of your voice. “Nick is fine,” he assures with a kind grin and a pair of chocolate-colored eyes.
You try to smile back, but your nervousness makes it look more like a grimace. “It’s not, like, totally too late for me to take you up on that offer for dinner, is it?”
“No!” he blurts with a shake of his head. “Of course not!”
“Great…” you say with a relieved sigh.
“Yeah, I’ll— I’ll text you the details later.”
“Oh. Well, you don’t…” You scrunch the bridge of your nose in a sheepish look. “You don’t have my number…”
His mouth falls softly agape with the realization. “Oh. Right. Duh.”
You smile wider despite yourself, ‘cause he’s almost as awkward as you are, which you didn’t think was possible before now — especially not for someone as pretty as he is.
You turn away and grab the nearest pen, clicking it on with your thumb before reaching for his arm. You scribble your number over the dark blue veins on his wrist with a newfound confidence — one that you never had before now, one spurred on by the man’s obvious shyness.
You feel Nick’s eyes on you when you look away, flitting wildly across your profile.
“This isn’t… This isn’t just because of the bet, is it?” he wonders with a waver in his voice.
Your brows furrow in confusion. “What do you mean?”
“You know, the whole thing you said about… losing all your money or whatever,” Dr. Barker explains with a sheepish laugh. “You’re not just going out with me for a free meal, are you?”
“Well, isn’t that kinda the point of going on dates? The free food?” you joke with a dry laugh, which fades instantly at the confused look Nick gives you in response. Your face floods with horror a second later. “I’m kidding! I’m totally kidding— Of course not.”
“Okay,…” Dr. Barker says with an awkward chuckle. “Good.”
“Good,” you echo with a sigh and rise to full height again.
“I’ll, uh— I’ll text you.”
“I’ll be waiting,” you chirp with a polite nod and a giddy grin, which ebbs the second you turn away from him. You shake your head as you slink back through the bustling emergency department, squeezing your eyes shut and murmuring under your breath in disgust, “I’ll be waiting—?”
You nearly trip over yourself when you ram suddenly into a firm body. Two calloused hands grasp gently at your elbows as you stumble backwards. You almost lose your breath when you find Jack Abbot towering over you.
“Shit… you huff. “Sorry, I— I wasn’t paying attention.”
“Where’ve you been hiding?” Jack squints. “I’ve been looking for you.”
Your shy smile fades into a disbelieving squint almost instantly; at the bitter reminder of Jack and Samira — of the seemingly intimate conversation they’d shared just minutes ago, and of the bet you know you’re bound to lose now.
“No, you weren’t,” you deadpan.
“I was,” he insists. “I feel like I always am, some way or another.”
Your chest warms at his words. You choke on the funny feeling when you force yourself to swallow it down. “I was just— walking one of the interns through a lateral canthotomy,” you stammer as you step back out of his hold.
“Gnarly,” Jack hums with a slow nod.
“Did you, uh… Did you need me for something?”
“Yeah, I have a patient over in Trauma 2— Sliced through his left hand with a circular saw,” Jack explains, staring down at you from the bridge of his nose as he crosses his strong arms over his chest. “But the crazy part is, he used his right hand to take the nail gun and—”
“Oh, my god,” you blurt before you mean to. “He tried to put his hand back on with the nail gun, didn’t he?”
“Close…” he hums with a knowing glint in his eyes. “He used the gun to fire two nails into his temple— Said he thought it would distract him from the pain in his hand. And the weird thing is, he’s walking and talking just fine.”
“Holy shit…” you mumble, wide-eyed. “Why do you always get the cool cases?”
“You can have it,” he assures you, with something soft swimming in his eyes. “That’s why I wanted to find you— so you could do it with me.”
Something about it feels way more intimate than being asked out for dinner.
You finish the rest of your shift as normal — feeling like a shell of your former self after hours of running on fumes; both excruciatingly tired and buzzing with white-hot adrenaline all at once.
The only real difference between today and every other day before this one is that, for the first time in a long, long time, you actually have plans outside of work — almost like a real human person with a social life would.
You return home after the long day, only for an hour or so, to shower and change out of your scrubs. You wash away the scent of blood, sweat, and antiseptic from your skin, and only cut your knee once when you shave your legs for the first time in weeks. You pull out a nice top, a short skirt, and a real bra from the depths of your closet. You go as far as to break out the expensive perfume that you’ve had for years, ‘cause you only use it on extra special occasions, which tend to be few and far between for you.
You feel like an entirely different person when you meet Dr. Barker at the address he’d sent you a few hours ago — a nice bar, just a few blocks down from your apartment building, that you’d been meaning to visit for years but found every excuse in the book to stay home instead. You find the man sitting alone in a far booth in the dimly lit room, sipping slowly at the beer he nurses in his hand, and feel a little like a fraud when you slide into the vinyl seat across from him.
Nick has only known you for the better part of a work shift, to be fair, not counting the handful of times you’d smiled politely in passing when you clocked out for the day. You know he’s got some version of you in his head already, like all men do — someone much cooler than you really are, someone much better at separating their work life from their personal life than you are.
You prove him wrong in record time, sharing a plate of loaded nachos between you and forgetting to eat any of it as you get too easily lost in your ramblings. You tell him of the long shift, and of the man you met with two nails in his skull, and fail to remember that not everyone can talk of blood and gore over a meal as easily as you can.
“—Honestly, I’m still surprised it didn’t hemorrhage! The X-Ray showed one of the nails was, like, half an inch away from nicking an artery,” you ramble with a giddy grin. “I pulled them out with some local anesthetic, and he was totally fine— Well, except for the hand, obviously. ‘Cause he did lose a few fingers, but… Dr. Abbot took care of that, so…”
“Did he?” Nick hums, hiding his smile behind the pint he brings to his mouth.
He thinks this must be the fifth or so time you’ve brought up the man’s name tonight alone — not that you seem to notice. He doesn’t know whether that’s supposed to make him feel better or worse.
“Yeah— I always tell him he would’ve been an amazing surgeon if he didn’t have the hand-eye coordination of, like… A half-blind sloth,” you say, then swallow hard at the playful look Nick gives you in response. “‘Cause, you know, sloths are really clumsy, and they… Sometimes mistake their own limbs for branches, so… They fall a lot…”
You trail off and reach for the glass of water at your side, becoming very suddenly self-aware of your inability to stop rambling.
“You talk about him a lot,” Nick observes with a kind smile, licking the sheen of alcohol from his lips.
“…Who?” you wonder with furrowed brows.
“Dr. Abbot.”
Your features flood with terror. “Do I?”
His broad nose scrunches with a breathy laugh. “A little bit, yeah.”
“Oh, god…” you groan and hide your face behind your hand. Nick’s laugh gets lost in the rock music playing overhead. “That’s so annoying. I’m sorry—”
Your phone glows to life as it buzzes against the wooden table it sits on. You reach over to flip it face down before you can read the message on the screen.
“I didn’t… I didn’t even notice… I’m so sorry.”
It vibrates again, twice more in quick succession.
Your stomach twists with the anticipation of what it might say.
“It’s whatever,” Dr. Barker shrugs, pushing the sleeves of his button-up to his elbows. “I get it. He’s your boss and everything, so…”
Your phone buzzes on the table once more, for longer this time, now with a phone call.
You tense, but make no move to answer it, for fear of making this more awkward than you already have — though your pretending not to hear it doesn’t make it any better.
The corner of Nick’s lip twitches into a sympathetic smile, ‘cause he can tell that you’re trying to be polite, even though you’re fidgeting at the thought of answering it. Because your friends usually only ever text you, so if someone’s calling, it’s bound to be important.
“You can get that if you need to—”
“Thank you,” you sigh before he’s properly gotten the words out, scrambling for your phone with anxious hands. “I’m so sorry. It’ll be quick, I swear. I’m sure it’s just… Fuck.”
The call ends before you can answer it.
Nick’s eyes widen at your reaction. “Everything okay?”
“It’s Parker…” you answer with your eyes trained on the blue-white screen. Your chest deflates with a heavy sigh beneath your skin-tight top. “And I know it’s serious because she despises double-texting and she just sent me four back to back, so…”
Your eyes are wet and preemptively apologetic when they dart to the man across the table, who meets the disaster of you with a tender grin.
“You gotta go back in, huh?” he squints.
“I do…” you sigh. “I’m so sorry—”
“Just make it up to me next time,” Nick shrugs, watching with kind eyes as you scramble for your phone and purse. “When I win that bet, I mean. I’ll take you out somewhere nice— We can do this for real. If you want.”
You slide out of the cracking vinyl booth with a grimace — equal parts unnerved at the idea of doing this a second time and half-surprised that Nick would even want to, after you did nothing but anxiously ramble before bailing on him out of nowhere.
“Yeah…” you waver anyway as you stand to full height again. “Yeah. Sure. Maybe.”
“Thank you again— I’d kiss you right now if I could,” Dr. Ellis tells you when you pass her in the ambulance bay, where she hurries out of the E.D. on long limbs. She calls over her shoulder, moments before she’s out of earshot. “You look hot, by the way!”
The passing reminder of what you’re showing up to work in hits you like a punch to the stomach.
The double doors of the PTMC part for you, and the air-conditioned emergency room wraps its cold fingers around every inch of your exposed skin — your shaven legs, arms, and collarbones; all of which are normally concealed by your dark scrubs and undershirts.
You can’t help but feel a bit like you’re doing the walk of shame as you race past the work station with your head bowed, barely noticing that the systems are up and running again as you go. You’re too busy trying to make yourself as small as possible on your way to the scrub dispenser down the hall.
Jack smells you before he sees you.
He gets a sudden whiff of something sweet and creamy, like whipped vanilla and fresh raspberries, something candied enough to eat. Then he looks over his shoulder, from where he’s stood at the front desk, and finds you rushing past him in a hurry. His neck nearly cracks with the strength of the double take he gives at the back of you — short skirt swishing around your thighs, tight shirt showing a sliver of your lower back. He feels a little like he’s in middle school again, going wild at the mere sight of a girl’s bare shoulder.
By the time his brain starts working again to greet you, you’ve already turned the corner.
“Whoa, gotta hot date tonight?” he hears Shen ask as you walk by.
“Just left one, more like,” you scoff.
“Damn. Poor guy,” the man quips, then laughs when you flip him off.
“…What the hell?” Jack mutters under his breath, with his eyes still trained on the empty hall you’d just disappeared down.
“What? You didn’t hear?” McKay wonders aloud, from where she’s hunched over the monitor across from him, still closing down for the day now that the ED isn’t in analog hell anymore. She peers up at him with tired blue eyes, half-hidden beneath her wild fringe. “Don’t tell Princess, but apparently, she went out with that Dr. Barker guy from radiology.”
“Oh, really?” Jack hums, nodding slowly to feign interest. He hopes the hurt flaring in his chest doesn’t show all over his face as he turns back to his computer. “Sounds fun…”
Javadi eyes him from behind McKay’s shoulder. Her dark, observant stare traces the edges of his face as she twirls the string of her lavender jacket with her pointer finger.
“Well, don’t look so upset about it, Dr. Abbot,” she jokes with a quiet laugh, half-dazed from the long day. “I have a lot riding on this bet about you and Mohan, you know—?”
Cassie flashes the younger girl a wordless look.
Victoria’s eyes go wide when they flit back to Jack’s.
“—Which I wasn’t supposed to mention in front of you…” she blurts and fakes an awkward laugh. “There is no bet, actually. I don’t know what you’re talking about…”
Jack doesn’t ease the tension by telling her that he already knows; that he has known all day. He just flashes her a half-smile and a pair of squinted eyes as he steps back from the monitor.
“Real smooth, kid…” he jokes before he walks away.
He leaves the work station and turns the corner to find you cradling a pair of black scrubs to your chest and making a beeline for the restroom nearest to the break room. He rushes on long legs to catch up with you, limping slightly from his prosthetic. You freeze at the sound of your name from his lips, echoing from down the long hall. Your skirt swishes around your thighs as you spin in place to face him.
“Hey…” Jack greets, only slightly out of breath when he towers finally over you.
Your brows lower in confusion at the sight of his flustered state, but you smile nonetheless. “Hey…?”
“How was the, uh… The date?”
“Date?” you scoff. “What date?”
“The one you had with Dr. Barker.”
His biceps strain against his scrubs when he crosses his arms over his chest, peering down at you from the bridge of his nose. Your cheeks flare instantly. You can’t help but feel like you’ve been caught, like he’s just found out you’ve been cheating on him or something — even though the two of you aren’t even together, even though it’s abundantly clear that he wants someone else.
“Well, it wasn’t— it wasn’t really a— a date,” you stammer and turn away. “It was just… dinner.”
“Right,” Jack scoffs and follows behind you the short distance to the bathroom. “Because the two of you weren’t flirting in the security room or anything.”
You huff an emotionless laugh and roll your eyes at him, even though you know he cannot see you. “Yeah, because you and Samira weren’t flirting in Central 4 this morning or anything…” you echo in a gritty monotone.
Jack catches the bathroom door before it can shut behind you. You glance over your shoulder when you hear it hit his palm. You find the man looming in the doorway with something mischievous glittering in his narrowed eyes.
“I’m trying to get changed,” you deadpan, despite the distant fluttering in your chest.
Jack passes through the threshold and lets the door shut behind him, leaving the two of you alone in the empty bathroom, where the white-blue fluorescent lights buzz overhead.
“Am I hearing things, or do you sound a little jealous?” the older man quips, glittering eyes trained on the back of you as you duck into the singular stall across the room.
It clicks shut behind you.
“Aren’t you the one who came chasing after me, Dr. Abbot?”
“Aren’t you the one who ran off from your date just to come back in?”
“What does that have to do with anything?” you laugh.
“C’mon,” Jack scoffs. “You know what.”
Your short skirt pools around your feet with a quiet thud. You step out of it and toe off your right shoe, sliding on the adjoining pant leg before slipping the sneaker back on again. You do the same for the left side, and Jack has to shake the visual of your half-naked body from his head.
“I thought we had… You know, I thought we had a thing going on…”
“A thing?” you repeat, half-muffled, as you slide your shirt over your head. You hang it over the stall before reaching for your scrub top. “I wouldn’t exactly consider flirty comments and lingering eye contact a thing.”
Jack catches a glimpse of your bare spine through the sliver in the door frame. He swallows hard and forces himself to look down at his feet.
“You say that like I don’t wish I could do more,” he tells you. “I’m an attending— I can’t just go around making moves on my residents. It’s not a good look.”
The stall door squeaks open again. You come into view, now dressed in your scrubs, and wearing a hardened scowl on your dolled-up face. “Well, that didn’t stop you from getting Samira’s number, did it?” you argue. “Or letting her patch you up this morning?”
“I gave her my number because she asked for a recommendation letter, and I told her I’d give her one,” Jack confesses, watching you with a glittering gaze as you storm past him with your clothes cradled to your chest. He makes room for you by the sink and fights back a grin while you scrub angrily at your hands. “And I was patching myself up, actually, until she walked in looking for her patient.”
“Well, how convenient…” you grumble.
Jack smiles wider. “You are jealous,” he croons.
“I am, actually,” you deadpan, with your eyes trained on the soap you suds between your fingers. Even still, you can see the man in your peripheral vision, standing in the mirror just behind you. You can feel the warmth radiating from his skin, and smell the cologne lingering on his clothes.
“So that’s why you went out with the Barker guy, huh?” Jack lilts. “You just wanted to make me jealous…”
“No, actually,” you tell him. “I went out with Nick because I figured I should probably stop chasing after a guy that obviously doesn’t want me.”
You turn off the faucet with your fist and reach for the paper towel dispenser at your side.
Jack follows your every move.
“Yeah?” he hums lowly. “And who said I didn’t want you?”
You turn around to glare at him despite the newfound heat swimming in the pit of your stomach.
“Well, I think you’ve made it pretty clear, Dr. Abbot,” you deadpan. “I don’t think the entire floor would be betting on you and Samira otherwise.”
Jack takes a daring step closer, until you have to tilt your chin to keep his gaze when he towers suddenly over you. With his hands crossed over his chest, he bows his head and tells you, “Well, I don’t want Mohan. And I don’t care about that stupid bet. Is that clear enough for you?”
Your chest warms with a familiar feeling. Your features crumple under the weight of it as you murmur sheepishly, “Okay. I’m not even trying to be funny right now, but if you’re trying to tell me that you do like me, you’re going to have to say that outright, or else my brain won’t—”
You feel his hands on you, wide and warm around the outsides of your elbows. You feel your feet stumbling on the tile, and your chest colliding with his, and then his mouth pressing against yours. You feel his chapped lips, his coarse scruff, and his exhaled breath from his nose as it fans warm over your skin.
You freeze against him, too stunned that he’s kissing you at all to remember to kiss him back.
Jack pulls away from you a dizzying second or more later. He peers down at you with a heavy gaze and smiles when he realizes you haven’t yet taken your eyes off him.
“I like you…” he tells you slowly, as though to make sure you’re really hearing him. “Are we clear now?”
You swallow hard and nod your head, licking at your kissed lips in a feeble attempt to taste him again.
“Crystal,” you quip drily.
You rise to the tips of your toes and wrench your free hand in his scrub top, with every intention of kissing him again — for real this time. You flinch in a fleeting panic when the bathroom door squeaks open a second later.
Samira slips inside, too distracted by the phone in her hand to see what she’s walking in on. You and Jack freeze against one another accordingly, as if being so still will somehow make you invisible.
The door closes behind her and muffles the never-ending chaos outside. Only when it clicks shut again does Samira look up from her phone, dark eyes wide as they flit wildly between the two of you.
“Holy shit…” she mumbles under her breath, almost as if she hadn’t meant to say it out loud at all.
You push the man away from you on instinct.
“We weren’t doing anything!” you blurt, hardly convincing in the matter.
Jack’s soft eyes cut over to you. “Real smooth,” he mumbles.
Samira’s look of shock ebbs into a giddy smile.
“I knew it!” she exclaims, voice ringing through the tiled restroom. “Ahmad looked at me like I was crazy when I put forty dollars on the two of you, but I knew I was right!”
Your brows furrow in confusion. “What are you talking about?”
“The bet,” she shrugs with a smile. “I put mine on the two of you. Which means I just got a couple hundred dollars richer, at least.”
The realization hits you like a punch to the stomach.
“Which means I just lost all of my money…”
“Well, I’m pretty sure I can spare some of my winnings. I mean, it’s only right, right?” Samira says with a pretty laugh. “You guys can go out for drinks or something special. My treat.”
It becomes suddenly very difficult to imagine yourself from five minutes ago — back when you were overcome with jealousy just by the sight of her alone — knowing now that she had been rooting for you this whole time. Jack seems to know this, too, based on the smug smile he gives you.
“This real nice of you, Mohan,” he says. “But if I’m taking my girl out for drinks on a first date, I’m gonna be the one payin’ for ‘em— No offense.”
“None taken,” she shakes her head. “Means more money for me.”
You’re still catching your breath in the meanwhile, ‘cause the newfound title has all but punched the breath from your lungs. My girl, he’d said, and god, you wanted nothing more than to be his girl.
“We should, uh—” You clear your throat when the words get stuck there. “We should probably get out of here before the others think something weird is going on…”
“Something weird is happening— The entire E.D. is betting on my love life,” Jack scoffs as he follows you out of the bathroom, where the chaos of the E.R. finds you almost instantly. “Sorry you lost, by the way. The bet, I mean…”
He catches himself nearly reaching out for your hand. He balls his own into a fist instead to fight the urge. You can see the longing to glittering in his eyes, anyway, when you turn to flash him a sheepish look in response.
“Well, I didn’t lose completely,” you lilt with a lazy shrug.
“No?” Jack hums.
“No…” you grin. “I think I won where it mattered.”
Summary: When Jack met you, his world shifted. He began to speak in plurals, in groups of three. It was him, and then it was you, and then it was Penny. He’d do anything for his girls, and he wanted to make that clear. Official. Concrete with titles and questions and the ring he kept mulling over. And then life happened.
Word count: 5.1k
Warnings: Angst!, injury, inaccurate medical happenings, accident/crash
a/n: GIRL DAD JACK 🗣️ This was fun to write let me know if you'd like something without so much angst for this little family 😌 but you all voted angst in my last poll so this is the outcome. Heheheh anyways love you bye <3
Masterlist
~~
Jack Abbot had stopped assuming children were in the cards for him. In another lifetime, another decade, he had considered the possibility—him as a father, his wife a mother. But life changed, time passed, and Jack Abbot had given up on that notion. Instead, he lived vicariously through his coworkers and told himself that he liked the freedom of a childfree life. He volunteered his time to dangerous proclivities in the name of the greater good and sat in the silent hum of his apartment.
And then he met you.
And he met what came along with you.
You had been dodgy about your daughter at first, sharing the information as if it were a combination of landmines and wincing as if he were already edging up from the table to run. It made sense that he didn’t know about her. He had met you in a coffee shop after a fourteen-hour shift and still thanked whatever higher power was responsible for the delirium-infused confidence that led him to you, but he didn’t know much. He just knew you were beautiful and you were in front of him and you stared up at him with eyes that made him blink faster, so he asked you out.
You told him about her on the third date, and Jack couldn’t stand the way you flinched, so he held your hand across the table, rubbed his thumb along your knuckles, and said, “Whenever you’d let me, I’d love to meet her.”
“Are you serious?” had tumbled out of your mouth directly after, and Jack couldn’t take that either, knowing that so many people had missed out on you and told you that that reaction was warranted. So he pressed your fingers to his lips and quirked his mouth into a smile despite his uncovered frustration.
“Of course I’m serious. I’m always serious.”
Jack Abbot fell in love with Penny almost as fast as he fell in love with you. Middle-of-the-night illnesses frequently tainted his exposure to children, so Jack had almost forgotten how energetic and full of life a four-year-old could be. Penny was shy, bashful in ways like her mother, but she was also intelligent and loved squids (you said it was a phase) and asked Jack questions about bones because you told her he was a doctor and she had just learned about bones in preschool.
“Have you ever seen a bone?”
“I’ve seen lots of bones,” Jack had whispered back to her, eyes flashing wide for emphasis.
“That’s literally crazy,” Penny had gasped, looking over her shoulder at you as you paid for a snack at the farmer’s market stall. “My mommy says that if I ever see one of my bones, I need to tell her right away.”
Jack knelt beside Penny on the grass. “Your mommy’s right. You want to see something cool? I don’t have a bone in my leg.”
“What!”
It hadn’t taken long for Penny to become accustomed to Jack’s presence. She asked about him when he wasn’t around. She joined calls when you checked in early during his shifts. She saved a book full of stickers to show him when he came over for dinner, which he did often. Said stickers also somehow appeared on his prosthetic, something your daughter still had a hard time believing to be real.
And Jack hadn’t been expecting it, but he had begun to think of children again—thinking of his life in squid stickers and irrational questions and a weight on his lap as he sat on your couch and watched an animated dog teach him a life lesson.
He had begun to enjoy getting out of work. He got to bring bagels to your place early in the morning and kiss you against your kitchen counters and fix Penny’s wild hair as she tumbled into the living room. His hobbies had changed; adrenaline was replaced with soccer games and sticky fingers and lying in bed with you right up until he had to throw his scrubs on.
Everything had become simple in Jack’s life. There was work, there was you, and there was Penny. And in a few weeks, he would ask you to make his life even simpler.
~~
A gratefully unfamiliar dread pulsed through Jack’s chest as he turned the corner of the Pitt and saw you. He took inventory instantly, cataloging the tone of your skin, each of your limbs, the small smile on your face as you spoke casually to Mateo. You were fine, you looked to be fine, but Jack still picked up the pace because you were in the emergency department, and you never came to visit without Penny.
Jack’s eyes shot to your legs, and more panic filled him at the empty space.
“Hey,” Jack breathed, his mouth twitching into a smile that did not reach his searching eyes. He placed a hand on your cheek and tried not to furrow his brows. “You okay? Where’s Penny?”
Your smile was much warmer. You gripped his wrist, and Jack felt the almost imperceptible way you leaned your face into his touch. “I’m fine, and Penny’s fine. I did late pickup so I could see you before we take the train upstate.”
Upstate. Upstate—right. Jack had primed his brain to work a double, so that often meant blocking the shifts with tasks. He was just about finished with the day shift, and your trip to see your family was a night shift event. Your train was leaving at 7:30 pm—an in-between-shift event, then.
“You coulda brought her by, too,” Jack quietly replied, brushing his thumb along your cheek as Mateo swiveled his stool to the other side of the nurse’s hub. Relief was slowly trickling through the shock of seeing you unannounced.
“Oh, I see. If I don’t bring Penny, I shouldn’t come at all?” you teased.
Jack moved his hand down to fix your scarf, tucking it closer to your neck. “Didn’t say that,” he argued. “I just wanted to say goodbye to both my girls.”
Your face heated furiously, an outcome Jack had been hoping for. He loved to get you flustered, and that was the quickest way to do it. Never failed.
“We would’ve missed our train if I brought her.” You poked Jack’s chest. “You two always get into it, and then I have to drag her away because she gets too upset to leave you.”
“Can’t help it. I’m just so much fun to be around.”
“Yeah, well, you’ll have to be fun over FaceTime for the next few days, Dr. Abbot.”
Jack tsked, looking off to the side to tamp down his disappointment. You’d had this visit planned for a few months now, but it didn’t make watching you go any easier. He had wanted to go with you, eager to meet your family, but the Pitt needed an attending on doubles, and Jack was the only one available. You’d assured him several times that it was fine, and there would be more opportunities to come. He knew it was fine. What wasn’t fine was watching his family leave and feeling incomplete.
He needed to ask you that question.
“You sure you can’t wait until tomorrow so I can drive you up?” Jack tried. He moved his fixing touch to the zipper on your jacket, tugging it up to keep in the warmth. “No train that way.”
You brushed his hand off and stepped closer, raising your brows. “Right. Have you drive that far after working a double? Just for you to drive back home, sleep for 45 minutes, and then work again? Not happening, Jack. The train is fine. We’re fine.”
“You keep saying that,” he murmured under his breath. He placed his hands along your jaw, holding you again, even though he knew several eyes watched on. “Call me when you get on the train. And have Penny bring that spray hand sanitizer she made me spend ten dollars on. It’s flu season. And—”
“Jack,” you gently interrupted. “I love you. So much. But when I say we’re fine, I mean it. And stop buying her everything she sees in Sephora. She doesn’t even need to be in Sephora. She’s five.”
“I love you more,” was how Jack decided to respond. He tilted his head back and looked at you fully, his hands moving your face to one side and then the other.
“Memorizing me?” you teased.
“Something like that.”
Continuing his shift was difficult. Jack had already felt the weight of the double being exacerbated by your departure, but then you FaceTimed him on the train, and the night got heavier. Penny held up her hand sanitizer with a mouthful of marshmallow muffling her words, and Jack just wished he could be sitting beside you on that stupid train. He’d paid more for the two of you to have a private compartment, and it was nice knowing you were cared for, but he had become the one taking care of you.
He felt his back stiffen as the night went on.
“You gotta loosen up, Dr. Abbot,” Mateo called out after five minutes of Jack scrolling through his camera roll. He’d stopped on a picture of you and Penny on the hood of his truck. “You knew they were leaving all day. We still got nine hours before you can go home and make scrapbooks.”
Jack hooked his chin over his shoulder, placing his phone face down on the charting station. “Mind your business.”
Mateo put his hands up in surrender. “They’re coming back in three days. You work all three of those days. It’ll be quick.” The younger man patted Jack’s shoulder. “Then maybe you can finally fish that ring out of your locker.”
“What do you know about that, huh?” Jack accused, crossing his arms in a show of intimidation that didn’t match his almost-smile.
“Nothing you didn’t just confirm,” Mateo quipped back. “I’ve babysat at her place enough times to catch a vibe.”
“Catch a vibe?”
“Yeah. It’s emanating from you.”
Dr. Shen passed by the pair, settling into a stool and logging into the computer. “What’s emanating from him?”
“My vibe, apparently,” Jack spoke to the ceiling.
Mateo cut in, resting his arms on the counter. “That he’s gonna propose.”
“I did not say that,” Jack shot back.
“You don’t have to say anything if it’s a vibe,” Shen informed him, gaze focused on his notes. He took a casual sip of watered-down coffee. “Can you do it within the next three months, though? I want to win the pool to pay off my car.”
Mateo let out a hiss, resting his head on his elbows. “Dude. He wasn’t supposed to know about the betting pool. Now he’s gonna be weird about it.”
“He’s not going to—”
“Okay, what?” Jack almost sighed, head jolting back. “There’s a betting pool? Since when?”
“Since you started wearing that little bracelet with the sea creatures on it. It got bigger after y/n came by that one time with lunch and you practically ran down the hallway.”
Jack stared at Shen as he recounted the betrayal happening under his nose. “Alright. Who’s in it?”
“Who isn’t—”
“Got incoming traumas. The T Line crashed. Unidentified number of casualties, but we’re getting at least a dozen wounded.”
It took a moment for the humor to dissipate from Jack’s body. He heard the charge nurse’s calls to clear the trauma bays and could recognize the movement in the room. Mateo was staring at the side of Jack’s face and Shen had shot up from the charting computer to do… something, but Jack was swimming in a state of thick confusion.
He did some math in his head.
It might not have been your train. You FaceTimed him thirty minutes ago, and the train hadn’t left yet. You were just sitting with Penny. You had said there was a small delay, but you both were settled into the “stupidly-priced private seats,” and Penny was eager to watch Bluey during the wait. You were wearing an old college sweater he’d left at your apartment.
But that was thirty minutes ago.
It could have been your train.
“Dr. Abbot?” Mateo’s call was a jumbled haze. “Dr. Abbot, what can I—”
“My girls are on the train,” Jack muttered to himself.
“What?”
“My girls are on the train,” he said again, clearer this time. His gaze shot to the board as if he’d see your name, a pinpoint focus washing over him. If he were calm enough, nothing could happen.
Mateo said something else, maybe a reassurance or a passing encouragement, but Jack couldn’t register it. He took his shaking hands and donned the PPE needed for a disaster of this magnitude, drowning out the orders ringing through the ED. Shen had taken over as head, and Jack couldn’t remember if he’d told him to do that. He probably hadn’t.
The first patient wasn’t you. Neither was the second. Or the third. At some point near the beginning, Jack had texted you—a quick text, asking if you were okay, even though that was a ridiculous question. But if you weren’t a patient, and if you didn’t answer him, then the unidentified number of casualties Lena announced was a harrowing reality.
But it couldn’t be you.
Jack was doing everything right. He was calm and working doubles and he had paid for you to have better seats. Penny wouldn’t get the flu and he was going to have the lattice on your balcony fixed before you got home.
You couldn’t be an unidentified casualty.
“Hey, you good?” Dr. Ellis barked at Jack as he blinked hard in a trauma bay. The man lying in the bed had his arm in the wrong direction, bruises already covering the left side of his body.
Every moment he wasn’t checking the incoming patients was a moment he couldn’t be sure of you. A moment Penny could be wheeled by.
Jack cleared his throat harshly. “I’m good. Roll him on three.”
You weren’t the fourth patient he saw, either.
But you were the fifth.
He had prepared himself for it, but nothing would have been enough, he soon realized. No amount of grounding or breathing exercises or visualization would have made it easier. Your eyes were open, but they couldn’t focus on him, not even as he stuttered out a breath and shot to the side of the gurney, his feet quick beside you.
He said your name, repeated it, but your eyes kept flashing past the overhead lights. An EMT was shouting out your vitals and Jack heard them, but his waterline was burning and the collar of your sweatshirt was rimmed red with blood. His sweatshirt. He’d left it at your place a few days ago.
Crush injury. Fully conscious but lacks verbal response. Jane Doe—you weren’t Jane Doe. You were his.
As they landed you in trauma one, Jack began to assess. He ignored that his hands had begun to shake again. “I need you to hear me, baby,” Jack called as he moved meticulously through his assessment. “I just need to know that you can. Can you do that for me? Let me know if you can hear me?”
A nurse was untangling an ultrasound machine as Jack moved to palpate your abdomen. You flinched. He felt himself unravel.
“I needed that yesterday!” he shouted, ripping the machine from the older woman’s hands. It wasn’t her fault. Jack would apologize later if he could ever form words again. “Why isn’t anyone giving me info?”
Dr. Ellis entered the trauma bay, confusion laced with apprehension at the sound of Jack’s anger. All the confusion was wiped clear when she saw who was on the bed. When she saw the blood sticking to the cracks in Jack’s hands and the sheen of sweat on his forehead.
“You need me to take this?” Dr. Ellis asked, but it was hardly a question. She was direct when she needed to be, even towards an attending, but Jack was not in the mind to be overpowered by reason and level-headedness.
“No,” he simply replied, eyes glued to the grainy screen of the ultrasound.
“Are you sure you should—”
“Free fluid in the abdomen. I need—”
Jack stopped cold when a sound escaped you. It was breathy, barely even there to make out, but he felt his gaze drop to your face before his mind could even register it. Someone took the Doppler from his hands and the room erupted in movement and calls and beeps from machines, but Jack had his hands on your face as he had just a few hours ago, begging your eyes to focus on him.
“What was that?” he breathed back, eyes racing over every inch of your face. He cataloged four bruises before you finally found his eyes. “There you are. There’s my girl. You’re doing so good, and we got you, okay?”
“P-Penny,” you uttered. Your hand twitched up to grasp Jack’s arm, and he silently thanked god that you could move it. “Penny.”
Jack had been thinking about Penny since you entered the Pitt. He had hoped, in some unreasonable way, that she would be with you. That you both would be fine, maybe with minor injuries, and he would sweep you away into the break room while he managed the crisis. But you were the crisis, and Penny wasn’t here. He had no idea where she was.
“I know, baby. I know. I’m gonna find Penny. She’ll be just fine. Both my girls will, okay? Promise. Promise on everything.”
He was speaking so low, his hand on the top of your head and his face close. He felt the dread pool in his gut at the lies he was telling. Jack had no way of finding Penny. He couldn’t leave you and search the wreck for a little girl. They probably wouldn’t let him past the police tape.
“F-find. Her. Jack, please,” you pleaded. Your nails dug into his arm and Jack had to move his jaw to stop from crying. Your face was becoming pallid and someone was calling surgery.
“I’ll find her,” he smiled. A sad smile. A waning one. “You don’t worry about a thing. I’ll find her and bring her right to you.”
“Jack.”
It was Robby’s voice that tore Jack’s face from yours. He had to have ridden fast to get there. His hair was swept back and he still had his jacket on and Robby was supposed to be out on vacation for another few days, but he was there. He was there, and he shook his head when Jack turned to find him.
“Let them take her. You gotta back up.”
They must have been asking for a while. Jack hadn’t registered a single request for him to move; he had been too caught up in tracking each minuscule twitch of your face—in remembering you before life changed, because it still felt the same, just more urgent, more scary. If he stopped looking at you, if you were taken away, there was the chance that you wouldn’t come back. That he would look up and find that Penny was gone.
He hadn’t been ready for the after.
Robby forced it, anyway.
Jack felt like he was going to throw up as they wheeled you away, Dr. Walsh sending worried looks to each person in the trauma bay who wouldn’t meet her eye. Your blood was on the floor in free-flowing streaks that Jack couldn’t look away from, and he felt like he was going to throw up. The bay felt stagnant. The walls moved when he did not. His back hit a hard surface, and Jack let it hold him as he sank to the floor.
He went to press his face in his hands, but stopped when he saw your blood filling the lines in his palms.
He hadn’t told you he loved you. He let them take you, and he hadn’t reminded you.
Robby crouched in front of Jack, hands flexing between his knees. “She’s gonna be okay.”
Jack felt his head roll against the wall as his jaw trembled. “What’re you doing here?” he croaked out.
“Mateo called me. Said your girl was in the crash. I was already home, so I came as fast as I could.” Robby paused, scratching his jaw. “Is Penny—”
“I don’t know where Penny is.”
“Okay. Okay, we wait then. We wait and see, and we fix what we can—”
“I can’t just fucking wait, Robby,” Jack finally sobbed, the adrenaline from keeping you awake and talking wearing off in a hard crash. “I can’t wait to hear that she didn’t make it. Or that y/n doesn’t get out of that surgery. I can’t—I have to do something, and there’s nothing—there’s nothing I can do.”
Jack's hands were raised in a helpless motion, his eyes fixed on the back wall of the trauma bay. He couldn’t see much through the tears, couldn’t feel much past the all-consuming fear, but he would try for you. For Penny. If the two of you were gone, he wasn’t sure if he could.
“They’re all I got,” Jack nodded to himself, hands hanging over his tented knees. “And if I have to walk out there into a world where I’m alone again?” Jack pointed towards the door, finally meeting Robby’s pinched expression. “Not sure what I’d be doing it for.”
“Don’t say that,” Robby cut through. “You don’t know that they won’t make it. You don’t. Stop giving up before you have to.”
“I don’t even know where my little girl is.”
“So we find out. But we can’t do that from in here. We can’t do that when you’ve given up already.”
So, Robby hauled Jack up from the floor of trauma one, and Jack followed him to the nurse’s hub. He washed his hands, he cracked his neck, and he let the central heating dry the stickiness of his tears as he stared up at the news reports of the crash. He wouldn’t be able to work; that was why Robby came in, but he could make calls. Jack knew people who knew people, and those people were in law enforcement. Those people would know more than he did.
Jack was glued to the red phone in the Pitt for fifteen minutes, asking about a little girl that no one could find. Lena had sent him a concerned look one too many times and had yet to scold him for using the emergency line, but Jack hardly noticed. Robby was popping in and out of rooms in the role he was supposed to fill, but Jack hardly noticed.
“Sorry, Abbot. Haven’t gotten the list yet. I’ll send you the info as soon as I get it.”
Jack squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed the growing ache above his nose. He shot out a quick thank you that didn’t sound genuine, and jumped out of his skin when a hand met his shoulder.
“Anything I can do?” Lena asked.
Jack only shook his head and went through his contact list in his head once more. It was all looking bleak. Jack’s world was looking bleak. And then the ambulance bay doors burst open, a bed being shoved down the hall, and Jack dropped the phone onto the counter. And then he was sprinting.
“Straggler from the crash. Says she’s five and asking for her mom, but mom couldn’t be found on scene. No obvious signs of trauma other than some cuts and bruises, but—”
“Oh, fuck. Penny,” Jack gasped out, reaching for her on the bed that was far too big.
To her credit, it was only then that Penny started crying. She had been strong-faced when she got in, fear a shadow on her innocent face, but the moment she saw Jack, that was gone. Penny threw her arms around Jack’s neck and let out a wail he hoped never to hear again. She was trembling against him, retelling events no one could make out, and Jack pressed his nose to her temple as he rocked her where he stood.
“I know, baby,” he shushed, words so similar to the ones he had spoken to you. “But you were so brave, you hear me? So brave. Your mom’s gonna be so proud of you.”
Through hiccuping breaths, Penny asked, “Where is mommy?”
Jack’s chest caved. “She’s getting fixed up upstairs. Mommy got hurt, but they’re fixing it.”
“I didn’t get hurt because mommy was holding me.”
“What was that, baby?” Jack asked, tucking Penny’s hair back from her face as he continued to sway.
Penny looked up at him with big, watery eyes. “When the train started making noises, mommy grabbed me and held me really tight. I didn’t get hurt, but she did.”
And of course you did. Of course that was why Penny was safe in his arms, and you were fighting for your life upstairs. Jack couldn’t imagine a world where that wasn’t the outcome. You would do anything for her. You were always going to do anything for her.
Jack looked for you in Penny’s face as he offered the best smile he could muster. “She’s gonna be alright. She was protecting you, Penny. Mommy always protects you.”
“Like how she used to check for monsters?”
“Just like that. But I check for the monsters now. Safer that way.”
“I wish you were with us on the train,” Penny choked out, clutching Jack’s scrubs in her tiny fists. “To make mommy safe, too.”
Jack’s chest hurt. He pressed his forehead back to Penny’s temple, collected himself with a tight scrunch of his eyes, and grounded. “C’mon, sweetheart. I gotta check you over, okay? Make sure nothing’s wrong.”
Jack cared for Penny in the same meticulous way he did you. He cleaned her scrapes and assessed her bruises, relishing the small giggle she let out when he prodded around to make sure nothing was happening internally. He felt the weight of the day in a lopsided, confusing uneasiness, one part of his life complete, the other in the balance. He would start to think of you, start to feel the dread, but then Penny would lay her head on his chest as he held her in the break room, and he had to snap back.
You would want your daughter to feel safe.
He needed to be a safe place.
So Jack held Penny, bumping his knee to help her sleep, and he considered what he would have done a year ago. If he had been inundated with a tragedy, he would have thrown himself into work as a distraction. He would have thrown caution to the wind and taken case after case until his leg ached too much to continue. They would have had to tell him to stop, forced him to go home, and Jack would have done so only when he knew he would fall dead asleep the second he hit the mattress.
Because that was what his life used to be.
Today, no one had had to beg Jack to slow down. No one pulled him from patient rooms and gave him a stern talking to. They had called Robby as soon as they knew you were involved. They had expected him to slow down for you—for his family.
Jack pressed a kiss to Penny’s head and enjoyed the difference.
It was another hour before any news of you came. Penny had finally dozed off, and Jack’s left arm was dead from the weight of her head, but he was alert when Dr. Shen poked into the dim room and smiled softly.
“She’s out. Asleep, but in recovery. They said she can have visitors, but I don’t know if—”
Jack gazed down at Penny, still knocked out on top of him. “Can you get Mateo?”
The pass-off was seamless, Jack running a hand over Penny’s head as Mateo nodded to the older man and promised to take care of things. It would be better for her to wake up with someone she knew, and Jack wasn’t going to leave her with anyone he didn’t trust. He trusted the entire staff, but Mateo was different. Mateo loved Penny.
Jack cleared his mind on the elevator ride up, and then cleared it again as he walked through the maze of the ICU to find your room. He would bring Penny up when you were more stable, when he had a better idea of the state you were in. You hadn’t looked scary, but you were her mom. You were her mom, and Jack was—
“Jack?”
He hadn’t been expecting your voice; Jack felt the breath knock from his lungs at the sound of it. His tears were fresh as he rounded your bed, checking vitals in a quick sweep before putting his hands anywhere they could reach. Your eyes were hazy as he leaned over you, but you had said his name, and something in him righted.
“Hey,” he practically cooed, brushing your hair back as his eyes traced the shape of your face. “Didn’t think you’d be awake.”
“Penny—”
“Penny’s okay. She’s not hurt, sweetheart. Mateo’s got her.”
Jack wasn’t sure he’d ever spoken so low before, so soft amidst beeping machines and the footsteps of nurses in the hall. You let out a breath, and your lashes fluttered shut, and it was clear to Jack that you shouldn’t be awake. That you had fought through exhaustion just to make sure your daughter was okay.
Pride swelled in his chest, the first emotion to override the fear. “I’m so damn proud of you,” he softly stated. He fixed the blanket around your shoulders and felt his mouth twitch. “Protecting our girl like that. Making it through.”
In response, Jack saw your own lips form a tired smile, hoarse voice asking, “Our girl?”
“Yeah, our girl.” Jack kissed your forehead, then your cheek, and then checked the vitals again. “I’ll make it official soon,” he said, almost under his breath.
“What—does that mean?”
You were losing the fight to sleep, relief palpable in the room and lulling you off. Jack swung a chair by your bed, clicked his phone ringer on low for any texts about Penny, and waited for you to sleep. Waited to be there when you woke up.
“You’ll see,” he affirmed, ignoring the wetness still on his cheeks. “I love you. Sleep. I got you.”
✶ after getting you get berated by robby, jack has some things to say to him about it.
002. WARNINGS !
✶ angst (robby's an asshole). reader has a panic attack. talks of death (patients). heavy conversations in a very unrealistic setting (HR would have a field day).
word count : 3,2k
gif by @timothyolyphant
You had been having a terrible day.
Your shift had started at 6:43 a.m., because getting in early gave you more time to ignore the reality waiting outside the hospital walls: your landlord had raised the rent, and you couldn’t afford it.
Which meant that, by next week, you probably wouldn’t have a place to live.
You’d spent your one day off scrolling through listings, chasing anything that even remotely fit your budget. Nothing did. Or at least, nothing that felt livable.
One place had walls so thin you could hear every car passing by like it was in your living room. Another reeked of damp, with pipes that looked like they might burst if you so much as turned on a faucet. And then there was the eighth-floor walk-up—no elevator, of course—as if hauling yourself up eight flights after a twelve-hour shift was somehow reasonable.
At this point, you told yourself you’d take anything. A bed, a door that locked, a space that was yours. But even that felt like too much to ask.
You also hadn’t told Jack.
You’d only been seeing each other for a month, and it felt too fragile, too new, to drop something like this into the middle of it. The last thing you wanted was to scare him off with the mess your life had suddenly become. Because then you’d be left with nothing—no apartment, no safety net, no him.
And then, because the universe clearly had a sense of humor at your expense, you lost your first patient at 7:29 a.m.
You’d worked her for over ten minutes, refusing to give in even when the odds had already slipped out of your hands. Compressions, meds, another round, your voice steady even as your chest tightened. Until Robby finally called it.
Just like that.
He didn’t soften the aftermath, didn’t give you a second to breathe before tossing out a sharp comment about how you should be better at catching STEMIs.
All in all, things weren’t going well.
It was now 17:28, barely two hours left on your shift before you’d be forced to face everything you’d been trying to outrun.
You had lost two patients so far.
And both times, Robby had made sure you felt it with sharp comments.Each one chipping away at whatever confidence you had left.
People had noticed.
They also noticed that for the past few days something about you had been off, like a storm building just beneath the surface. Today, it was impossible to ignore.
Even Dana had pulled you aside, her voice softer than usual as she asked if you were okay, if you needed a breather. You did. But admitting that felt like handing Robby another reason to hover, another excuse to dissect every mistake you made.
So you shook it off and kept going.
Now, the pressure sat heavy in your chest as you worked a GSW to the chest alongside Whitaker and Robby.
The patient was crashing too fast. Blood everywhere, slipping through your hands no matter how quickly you moved. Garcia had been paged less than a minute ago, but even in that short span of time, you could feel it—you had already lost him.
Wrong place, wrong time. That’s what the paramedics had said when they rushed him in, the police echoing the same hollow explanation. His family had been called, but they were still an hour away.
Your eyes locked on the monitor and didn’t even flinch when it flatlined.
No rush of adrenaline, no frantic movement to fix it but instead just a quiet, hollow stillness as you stepped back, letting Whitaker take over. Robby would guide him. Whitaker would listen.
You were just in the way.
So you left.
Like a ghost, you moved through the room, ignoring your name sharply being called. Ignoring the looks, the movement, the noise of the ER around you. Your feet carried you on autopilot, straight out to the ambulance bay.
You tried to breathe.
In. Out. Slow. Controlled. The way Jack had shown you once, his voice steady, his hands warm where they’d rested over yours.
It didn’t work.
The air wouldn’t come.
Your chest tightened to the point of pain, your airway closing as if something inside you had finally snapped.
The realization hit fast: you couldn’t breathe. Not properly. Not nearly enough.
Tears blurred your vision, spilling over before you could stop them, your cheeks drenched as everything you’d been holding in finally broke free.
One of the paramedics in an ambulance rushed to your side, his voice cutting through the noise, though you couldn’t make out a single word. Strong hands steadied you before lifting you up, carrying you back into the ED and drawing the attention of everyone in your path.
Langdon was there in an instant, a wheelchair already in front of you.
“What happened?” he asked, voice sharp but edged with worry.
“Can’t…” you wheezed, fingers clawing weakly at your throat and chest.
“Dana, what’s open?” He called over his shoulder.
Dana’s eyes landed on you, concern flashing across her face before she snapped back into motion. “North 5’s open!”
Langdon didn’t waste a second, guiding the wheelchair once the paramedic helped settle you onto it. The world blurred as he pushed you down the hall and into the room.
Once inside, he moved immediately.
Vitals, pupils, airway—his hands moved steadily, efficiently, practiced as he checked everything, only to find nothing wrong except your heart racing too fast and your breaths coming too shallow.
He didn’t need to call psych to know what this was.
A panic attack.
You had started to settle, focusing on matching his breathing as he reassured you that, physically, you were fine.
Once you could finally string a few words together, you thanked him.
“You have nothing to thank me for,” he said, offering you a soft, easy smile. “I’m just doing my job.”
“Still… thank you.” you whispered.
He exhaled, pushing himself to his feet. “I’ll go let Robby know you’re alright.”
You nodded faintly, already dreading the inevitable.
Would he care that you were barely holding it together? That with each passing day, you felt like you were unraveling a little more? You wanted to believe he would.
But wanting didn’t make it true.
“So, I hear our doctors are just abandoning their patients over a little panic attack?”
Robby’s voice cut through the room as he stepped inside. He let out a dry, humorless laugh, shaking his head as his eyes landed on you lying on the gurney.
“Robby, that’s not what—”
“I don’t care what happened,” he snapped, cutting you off. “I care that I trusted you to help me with a patient—a critical patient—and you walked out without a word.” His jaw tightened. “What would’ve happened if you’d been alone with that patient, hm? How is it that a first-year resident can handle the pressure better than a fourth-year?”
“Things have just been difficult—”
“Welcome to life,” he shot back. “Things get tough. But you’re a doctor. People depend on you, so you put it aside and you do your job. Who the fuck cares what you’re going through? Do you think that guy who just died cared?”
“I’m sorry,” you whispered, your voice breaking as tears slipped free.
“Don’t you dare cry,” he hissed. “I think you should go home—and seriously consider whether you’re actually cut out for this. A breakdown like this from a med student? Fine. Expected, even. But from a fourth-year resident?” He shook his head, eyes cold. “It’s pathetic.”
“I still have an hour left,” you managed, your voice quieter than you intended.
He let out a sharp breath. “Then stay in triage. Or finish your charting. I don’t even care at this point. And if you’re going to have another panic attack, do it off the clock.”
You closed your eyes for a moment, swallowing everything down, and nodded.
Robby didn’t say anything else before turning and walking out.
For a second, you just sat there, forcing yourself to pull the pieces back together. You wiped at your face, steadying your breathing, willing the last traces of it to disappear.
You couldn’t afford to fall apart again.
When you finally stepped out, the shift in the air was immediate.
People were looking.
Quick glances, not-so-subtle ones—everyone who had been within earshot now pretending they hadn’t heard a thing. You exhaled slowly, pushing past it, past them, making your way to the board.
Focus. Just focus.
You scanned for a patient, anything to keep your hands moving and your mind occupied.
As the clock ticked by, the night shift began to roll in.
The worst of it had passed—at least on the surface. Your eyes were no longer swollen, but a faint redness lingered.
The cases coming through triage were manageable. Surface-level, almost mercifully so. A chronic headache. A deep but clean laceration. Nothing critical. Nothing that could slip through your fingers and haunt you later.
No way to lose anyone now.
At 18:49, you heard Jack Abbot’s voice, and it felt like a lifeline—like something solid cutting through the noise and pulling you back to shore.
You focused on your last patient, careful and thorough, even as something in you itched to go find him. To just see him. But you didn’t rush. You couldn’t. Not after everything.
A few minutes later, you heard his voice again.
But this time, it was different.
He was using the kind of tone you’d only ever heard him use with combative patients.
“Who the fuck do you think you are?”
Your hands stilled.
“Excuse me?” Robby scoffed.
“What makes you think that berating your residents for having emotions is in any way helpful?”
Your chest tightened at the words. Before you could stop yourself, you excused yourself from your patient and followed the sound, your pulse quickening with every step.
You found them just outside the nurses’ station.
Jack stood rigid, his finger pointed at Robby’s chest, his jaw tight, brows drawn together in a way that made it clear he wasn’t backing down.
“I don’t know why that’s any of your business,” Robby shot back, crossing his arms.
“You mistreating residents isn’t my business?” Jack challenged. “Maybe you’ve forgotten what your job is, but you’re not just a doctor—you’re supposed to be teacher, too.” His voice was controlled, but the anger underneath it was unmistakable. “If they’re having a hard time, you help them. You don’t tear them down until they start questioning whether they even belong here.”
“This isn’t therapy, and I sure as hell am not their therapist. This is an ER, and they’re doctors.” Robby fired back.
“And that gives you the right to what? Humiliate them?” Jack stepped closer, his voice dropping, more dangerous now. “Push them until they break?”
Robby let out a dry laugh. “If they break, that’s on them.”
Something in Jack snapped.
“No,” he said, firm, unwavering. “That’s on you.”
The space around them had gone quiet, the usual chaos of the ED dimming as people pretended not to watch.
And then Jack spoke again, his voice cutting clean through the tension.
“You want to be an asshole? Talk to me like that. Try it.” Jack snaps, “But you don’t get to talk to her like that.”
Robby let out a sharp, sarcastic laugh. “So that’s what this is about?” He shook his head. “And here I thought you’d suddenly become some kind of advocate for residents. Guess it’s just the ones you’re involved with.”
“You need to back off,” Jack said, his voice low, controlled. “Now.”
“No, no—let’s be honest,” Robby pressed, gesturing loosely to the room. “Let’s make sure everyone knows just how noble you are.” His smile was thin, biting. “You don’t care that I went off on a resident. You care that I went off on your resident. It’s almost impressive how quickly you claimed the moral high ground when you’re the one who should be reported to HR.”
“Then report me,” Jack shot back without hesitation. “I’ll return the favour.”
Robby scoffed, shaking his head like the whole thing had suddenly bored him. “You know what? Fine. If you want to deal with that mess, be my guest.”
His gaze swept across the onlookers, lingering just long enough to remind everyone they’d been seen—before it landed on you.
A slow, cutting smile spread across his face.
“You’re officially on night shift, sweetheart,” he sneered. “Hope you don’t have a panic attack about that, too.”
You were left stunned, mouth slightly open as you watched Robby storm off.
“Back to work, people! There are lives to save,” Jack called out, his tone leaving no room for argument. Slowly, the tension broke, and everyone dispersed, slipping back into the rhythm of the ED like nothing had happened.
Then he turned to you.
He crossed the distance quickly, his hands coming up to rest on your arms, grounding you where you stood, still stiff at your sides.
“You okay?” He asked, his gaze softening as he took in your tear-bright eyes.
You shook your head, a hollow laugh slipping out. “This is a nightmare.”
“Hey—no,” he said immediately, his grip tightening just slightly. “This isn’t your fault. What he said was completely out of line, and I’m glad Dana told me. You should never have been put through that.”
“We’re so going to get reported to HR,” you whispered.
“You let me deal with that.”
You let out a shaky breath, your thoughts spiraling faster than you could keep up with.
“I’m going to have to find a new job,” you murmured. “And I definitely can’t afford that.” You closed your eyes for a second before looking back up at him. “But… thank you. For defending me.”
“Someone had to,” Jack said, worry written all across his face. “Robby’s been out of line for a while now. But today…” He shook his head slightly. “Something snapped when I heard how he was talking to you. How often it’s been happening.”
“I’ve been off my game,” you admit quietly.
“That’s not an excuse,” he countered gently but firmly. “And even if it were, it still wouldn’t justify any of that.” His expression shifted, concern settling deeper into his features. “I’m more worried about why you had a panic attack. Langdon said you haven’t been yourself for a while.”
“I didn’t want to worry you,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.
“Well, I’m always worried about you,” he replied softly. “So help me understand what’s going on.”
The words sat heavy in your chest for a moment before they finally spilled out.
You told him everything.
About the rent. About how you weren’t sure where you’d be living next week. About the apartments that didn’t work, the exhaustion, the patients you’d lost. About how you hadn’t given yourself even a second to process any of it—just kept going, pushing it down, pretending it wasn’t catching up to you. And how now, you would probably have to start looking for a new hospital to work at after Robby’s words.
As you spoke, the frown in his brows deepened, his hands moving slowly up and down your arms, a quiet, steady attempt to soothe you as everything unraveled.
After a moment of quiet, he spoke.
“You’re not going to lose your job. I won’t let that happen.”
“Jack…”
“I’m not finished,” he cut in gently. “I just… I wish you’d let me help you. You know I would do anything for you. I’d throw myself down a flight of stairs if it meant making things easier for you.”
A small, disbelieving breath left you. “I thought it would scare you off,” you admitted. “I didn’t want to be a burden.”
“The day I ever say you’re a burden, you better slap some sense into me,” he said, completely serious. “I mean it. I want to be there for you. I want you to trust me with this kind of stuff—to let me carry some of it with you.”
You reached up, wiping away a tear before it could fall.
“Move in with me,” he said suddenly.
You froze.
“I know it’s fast—too fast, probably—but I can’t just stand by while you’re this stressed when I have a perfectly good place you can stay at,” he continued, his voice softer now, but no less certain. “You can take the guest room if you want. Or I will, if you like my bed more. I don’t care how we do it, just…” He exhaled, searching your face. “Please. Move in with me.”
You stared at him, your mind struggling to catch up with what he was offering.
Everything in you wanted to say yes—to fall into the safety he was offering, to let someone finally take some of the weight off your shoulders. But there was still that hesitation, that voice in the back of your mind reminding you how new this was, how quickly everything was moving.
“Jack, it’s only been a month,” you said quietly, searching his face.
“I know,” he admitted, not even trying to argue it. “It is. But this isn’t about how long we’ve been together. It’s about you needing somewhere safe to land. And I can give you that.”
You swallowed, your gaze dropping for a second before lifting back to his.
“I don’t want to mess this up,” you whispered. “Whatever this is between us… I don’t want to ruin it by rushing into something.”
“You won’t,” he said without hesitation. “We’ll take it at your pace. Separate rooms, space, whatever you need. Nothing has to change unless you want it to.”
There was no pressure in his voice. No expectation.
Your chest tightened again, but this time it wasn’t panic. It was something softer, something that made your throat ache for a completely different reason.
“…Okay,” you breathed.
His expression shifted instantly, relief flickering across his face. “Okay?”
“Okay,” you repeated, a little more certain this time. “I’ll… move in. At least for now.”
A small smile pulled at his lips, something warm and genuine, like you’d just handed him something he wasn’t going to take lightly.
“Good,” he murmured.
For a second, neither of you moved.
Then the noise of the ED filtered back in, grounding you both in reality.
Jack exhaled, glancing over his shoulder before looking back at you, something sharper slipping into his expression again. “I should get back to work.”
You nodded, though your hand instinctively caught his wrist for just a second before letting go.
He hesitated, then leaned in just slightly, his voice dropping.
“I also need to go find Robby and punch him for making you cry,” he muttered.
Despite everything, a weak huff of laughter escaped you.
“But,” he added, straightening, his tone shifting back to something steadier, “we’ll talk later. We’ll figure everything out, okay?”
“Okay,” you said softly.
He then leaned in—and slightly hesitantly—placed a tender kiss to your forehead, before slipping back into doctor mode as he turned and disappeared into the chaos of the ED.
You stood there for a minute taking it all in. Still shaken, still overwhelmed, but no longer feeling completely alone.
NOTE : samira mohan i have stolen your thunder. and by thunder, i mean your whole scene with robby😭 i have wanted to write this since that episode came out but didn’t quite know where to start. also is the ending totally shit? please don’t tell me if it is🫰
synopsis: jack doesn't realize how close you are to the day shift residents until they start stealing you from him. but he is definitely not jealous, no matter what the rest of the night shift thinks...
- or -
the 5 times day shift covers nights and the 1 you're asked to cover days
contains: jack is down BAD, santos/langdon twins propaganda, bsf samira mohan AND bsf night shift crew, me pushing my mowalsh agenda, jack has adopted the pittlings at this point, a l o t of blurred lines between people, age gap (reader is in her 20's), suggestive at times, everyone calls reader sweets, no use of y/n, this part is LONG it grew a mind of it's own (15.7k words i'm so sorry)
note: FIRST, happy s2 finale day!!! idk what i'm gonna do with myself but I have two other seperate fics in my drafts ready to post at the drop of a hat depending on how tonight goes
-now, most importantly, i'm SO serious when i say i read every single comment, tag, and reblog on part 1 a million times over, i love every single one of you that read it and showing it love with my whole entire heart :')
-this part when through soooooo many changes, it took forever for me to be happy with it and i hope it lives up to the unreasonably high standards i've set for it, there's so many jack x sweets moments I removed from this I might just put them in their own little world of mini fics at this point maybe?
-this also STILL isn't the part i orginally set out to write so there is at least one more addition to the jack x sweets universe if anyone's interested
-ENJOY <3
technically part 2 to this fic but they're both completely standalone, you don't have to read one to get the other
dividers by @uzmacchiato <3
1. Cherry Limeade Sweet Tea
The night shift could be…territorial. And that was putting it nicely.
It was just different from days. You had to be hardwired a certain way to make it through full moons and haunting hours and eerie mornings when the world was deciding what it was going to be that day. There was a certain attitude, a very particular personality, you needed to have in order to stay sane. It definitely wasn’t for the faint of heart.
The residents tended not to acknowledge that until they actually experienced it firsthand. Shen and Ellis, who had been some of the only ones to master it and seen others crash and burn, called it trial by fire. Crus, who’d proven himself to be a fast learner, was more optimistic, said they just needed to keep an open mind. Jack thought they were mostly just overconfident. The constant buzz of the day shift, the ever present thrum of consistent questions, was absolutely nothing like the unpredictable chaos of the night shift. Most residents didn’t understand that.
Dr. Samira Mohan, to your incredible delight, was one of the ones who thrived during the night.
She understood. She could adapt. She was your best friend, your closest confidant, the one you’d attached yourself to within a couple days of being at the PTMC. She was what you missed most about days. And you were what she loved most about nights.
So when Ellis needed someone to cover for her one night she jumped at the chance.
It started immediately.
You’d left yours and Jack’s place early. Kissing him slowly on your way out the door as you shoved your scrubs in a tote bag larger than the one you usually carried, telling him you’d see him at work. He tried not to be offended when you told him Samira was waiting for you outside, you guys had an early dinner reservation before your shift.
It was fine. That was perfectly normal. The world wasn’t going to crash and burn just because he had to skip his usual routine with you. He wouldn’t spontaneously combust because you weren't there, he wasn’t that addicted to you.
But then you walk in with Samira and barely look at him. You continue your conversation with her even as you walk up to him and hand him his drink. You flash him a smile and kiss his cheek quickly before walking around the desk to set your drink in your usual corner.
“Seriously I don’t know how you do it,” Samira waits for you. She lingers on the opposite side of central and takes a sip from a large drink in her hands. “I didn’t even know I could want this. What is it again?”
Any other time this would be fine. Jack was not addicted or clingy or, god forbid, possessive. He liked to think he wasn’t like that. But you smile at her in that gentle way he craves constantly. And then Jack recognizes the logo on the pastry bag in Samira’s hand.
It’s from the bakery you’d told him you heard about online. One you’d tried only once before and became obsessed with. You’d been talking about the memory of their donuts since he’d taken you to try it. It was out of your way so you rarely had it, usually saving the experience for special occasions. It’d been a while since the two of you had stopped by.
But now Samira was handing you the bag from that exact bakery. She’d driven you all the way there. And she was holding a drink from your favorite cafe. You’d bought her one too when you bought him his. You were beaming when you looked up at her and started walking towards her. You’d barely even glanced at him.
There’s a feeling that settles deep in his gut. This burning that feels like it’s poisoning him from the inside out that not even the drink you brought him can make go away. He feels the urge to make you look at him. Remind you that he was right there, that you didn’t need anyone else.
Jack stabs his straw into his drink a little too harshly and takes a sip, swallowing back the jealousy he’s trying to pretend he doesn’t feel.
“A cherry limeade sweet tea,” You wind your arm through Samira’s and start walking towards the locker room with her. “It’s got some added guarana extract for -”
“Extra natural caffeine. Slower absorption so you don’t feel the crash as badly.”
“Exactly,” You face her as you walk, excitement taking over your features in response to the fact that she understands your choice exactly. Your head falls on her shoulder. “I missed you, I’m so glad you’re here.”
Samira rests hers on top of yours, she really needed this after… well, everything. “I missed you too.”
And it only gets worse from there.
“This is torture,” Shen drops his head on the counter at central. “It’s like I’m not even here, Sweets hasn’t noticed me at all.”
“Tell me about it,” Jack mutters from where he’s standing a few feet over. His head is resting on one hand as he slowly clicks buttons on a keyboard one by one.
“Aren’t you two needy today.” Lena says without looking up at either of them.
“We have a routine, okay?” Shen frowns as he finally looks up. “The two of us are supposed to be out in triage together right now. Who else am I supposed to tell every detail of my day off to?”
Lena shakes her head, barely glancing up over the rim of her glasses. “You’re allowed to not be attached at the hip 24/7, you know that right?”
“I know that,” Shen rolls his eyes at that and points in the direction of where you and Samira are walking out of South 18. “Do they know that? I mean did they even get anything done on days?”
Jack is staring at the corner where your drink always sits. His own is turning room temperature right next to it. He’d left it there soon after you had handed it to him, a silent hope that maybe he’d get to steal a moment with you later. He doesn’t realize Shen and Lena are looking at him until he looks up again. He sighs.
“I actually think days was the most productive when they worked together,” The stolen moment with you he needed for his mental wellbeing was disappearing right before his eyes. “Unfortunately.”
His attention shoots across the ED at the sound of your laugh. It wasn’t even 10:00 PM yet and he already felt like he was going through withdrawal.
And to make it worse Mateo had apparently found a way to slot himself right beside the two of you flawlessly. He finds you guys and then suddenly the three of you are in the middle of laughing about something together. He swears he’s never seen any of you look so alive.
Shen seems to notice the same thing. “Okay, that’s just not fair.”
“You know, either one of you could easily go and make conversation.” Lena shakes her head at them.
“That’s crazy,” Jack shakes his head as if it was obvious. “I’m not gonna go interrupt their time.”
Lena rolls her eyes and she’s already mentally preparing for it. It was gonna be a long night for all of them. Most of them anyway.
****
Emery Walsh was having the absolute time of her life.
“Why so sad?” She leans on the counter next to Jack where he’s entering orders for an echo for one of his patients. She gives him a mock pout as she tips her head to the side. “Girlfriend ignoring you?”
“She’s not ignoring me,” Jack immediately shoots her a glare. “We’re just busy tonight.”
Walsh looks around the ED. There’s not a single person in the hall and three whole empty beds. She even thinks there might be a couple empty chairs in the waiting room. “Are we in the same ED right now?”
Jack rolls his eyes. It’s an instinct that comes naturally whenever Emery’s around. He respects her, he does. She just has also mastered pushing his buttons like nobody else does. It’s a talent, really. “Is there a reason you’re down here?”
“To see Samira, obviously.”
“You don’t have a surgery to perform or something?” Jack picks up the tablet with his patient information and turns away from her. Maybe she won’t see the irritation in his eyes.
“No? Your doctors don’t spend time moping around like you do. They’re actually good at their jobs which makes mine easier,” She falls into step next to him as he starts walking away from her without another word. “And I’m taking advantage of it to finally make my move.”
“I repeat, don’t you have a job to go do?”
“I’ll do it after I talk to Samira,” Emery sighs when Jack doesn’t even give her some smartass quip back at that. So she grabs his arm and stops him from walking away from her. “Look, I’m in a good mood -”
“Congratulations.”
“I’m gonna choose to ignore your tone,” She also ignores the glare Jack shoots at her. Again. “Why don’t you let me help us both out?”
Jack’s willing to try anything at this point. “I’m listening.”
She gives him one of those smiles he hates. One that means she’s clearly plotting something in her head. He’s convinced she could be a criminal mastermind if she wanted to.
“Hey,” Walsh grabs Shen as he walks past them. “Sweets and Lover Boy over here are gonna make a run to the good vending machines at L&D, can you grab Mateo and cover her and Mohan’s patient in North 4?”
“Deal,” Shen lights up immediately and looks at Jack. “Bring me back some of the good gummy bears.”
“Ooh, I want some of those too,” Walsh starts walking backwards towards where she’d last seen Samira. “And a pack of those cookies, the really soft ones.”
Another eye roll. “Anything else? Maybe a steak dinner while we’re at it.”
“Hey, cut the attitude,” Walsh points at him, a silent warning. “I’m getting you your fix, aren’t I?”
He knows he can’t argue with her there. He watches as she walks into one of the patient rooms. Seconds later she’s sending you out. Alone. For the first time all night.
Jack is making his way towards you without a second thought, rushing before someone can pull either of you away again.
Your eyes light up when you see him and he thinks he could melt at the look you give him and the way you say his name. “Hi.”
“Come on.” He takes your hand and starts pulling you in the direction of the elevator.
“Where are we going?”
He doesn’t say anything else until the elevator doors close behind you. That’s when he grabs you by your waist and gently pushes you back into the corner.
“What’s gotten into you?” You giggle a little bit as you bring him in close. He only shakes his head, silently taking a second to just look at you. To memorize everything, your smile and how you feel against him and the glimmer in your eyes when he finally forces himself to look back at them instead of at how plush and soft your lips look right now.
“Nothing,” His voice goes low, dropping in the silence of the elevator. You’re the one who leans forward to kiss him and he has to try really hard to bite back the moan he can feel building inside him. He forces himself to pull away, letting his forehead rest against yours. “Just missed you.”
“You’re cute,” The elevator doors slide open and Jack’s never hated a machine more. You push yourself off the wall, pressing yourself closer to him as you do. You squeeze past him and start walking out the elevator, glancing back at him over your shoulder. “You coming?”
Jack makes it through the rest of the shift just fine. Until he goes to try and find you after rounds. He finds you and Samira together again. Walsh’s solution wasn’t viable long term, as it turns out.
“Hey, I have tomorrow off. Do you wanna go to that place we’ve been wanting to try?”
“Only if you’re up for it. God, you have to be exhausted.”
“I actually think this might be the most alive I’ve felt in months.”
At least he has time to practice his perfectly neutral response by the time you find him to let him know you’ll meet him back at home.
“Have fun,” He kisses you in the safety of the locker room, sneaking his credit card in your bag as he does. “I’ll wait up for you.”
You don’t bother arguing with him, knowing he wouldn’t listen to you either way. Jack is left watching you walk away, sighing deeply as he does and screwing his eyes shut to make an attempt to ground himself.
At least this was a one time thing. Everything after this would be perfectly fine.
2 & 3. Cucumber Mint Lemonade & Brown Sugar Shaken Espresso w/ a quad shot, extra hot
So maybe Jack had turned to the dark side. He’d taken a page straight out of Emery Walsh’s playbook. Not that he’d ever admit that to her.
He was scheming. Just a little bit. Not enough to be diabolical but enough for Mateo to definitely catch on and bribe Perlah to stay a bit later to linger so she could watch it play out and update him.
This would work. It had to. It was going to. If there was one thing he could do right it was plan and he’d thought this through. Briefly. In the few seconds it took him to walk from the locker room to where all the day shift residents were hovering by the computers finishing their charting. It was good enough.
He had to do it now while you were distracted. Emma had pulled you away to get a second opinion on a patient, this was his best chance.
“Shen needs a few of his shifts covered. I have four of them and need some takers,” He announces himself, making most of them look up. Samira’s about to say something and he puts a hand up. “Someone who isn’t Mohan.”
Jack doesn’t know if Whitaker does it subconsciously or on purpose but he watches it play out in slow motion. For just a moment Whitaker looks at him. Then his eyes find you across the ED and flick to Samira quickly after. Finally they flicker back to him and maybe it’s the guilt but he swears there’s a ghost of a smirk that Whitaker flashes him. He’s perceptive, Jack will give him that.
He looks a little smug when he asks, “Why not?”
“You all need to cover a night shift eventually,” The answer comes out quickly as Jack crosses his arms in front of him. “You can’t keep sticking them all on her.”
“I don’t mind.” Samira is quick to respond. If she wasn’t in her last couple months of her residency she’d have asked to move to night shift the second you had transferred.
“I know. And we appreciate you,” Jack definitely feels just a little bit guilty. “But it’s also good for their experience as doctors.”
It was technically true. On top of that, he also couldn’t afford to be down an attending. If day shift didn’t have enough coverage half the time then the night shift definitely didn’t. Most of the residents were reserved for the day shift and his new one had only just started. And as much confidence as he had in Ellis and Crus to pick up the extra work, he didn’t want to put it all on them. Maybe he’d even get lucky and one of the newer residents would like it enough to stick around long term.
“I say we go top to bottom,” Santos leans back in her chair, gladly giving her eyes a break from her charting. She stretches in her seat before motioning beside her. “Langdon’s the only one besides Samira who’s got seniority here. Which means he gets to be our sacrifice to the night shift gods.”
“Oh, no,” Langdon’s eyes go wide and he shakes his head quickly. It’s comical watching him make an attempt at disappearing behind the screen he’s charting at considering how much he towers over it. “I-I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
That statement paired with the horrified look that flashes on Jack’s face is enough to intrigue every single one of them. They have to know everything immediately.
“How come?” Santos looks more amused than she’s ever been, suddenly much more awake than she had been.
“I can’t do nights, I've tried,” A visible shudder runs through Langdon at the memory. “It did not go well.”
Jack figures he should disagree. He figures that as an attending, a chief attending, he should use it as a teaching moment. Tell them that they could never underestimate their jobs or whatever. But the memory of the absolute week from hell set off by Langdon’s presence in the ED past 9pm was something he didn’t think would ever stop haunting him.
They still pretend it didn’t happen and calmly start ushering him out the second it starts getting just a little bit too late. So maybe they were a little bit superstitious. It came naturally when working nights.
“You weren’t,” Jack refuses to look at Langdon when he says it. “You weren’t that bad.”
Langdon frowns, “You hesitated when you said that.”
There’s silence for a second while Jack just looks slightly haunted. He can’t relive that week. Not right now. Or maybe ever again. So to change the topic he tells them, “If you guys can’t decide, I'm picking for you.”
“Sorry, dad,” Javadi gives him a look that perfectly resembles a bratty teenager at the statement and Jack only rolls his eyes at her. He thinks that look alone might’ve aged him a bit. "Where's Shen off to that he needs four days off anyway?”
“Back home,” Jack looks around for any sign of Shen and relaxes a little when he doesn’t see him, not wanting to set off another passionate ramble just yet. “He leaves on Thursday. His sister got last minute tickets to a concert he wanted to go to. Some pop star he hasn’t stopped talking about.”
“I can cover a night for him,” Mel barely takes a break from her charting to look up at Jack. “My day off is on Friday and Becca has plans all weekend anyway. I don’t mind staying and pulling a double.”
“Perfect,” And it really is. Mel had covered a couple nights before and she was good at it. There was definitely no possible way this could go wrong for him. He turns his attention to Whitaker, Santos, and Javadi. “I’ve got three more to cover.”
“I’ll take one,” Santos offers herself up next. “If only to prove that I’m better at nights than Golden Boy.”
“Okay,” Langdon spins in his chair to look at her and Santos copies the motion. “It wasn’t all my fault.”
“You sure about that?”
Jack doesn’t quite like the phrasing of that. He could already feel it backfiring on all of them. He stops their bickering before they can really fully start. He’s talking mostly to Santos when he says, “Night’s aren’t easy, you know.”
“Please,” Santos crosses her arms, already pushing for a challenge. “How much harder than days could it be? Most people are sleeping already, what could possibly be different about it?”
“Oh my god, wait!” Javadi sits up then, cutting off the comment Jack had been about to make.
She’d spent the last few moments recalling every single bit of information she knew about both John Shen and also every major pop star. She knows exactly who he’s talking about immediately.
“I’ll take the last two but tell him he has to bring me back some merch,” She’s typing something on her phone as she says it and Jack swears he hears Shen’s ringtone go off from somewhere. “I want the pink t-shirt, he’ll know which one I’m talking about. I just sent him the money for it so he can’t say no.”
And that covers it.
Sure, you’d worked days with all of them before. And okay, maybe Jack hadn’t actually realized how close you were to the residents until they’d started showing up at his place one by one on your nights off.
But this was different. This was work. And not all of them were Samira Mohan, the one person you trusted as much as him, maybe even a little more.
It’d be fine. It was only four days. How hard could it possibly be?
****
At first it really isn’t that bad.
Mel is perfect. She’d done a week on nights a few months back and fit in seamlessly. Every now and then she’d pick up another night shift. And even now, in the middle of a double, she’s doing great.
You bring her a drink at the start of your shift, a Cucumber Mint Lemonade, and at first nothing is different to how the night usually runs.
And then Jack notices that you are not letting him cling to you the way he tends to.
It isn’t even on purpose most of the time. You’re just always there. You take whichever cases need you most, sometimes extras on top of them, and it’s the same way Jack picks up his. He’s used to maneuvering around you, a hand on the small of your back as he moves past you or feeling your hand on his bicep as you do the same. It just happens. He never notices how much he needs that until it isn’t happening.
You spend almost every second of downtime during Mel’s shift at her side. The two of you spend all night talking about one of the shows you both watch, theorizing and debating and admiring. It keeps her mind awake and it keeps you busy, it’s a win win.
For everyone except Jack.
Every time he’s about to get his hands on you, you wriggle away from him and flash him a smile before you step just too far out of reach. You gravitate towards Mel and get really excited when you talk and it’s fine.
Jack just watches you talk and it’s okay. Honestly.
But then you don’t even risk lingering in empty spaces with him and he finally acknowledges that he might be going crazy, actually. He nearly bites Mateo’s head off when he points it out and has to quickly apologize. And then begrudgingly admits that maybe he does have a problem.
When the sun starts coming up somewhere off in the distance he overhears it.
“Hey,” Mel stops you before you can go check on a patient the two of you had taken on together. “Thank you.”
You tip your head at her, smiling but a little curious. “For what?”
“For talking to me all night long. I really like working with you. It was fun,” Mel shrugs a little bit and then goes silent as she debates whether or not to finish her thought. Ultimately she does, knowing you’d want to hear it. “And for listening.”
Your smile softens then and you nod your head. You hold your hand out in a silent question and wait until she nods a bit. You set it on her arm, a brief, present hold that tells her you’re there. You see her. It only lasts for a second but your point is made. “Of course. Always.”
Mel’s smiling as she walks away. She’s never minded night shifts but she thinks briefly that they’re significantly better now that you’re a part of them. Although that might just be a you thing, she realizes.
Jack keeps to himself for the rest of the shift. Without any more complaining. But when the clock finally hits 7:00 AM he puts Ellis in charge of hand-offs and drags you out of the ED, not even bothering with the mountain of paperwork he was leaving behind.
****
The next night Jack finds out very quickly that he was completely right about Santos.
She’s the one that convinces him that there might actually be something out there that can sense when someone walks into the night shift with too much overconfidence and chooses to make their lives miserable as punishment.
Jack had gone in early to finish his charting from the night before and the very first thing he sees when Trinity Santos walks in is her stumbling right into a gurney. The exact same way Frank Langdon had. She laughs it off. Just like he had. She even cracks the exact same bad joke that he had.
“Since when has that thing been there?”
He and Ellis share a look, wide eyed and absolutely terrified. They already know it’s going to be a very long night.
As hard as they try, they can’t pinpoint what it is that’s throwing Santos off her game. She chugs through the drink you bring her, a Brown Sugar Shaken Espresso with a quad shot, despite the fact that she’d specifically requested it extra hot. She just isn’t able to get a grip on anything. She feels like it’s her first day of med school all over again and it’s killing her.
Jack tries sending Ellis to talk to her but she refuses to get within ten feet of her.
“Abbot, I love my girl, I think she’s great on days,” Ellis is standing very safely on the opposite side of the ED as Santos. “But her and Langdon are like our version of the twins from the shining. I can’t go through that again.”
Jack sends Crus to talk to her next, figuring that maybe confiding in her senior resident for the night would help. It does. Briefly anyway.
Just as she’s starting to get the hang of things in triage a teenager with alcohol poisoning ruins her scrubs and her brand new pair of shoes. She loses all control she’d regained in a fraction of a second.
When she comes back wearing new scrubs and a pair of shoes she’d borrowed from you she pinches the bridge of her nose, “This is Langdon’s fault. I don’t know how but it is.”
And it somehow only gets worse from there. He sends Lena next but it’s no use. Nothing works. So finally, begrudgingly, Jack pulls you into the breakroom. He tells you to hang tight for a second and moments later he walks back in with Trinity.
“Sit down,” Jack walks past her and plants himself in the chair next to yours.
Slowly, Trinity walks closer. She looks between the two of you and then very carefully pulls the chair in front of the two of you out and sinks down. “Is this what it feels like when your parents ground you?”
“Why do you think we’re gonna ground you?” Jack doesn’t even acknowledge the wording of the question.
He’d gotten used to those comments almost as soon as the residents, your friends, had started spending time at his place. Mom and dad. Parents. You need to promise to never break up, I’m too old to be a child of divorce. Most of them were from Santos and Javadi and they were jokes almost all the time. But it also meant they were comfortable around him. They trusted him. There was probably some sort of HR rule against this dynamic but none of them really cared. They looked up to him and valued his opinion and the last thing he wanted was to make them feel afraid of having a bad day. He didn’t want them to carry the same guilt he did.
You watch as the frown twists its way onto Jack’s face. His entire face scrunches in confusion as he tries to decode Trinity Santos. You know what he’s thinking. What he’s feeling. You know he’s putting a little bit of blame, no matter how unfounded, on himself. You’ve seen the effort he puts in to make everyone feel comfortable and confident here on the night shift, the support he tries to give every one of them. There were already enough unpredictable factors that went into their nights, he didn’t have to be another one of them.
“Because I messed up,” Trinity says it like it should be obvious. “I don’t know what I’m doing wrong but I must be doing something wrong for this to keep happening. Once, fine. After that? And I don’t even know how to fix it and it sucks.”
“Hang on,” Jack leans forward on the table and you silently let him take control of the conversation. “You’re not doing anything wrong. It just happens to be a shitty night.”
That doesn’t seem to help her much. “Yeah but this doesn’t happen to me. I know what I’m doing so the fact that it keeps going wrong means it has to be…user error or whatever.”
“Listen to me,” Jack taps the table in front of her to force her to look at him. She huffs but looks at him anyway. “You can’t control everything that happens here, no matter how hard you try. Some nights, or days, are just gonna be bad ones and there’s nothing you can do about it. The only thing you can do is try to make it through the day. With our help. That’s what we’re here for.”
Trinity, for once, doesn’t know what to say. There's a sharpness behind her eyes and the back of her throat tightens. She looks away, afraid that if either of you look at her a second longer she’ll break completely.
Finally, after a few seconds, you stand up. You hold a hand out to her and she looks up at you. “Come on.”
She looks at you for a moment, swallows down her emotion, and then finally says, “Sure you wanna do that, Sweets?”
“Trin, you know better. You can’t get rid of me,” You tell her, flashing her a smile, still holding out your hand.
“You better hope bad luck isn’t contagious,” She says when she finally takes your hand, letting you drag her up.
“Well, a captain goes down with the ship right?” You shrug, already starting to pull her out of the room.
“And who made you captain?”
“You really think anyone’s gonna argue with me?”
Even in just the few moments it takes for you to walk out of the breakroom with her, Trinity already feels lighter on her feet.
And it works. Jack’s words combined with you at her side do wonders. She graduates from an easy patient to a medium one with no problem. Then a slightly more complicated one and it’s okay. But then one of your other patients needs you and the second you leave her side though she reverts back to attracting every bad luck charm on the planet.
After that she rivals Jack in terms of clinginess. Trinity will not leave your side. She even follows you to the bathroom at one point, afraid that the metaphorical baby grand piano will fall on her head the moment you leave. You are single handedly helping her keep her head on straight and her sanity intact, she refuses to let you out of her sight.
Jack does not get a single moment alone with you the entire shift. The only reason he makes it through the night is because he figures it could be worse. He also figures maybe Santos needs this. He’s willing to make the sacrifice. Just this once.
Ellis is the one that points it out. Santos does not like the observation. You were singlehandedly the one who saved her shift from being almost as bad as one of Langdon’s. So maybe night shift wasn’t for either of them but at least she knew you and Jack had her back. As long as she had that she could push through.
4. Cookie Butter Iced Latte
The third night Shen was gone is maybe the hardest.
You get a text from Jack at exactly 7:02 PM. How do I fix her? it says. Nothing else. No elaboration.
Before you could ask him what exactly he meant your phone had dinged with another incoming message. From Ellis this time. A video. It was pointed at the fluorescent lights above her head but you could hear the voices loud and clear.
“I don’t think it’s a good idea. I-I mean what do I even know right? I, like, barely slept last night cause I was so worried about today. Or this morning technically I guess? I mean if Santos couldn’t do it what hope do I have, you know what I mean? All I keep hearing from the other residents is how different the night shift is and I don’t do good with different. Like seriously, it’s a problem. Langdon is still here and I know you think he’s cursed or something but he can’t possibly be any worse than I would be. I’m not prepared. I think if you let me have like a crash course or something or some training maybe, maybe, I could work my way here for a shift but at this present moment I feel like -”
“Javadi!” Jack had cut her off in the middle of her rambling. “Hold that thought.”
I think she might’ve actually broken him. was Ellis’ comment. I think I can actually see him buffering.
Thirty minutes later you’re walking into the PTMC, four hours before you were scheduled to be there, happily sipping on your drink despite the change in schedule.
“Oh, thank god,” Jack might’ve actually developed a sixth sense with how fast he’s able to tell you’ve walked through the ambulance bay doors. An arm around your waist, a kiss to the side of your head, and a moment to finally breathe. It’d been the longest thirty minutes of his life.
He takes your drink out of your hands and takes a sip. He doesn’t even flinch at the obscene amount of sugar and syrups in it like usual. “I talked to her and she listened but I don’t think she actually heard me. I don’t know what else to say. You’re better at this.”
You smile at him and let him keep it, clearly needing the extra caffeine for once. “I think she just needs a familiar face. Give me five minutes.”
You find Javadi in an empty room pacing behind a curtain. Her face lights up the moment she lays eyes on you. “I thought you weren’t supposed to come in until later, aren’t you covering part of Donnie’s shift in the morning?”
“I came to bring you something,” You hold out the fresh coffee in your hand. “Iced Cookie Butter Latte with extra vanilla and cinnamon on top, just like you like it.”
It’s like a weight is lifted off of her shoulders immediately. “I hope you know I worship the ground you walk on.”
You let her chug her way through about a quarter of her drink, watching her for a second before you ask, “You wanna tell me what made you doubt yourself?”
“What,” She can’t help herself. She takes another sip before looking away from you, avoiding eye contact. “What are you talking about?”
You sit on the edge of the hospital bed and let out a soft sigh. “What makes you think you can’t make it through nights? You were excited about it a few days ago.”
She lets out a small noise of discontent and still refuses to look at you, “Did Abbot tell you I freaked out?”
You shake your head softly, “He was just worried about you.”
“He wouldn’t have to be if he just let me go home.”
“Vic,” You turn to her and your voice goes soft. Gentle as you try to get your point across. “He made you stay in our guest room that night we stayed up too late finishing our Twilight marathon. You really think he would just let you walk out of this ED knowing how good and capable you are?”
There’s silence for a second. Then she takes another sip of her drink.
Until finally she tells you, “My…my mom was telling me about some of Walsh’s nightmare cases that she’s had to deal with. She said nights are - are reckless and hard and only the toughest people can handle them. And I know that was supposed to mean she didn’t think I could. And then Trinity had such a hard time and it basically convinced me I couldn't do it either. And I see how you guys walk out of here some mornings completely exhausted and it’s hard enough to make it through some days and I just don’t want to mess up.”
It takes you a second to figure out what to say. In that time Victoria moves to your side and collapses on the bed next to you. Her head falls on your shoulder and she takes another drink.
“I think you’re giving all of us way too much credit,” You finally tell her, trying to make her see she wasn’t much different from the rest of you. She was just as capable. “You’re putting us on a pedestal.”
She scoffs at that. “Uh, yeah, obviously. Have you met you guys?”
“Hey, I’m serious,” You tilt your head to look at her for a second. “You better hope Shen doesn’t hear you ever say that because that comment will go to his head.”
You successfully pull a laugh out of her and she feels better enough to lift her head again. “Seriously, though. I promise the only real difference between us and day shift is that we’re sleep deprived enough to know how to have fun. You, Dr. J, are practically built to fit right in.”
She rolls her eyes at your comment but then looks at you for real. “Promise?”
You only smile at her and nod towards the door. “Go find out.”
She regains her confidence easily after that. She jumps on cases left and right, slotting in beside Crus perfectly. When he asks her questions mid procedure she answers them without hesitation. He looks up, finds you across the room, and smiles, silently telling you she’s doing incredible.
Jack pulls her along with him on a few cases before she begs him to let her tag along with Ellis instead, who gets a more interesting case. He gives her a lecture about skipping around and picking patients before he sighs and lets her go anyway.
It’s only a surprise to her when she finds out she thrives here with all of you.
****
Jack was hiding.
He feels comfortable doing so. He has Ellis, Javadi, and Crus running the floor. He could afford to take advantage of the rare moment of downtime and sneak away for ten minutes. And if he pulled you along with him then that was his business.
He was doing it for you, that’s what he was telling himself. You had a long shift ahead of you and the least you deserved was to take advantage of the brief moment of respite for some peace and quiet.
Really he was selfish. He felt like he might genuinely spontaneously combust if he didn’t get a moment alone with you and fast. So maybe he was a little bit clingy.
In his defense though, you were addicting. The ease with which you moved together, completely in sync with one another. The smile you flashed him across the ED when you were split up. The way you just understood him.
And how you’d let him be a little bit clingy when he just needed a moment to ground himself. When he needed to come back down to earth and remember he was only human. To remember he lived and breathed for you. You’d become his lifeline and his vice wrapped in one perfect little package.
And he liked the day shift residents, he really did. They might not have been his officially but he’d always jump at the chance to teach them everything he wished he’d known when he was in their place.
Everything except this. How one day they’d find someone like you who took all the weight off their shoulders and bear it alongside them so it wouldn’t drown them.
Unfortunately it seemed like they’d already caught on.
Mel, Santos, and Javadi all knew. Mohan definitely knew which is how he’d gotten himself here in the first place. They’d flocked to you for a reason, one that was so much like his own. And that was fine.
He didn’t own you. He didn’t have exclusivity of the way you made everything bearable.
He was, however, madly and deeply in love with you. Beyond his ability to describe. And he did have a right to be clingy when he wanted to be. Especially when it felt like he'd barely gotten any time alone with you recently despite the fact that you woke up and fell asleep next to each other every single night.
Jack was already making a mental note to tell Shen just how much he appreciated him when he came back.
Currently the two of you are practically on top of each other on the tiny twin bed that sits in the center of the on-call room. Any other day you would’ve argued with Jack. You’d have given him that sly little smile and pulled him into the stairwell instead with a teasing look in your eyes.
But right now you were tired and Jack knew you better than anyone. He could see the exhaustion settling so deep into your bones that not even your second coffee of the night would be able to fix it. And he knew you’d never let anyone else see it. He knew you’d let them need you until the moment you walked through the door of your home with him and shut the world away.
So you let him pull you out of the chaos before it can run you ragged. Instead, you eagerly curl into his side, half on his lap, as you listen to him talk.
Attempt to listen, anyway. You don’t quite know what he’s saying. The sound of his voice and the warmth coming from his body against yours is putting you in a trance, the extra long shift you’re currently in the middle of already catching up to you.
You can feel your eyes getting heavy with sleep and the way he’s running one of his hands through your hair is definitely not helping either.
Then the door bursts open and all remnants of sleep leave you completely. Jack glares on instinct and then relaxes when he sees Javadi. He could excuse it this one time.
She does not hesitate before sinking down into the spinny chair that sits in the corner of the room beside a small coffee table.
“Dr. Abbot, I have this note for you.” Is all she says to announce herself, leaning forward to pass you the note to pass to him. She isn’t phased by this at all.
You, her, and Samira had gone to the art museum a few weeks ago. She’d gotten to yours and Jack’s place at around 9 and he’d answered the door in pajama bottoms and an old army shirt. Nothing could phase her after witnessing firsthand the easy domesticity oozing out of the two of you in the time you guys waited for Samira to let you know she was there.
Although she had entered with one eye screwed shut after Ellis told her she was playing a dangerous game bursting into a room where you and Jack were left together unsupervised. Just in case.
“A note?” Jack’s eyes narrow at her as he unfolds the paper. His eyes scan the piece of paper quickly and then he scoffs before handing it back to you. “Did you really waste an entire prescription sheet to scribble that down?”
You look at it and sure enough she had. Patient Name: Victoria Javadi. Instructions: Nap Time. Dosage: 20 Minutes. Repeat as needed until symptoms of sleepiness improve. Signed: @ doc.j on all socials
Complete with a heart at the end
“Yes!” Javadi flops backwards on the chair and she kicks off the ground, doing a full spin until she’s looking at the two again. “I’m exhausted. I’m pretty sure you’re breaking the law.”
“Oh really,” Jack raises a brow at her and pulls you closer to his side. “What law is that?”
“Don’t I get, like, a union mandated naptime,” She drops her head back and she’s looking at the two of you upside down now. “I’m pretty sure that’s a thing and you’re just not remembering.”
“Or you’re just being dramatic.”
“That’s rude. I’m the least dramatic person here, actually.” She spins again as she says it.
You feel Jack sigh against you. You look up at him from where your head is resting on his arm and he waits until Javadi does a third spin in the chair to kiss you. Soft and quick and a promise that he’s going to get you at least a few minutes to just sit down and breathe no matter how much you insist you don’t need it. He gently maneuvers out from under you and stretches as he stands up.
“Come on, kid,” He moves around the other side of the bed and stops Javadi’s chair mid spin. “Let’s go find you a patient.”
“But that’s the opposite of sleep.”
“Yeah but it’ll keep you awake and alert more than sleep will.” They walk out of the on-call room, Jack flashing you a wink before he closes the door softly.
You’ve only just laid back on the bed again when a soft knock sounds at the door and you sit up again.
“Hey, Sweets,” Crus looks apologetic when he opens the door all the way. “Can I get your help with a patient? We got swamped out of nowhere, everyone else is busy.”
“Only cause I like you,” You smile at him and push the exhaustion to the back of your mind. That wasn’t important anymore. “Don’t tell anyone I play favorites though, I’ll never hear the end of it.”
He steps back and lets you through the door first before he starts leading you towards the North wing. “You’re the best, you know that?”
“So I’ve been told.”
****
It’s exactly 7:43 AM when Eileen Shamsi steps out of the elevator. She’s wearing her perfectly pristine white lab coat and her face is contorted in barely controlled disgust at the sight of the already packed and busy ER.
Maybe it was your lack of sleep the last few days. Maybe it was the fact that you were nearing hour 13 of a 17 hour shift. Maybe it had just been brewing since Victoria Javadi had first confided in you, telling you all the fears and anxieties that consumed her because of her mother.
You drop the conversation you’re having with Ellis the moment you see her and beeline to Dr. Shamsi herself. Ellis follows, unsure whether she’ll have to hold you back or not.
You step right in front of her, stopping her in her tracks. “Can I help you?”
Jack hears the tone in your voice from across the room. His head whips around to find you and he knows what’s about to happen. He’d known from the moment you told him what had been wrong with Javadi at the start of her shift.
When Javadi steps out of the room they’d been in he quickly spins her around so she can’t see the scene. He ushers her to the locker room, telling her she did good and she was good to go whenever she was ready.
“I’m looking for my daughter.” Dr. Shamsi barely spares you a glance, looking instead towards Ellis.
You side step to bring her attention back to you. “Is someone dying?”
She looks taken aback at the question and makes a face when she looks back at you. “Why I am here is none of your concern.”
“I’ll take that as a no then,” You give a small shrug and shake your head. “She’s a little busy right now. She saved a critical patient's life earlier and is running through her proposed treatment plan with Dr. Abbot and Dr. McCay, who will be taking over for her. She’s had a beautifully eventful night.”
“Well I need to see her.”
“And what I need is a nice, cold Raspberry Truffle Iced Macchiato with salted caramel cold foam and a white chocolate drizzle to get me through the rest of my day but we don’t always get what we want do we?”
You succeed in distracting her long enough for Jack to tell Victoria to get some sleep before she comes back later that night. She’s perfectly unaware of what’s going on as she walks out the door.
“You are more than welcome to check every single room in the emergency department if you’d like to find her. Although we’re in the middle of finishing rounds so you might have a lot of patients asking a lot of questions.”
Eileen Shamsi actually scoffs at you. Ellis’ eyes go wide and she’s seen you get angry enough times, usually at the more unruly patients, to know your patience has run out. There’s no predicting what you’ll say now. “This is insubordination.”
You suck a breath in from between your teeth and shrug. You take a step closer to her. She takes a step back.
“That’s where you’re wrong, doc. I don’t answer to you.” You stand your ground, not an ounce of hesitation in you.
She crosses her arms in front of her, “I beg your pardon?”
“I don’t have to tell you anything,” Your head tips to the side and a smile flashes on your face. “See, I don’t like this little helicopter parent thing you try to play at. It undermines everything Victoria has learned and on top of that, every time you come down here with another pointless lecture it’s distracting to the doctors in my ED. And unlike those of you up in your cozy little offices on the top floor waiting for someone to come to you, we have real jobs to do.”
You can see the eavesdropping from everyone around you. You feel the tension in the air, thick enough to be sliced through with a dull scalpel. The smile never leaves your face.
Finally she scoffs again, making an attempt at staring you down. It doesn’t work. “I didn’t realize they gave the nurses free reign to act however they want down here.”
You don’t flinch at the accusation.
“They do when they’re capable. And I’m one of the best they’ve got,” You can see Jack now, having moved to your line of sight so he could get a better view. He’s not even making an effort to hide the smirk on his face. “If you excuse me, I’ve got things to do.”
“You’re insane,” Ellis whispers as she follows you, an amused laugh escaping her.
You only shrug, smiling back at her. “I said what I needed to.”
Jack reaches for you the moment you’re close enough to. One arm wraps around your waist as he pulls you closer to him. He doesn’t let you go this time. Instead he just whispers to you as you walk together, “You’re trouble, you know that?”
You happily settle into him, “Was that too much?”
“I actually don’t think you went hard enough,” He stops as you guys near a slightly calmer part of the ED. “But I do think you might need that third coffee.”
You beam at him when he says those words. “I really love you, you know that?”
He hums a bit as he stares you down, painfully aware of the people moving around you. “You love my car. And the fact that it drives to that cafe you like.”
He knows you so well, “That too.”
He can’t stay on shift, he knows that. But maybe he can linger long enough to distract you just a little bit. “You want some breakfast?”
There’s a new found light in your eyes at the prospect of something other than vending machine snacks. “I might actually propose to you if you bring me back some of those little quiches. And a croissant.”
“Deal.”
5. Caramel Apple Crisp Iced Macchiato
There were a few things Baran Al-Hashimi had learned for certain in the short time she’d been at the PTMC.
One, everyone here was severely overworked. It wasn’t anything new, she’d known exactly what she was getting herself into.
Two, the nurses were most definitely the backbone of the emergency department. It’d only taken a couple hours for her to trust every single one of them implicitly.
And three, no one would ever, ever hear Dr. Abbot ask for help at work. He was very good at helping others, incredible really. There was even a brief moment where she’d wondered why he wasn’t chief of the department. Until she realized he hated unnecessary responsibility as much as he loved spontaneous teaching moments. He didn’t like to think himself above others, hated it actually. And so, he’d never ask for backup. Even when he needed it.
“You’re going to what?”
“I’m going to give you an extra resident,” She simply gives him a calm smile. Her hands are clasped behind her back and she tips her head to the side, wordlessly daring him to argue with her. “Short term, for now. We’ll see how it goes at the end of this trial period and then reassess."
Jack’s entire face screws into offense. Mateo and Shen watch eagerly, lingering on the other side of the nurses station for much longer than they have to in an attempt to eavesdrop.
“No thanks,” Jack picks up a tablet and starts unlocking it. He’s not searching for anything in particular, he just wants an excuse to end this conversation. “We’re good. We’ve got a routine. And I don’t underestimate my doctors.”
“I’m not underestimating any of you,” Al-Hashimi shakes her head slowly, refusing to let him shut her down. “On the contrary. I think you have a lot to teach them.”
“And I will. When I happen to be here during the day,” He starts walking away from her. “Or when they get the misfortune of being stuck with me on nights every now and then.”
“Dr. Abbot,” She says it in a way that stops him in his tracks, in a way that demands his attention. He slowly turns around to face her again and she lets out a gentle sigh. “I don’t know if you know this but I’ve already seen a remarkable difference in how Doctors Santos and Javadi approach their practices and they didn’t even spend that long with you. They grew in just those few hours.”
“Of course they did,” Jack’s eyes flicker across the room, spotting both of them still maneuvering their way between patients. Santos has called dibs on you already, pulling you in to help her put a cast on her patient. Shen is with Javadi now, running through possible diagnoses with her. Ellis, Crus, and Nazely are following the rest of the residents, walking themselves through the remaining handoffs. “Wasn’t just cause of me though.”
“My point exactly.” Al-Hashimi smiles again, successfully running him in a mental circle and leading him to the same point she was trying to make all along. “You all bring something very valuable to this department.”
Jack can’t argue there. He finally sighs and leans back against the central counter, knowing that once Al-Hashimi made up her mind there was no changing it. “Who are you giving me?”
-Day Three-
“I don’t think he likes me.”
Shen’s statement pulls you out of the conversation you’re having with Mateo while putting in orders for patients. He slides in between the two of you in an attempt to blend in. As if he isn’t a good several inches taller than you both and wearing different colored scrubs.
“What are you talking about?” You look away from your lab results that had just come in and turn to look at him.
“Whitaker,” He nods his head to the side, subtly motioning to where Whitaker was clutching a tablet in his hands tightly while running something past Jack. “I don’t think he likes me. I think he might actually hate me.”
Mateo’s laugh cuts through the otherwise soft buzz that filled the ED. He laughs more when Shen looks at him offended, “You’re insane.”
“It’s true!” Shen looks between the two of you and crosses his arms. “He’s been here for three days and I think we’ve had maybe a single conversation so far. And you’d think I was torturing it out of him.”
“It’s probably not as bad as you think.” You offer and he shakes his head.
“Sweets, the kid runs away from me every time he asks me a question. He always looks like he wants to say something and then his eyes do that big sad thing and he runs away. He isn’t like that with you guys.”
“Shen. John. Sweetheart,” You’re trying your hardest not to also laugh at the idea of what he’s saying. Instead you offer him a smile and shake your head, “I don’t think Dennis could hate anyone if he tried.”
He doesn’t believe you. You can tell. “Well what’s his deal then, huh?”
You turn to look at him again and this time the conversation Jack is having with him looks different. You recognize it. You’ve seen him do it plenty of times over the last few weeks. He’s good at it, no matter how much he pretends he isn’t. He’s standing a little closer to Whitaker now and his arms have uncrossed, opting instead to stick his hands in his pockets.
He leans a little closer and tips his head, fighting to get Whitaker to actually look at him and not fold himself away. When he finally does he takes it as a win and nods. He puts a hand on Whitaker’s shoulder and gives a gentle shake, finally satisfied when he returns the smile and moves to go back to his patient.
Whitaker looks over before he walks back into the room and meets your eye. He waves at you easily and then notices Mateo and Shen. He gives them both a tense smile and that’s when you crack the code like it’s nothing.
“He’s just nervous,” You tell them, lowering your voice a little bit. “He’s been on day shift since he started with the same handful of people and never anyone else. We’re gonna take some getting used to, we’re kind of a lot.”
The logic doesn’t do much to ease Shen. “Well he’s fine with you and Jack.”
“Okay well, I was halfway through my post grad residency when he started as a med student and we bonded over being new to all of this.”
You feel it then. An arm wraps around your waist and you’d know Jack anywhere. He does the same thing he always does when he just needs you near for a few seconds. He shifts you over a little bit and lets you go, not technically touching you but practically occupying the same little bubble of space you are. He hovers close by, enough so that he could reach over and hold your hand in his without stretching if he really wanted to.
“And what about him?” Shen crosses his arms when he nods towards Jack. “I’m more easily approachable than he is, aren’t I?”
Jack looks between the three of you and then takes a step closer to you, trying to figure out if maybe he could piece together the conversation just from standing near you. “What are you talking about, I’m a ray of sunshine.”
Mateo laughs again and shakes his head, “That’s almost funnier than Whitaker hating him.”
“Whitaker? Hate?” That catches Jack off guard. “I don’t think that kid even knows what that word means.”
“I hate when you guys agree on something.” Shen is about to give up and settle for a lifetime of not knowing why Dennis Whitaker runs away from him.
But then Jack sidesteps to stop him from walking away and says, “Go invite him to breakfast with us.”
Shen frowns and looks around the ED, checking to see if he was missing something. Maybe there was a fire he hadn’t seen yet. “We’re not going to breakfast?”
It wasn’t something unusual, necessarily. Breakfast trips were just usually reserved for the mornings after a long shift. Ones where none of you got the chance to breathe, let alone stop and have a real conversation. It helped bring you all back down to earth, to make everything feel real and in control again. This felt equally important in this moment.
“We are now,” Jack shrugs like it’s nothing. “On me. Now go ask him to go with us and ask him what he likes. And make sure you sit next to him when we get there.”
Shen thinks about it for a second and seems to decide that this is a plan that’ll definitely work. He walks away and you watch as he strategically hovers outside the door until Whitaker walks out. You, Jack, and Mateo watch the conversation play out until Whitaker smiles, nods, and walks away from Shen. And at a perfectly normal pace. Shen, meanwhile, looks ecstatic when he turns and gives you guys a double thumbs up.
“Well would you look at that,” Mateo reaches for his badge as he steps back towards one of the computers, continuing with what he’d been doing before. “Mom and dad are helping the kids play nice.”
“Forgive me for wanting my ED to run smoothly.” Jack rolls his eyes at the statement but moves closer to you anyway. There’s one of those comments again. The ones that linger in his brain for a lot longer than necessary.
So maybe this whole dynamic that you all had going on was a little odd. But it was also functional. It made the long days and longer nights easier. And maybe that was enough to excuse it.
-Day Eight-
“I have done you a great disservice. I betrayed you.” You announce yourself as you march right up to Dennis. He glances at you in between shoving his things in his locker.
“For sure, yeah,” He nods, shuts the locker door, and looks at you, leaning against the cold metal on one shoulder. “What did you do, again?”
You don’t say anything. You simply hold out a drink to him. He looks at the cup, large and dripping condensation on your hands. He thinks vaguely of the cup he’d seen already half drunk on the desk out in central.
Your name had been written in bubble letters with a heart after it. Shen had dutifully informed him that he could ask for anything he wanted from the cafe down the street, the baristas there loved you and Jack. It was the reason the two of you were always the ones sent on coffee runs now, they never minded the obscene amount of items you guys would order. The massive tip Jack always left them definitely helped.
He can see his own name scrawled on the plastic of the one you’re handing him with a smiley face after it along with ‘enjoy!!’.
“I see,” Dennis takes the cup from you and eyes it before looking up at you. “I’m being hazed.”
You roll your eyes and hand him the straw. “You’re being a drama queen, I’d hardly call a fun drink hazing.”
He sticks the straw through the lid and the two of you walk out of the locker room. “It is when you have psychic powers and you’re guessing whether or not I'll like it.”
“I haven’t been wrong yet,” The buzz of the ED floods the space around you. “Just try it. You’ll like it, I swear.”
“Honey, you’ll scare him if you keep it up,” Jack doesn’t even look up from where he’s typing something on one of the computers.
You grin as you spot him. As if you hadn’t just left his side minutes ago. You wrap your arms around his shoulders from behind and kiss the top of his head, pausing to brush a slightly too long curl back into its place.
Your eyes narrow again as you look at Dennis over the top of Jack’s head. “Well it’s not my fault Whitaker is afraid of trying new things.”
“Now who’s being dramatic,” He swirls the straw in his drink and wonders if you’ll kill him if he were to lie and tell you he doesn’t like coffee all that much. He was never really good at accepting gifts. “What is it?”
“I’ll tell you after you try it.”
So he finally does. He can feel you staring at him. He can also feel Jack staring, apparently deciding that whatever important thing he’d been doing wasn’t as interesting as this. And suddenly he understands what everyone’s been talking about.
He’s experiencing first hand the care you put into unraveling all the small little bits of information that make people up. The ability you have to look at someone, see them for who they are, and act accordingly. Doesn’t matter if it’s in the quiet of your home or the emergency department or picking out a drink you think they’ll like. You make them feel seen either way.
You’d joked about it but he’d seen the brief concern in your eyes when you’d walked up to him and held out the drink, afraid you’d hurt him somehow when you’d accidentally forgotten to read him in this way that was uniquely yours. The same way he’d seen right through Jack when he insisted someone new had to cover Shen’s shifts a while back.
Something warm settles inside him at the fact that you’d pin pointed him so accurately it was truly a little insane. Just like you had everyone else. He wasn’t used to being perceived in this way.
“It’s okay.” He takes another sip. A longer one.
You can see him smile around the straw and you match the look, knowing you’re right again. Jack goes back to actually working, thoroughly amused. “It’s a Caramel Apple Crisp Iced Macchiato.”
“Why’d you pick it?” He needs to know what you see in him. What you’re perceiving. Why you’re so right about every single one of them.
“A magician never reveals their secrets,” You kiss the top of Jack’s head again and he reaches up to silently squeeze your hand in acknowledgement. Dennis looks away, afraid he’s intruding on the soft moment. Then you let Jack go and instead reach out to grab him, pulling him away from the computers. “Maybe I’ll tell you one day. Let’s go find a job to do.”
-Day Sixteen-
“You know this is weird right?” Trinity spins in her chair to look at Whitaker. She’d taken a brief pause in her last chart to watch him walk through the ambulance bay doors, settled comfortably on the other side of Jack as the three of you walked in together.
“What are you talking about?” Dennis frowns, not quite following.
It’d become part of the routine. Him and Trinity lived on your way into the hospital. That was it. It just made sense for him to carpool with you and Jack. Save gas in this economy or whatever. It was the same reason Samira usually drove Trinity home and dropped Javadi off wherever she was due to avoid her mom that day.
“You’re third wheeling our attending and his girlfriend,” She crosses her arms in front of her and tries not to laugh at the way his whole face scrunches up in distaste at the wording.
“Well when you put it like that it sounds bad.”
“No it’s not bad,” One corner of Trinity’s mouth quirks up and she shrugs. “They just saw you from across the pitt and liked your vibe.”
“Okay,” He pushes himself off the side of the table he’d been leaning on. “We’re done.”
“They just like you that’s all,” Trinity sits up in her chair and does laugh a little bit that time. “Don’t let the patients catch on though. I heard someone wondering if they’d take a third. You might have to fight people off.”
“You are insufferable sometimes,” Dennis knows his face is going red and it only makes Trinity look even more smug.
“Don’t be mean to her,” Right on cue. Your voice cuts through the laughing and Trinity very quickly puts an innocent pout on her face when you join them. You wrap an arm around her shoulders and rest your head on top of hers.
Trinity is wearing a shit eating as she reaches up and hugs you back. “Yeah, don’t be mean to me.”
Dennis has to bite his tongue to actively hold back his defense. There was no way you could find out what they’d been talking about.
“Hey,” You look at him as you lift your head, still not letting go of Trinity. “Do you wanna go to the farmers market with me after shift? It’s almost Shen’s one year anniversary of being an attending and one of the booths sells this bourbon infused honey he really likes to put in his coffee. He and Jack have a meeting with Al-Hashimi in the morning and if we go fast we can be back before they’re done.”
“Yeah, absolutely,” Dennis agrees immediately and you smile, finally letting go of Trinity.
“Perfect, we’ll sneak out right after rounds?”
“I’ll meet you outside.” The second you’ve turned around and walked away he points an accusing finger at Trinity, who looks incredibly amused. “Don’t say a word.”
She holds back a laugh, “I’m not gonna.”
“Yes you are, I can feel it.”
She tries, she really does, but it comes out anyway. “Should I expect you to move out and into their guest room some time soon?”
“Goodbye, Trin.”
“So is that a yes?”
And then, as if the universe is out to get him, Abbot calls his name from the ambulance bay doors without even really knowing where he is. He just says it instinctively.
“Whitaker,” He looks around until he finds him and then nods, beckoning him over. “Come jump on this trauma with me.”
He doesn’t even dare looking back at Trinity again. He does, however, hear her burst out laughing as he walks away.
-Day Twenty Three-
Nazely hadn’t been at the PTMC for very long but she was starting to think that maybe she was lied too. Part of her was convinced that Sweets might actually be your real name. She’d rarely heard you called otherwise by anyone.
“You’re the best, Sweets.” When you hand Mateo his drink.
“Sweets, can I steal you for a sec?” When Shen needs help out in triage.
“Abbot, when are you gonna let me steal Sweets again? You can’t hog her forever.” When Walsh lingers in the ER after bringing a patient back down from surgery.
So, naturally, she uses the name for you too. Just like she uses everyone else’s name.
“Hi, Sweets,” She grins at you when she sees you walk in. On one side of you, “Dennis,” and on the other side, “Jack.”
She really doesn’t think twice about it.
Jack, however, is jump scared. He wasn’t used to hearing his name come from many people at work. You used it, obviously. Shen also did, he’d weaseled his way into becoming probably one of his closest friends. Every now and then someone else would say it, usually when the line bled from professionalism into exhaustion after long hours.
Hearing it said so casually was…odd. “Was that weird?”
“Was what weird?” You ask, seeing nothing out of the ordinary in the slightest.
“My name.” Jack turns to Whitaker next, brows furrowed in complete confusion.
“I call you that?” Whitaker shrugs as the three of you stop at central, waiting for you to drop off whatever you need to leave behind the desk. “Not here but still.”
“Yeah but that’s different,” Jack shakes his head as if that should be obvious. “I know where you live. I’m supposed to be intimidating. I’m intimidating, right?”
He’s looking at you again and you nod quickly, flashing him a smile, “You’re terrifying.”
Jack knows you’re lying. He turns to Whitaker again. “I’m scary.”
Whitaker looks at you and you give him a small nod. Play along. “Definitely.”
Except Whitaker then watches Jack for a second. He’s still holding his matcha, a salted maple one today, and leaning against the desk beside you. He watches as Jack pushes a strand of hair behind your ear and you smile at him. Then, wordlessly, he moves behind you. He puts his drink down and instead gathers your hair back. He pulls a hair tie off his own wrist, one of the extras he always has on him, and ties it back for you.
Whitaker looks down quickly, as if he’s intruding on something he isn’t supposed to be again, and smiles. And thinks he could get used to this. Nights. The pointless conversations and gentle moments and calling each other by first names. As much as he loves the day shift, this is something that makes him feel comfortable. Like he belongs.
Maybe that’s why he does it.
“I disagree.”
It’s well into the night now and the trauma room they’re in goes quiet. Whitaker is suddenly much too aware of every single person in there. Nazely’s eyes go wide from beside him. Mateo looks back and forth between him and Jack. Even Crus pauses for a second to see how this is going to play out.
Jack pauses, halfway through pulling off his gloves already. “I’m sorry?”
“I think you’re looking at it the wrong way,” Whitaker takes a step forward. He doesn’t back down.
He runs through everything they know. Their patient, their injuries, medical history, prescriptions, what the EMT’s had found out on scene. And he can see why Jack makes the conclusion he does and why everyone else agrees. It was textbook.
But he puts the logical assumptions they usually make aside, looks at it from the patients point of view instead. And it leads him somewhere else.
“I know it might not be necessary but I think we should do it just in case,” Whitaker tries his hardest not to shrink under the way Jack is looking at him. “If I'm wrong then that’s fine. But if I’m right it’s better we catch it earlier.”
It’s quiet for another second. And then the nitrile gloves snap as Jack finishes pulling them off and he nods. “Alright. Order the labs. Central 9 is open last I heard, let’s get him moved in there,” And then to Whitaker. “He’s yours now. Keep me updated.”
It's only thirty minutes later when the lab work comes back.
Whitaker is looking at it on the screen and doesn’t even notice Jack standing right behind him, looking at the results over his shoulder until he says, “You were right.”
Whitaker jumps and quickly backs up against the standing desk he’s at. “Maybe a little warning next time?”
Jack smirks and shrugs, “My ED, we’ll see.” He looks back at the lab results and doesn’t look back at him when he says, “You did good, kid. It’s about time you argued with me about something.”
“I didn’t mean to,” Whitaker quickly adds, realizing all of a sudden that this is his attending and they are at work. There was supposed to be a clear dynamic. “I just -”
“You don’t have to justify yourself,” Jack cuts him off before he can start. “Disagreeing with me is practically a right of passage here, ask anyone. You’re a good doctor, stop pretending you aren’t just because you don’t feel okay pushing back sometimes. You’re one of us now, we can take it.”
Jack doesn’t say anything else. He claps him on the shoulder before walking to wherever he was off to next.
The words stick with him. You’re one of us now.
He thinks of them the entire rest of his shift. Then the entire way home, as you’re recounting a story from triage they’d missed earlier that night from the front seat. Again when you and Jack pick him up again and when he clocks in for the next night's shift he feels lighter on his feet. Like maybe, finally, he’s settled. He likes it here, he decides. Maybe the night shift wasn’t as bad as people assumed it was.
+1. Toasted Coconut Cold Brew, extra sugar
Jack could admit when he was wrong. Maybe Al-Hashimi had been on to something. Honestly, he was sure that he could get used to this.
His team was good. He knew they were. He had more confidence in them than anyone else in the ED. Still, that didn’t mean they didn’t appreciate the extra coverage when they were given it. And having Whitaker there consistently over the last month had been a godsend.
Tonight was his last shift on nights and he knows they’re all wondering the same thing. What would they have to do to get him switched permanently. Whitaker doesn’t seem to mind the idea. They don’t know that he and Javadi are in the process of duking it out to get Al-Hashimi to let one of them switch permanently.
You know it was a rough morning. Not only because Donnie had been keeping you updated on everything you were missing in the nurses group chat but also because Dana is sitting still, something she never does. She’s hovering at central when you walk in with Whitaker and Jack and staring off into space for a moment. A clear sign it’d been a long day.
You silently hand her a well needed dose of caffeine the moment you see her, a toasted coconut cold brew with extra extra sugar. She looks at you and you can hear what she wants to say without her having to say it. You’re a life saver, kid.
She settles into her spot for a second with a soft sigh. You don’t notice when she turns to eavesdropping on the conversation you’re having with Whitaker and watches out of the corner of her eye.
Not a single one of them can deny the effect you seem to have on everyone, the residents especially. They can all see it clearly.
The ease in Mel’s shoulders when she came back in, more willing to assert herself. The way Santos took a second to listen now, looking at things past her first instinct. The confidence Javadi carried with her, not holding herself back anymore.
And now Whitaker. An easy smile on his face and for the first time in the entire time he’d been at the PTMC he took up space and stopped making himself easy to handle. He argued and stood firm in what he thought and even bickered sometimes. Over what he thought was the right course of action and for fun. Loudly. For all Dana knew you night shift dwellers could’ve replaced her mousy little resident with a clone of himself and she just wasn’t made aware.
You’ve maneuvered your way behind the counter and Jack stands close at your side, taking advantage of the fact that it’s not 7:00 PM yet. It’s 6:58 and he has no plans to leave your side until he absolutely has to.
He was not being clingy that time. He was just tired. That was definitely all. The two of you had been up a lot longer than you should’ve been after the night before for various reasons. This wasn’t even that bad compared to how he could be. He’s got one arm on the counter, leaning on it while his body is faced towards you.
Whitaker is leaning towards you over the other side of the counter, practically invading the other half of your personal space and Dana thinks it’s crazy that you don’t feel smothered by them. They’re both stuck to you like glue. She decides that is none of her business.
She watches as night shift starts trickling in. Whitaker nods at Shen in greeting as he walks past, flashing a grin at him while still deep in conversation with you. Then he gives both Mateo and Crus a fist bump when they come in. A few minutes later Ellis follows and she pats him on the shoulder and he smiles back at her and they do a handshake only they seem to know. Dana raises a brow at that one and takes a sip of her coffee.
He doesn’t even look like he’s questioning every word he says as he talks to Jack. Jack Abbot. His attending. He even goes as far as to joke with him the way he only ever has with Santos in moments they think no one is watching.
And Dana is so sure of the choice she’s already made.
“It’s a gift,” You roll your eyes at Whitaker and he shakes his head, looking away so you don’t see the grin he holds back. “It doesn’t count as one if you pay me back for it.”
He shakes his head and stirs the straw in his drink. “There’s literally no reason for you to get me a gift though.”
“Oh, I can't get my friend something nice for making it through the last four weeks?”
“Don’t believe her,” Jack sets one hand on your hip as he leans in closer to look over you so he can see Whitaker past you. His voice lowers like he’s telling him a secret, like you aren’t right there between them. “It’s a bribe to try to get you to stay on nights.”
“You weren’t supposed to tell him,” You turn your head and shake your head at him and he only smiles at you, holding back every instinct of his that’s begging to kiss you in the middle of the ED. “Besides, it was his idea.”
“It was not.” Jack scoffs at your accusation. One that’s absolutely correct.
“Liar.”
“I refuse to participate in this,” Whitaker shakes his head and lets out a smile that time. There was something about being on nights that made him feel a sense of camaraderie with everyone that he hadn’t felt before. He hadn’t just worked with new people, he’d made friends. And maybe part of why he felt so comfortable was this exact reason. The way you dragged him into these things so easily. It made him feel included. He was gonna miss it on days. “Not part of my job description anymore.”
“Oh come on,” You give him a pout and Jack rolls his eyes at your antics. “You’re gonna miss us, admit it.”
“Ellis, Crus, and Shen for sure. Abbot a little bit. Definitely Lena and Mateo,” He tips his head to the side and then flashes you a look that borders on a smirk and shrugs. “I think that’s it.”
“You’re so mean,” You’re actively fighting the smile from appearing. “You’re uninvited to your goodbye breakfast in the morning.”
“We’ll see where you stand on that an hour from now.” He only nods, finally standing up straight and taking a sip of his drink to prove his point. The one you’d bought for him.
He moves to walk away but not before holding his hand out for your second coffee. You hand it to him easily and he takes it along with his drink you’d brought him, heading towards the break room to put them both in the fridge. Whitaker, unlike most of you, had a little bit of self control and didn’t usually chug his way through his drink.
“Seriously,” You turn to face Jack once he’s gone. “Can we keep him? Do you think they’ll let us?”
Jack indulges you. He always does.
“I don’t know, he’s pretty valuable,” His eyes scan your face, bouncing back and forth until they land on your lips, still pouting at him. He debates how badly both Dana and Lena will yell at him if he kisses you right here with patients all around. “We might have to fight for him.”
There’s a ding on your phone before you can answer. When you pull it out to glance at it quickly in case it’s something important you immediately forget anything you’d been about to say.
Dennis Whitaker paid you $7 - bc i’ll miss u the most (real)
“Dennis Whitaker!” You shout in the middle of the ED and you turn around to go hunt him down.
Dana stops you. His only saving grace.
“Not so fast, kid,” Dana reaches out for you and grabs your arm gently before you can walk past her. She looks at you for a second and then notices the way Jack is listening closely, having zeroed in very quickly on this interaction. She looks at him then and puts on a mask of distaste. “Don’t you have patients to go see?”
He checks his watch. 7:00 PM on the dot. “Not yet, technically. Board hasn’t changed.”
“So help me god I will -”
“Alright, alright. Message received,” He holds his hands up in surrender. “I’m going.”
Jack walks away and strategically hovers in Dana’s blindspot, making it a point to eavesdrop out of curiosity.
Dana just watches you for a second. She looks you up and down. She thinks of you when you first came into the PTMC. Competent and determined to do the most good you could. You’d been eager and loud and asked questions she hadn’t been able to predict, ones other nurses who had come and gone wouldn’t have even thought of. She loved you immediately. And now here you are. On your own and somehow, someway having solidified yourself as an absolutely integral part of the night shift ecosystem that Jack Abbot had crafted carefully over the years.
And he’d apparently decided that had to carry over in his own home. She certainly had her opinions on how quickly he’d pulled you in but if the constantly present lovey-dovey look on your face was any indication then the feeling was absolutely mutual.
You look strangely alive with him and that was really all that mattered. It made her smile as much as she pretended it didn’t.
Finally she asks you, “How you likin’ nights so far?”
Your eyes narrow at her and she laughs. You could see through her as well as she could you. “Is there a reason you’re asking now and not a few months ago?”
She shrugs, “Just wonderin’.”
You don’t believe her for a second but you think about it anyway. You think about the last few months and how it had turned completely upside down from how you’d first envisioned it. You think about how it had been on days. And then you answer without hesitation. “I really love it actually. More than I thought I would.”
“Really,” Dana raises a brow at you and crosses her arms. “How much of it is cause of Romeo over there?”
She nods towards where she knows Jack is hovering, doing him the kindness of pretending she doesn’t notice.
“Please, I’d tell you if any of it was and when have I ever lied to you,” You laugh a little at the look she gives you, a mom look if you ever saw one. Your face softens then and she straightens, silently telling you she was there for whatever you were about to confide in her for. “I am serious, though.”
“Yeah?”
You nod and you don’t hesitate to tell her the truth.
“It’s a lot harder than days, definitely. I mean, neither of them are easy, obviously. But there’s more routine with days, you can almost prepare yourself. You don’t get that with nights. All you can do is buckle up and hope for the best and I think I’ve gotten really good at that. Nights are when people are the most vulnerable and scared, when they aren’t afraid of hiding it anymore. They need someone who’s gonna take a little bit of whatever is being thrown at them off their shoulders and I’m good at that. If I can help even a little, then being a bit sleep deprived all the time isn’t really a bad thing.”
“I think you’re good at it too, kid,” Dana smiles at you, genuinely that time. Then she pauses for another second before asking, “You wanna switch back to days?”
You freeze, “What?”
Jack, who’d been about to walk away and mind his business, falters. Suddenly he’s hovering again.
“Temporarily,” Dana adds on quickly. “I have a six week cruise calling my name, gift from my sister-in-law. Gloria already approved you taking over for me while I'm gone.”
You laugh a little bit, filled with nothing but shock. “You’re not serious.”
“Why wouldn’t I be, Sweets?”
“Well,” You point behind her at where Princess and Perlah are standing. You’re so caught off guard by the question that you don’t even notice they’re only there because Jack had quickly recruited them to help hide him in the background behind them so he could move closer. “What about them?”
“Oh absolutely not.”
“Never in a million years.”
“See?” Dana shrugs easily as if that explains everything. “You’re my best bet, kid.”
“Well,” You struggle to find an argument. “Why me?”
Because she trusts you. “Cause you’ve done it before. And very well might I add.”
“Yeah, for like five hours,” You cross your arms in front of you and shuffle on your feet. “That hardly counts.”
“Does too, that’s almost half a shift. The place didn’t burn down did it?”
“That’s like the bare minimum.”
“Sweets,” She finally says as she sets one hand on the counter, the other still holding her drink. She leans forward towards you, lowering herself a bit so she’s eye level with you. “You got this. I know you can run this place the way I do. And so do they.”
She nods vaguely to her side, in the direction of the rest of the entirety of the ED. Princess gives you a thumbs up from behind her and Perlah nods enthusiastically.
“Please say yes,” Jesse shows up out of nowhere, hands squeezing your shoulders in greeting before he leans on the counter next to you. “She’s gonna make one of us do it if you say no.”
“Oh no,” You turn to him and give a mock frown. “Not more work.”
He rolls his eyes at you and then looks at Dana. “She takes after you.”
And it's true. She’d taught you everything she knew and you soaked up every bit of it.
You think for a moment again. You’d gotten used to nights incredibly quickly. It was your home. Where you thrived. But a part of you missed this exact thing sometimes though. The first people you knew here, the ones who’d taught you. The ones you kept close, carrying parts of them with you always. If they trusted you…
“Gloria really said yes already?”
“She took very little convincing.”
“And Lena?”
“I’ve never seen her sign off on something so fast.”
“Okay, that hurts a little bit.”
“She just knows how good you are too. You’re the only one we’re waiting for.”
You bite your bottom lip and drop your head back to look at the fluorescent lit ceiling. Your eyes screw shut for a moment as you weigh the choice to yourself. You sigh as you look at Dana again, “Six weeks?”
“That’s right.”
There’s another few seconds of suspense and you can feel all of them staring at you. And then finally, “Okay. I’ll do it.”
Jack watches the way they cheer and then excitedly crowd around you from afar. And he’s happy for you, he really is. He’s proud of you and he’s absolutely going to tell you so as soon as you tell him later and he pretends to not already know. He’s also devastated. He already doesn’t know what they expect him to do with himself. How could he possibly survive the next six weeks if he didn’t have you by his side.
Whitaker walks past him in that exact moment, on his way to look at the board that has now officially changed, the names of everyone on the night shift taking place of the day shift. Jack grabs the back of his shirt and yanks him back in a single quick move.
He stumbles back and Jack steadies him before he can fall.
“You don’t want to switch places do you?” The question escapes Jack on its own and Whitaker looks confused for only a second. “You can stay on nights and I’ll take your place on days.”
Silence. And then Whitaker notices you still standing with Dana. Perlah, Princess, and Jesse are all hovering now too. Then Donnie and Vivi join you and they know from the ecstatic looks on everyone else’s faces that you said yes. He connects the dots easily enough. He heard about it from Santos who heard from Princess a few days ago. He figured it was none of his business.
He stands upright again and tries really hard not to laugh a little bit. He returns the gesture and sets a hand on Jack’s shoulder and looks him in the eyes before shaking his head once.
“Not a chance. Good luck.”
note pt. 2: shen one hundred percent went to see sabrina carpenter i don't make the rules (javadi got the pink camaraderie shirt in case anyone was wondering)
Summary: Abbot’s mildly annoyed when he doesn’t seem to be his favorite resident’s favorite attending — he’s pissed when he finds out she’s considering leaving the Pitt.
Warnings: general medical things, mentions of a past MCI (not detailed), did Some Research for this but I’m sure it’s still all wrong
Author’s note: Long live Shen and his dunks!!! 🥤hooah!
—
It starts the way things on night shift at the PTMC emergency department often do — with Dunkin’ Donuts.
Dr. Jack Abbot is speaking to an MS3 who’d just arrived for his first rotation when he sees the other attending on shift, Dr. John Shen, stroll in through the ambulance bay doors with his usual pre-shift coffee.
It’s hardly a rare sight at the Pitt, and Abbot only nods in greeting as he goes back to running the new kid, Wells, through what to expect on his first night shift.
What does surprise him, however, enough that he almost doesn’t hear what Wells asks him next as he head snaps back in the direction of the bay, is that you’re smiling at Shen’s side, a matching pink and orange cup in hand.
“Dr. Abbot?”
“Uh, yeah,” Jack says, shaking his head, back to the task at hand. “Sorry, dude, what’d you ask?”
“Will it be a while before handoff?”
Jack checks his watch. “Probably. We get started when all of the residents are here. Have you done any rotations in an ED before?”
“This is my first. I just got done with derm, IM and peds,” he says, then smiles. “Love peds.”
“Well, you’re very lucky to be learning from all of these guys. But you’ll probably be overwhelmed,” Jack says, honest. He almost can’t believe they sent a first-timer to nights; it must be a busy rotation. “Try to keep up best you can, eat whenever you have a millisecond. Let me or any of the residents know if you need help.”
Wells nods, looking serious suddenly. “Yes, sir.”
Jack opens his mouth to tell him to cut that shit out immediately, almost forgetting what had called his attention only a few seconds ago until it appears at his side.
“You and me tonight, Jack?” Shen says, shattering that illusion as he sips from his coffee. “And who’s this?”
“Dr. Shen and Dr. Y/l/n, this is Student Doctor Wells joining us on his first emergency med rotation,” he says. “Dr. Shen is the other attending on shift, and Dr. Y/l/n is our senior resident tonight.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” you say, immediately shaking his hand. Jack saw your eyes light up the moment you heard there was a new student on shift. You loved working with the new kids. “Welcome to the Pitt.”
“Thanks,” he says, shaking Shen’s hand enthusiastically s well. “Aw man, Dunkies? That’s such a good idea.”
Jack rolls his eyes outright, feeling his mouth screw to the side in annoyance while you sip from your cup.
“Dr. Shen bought donuts for everyone, too. They’re in the break room,” you say, checking your watch, a strand of hair falling out of your ponytail with the motion. “C’mon. I can show you before we start handoff.”
Wells looks at Abbot, who shrugs. “Like I said, eat when you can.”
You laugh at that, before your eyes find Wells again, tipping your head in the general direction of the break room. “He’s right. Let’s go.”
Abbot watches the two of you leave before directing his attention back to the chart of the patient he’s taking over from Robby in Trauma 2, familiarizing himself with the results from the tests they’ve been running on day shift.
He hears Shen put down his coffee, the offending cup bound to leave a ring of water on Jack’s preferred charting station at the central hub. It’s never bothered him before — the ED is messy enough as it is — but everything about it is pissing him off tonight.
“Is that something I need to know about?” he asks quietly.
“What?”
Jack looks up. “You and Y/l/n. Coming in here holding hands after a coffee date.”
Shen glitches for a second, frozen where his backpack is halfway off his shoulders.
Then he scoffs.
“It was not a coffee date,” he says. There’s amusement in his eyes.
“Hm,” Abbot says, holding onto his stethoscope while he rolls out his neck, tablet forgotten on the desk. “If you say so.”
“Uh, I do,” Shen insists, still entertained.
“I’m just saying, I’d rather know now, y’know, before upstairs buries us in paperwork,” he says, sniffing, glancing around his department. Robby beckons him from Trauma 2. “See how we can get ahead with admin. That’s all.”
“Jesus Christ, Jack,” his co-attending laughs. “Nobody is doing any paperwork. She just wanted to talk about, like, career stuff.”
Jack’s eyebrows furrow. “Career stuff?”
Shen shrugs, tugging a few pens out of his bag, clipping his badge onto his scrub pants. “She’s applying for fellowships right now — you know this. She just wanted some advice. She’s going around to all the attendings — I’m sure you’re on the list somewhere, dude. Chill.”
“Abbot. Shen,” Robby calls. “I’d really love to leave before puck drop.”
“Coming!” Jack says, before turning back to Shen. “I am chill. I just wanted to know if — hold on. She’s going around to everyone, and you somehow beat me in the order?”
Shen grins around his straw, already bitten beyond practical use, as slimy condensation ring on the desk right next to Jack’s phone. Then he shrugs. “I probably just give off better mentor energy than you do.”
“Right now, I need you to give off attending energy for this handoff,” Jack bites. “Can you do that?”
Shen laughs again, passing Jack on his way to Trauma 2. “You’re on one tonight, old man. Wells better stay out of the way.”
—
A pediatric broken arm comes in only half an hour into your shift.
You grab Wells, who follows you obediently while Olive wheels the 8-year-old to the room number Lena calls out, speaking with her mom about the injury.
The child’s cries are awful, and you briefly doubt if this was something to bring a med student in on so quickly. Kids were hard for you at first.
“What’s this?” Dr. Abbot says from behind the central desk.
“Broken arm. Playground,” you say over your shoulder.
“Wells stay on it. I’ll be in there to check in a few,” he says, nodding at you. You nod back, pursing your lips in the absence of a smile given the scenario, feeling reassured all the same.
“We are a teaching hospital, Mrs…” you trail off, waiting for mom to supply her name as Wells and Olive help her daughter onto the bed in Central 11.
“Redford,” she says. “You can call me June, though. This is Penny.”
“And what’s your name?” you say to the younger boy who’d been clutching his mother’s hand the entire time, tucked behind one of her legs. You crouch to his level.
“Aaron,” he says, his eyes bloodshot.
“Nice to meet you, Aaron. I’m Dr. Y/l/n and this is Student Doctor Wells. We’re going to take real good care of your sister, okay?” you ask.
He nods, sniffling into his mother’s Lycra pants.
“Okay,” you say, standing back up. “Like I was saying, this is a teaching hospital, so I’ll have my med student here with me today, if that’s alright with you, Mom.”
“Sure,” she says, smiling tightly at Wells, her worry still evident, nodding nonetheless. “Is it broken?”
Turning your attention back to Penny, her left arm is lying limp and awkward. “We won’t know for sure until we do some imaging, but we’ll give her something for the pain and bump her as far up the list as we can if she needs an x-ray, okay?”
Mrs. Redford breathes. “Okay. Thank you.”
“Sound good, Penny?” you ask. She nods.
You speak with Olive about starting ibuprofen and an order for an x-ray. Wells seems to be doing okay at Penny’s bedside, his eyes already scanning her injury.
“What would we do next?” you ask, joining him bedside.
“After pain management, X-ray?” he asks.
“We could,” you say, smiling at both Penny and her mom as you both turn away slightly to deliberate. You look at him expectantly. “But pediatric fractures are also a great candidate for…?”
Wells is still locked in on her arm, but then he looks up for a second, a look of recognition passing on his face.
“Ultrasound,” he says. “Of course.”
“Right,” you say, smiling again. “Good job. Didn’t wanna spoil it, but Olive probably already sent for a machine.”
“Nurses, man,” he says, appreciative.
You finally settle on the stool at Penny’s bedside, getting a closer look.
“What happened?” you ask, looking between both of them.
“I fell from the monkey bars,” she says.
“The monkey bars?” Wells asks, his tone light and happy. He did say he had some peds in him. “Oh no! Were you racing your brother?”
You roll to the side as Wells keeps talking to Penny, and her mom directs her attention to you. “I was watching them, I swear I was, but her dad called, and she’s just so fast—”
“It’s alright,” you say immediately. You weren’t at all worried about this case from a social perspective — both children presented clothed, well-fed and clean, and mom was caring and cooperative to start. You could keep an eye out through the rest of the exam, and you catch Wells’ eye when she’s not looking.
But with Penny comfortable and the room calmed down slightly, Aaron sitting at the end of her bed, you let June know she could take her son to the family room if she wanted.
“No, that’s okay. We’ll stay with her at least until her father is here,” she says.
“Okay,” you nod, watching Olive pull back the curtain to wheel in the ultrasound machine.
A blur of movement and an audible commotion near the hub catches your ear, but you and Wells remain focused on the task at hand.
Olive is leading him through the set up of the ultrasound, so you keep your ears open, staying aware of your surroundings, noting already where Dr. Abbot’s standing in front of the board at the central hub.
Then it’s Lena’s voice, followed by a man’s.
“Sir, you can’t just barge back here—”
“My daughter’s back here! June? Penny?”
A man enters the bay suddenly, his chest heaving and eyes wild, pushing past Olive on his way to Penny’s opposite bedside. Father.
“Oh, Pen,” he sighs, shrugging off his suit jacket. “What happened?”
“I fell off the monkey bars,” she says, a fresh round of tears springing.
“Is it broken? Has she been for an x-ray?” he asks, shifting his attention to you.
“Hi, Mr. Redford,” you start, nodding for Wells to begin smoothing the gel over Penny’s arm. “We’re beginning the ultrasound now. I’m Dr. Y/l/n, and this is—”
“Ultrasound?” he says, his face screwing up immediately. His suit jacket discarded in his wife’s lap at some point, he loosens his tie. “Isn’t that for babies? Her arm is fucking broken.”
The atmosphere in the room changes on a dime, you feel Wells still beside you, and Olive freezes, too, where she’s checking Penny’s chart at the monitor again.
“We suspect so,” you say, taking a measured breath. You make sure Wells has a good enough view of the monitor, handing him the wand with a reassuring nod. “We’re doing the ultrasound to see what kind of break it is so we can properly set it, then recommend her a cast or a brace depending.”
“How long has she been waiting here in pain while you guys are fiddling with this machine?” he asks. He turns to his wife, who has also fallen silent at this exchange. “Babe, why didn’t you push for an x-ray?”
June looks to you, suddenly helpless. “Well, she said—”
“No, no,” Mr. Redford cuts her off, his eyes squinting at you. “I want a different doctor in here right now.”
Wells, to his credit, is focused completely on the machine, moving the wand over her arm. You lean in closer.
“Keep going. Try to identify the type of fracture,” you say softly, before turning your attention back to the father.
“Mr. Redford, on fractures such as your daughter’s, an ultrasound gives us a quicker diagnosis, and then we don’t have to expose her to radiation,” you explain. “On injuries like this, where the hand goes out to catch the fall, ultrasounds are very common.”
But you see this all the time. Tensions run high enough in the ED, way before a kid is involved. You can tell nothing you’ve said has carried any weight as his frustration grows.
Abbot is still visible over his shoulder, now focused on a chart on his tablet but inched a few feet down the counter at the central hub, marginally closer to the bay you’re in.
“What is this place?” Mr. Redford says, his volume growing. Olive looks to you, a question in her eyes, and you nod. “My wife rushed my daughter here an hour ago and she’s still not in a fucking cast?”
“We’ll get her in a cast as soon as Student Doctor Wells and I—”
“And you’re letting a student touch my daughter?”
“Greenstick,” Wells says quietly. You pull your attention away, checking the monitor, and nod at him.
“Good. We’ll want Ortho down here to be sure,” you say.
“Hey!” the father shouts suddenly. Your eyes shoot to both of his children, their faces scared. His wife is standing at his side, a hand on his arm, pleading, but he surges on. “I’m fucking talking to—”
“S’there a problem here?”
Jack appears with Olive behind him, his jaw set as he looks around the room. His eyes don’t go to Mr. Redford first, but to you. He glances at Wells, too, who still has his head down, even if at some point he had moved himself slightly in front of you, in between you and the father.
Only then does Dr. Abbot speak, pointing at Mr. Redford. “Dad, out here with me. Now.”
Mr. Redford scoffs. “Oh, are you in charge? Do you want to explain to me why you’re letting college kids run rampant around your ER?”
“Buddy, I wasn’t asking,” Jack says. “Or I can get security involved if I need to. How’s that sound?”
That seems to register with the man, who finally detaches himself from the beside, stalking over to where Dr. Abbot grips the bay curtain. Which is promptly shut as soon as he’s on the other side, but not before he meets your eyes one last time.
“You need to calm down. You’re scaring your daughter, and your son, too, for that matter,” you hear him say.
“I’ll calm down when she’s been properly seen—”
But Jack cuts him off. “Your daughter is in the care of a very talented, knowledgeable and experienced senior resident, and your wife consented to a student doctor on the case.”
“I didn’t consent to that.”
“But you weren’t here, and that’s none of my business,” Jack says. “What is my business, is my ED and my staff. And you cannot talk to my staff that way unless you want to be removed. Got it?”
Silence for a bit longer, and then the curtain wooshes open again. Dr. Abbot lingers, hands tucked behind his back, as Mr. Redford returns to his daughter’s bedside, looking dejected.
Jack nods at you.
“Okay,” you sigh, a smile on your face again, trying to breathe a bit a life back into the room. June is beet red. “Olive, can you please call an Ortho consult?”
“I did earlier,” she says. “They’re sending Park.”
You whistle. “Lucky you, Wells, meeting Park the Shark your first day.”
—
After you explain the next steps to both parents, Dr. Park arrives to assess the fracture, fist bumping Dr. Abbot, who then takes his leave, one more nod at you. You wave him off.
Park ultimately agrees with Wells’ diagnosis, telling him not to get too excited over a simple pediatric greenstick under his breath when Wells smiles at you proudly.
Park orders Penny moved up to Ortho to cast her, noting that the swelling isn’t too severe and that she can go home with a new cast tonight. And that yes, that she can pick whatever color she wants.
Kids always bring out a a different side of even the most intimidating doctors, and you smile when Park promises to have the pink options set out for her.
“See ya, bottom dwellers,” he says, snapping his gloves into the trash once Penny and her family have been moved out of the room and sent upstairs.
“Thanks,” you say sarcastically. “That one is all yours. Dad’s a lot. You were warned.”
When he leaves, you check in with Wells, who seems a bit overwhelmed by everything that just occurred as you both sanitize.
“Is that kind of thing normal?” he asks. “You were so… calm.”
“Sadly,” you say. “Yeah, it is. You just have to focus on the patient. Escalate if you need. You’ll learn.”
He follows you to the board, brand new Hokas squeaking along the floor. “Dude’s a badass.”
“Who, Park?” you laugh. “Yeah. He knows it, too.”
But Wells shakes his head as he joins at your side. “No, Abbot.”
You quirk a brow, thinking back to the scene, hating that you have to force yourself to relive it to remember the details so quickly, because you’re that used to those kinds of things happening to you.
You’ve gotten so good at packing it up and picking up the next patient, to the point that it almost scares you sometimes.
Maybe not the exact wording you’d choose, but Dr. Jack Abbot is a badass.
Because it’s true, that you’d sought his reassurance on bringing Wells into the room almost as soon as you’d decided to do it.
That when a man entered the picture with a raised voice, aggressive posture and foul language, you ran through escalation procedures in your head and looked around for anyone who could help, but your eyes were really only looking for him.
That when Olive had raised her eyebrows at you, you knew she was silently asking if you needed Dr. Abbot, not anyone else, and that you were nodding before you could even properly consider it.
That when he did arrive, seconds later, you felt steady once again, properly able to focus on treating Penny as quickly as possible while still letting Wells learn when it was appropriate.
That when Abbot called you talented and knowledgeable, it wasn’t even the first time you’d heard it from him — because he was usually saying it to your face — but hearing it for the benefit of someone else had doubled its impact on you.
And that when Jack lingered until Park arrived from Ortho, caught your eyes one last time while you began presenting to the surgeon, you felt yourself trying not to preen.
And most of all, that all of these things point to one irrefutable fact that you’ve spent weeks, months trying to ignore, white knuckling your way through brushed shoulders, reassuring words and touches to the small of your back, only feeling like you can breathe again when it’s time for your next elective elsewhere — which is that you have the biggest, most inconvenient, unprofessional and distracting crush on one of your attendings.
“Yeah, he’s — he has our backs,” you say, considering your next words carefully. “So does Shen.”
“He just came in there all ‘you, with me, now,’” Wells imitates, which succeeds in making you laugh, forgetting your grief momentarily. “Shut him up real quick. So sick.”
“Yeah,” you sigh, rubbing a hand over your face, looking back to the board for the newest arrival waiting for a doctor. “So… so sick.”
—
Hours later, Jack finds you finishing up charts at your favorite desk, on the north side by the family room. You hadn’t seemed rattled earlier by any means, but he still had to check on his resident.
“Hi,” he says softly, tapping his fingers on your desk as he approaches.
“Hi, Dr. Abbot,” you smile. You stretch your arms over your head, your scrubs exposing a strip of skin as you lean back.
He looks away, pretending to suddenly study the chart on his tablet, clearing his throat. “How are you? How’s the kid doing?”
“Penny?”
“No,” he laughs. “Sorry. Our MS3.”
“Oh. Wells is doing good. Great on peds. We’ve been needing that on nights,” you say, your smile growing. “He was with me and Shen on that MVC, and now I think Parker has him with her on scut.”
Jack nods. “Good. I’m gonna tell him to stick with you, if that’s alright.”
You nod enthusiastically before you go back to typing and he keeps looking at his own charts, a beat of silence shared between you two before he speaks again.
“You handled that really well earlier.”
Your smile from earlier diminishes as you sigh.
“Thanks, I guess. He didn’t leave us alone until the big scary attending came in.”
“Men like that don’t always tend to respond to receiving expert medical advice,” he says. “You know that. But you sent for help and kept the exam rolling, keeping the rest of the family calm and making sure your student got some time. You did everything right.”
Your smile is back, and he feels his own face fit to match yours against his better judgement. The feeling evaporates when you reach for your Dunkin’ cup only seconds later.
It’s quiet for another moment as you sip and tap away at your keyboard, Jack still fiddling with his tablet, beginning to think about handoff. He’d really love to be able to admit both cases in BH upstairs before Robby gets in.
“You still thinking of that pediatrics fellowship?” he asks, setting his tablet down, resting his hip on the desk. “You know there’s an attending offer coming.”
“I don’t know,” you say, swiveling in your chair to face him. “Kids are great, but parents are… I think I might be too soft.”
“You are not soft. Did someone tell you that? Who told you that?”
You look surprised, and Jack wonders if he’s said the wrong thing or came across as overbearing — just as soon, he realizes he doesn’t care.
But you just shrug, tucking a leg under you in your chair. “Nobody said anything. Fellowship’s still on the table. I’ve just got a lot to think about.”
“Again. That offer is coming,” he reminds you. “If you’re sick of school.”
He expects a quip back. Maybe ‘never’ with an offended face.
But you just nod seriously, logging out of the computer. “Yeah. That’s a whole other thing to think about.”
“Hey. Let me know how I can help, yeah?” he asks, tracking your movements, the way you wipe your hands on your pants as you stand.
“Thanks Dr. Abbot,” you say, reaching for your tablet. “I’m sure I’ll come knocking for a letter of rec or two.”
“Right,” he says, still stuck at your desk, even as you walk past him, heading toward the nurse’s station. But you stop, his hand reaching out for your shoulder before he can decide on a better tactic.
You pause, looking up at him, no idea how fired up he is over that coffee.
“If you ever wanna just, like, talk. I’m here for that, too,” he says, hoping it comes across nonchalant, laid-back. The exact opposite of how he feels saying it.
But you don’t say anything, just nodding with a slightly confused expression as you leave him, his hand falling from your shoulder as he tries not to turn and watch you go.
“Oh, that was painful to watch.”
Jack whips his head toward Shen, who’d supposedly been watching the interaction from the nurse’s station, with that stupid coffee still in hand.
Jack had skipped the box of donuts in the break room earlier purely on principle.
“Will you finish that fucking coffee already? It’s been hours.”
—
The next blow is arguably worse, because it comes from his best friend.
“I had coffee with your resident over the weekend,” Robby says offhandedly, just a footnote at the end of sign-out.
Jack raises his eyebrows. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
Robby laughs, tucking his glasses into his jacket pocket and slinging his backpack over his shoulder, handing the tablet he was carrying over to Jack. “You supervise how many residents and you’re not even gonna ask me who?”
“I know who,” Jack grumbles lowly.
Robby grins tiredly. “She said she was asking all of the attendings, some of the seniors — talking with other specialities, too.”
Jack feels his jaw tick, glad you were requested for a follow-up at triage first thing and aren’t anywhere near this desk right now.
“Jack,” Robby says.
“What?” he bites out, frustrated. Why couldn’t his resident just fucking talk to him?
“I didn’t know she was considering other fellowships,” Robby says.
Jack shakes his head. “If she does one, it’s peds. We talked about it last week.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” Robby says, sucking his lips to his teeth, his knees bending. He feels awkward.
Abbot looks up from his tablet, not saying anything.
Robby continues quietly, “Ultrasound. She even threw out crit care. And I told her she should ask Langdon about education.”
Jack sets the tablet down on the hub with a thunk, collecting his thoughts silently for a second, his eyes not leaving Robby’s.
“We don’t have any of those here.”
“No,” Robby says slowly. “But Presby has ultrasound and education.”
Three years at the Pitt, an attending offer with your name on it, and you wanted to go to Presby?
Jack sniffs, turning away as he looks back at the tablet. “Well that’s news to me. Who even has crit care? Westbridge?”
Robby shakes his head.
“Oh,” Jack says in realization, his attempt at looking at his charts useless.
Not PTMC, not Presby or Westbridge.
Not Pittsburgh at all.
“Brother, I hope you know what you’re doing with that one,” Robby sighs.
“I can assure you that I fucking don’t,” Jack says lowly. “I don’t get why she won’t just come talk to me.”
Robby shakes his head. “You’ll figure it out.”
As he watches Robby leave, a pitying smile on his face, he catches him nodding in greeting to you near the Chairs entrance, your hand thankfully free of the offending Dunkin’ cup tonight.
But as welcome of a sight as you are, it does nothing to quiet the voice in his head telling him that in a few short months you might not even be here. That he might not be treated to the sight that he’s come to realize is more than half of what gets him out of bed at 5pm every day.
His dilemma — teetering so hard toward the personal that he’s beginning to forget it was ever professional in the first place — all fades away as soon as Jack sees you talking with another man, recognizing him immediately as the agitated father from the pediatric broken arm the other day.
Someone, he hasn’t the faintest idea who, tries to get his attention behind him. “Dr. Abbot—”
“One sec,” he says, already pushing his way past nurses, his steps quick to the other side of the central desk.
The closer he gets, he sees that the daughter is with him, too, and he slows his pace. Everything looks calm, but he waits near the edge of the hub.
“Penny was hoping her doctors would sign her cast,” Mr. Redford says. “Her doctor upstairs said you guys would be back around this time.”
Jack busies himself reassigning charts to night shift on the station he’d ended up in front of, busy work that he can do while still listening, unable to remember if he’d given the stomach pain in South 18 to Parker or Nazely as he listens to your every word, his fingers slipping while he splits his attention between his monitor and your interaction.
“We’d love to!” you say, bending partially out of his sight in order to sign her cast. “I love the color you chose. Very pretty. Wow! You got Dr. Park sign, too?”
Jack makes eye contact with Mr. Redford while you’re distracted talking to Penny, who’s in much better shape than she was last week. To his minor, minuscule credit, the man looks sheepish.
“And also,” he says, looking back to you and clearing his throat. “I wanted to apologize. To you and your student, if he’s around. The way I acted was unacceptable.”
“Oh,” you say, and Jack hears the surprise in your voice, watching you tuck Penny out of the way as a gurney comes racing by. “Thank you for saying so. It happens. It’s scary to be in here for your kiddo.”
Don’t dismiss it, Jack thinks. Don’t let him off.
“I’m really sorry,” he says again, his hands back on his daughter’s shoulders. Nowhere near you.
Jack breathes.
“I hope you can remember this in the future, whenever you interact with healthcare workers,” you say, so quiet that Jack can barely catch it over the noise in the ED. Probably so Penny can’t hear. But it’s firm, and your voice doesn’t waver. “This is a very stressful system, but we all just want what’s best for the patient.”
Jack hears you direct the man and his daughter toward where Wells should be, and fully locks back into what he’s been pretending to to be doing for the entire interaction.
He definitely assigned that stomach pain to Henderson, now that he thinks about it.
“You saw that, right?” you ask, peeking over the front of the desk, bringing a whoosh of your perfume over his senses.
“I saw,” Jack nods, clearing his throat before taking his time looking up at you fully.
When he does, you’re almost breathless, beaming with pride, your nails tapping on his desk.
He’d sooner die than let that smile go to Presby.
“Told you,” he says, weighted. He shakes his head. “You’re not soft.”
—
“You’ll definitely get in.”
“Yeah?” Crus says, pressing the crosswalk sign, the two of you slowing to a stop as you wait for the signal. The air’s nippy for April, your fleece pulled tight around your shoulders. Your hand freezes where it’s clutched around a plastic cup of cold brew. You’d never give up your iced drinks, weather be damned.
You’d asked Henderson for coffee before tonight’s shift, and he’d recommended meeting at his favorite spot that was walking distance from the hospital. The coffee was alright, but the cinnamon buns were just as good as he said.
“I appreciate that,” he continues. “I’d miss this place, though. What about you?”
You sigh, rolling your neck out as you see the top floors of the Pitt over the trees, a chill going down your spine, and not from the weather. “Million-dollar question these days, isn’t it?”
“I thought you wanted peds. You thinking of going straight to community?” Crus asks, his expression curious.
“Not really,” you admit. “I could. But I still want to do something else. I just don’t know what anymore.”
“So not peds, then?” he presses.
“Peds is… I love it. But it’s so hard sometimes,” you sigh, your lip worried between your teeth. You don’t need to speak the reasons why out loud — it’s obvious. Crus has been by your side since you started, and he’s been gloved up with you for some of your worst cases. “So I just wanted to look around.”
“What else are you thinking, then?” he asks, eyeing you suspiciously — like it’s absurd that Dr. Y/l/n could land anywhere but at PTMC’s emergency pediatrics fellowship next year.
“Well, you’ve fully tanked my ultrasound chances at Presby,” you joke. “But that’s okay. I’ve thought about critical care, too.”
“I don’t know. I heard you were coming for my spot on that broken arm a few weeks back,” Crus laughs, the two of you finally making your way across the street once the walk sign flashes on.
“I learned that from you.”
“We learned that. From Abbot,” he corrects.
You don’t respond, the two of you quietly walking lockstep down the ramp to the public entrance. You revel in the last few moments of normalcy before everything starts to scream at you for the next 12 hours.
“I’m surprised you haven’t considered emergency med education,” Crus says. “You couldn’t do it here, but. We’d see each other around at Presby, I’m sure.”
You look up at him as he holds open the door for you. “Yeah?”
“Wherever we go, co-res. I hope we stay in touch,” he smiles. You feel a surge of fondness for him — feeling slightly less anxious after everything you’ve discussed. That was the point of these talks, anyway, to hear from the people who know you, who’ve taught you everything or learned alongside you these years.
There’s just one you know you can’t bother with, even if it kills you.
You both flash your badges toward security as you bypass the line, and you smile at your favorite guard working the screening today.
“I would miss this place, too,” you say.
“Can you imagine us ever saying that on our first day here?” he asks.
You think back to yours and Henderson’s first day as interns. You’d been a ball of nerves, fresh out of med school in Virginia. If he was as nervous as you, he didn’t show it.
“Hm. Would it have been before the debridement or after the MCI?”
He winks.
“We better head in. Abbot’s gonna be all over me if I make you late,” he says, waiting for you to scan your badge into the ED before he does. “Shen said he gave him a hard time the other day.”
You stop walking at his words, hugging the wall just inside the doors, suddenly nervous to even catch a glimpse of the aforementioned attending now. “What do you mean?”
Crus chucks his empty coffee in the trash and crosses his arms, his voice dropping low around his next words. It’s not hard to go unheard in a room this loud and busy, but it’s just as easy to accidentally be overheard. You lean closer.
“You could talk to him, y’know,” Crus says. “He knows you the best. He could tell you what he thinks.”
You shake your head, the idea impossible. “I already know what he thinks. He wants me here.”
“Well, that doesn’t surprise me,” Crus mutters.
You have no time to ask him to expand, unsure if you’d even want to, your stomach so turned over at every underlying implication. You hadn’t eaten enough before shift and you were starting to get shaky from the caffeine, your hands clammy.
“All this coffee coming in these days, and yet nobody is asking for my order.”
The source of your anxiety had arrived through the ambulance bay doors at some point, his backpack slung over his shoulder as he stands staring between you and Crus, his eyes trained on your cup, before he looks to your face, eyebrows raised.
His scrubs don’t even match today, and he’s gone and worn the top that’s just a bit too big for your liking — the one that doesn’t accentuate his arms like they deserve. Maybe that’s a godsend today. Your eyes trail over his freckled forearms anyway — it’s useless.
“They don’t serve break room sludge at my spot,” Henderson says, before turning back to you. “Y/n/n, think about what I said.”
Crus walks off, and you smile tightly at Jack as you attempt to walk past him as well, but he starts to trail just a pace behind you.
“What’d he say?” he asks.
“Just helping me talk through some fellowship apps,” you answer, stopping at the central hub to glance at the board. He stops too, leaning his arm on the desk.
“Yeah? How’s that going?”
“It’s… fine,” you nod, hiking your own bag up higher on your shoulder. “Finishing up soon. Hopefully.”
“Good,” he says. “That’s good. Deadlines coming up, right?”
“You keeping an eye out?” you joke, but your hand twitches around your cup.
“You’ve just been… drinking a lot of coffee lately,” he accuses.
Your mouth falls open in protest. “What do you —”
“You’d let me know, right?” he asks, turning to you. “If you needed any help? And I don’t just mean a letter, Y/l/n. Seriously, anything.”
You’re nodding on autopilot, even if his words have hit you in the deepest part of your chest. His words so earnest, you’re attending so unaware of the impact he’s even having on you because that’s just who Jack Abbot is. He looks out for everyone in his department no matter how long he’s known them, and he gives his heart over and over to patients until he has nothing left in him but a trip to the roof at daybreak.
It’s ironic, in a sad way, that watching him all of these years has made you unable to even let him in like he’s asking you to. Because he just doesn’t know what it means to you, and he never will.
“I know, Dr. Abbot,” you say. “Thank you.”
If he’s convinced by your answer he doesn’t look it, and he sighs as he unzips his backpack. “Go drop your stuff. Sign-out is in five.”
Dismissed, you toss your half-full cup of coffee in the trash on your way to the lockers. Your nerves are shot enough.
—
Abbot is overseeing you, along with your now near-permanent sidekick in Wells, on a traumatic amputation later that night. Motorcycle accident turned nearly deadly — he files a mental note to sign this patient out to Robby.
He lingers where he usually does when you’re leading on a patient, hands tucked behind his back near the doors, in a paper gown that you’d tied on for him in case he needed to hop in, even if he knew he wouldn’t. Once Ortho had come down for a consult, he felt even less of a need to be actively involved. You could do this in your sleep.
“You a third year?” Park asks, watching Wells flush the limb with saline.
Wells looks bewildered. “Who? Me?”
“I’m looking at you, aren’t I?” he spits.
“Yeah, I am, um — is this not…” he gestures toward the limb, shaky. “I’ve never done a saline flush before.”
Park nods. “It’s fine. Come back for an ortho elective next year.”
Jack watched as Wells looks over to you immediately, and you just raise your eyebrows at him, nodding. Jack can practically feel the pride emanating from you like a force field around the kid.
“Uh, yeah,” Wells says, turning back to Park, then back to the limb. Back to Park again. “I hadn’t thought about it. But I will.”
“You stealing my med students, Park?” Jack quips, hands on his hips. “Arm’s not even reattached yet.”
“Your residents, too,” Park grins, before turning to you. “We still on for — what’d we say, tomorrow?”
Jack’s stomach sinks.
You sigh, still holding your gloved hands up. “Uh, shoot. Can we do Thursday instead?”
Park cocks his head. “Before nights? Sure.”
“I was thinking we could just hit the caf? It’s easiest, especially if we’re already coming in earlier,” you say.
“Re-attachment’s favorable,” he tells one of the OR nurses who appears in the room, ready to bring the patient up. “Can you call up and book the OR they were holding? Wells, you coming up?”
“Hell yeah,” he says, standing quickly, the stool he’s sitting on skidding into the wall behind him. You stifle a giggle, and Jack can feel you turn to him, but he can’t bring himself to share in your amusement.
“Okay, well make sure you bring that,” Park says, pointing at the arm. He turns back to you. “I’m not doing the caf. Get my number before you leave in the morning and we’ll figure it out.”
Jack doesn’t hear the rest, shedding his PPE into the corner bin and shouldering the trauma door open with force, muttering an excuse toward one of the OR nurses that’s inadvertently stood in his way, aggressively rubbing sanitizer into his hands as he stalks back to the central desk.
He stares at the board as new arrivals filter in, but he can’t process any of it.
Because — fucking Park? It sits in his stomach like a rock — the knowledge that you’d sooner turn to an attending on a different floor, in a completely different speciality, than you’d come to him for anything.
Robby and Shen had hurt, too. Henderson he didn’t even mind — he was glad his residents had a close relationship, happy that you had an equal to turn to. Because Jack prided himself on his mentorship. It’s been one of the most rewarding things of working at this hospital, the never-ending parade of new kids coming to check a box for med school that ended up discovering their passion. It was few who’d actually have the chops to stay.
But you were always supposed to be one of them. From the day he’d met you, he knew he wanted you to want to stay. He’d held his breath every time you came back from an elective, bright-eyed, explaining everything you’d learned with a new-found enthusiasm he was worried the Pitt had long ago stolen from you. And then he’d feel selfish, realizing his biggest fear is that you’d fall in love with something else and leave him and this place behind, when he knew he should just want you to be the best doctor you can be.
So Park feels like a slap in the face, like ice-cold water poured over him in the middle of Trauma 2.
Jack had spent three years watching over you — he knew your tells. He knew you were stressed the last few months, your anxiety not impacting your performance, but definitely his own mood. Maybe it made him feel inadequate as a leader that his resident was clearly struggling and wouldn’t talk to him about it. Or maybe it just worried him in a way that he’d realized long ago that he shouldn’t be worrying for you.
—
Nearing the end of his rotation, Wells had become a presence you realize you’ll miss having around. But you have a sneaking suspicion he’ll be back.
“How’d you feel last weekend?” you ask, walking with him toward the break room.
“Oh,” he says holding the door once you swing it open. “Yeah. That sucked.”
“Did you end up getting to talk to your niece?” you ask him quietly, the two of you loitering at the coffee pot now. Not really enough time to sit down, but just enough to duck away for a second after walking him through some sutures.
“Mhm.”
“Did it help?” you ask.
He shrugs, titling his head side to side. “Maybe? I think a little.”
“Good,” you nod. “It’s good to have people you can reach out to outside of all of this that remind you why. Even if we’re here for you, too.”
Wells talks about his next rotation, in psych — which he’s told you many times by now he’s not particularly excited for. But you told him it might surprise him; you remember enjoying it back in your MS4 year, after you’d avoided it as long as possible.
“You’re coming back for that Ortho elective though, aren’t you?” you say, idle chatter.
The NP that had been taking their lunch leaves, and it’s just the two of you after a while. Wells immediately angles his body toward you.
“Listen. I have a question. It’s kinda embarrassing,” he starts.
“Oh?” you blink, shaking away the cobwebs that crowd your mind in the dead hours of this shift. The microwave tells you it’s almost 6am.
“What are the moral implications of me asking out a nurse? Even if she’s on day shift?”
You can’t help the laugh that bubbles out of you.
“Is it that bad?” Wells asks, distressed.
But you cover your mouth, clearing your throat to stop your laugh but unable to fight your smile. “It’s Emma, isn’t it?”
“How’d you know?”
“I have eyes.”
His cheeks flame red, a feat considering how pale he’d just been. “Well, yeah. It is her. Is that, like, kosher? Is there a policy?”
You pat his shoulder. “Oh, Wells. If a doctor got in trouble every time he hit on a nurse around here we’d be a skeleton crew.”
“So it’s fine?” he says, his tone hopeful.
“Sure. Some personal advice, though,” you wince, thinking back to an elective last year when an EMT asked you out your first day. You’d avoided the ambulance bay for four straight weeks after you’d kindly rejected him. He was cute, built in the way that a lot of EMTs are, and he never held it against you. Your heart was just a little locked up at your home hospital. “Wait ‘til after your rotation ends.”
He nods seriously. “Got it.”
“C’mon, loverboy, we should go,” you tell him, reaching for the door handle as you make for the exit.
“Thanks, Dr. Y/l/n. I figured you’d know.”
You pause, your hand releasing, letting the door shut again as you turn back to him, skeptical. “Why?”
Wells tilts his head down at you, his eyebrows furrowed. “‘Cause you’re… dating an attending?”
Your heart begins to hammer in your chest. He hadn’t specified, but you know who he’s talking about. And if an MS3 can clock you after a few weeks on shift, you were worse off than you’d thought.
“I’m not dating anyone,” you say, simple denial that you hope he’ll buy.
You curse the casual relationship you’d built with Wells over the last few weeks, because he knew by now nothing was out of bounds. He knew he could talk to you — something you’d have been proud of an hour ago. Something you were proud of when he asked you about hospital dating policy.
“Wait, so you and Abbot aren’t…”
“Wells,” you say quietly. “No.”
“I’m sorry!” he whisper-shouts, his eyes wide. “I’m so sorry, I just figured — the way people talk about it, I just — ”
Your body goes cold, your back finding the wall of the break room. “What do they say?”
“Uh,” he says sheepish. “Just that — ”
But you raise your hand, cutting him off when Shen walks in, nodding to you both on his way to the fridge.
“Actually, no. Um,” you clear your throat, trying to collect your thoughts, painfully cognizant of the other attending who’s now within ear shot of your on-set panic. “Anyway. Like I said, wait until you rotate. Or don’t. You’re fine. You’ll be fine.”
You’ve probably gone as pale as you feel, as pale as he’d been at the beginning of this conversation, because Wells looks concerned. “Dr. Y/l/n?”
“I’m gonna step out for just a sec,” you mutter, avoiding eye contact with Shen, who now seems curious over Wells’ shoulder. “Check back in on our South patients. Then Shen can take you. Or find Ellis.”
“Y/l/n,” Shen calls. “You good?”
“Just gonna get some air,” you say over your shoulder, opening the door again, not waiting for Wells or, god forbid, Shen to follow you out as you let it swing shut, hoping more than anything you can make it up to the roof without running into Jack Abbot.
—
You manage to avoid him, even if you almost barrel full-speed into Crus on the floor and are forced to share an elevator with Park on your way up to the roof, mad at your past self for just trying to make connections with your coworkers, who can now recognize when you’re in the middle of an existential crisis and horrifyingly both ask if you’re alright.
It’s cold on the roof, even as the sun rises in pink and orange tones. You don’t cry yet, but you feel it coming, your elbows resting on the railing, palms pressed into your eyes. You think you might need to sit down soon.
When the door squeaks open a few moments later, you don’t turn, but you recognize the gait of the footsteps before they’re even halfway to joining you at the railing.
“I’d ask you what’s wrong,” Jack starts, and his tone is steeped in frustration. “But would you even want my help?”
You’re bewildered, lowering your hands, turning to see him, his arms crossed stubbornly over his chest with one of his eyebrows raised. “What?”
“Nothing,” he shrugs. “Just feels like my senior resident has gone around to every doctor in this hospital before coming to me even once.”
“Dr. Abbot—”
“You know I begged Robby to let me have you on nights?”
You’re slow to stand up straight. “What?”
“You came to me as an intern, Y/n,” Jack says. “I saw what you were capable of the first time you swung shifts.”
“But I—”
“Night shift is hard,” he continues. “Pacing is weird. Patients are weirder. It’s not for everyone. But I watched you, and I just — I knew you could find your place here.”
It’s a streak of pride, you realize, underlying all of that tension.
“And you have. So what I can’t work out is why you’re going to leave Pittsburgh without even talking to me about it, when you and I both know…” he continues, he tears his eyes from the sunrise, looking unsure suddenly, finally meeting your eyes. “You know you have a place here with us, don’t you?”
He’d made that clear enough since you started your third year. Unfortunately for you, that was right around the time the line had started to blur.
“But that’s it, Jack, I don’t — I don’t know anything anymore. Because this place is — it’s you,” you accuse. “I’ve tried so hard to make my own lane and you’re just all over it.”
He balks at that. “It’s my fuckin’ shift. I brought you on it so you could make that lane. And you have.”
“But you’re my attending,” you say, begging him to understand. If Wells could read between the lines after four weeks, surely Jack had, too. Maybe he had been doing that all along if the hospital really was abuzz about it. You cringe, thinking about him discussing this with anyone else.
“Right. So you come to me when you need help,” he says, his hands on his chest. “Not Robby. Not Shen. Surely not fucking Park.”
“I can’t,” you plead, feeling tears brim at the back of your eyes. “You know I can’t.”
“Why not?” he says, moving closer. You wish he wouldn’t — you wish he’d go downstairs and just let you freak out like you’d been needing to for weeks.
You wish above all that you didn’t have to leave the place you loved so much because you love the man in front of you more.
“Why?” he repeats, his hand reaching for you. Your breathing stops, your eyes finding his again. His eyes are dark as his hand rests on the side of your jaw, making sure your gaze doesn’t stray again. “Just talk to me for once. Please.”
You feel a giant tear leaking out of your eye, racing a hot path toward his calloused palm. He catches it with the side of his thumb.
“I always thought that I’d move right back to Texas after residency. And then I came here,” you admit. His left hand finds the other side of your face, and you realize you’re fully crying only by the movement of his fingers. “And I met you.”
Realization across his face, his brow unfurling, his lips parted — to be quickly followed by his touch gone from you, you’d assume. Maybe an awkwardly offered tissue and a promise to forget all of this. Another reminder about getting a letter of rec before the door swings open and closed again.
But the whipping cold doesn’t bite at your cheeks. You actually only get warmer as his body moves closer, your chest touching his; you’re worried he’ll feel your heartbeat soon if he presses any closer.
“Y/n,” he says slowly.
“I love this place, Jack,” you continue, swallowing around a new set of hot, ugly tears that fall anyway. He tracks the movement of your throat. “It breaks my heart every single day but I love it. And I looked up one day and realized I hadn’t even considered a program outside of Pittsburgh in years.”
“No. Don’t bullshit me anymore,” he says, shaking his head. “Robby said you wanted to leave.”
“Because of you, Jack,” you whimper. “Because—”
“No,” he says again, shaking his head with more vigor. “No. You take me out it. Now.”
“What?”
“I’m here. I’ll be right here after you’re done,” he says, his voice steady and his words precise, like he’s walking you through a procedure or explaining to a patient their options. “I’m yours, whether you stay here or not. Wherever you go. I’ll be here.”
“Jack,” you breathe. “What are you doing?”
He moves closer, his breath fanning over your face; the warmth welcomed as the cold cools your tears. His hands tilt your head up slightly.
“You still need me to spell it out for you sometimes,” he asks, not an ounce of mirth or amusement, not longer just asking. Begging. “Don’t you?”
You nod.
“You’re an amazing doctor,” he says with conviction. “I don’t know if this is gonna help your situation or not. But…”
His nose nudges against yours, and his ribcage heaves against your chest. Your eyes flicker to his lips, and you don’t know if this will help you either.
“Please,” you say anyway.
Jack Abbot is a bit of an asshole — the edge to his personality that he needs in order to run a place like this bleeds through on some nights more than others. He can be stern, more stubborn in the midnight hours.
And he kisses you just the same. You pull away after a moment, somehow finding the mental space to be worried people will notice you’re both gone.
“Jack,” you breathe into his mouth, your head spinning. “We should—”
“Nuh-uh,” he speaks through spit-slicked lips, his mouth finding yours again quickly. “Come here.”
—
“You’re not getting out of a coffee chat with me. You know that, right?”
Jack watches you freeze where you’re digging through his dresser, your hands paused on an olive green t-shirt. You hold it up to him in question and he nods.
“What do you mean?” you ask, pulling it over your body, kneeing your way back up the bed, settling back at his side. Your hand finds where his is outstretched.
He checks his watch where he’d discarded it on his night table after shift, your PTMC badge right next to it. “Coffee pot’ll go off in like two minutes. And then you’re gonna talk to me about your fellowships.”
“Yeah? That’s what this all was?” you ask, your eyes trained on where your fingers trail up the inside of his forearm, tracing the lines of his veins. He grabs your hand when it’s back within his reach.
“Talk me through it,” he says.
You rejoin him in bed minutes later, carrying two cups of coffee from his kitchen. You’d asked him how he liked it before you went down the hall, wrinkling your nose when he says black with a little sugar from the tin on the counter. He’d enjoyed the view anyway as you sauntered down his hallway, bare except for his old ARMY shirt.
“No almond milk for me?” you accuse.
“I’ll add it to my list for next time,” he says, sitting up against his headboard, accepting the cup offered to him. You hand him your cup too, which he sets to the side with confusion.
He notices then the black leather notebook tucked under your arm, that you must have grabbed from the bag you’d discarded in his entryway last night.
“What is that?”
“Where I keep all my notes,” you say, bashful, flipping it open, a PTMC waiting room pen jammed between its pages. “From talking to people.”
He’s silent for a moment.
“What? You said—”
“No. Go ahead,” he says. “You’re so hot right now.”
He bends his leg, which you immediately lean on, hiding your smile in his knee. “Stop.”
“Go.”
You sigh, flipping through your pages, biting the pen between your teeth. “Ultrasound at Presby is out. Crus’ll get that for sure.”
“Nope. I haven’t finished his letter of rec yet,” Jack says. “I’ll tank his chances if you say the word.”
“I didn’t even want it,” you admit with a one-armed shrug. “It’d be really cool, but…”
“Not your thing,” he finishes. You nod.
“Then, I talked to Park about peds,” you say. “I knew he did a peds fellowship. For ortho, obviously. At PTMC, too.”
“What’d he say?”
“That I’d be stupid not to do it,” you deadpan.
Jack grumbles. “He’s right.”
You flip to the next page, giggling. “Don’t let him hear you say that.”
“Trust me. He will never hear it in my ED.”
A glint in your eyes, like you see right through him. You remember that interaction that had knocked him off-kilter a few days ago. You see it differently now.
“And then, oh — Robby, Shen and Crus all talked to me about emergency med education,” you say. “Robby’d write my letter.”
“I already wrote your letter,” Jack admits. “I’ve been waiting for you to bring that fellowship up for weeks.”
Your pen falls to the pages, your mouth twisted in confusion as you tear your eyes away to look at him. “Why didn’t you?”
“You’re smart enough. And I knew you’d love peds just as much,” he says, tugging your notebook out of your grip, the pen, too. He tosses it aside. “But only one of them is at my hospital. And I didn’t wanna… It’s all yours for the taking, baby. Anything you want.”
He sees your eyes trail his bare chest, the skin of his legs where his thighs are peeking out from beneath his boxers, still tangled up in the sheets. “All of it?”
“You mean me?”
You nod.
“For a long time now, Y/n,” he says. “And you don’t need to write that down.”
“Why?” you ask, rising up to your knees, his free hand finding the back of your thigh, helping you swing it over his lap.
“‘Cause I’ll never let you forget it,” he promises, tilting his head up to you.
“Put your coffee down,” you command, settling in his lap, your hands finding his cheeks.
“Why?”
“‘Cause I’m gonna spill it,” you warn.
He turns his head, nudging your discarded phone out of the way with his mug to make room. Your things all intermixed with his so naturally, he feels silly thinking back to how this all even started. “How does my wisdom measure up to the other—”
You cut him off mid-sentence, your lips slotting over his open mouth. You taste like his toothpaste and the shitty coffee he buys pre-ground at the grocery store. The skin on the back of your thighs is so damn soft, but he already knew that. Your jeans are in his living room.
“They don’t even compare,” you murmur.
“No?”
You shake your head, before eyeing the cups of coffee on the side table. Your face twists.
“But we have to get you a new machine, Jack. What the fuck are you drinking?”
—
A few weeks later, you walk into work with Jack, a cold brew with almond milk in your hand and a drip coffee with one raw sugar packet in his.
The closing baristas had already memorized your pre-shift orders at the shop you’d found near Jack’s place that has quickly become his favorite spot — not Crus’, Robby’s or Park’s.
And for the love of god, not Dunkin’.
The matching logos leave no room for mistakes to be made by anyone who’s paying attention — and as Jack had recently discovered, they’re all paying attention.
You leave him at the central hub for the lockers, just a smile in parting. You were professional enough. And you’d already kissed him enough in his car, his lips still tasting like coffee and your coconut lip balm.
You received two fellowship offers earlier that morning, only a few hours after shift. Peds at PTMC or education at Presby.
Both in Pittsburgh.
But the choice was yours, which he made sure you knew before he helped you celebrate properly.
“Is that something I need to know about?”
Jack looks up from where he’d been yanking pens out of his bag, depositing them into his scrub top pocket. Your pen had somehow made it into his backpack; he could tell from the bite marks.
Shen is leaning against the back of the central desk, slurping the remnants of his coffee through his straw loudly. Lena is pretending, very poorly, not to listen.
“What do you mean?” Abbot says, unamused.
He takes another much-needed sip of his own coffee — you were so far proving detrimental to his post-shift sleep schedule.
He turns his head from Shen to find you across the room at West 12, already seated bedside, nodding along to whatever Langdon is saying about the patient present.
You catch Jack’s eye, your lips pulling up around your words, and he decides he’ll be fine even if that smile goes to Presby.
Because it’s still coming home to him.
“It’s just,” Shen continues, waving his cup around, his grin mischevious as Jack turns back. “I just seem to recall there being a concern about — what was it, being buried by paperwork?”
Description: You’ve been secretly losing your mind over Dr. Abbot for months. One slip on ice later, and your giant crush on the night attending becomes everyone’s business thanks to a concussion and a mouth that won’t stop calling him gorgeous.
or, Cristina Yang slips and gets saved by Owen Hunt in uniform, but make it The Pitt ✨
Tags/Warnings: Nurse!reader, you're so down bad for him, descriptions of a concussion and a mild icicle injury to the stomach, suggestive comments, banter and flirty Abbot.
Note: Once again a Grey's anatomy inspired fic lol. I had a lot of fun writing this one, enjoy!
Masterlist
You are so gorgeous it makes me so mad,
You make me so happy, it turns back to sad
Jack Abbot is ruining your life, and he doesn’t even know.
He goes to work every day completely unaware that somewhere across the hospital, you, a licensed, very mature and very competent nurse, is being driven insane by the simple fact that he exists. And quite frankly, you hate him for that.
Because he’s kind and smart. Annoyingly smart. Calm in a crisis, quick on his feet, always three steps ahead, always knowing exactly what to do. Patients love him. Nurses love him. Residents love him. Dr. Robby loves him. You lo–no, no you don’t.
And to make matters worse, he just had to be gorgeous too.
That salt and pepper thing he has going on? Unfair. The way he shows up wearing those black shirts out of nowhere? Mega unfair. The way he holds eye contact while expecting you to focus on doing your job? Sick and twisted, actually. And don’t even get started on his hands. Or his voice. Or his bedside manner. Or his…everything.
It’s infuriating.
He’s the kind of gorgeous that has you staring at a particular spot on the floor for too long, in the loneliness of your apartment, when you remember the way he said ‘Good night, you did a good job today,’ during shift handover. Because the worst part, the absolute worst part, is that you barely get to see him. Your lives only overlap in scraps that mean nothing and everything to you.
You’re a day nurse, he’s a night attending. That’s your 13th reason.
No, actually, you know what it is? I know you do. We’re all thinking the same thing here.
That uniform.
That stupid, cursed, virtue ruining SWAT uniform that makes you forget you’re a professional. A professional who has, on more than one occasion, had to physically remove herself from the nurse station and hide by the stairwell to look at the lava lamp video Dr. King so kindly shared with you, because Dr. Jack Abbot walked in wearing camo, and the devil on your shoulder told you to jump him and bite those biceps.
So yes, without being dramatic or anything, he is ruining your life.
By being hot. By being kind. By being good at everything he does. By flashing you those little smiles when your shifts overlap, when he has no idea what they do to you…or maybe he does. Because he always requests your help when he comes in during the day, like it’s nothing, like it doesn’t send you straight into the land delusion for the rest of your shift.
You tell yourself it’s because you’re a good nurse, despite it all. Princess says it’s because he likes you.
But Princess is insane. Maybe as deluded as you are, to be honest.
And having a silly work crush was fun at first, but it’s not fun anymore when all you do is wait for those tiny moments. When 7 p.m. has become your favorite and least favorite time of day. When you catch yourself smoothing down your scrub top before shift change, just in case. When you know the sound of his voice from three trauma bays over. When you start wondering whether switching to nights only for him would be that crazy after all.
All while Jack remains oblivious to the fact that he is the reason you’re stepping outside the ambulance bay at 6:30pm on a freezing Friday evening, completely exhausted, yet still hopeful enough to be the first one he says hello to on your last break.
You sigh as you lean on the brick wall near the entrance, tucking your hands deeper into your jacket’s pockets looking at nothing in particular. The snow has been shoveled away from the ambulances path, but there’s still a few patches of ice glistening on the asphalt.
“There you are,” a voice behind you makes you startle. You turn around slightly, finding Princess walking to you with a knowing smile. “You’re gonna freeze yourself out here.”
“I’m just excited it’s Friday,” you say, but there’s no actual enthusiasm in your voice. “Can’t wait to get out of here.”
“Ohhh, you got big exciting plans for the weekend?” She wiggles her brows, nudging you with her elbow. “Someone to warm you up?” That makes you snort, shaking your head and nudging her back.
“I wish. It’s just me and my couch…and my dog.”
“Alone?”
“Alone.”
“That bad,” she teases, but you know there’s no malice in it. “Tragic,” she sighs, before perking up just as quickly. “Me however…”
“Oh the firefighter?” You chuckle, watching a stupid little grin spread over her face. “You’re seeing him tonight?”
“Third date,” she sing songs. “You know what that means.”
“Hmm. Bunch of cardio.”
“It keeps me healthy,” she shrugs, beaming. “If you don’t hear from me tomorrow, assume I died happy.”
You both start giggling, and you feel genuinely happy that at least your best friend is getting wrecked by a man in uniform. Not that you have imagined something like that. Actually, you’ve imagined a lot of things. Some more HR friendly than others. You let out a sigh without noticing, and Princess bumps your shoulder this time.
“See, that little pathetic sigh is why you need to do something about your little situation,” she starts.
“What little situation?” You don’t even turn to her, but you know she’s glaring at you. “What?” you say again.
“Oh I don’t know, maybe the one with the silver fox attending you’re into.”
“Princess!”
“What? Honey you’re already halfway through a shift switch petition.”
“So what? It has nothing to do with Dr. Abbot,” you snap, but realize your mistake as soon as the words leave your mouth.
“I never said Dr. Abbot,” she drawls.
You groan and look away as heat crawls up your face. At least it brings comfort against the unforgiving winter air.
“It’s not like that. I just think the change of pace could be interesting,” you excuse yourself, very poorly.
“Uh-huh. You just wanna stare at him more often,” she says, less teasing than you expected. “Have you ever thought he might like seeing you more often too?”
The sole idea of it makes you snort. “Yeah, sure.”
“I am serious, girl. I really think he likes you,” she reassures.
“No, he doesn’t,” you shake your head.
“He always asks for you.”
“Because I’m good at my job.”
“I’m good too, but he smiles at you differently.”
“Princess,” you warn, because living in delulu land has done nothing for you these past months. “Stop.”
“I’m just saying,” she shrugs with a little smile. “One day you’re gonna have to admit that man is ruining your life.”
Oh he is. And you know it very well.
“Yeah yeah, call it whatever you want. Now let’s go back inside before we freeze to death and Dana kills us for dying,” you chuckle despite yourself, making her laugh in agreement.
You turn toward the doors, a little disappointed to not have spotted the subject of your discussion yet, but you don’t have much time to mourn when your shoe skids on a thin layer of ice you didn't see, sending you flying back in a matter of seconds. Princess almost slipped too trying to catch you, but your head hit the pavement before she could.
For a second you only see the blurry lights of the ambulance bay, and a few glistening icicles lined above you. And because life loves you, when your vision manages to focus more, you catch the horrifying moment when one of the icicles breaks from the roof and falls straight into the side of your stomach. The impact makes you groan, Princess gasps and covers her mouth with both hands.
“Ouch…” you wince, trying to lift yourself up to see the damage but your head feels too heavy.
“Ohmygod, ohmygod,” she panics, kneeling next to you and slapping your hand away when you reach for it. “No, no. Don’t touch it! Hey–are you…are you okay?”
You barely lift your head, only to stare blankly at her, not exactly sure why you’re on the floor. She expects you to curse, cry or scream at her. Anything. But all you do is giggle in response, completely out of it. She looks like she has two faces, and stars around her.
Red flag.
“Alright, alright, don’t move Cristina Yang. I’m getting you help, just wait for me babe,” she says, already getting up and running inside.
“Nooo, don’t gooo,” you say softly, but it sounds more like you’re amused than an actual cry for help. “Help…” you whisper, chuckling at how funny you sound.
You lie there, on your back in the ambulance bay, wondering if this is what rock bottom looks like. Attacked by an icicle after daydreaming of the hospital’s McSteamy, like you’re part of some medical drama.
You giggle again.
Yup. That can't be good.
You hear loud footsteps approaching you, but they’re not coming from the direction Princess took. You yelp when a face hovers over you, upside down from your perspective, and that face is none other than the one you’ve had at least a thousand inappropriate fantasies about.
“Well, what do we have here?” He drawls, tilting his head when he sees the icicle and the little patch of blood around it staining your grey scrubs. The amusement goes away in an instant.
He drops to one knee beside you, lifting your head a little to check for any blood under, but your hair is only wet from the leftover snow on the asphalt, making him exhale in relief. His hands hover near the icicle without touching it. It’s only when he’s closer that you notice he’s not in scrubs, but in his god forsaken SWAT uniform, no vest.
You can’t really find yourself to complain in your hazed state.
“Oh no…” you gasp softly, in a failed attempt to hide your sudden giddiness. He already looks like he has little pink hearts floating around his head.
“Hey, hey it’s okay,” he coos, oblivious. “Can you tell me what your name is?”
“Of course I know my name, silly,” you snort, proudly reciting your full government name. He bites back a smile at the jab, nodding.
“That’s good. Do you know what day?”
“...Wednesday?” You narrow your eyes, he just shakes his head softly.
“Already went through that one this week. Come here.”
He slides one arm under your shoulders, the other carefully under your knees, making sure he doesn’t bend your abdomen too much as he hauls you up with a groan. Your brain blocks the pain and decides this is the funniest thing in the world, giggling into his long sleeve camo shirt as he stands. Once he’s got you in his arms, with his face close enough to hurt more than the piece of ice inside you, he grins at you.
“What about my name?” He asks playfully. You huff in offense.
“Oh Dr. Abbot. You’re a hard one to forget,” you sigh dreamily, drawing circles on his chest. “With that face…and those eyes…and that uniform clinging to that bod–“
“Okay, honey. That’s a concussion speaking for you,” he cuts you off with a chuckle, telling himself the blush on his cheeks is due to the cold. “I’m gonna get you inside, alright? We’re gonna keep your new friend exactly where it is until it's safe to take it out.”
If your head wasn’t in wonderland right now, you would’ve probably coded over the fact that he just called you honey.
“Mmm. Whatever you say, doc,” you hum, resting your head on his chest. He can’t fight the smile this time.
“You day shift girls really know how to make an exit…” He mumbles fondly with a shake of his head, making his way back inside. The glass doors slide open, and Princess nearly collides with him, her sneakers coming to a stop in front of him.
“Dr. Abbot! There you are,” she yelps. “We were just talking and she slipped, and then BAM, an icicle! So I went to get you, of course. Or any doctor–actually, no, preferably you. She definitely prefers you–”
“I got her, Princess,” Jack snickers without breaking stride, carrying you in his arms like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
You barely lift your head to grin at her, and manage to point at the man carrying you while mouthing an ‘oh my god’ to Princess. She nods just as giddy, turning away so Jack doesn’t see her expression.
The chilly air gets replaced by the warmth and noise of the ED, all heads turning in your direction when he strides in, suddenly turning into the most interesting thing happening on that floor. That’s on you for giving them the material anyways. Jack Abbot, in full camo, carrying a giggling, icicle stabbed day nurse? It’s free real estate!
“Oh shit, is that an icicle??” Dr. Santos calls from the charting station, propping herself up over the desk to get a better look. “Can I go in there, Dr. Abbot? Please tell me I can go in there.”
“You’re off the clock, Santos. Go home,” he says, ignoring the way she mutters something under her breath as she turns back to the computer. “Lena, what’s free?”
“Trauma two,” Lena replies, eyes widening when she sees the thing sticking out of your stomach. She stands up from her swivel chair to trail after you into the room. “What the hell happened?"
“Winter hates me…” you say with a little laugh, before falling back into Jack’s chest. “Or maybe it did me a favor…” you mutter under your breath, making Princess and Lena exchange a knowing look.
Jack sets you down so, so gently on the bed that you fight the urge to kick your feet at the contrast of his rough hands adjusting your body delicately. Princess is already hooking you up to monitors you can’t really manage to read right now.
“Winter assault indeed,” Jack chuckles, popping on a pair of gloves as he analyzes your injury from multiple angles. “Penetrating trauma, left lateral abdomen. Looks superficial, but I want imaging before I yank this thing. Can you page Dr. Shen for me? This has his name written all over it.”
“Are you sure you want Shen here?” Lena raises an eyebrow, cutting your scrubs open with some scissors, as Jack briefly checks your pupils with a penlight.
“Oh, he’ll be offended if I don’t call him for an icicle,” he says, pocketing the penlight. “Mild concussion, no need for a CT.”
“Alright,” Lena says, putting down the scissors and patting your leg in reassurance before she leaves. “How are you doing, kid?”
“Booored,” you sing, trying to lift your body up but your head swims and your abdomen screams in pain before you can. “Ow ow–”
“Hey, hey. Easy,” Jack says, pushing you gently back onto the bed. “Stay still for me, alright?”
“Just get it out already!”
Jack catches your wrist just before you can grab the icicle piercing your side. “Uh-uh, what did I say?” he scolds. “We’re not doing an extraction yet.”
You groan in frustration, unaware of the way Princess and Jack exchange looks.
“What do we have?” Dr. Shen asks from the entrance, iced coffee in one hand as he walks to his rightful place beside Abbot. He tilts his head at you and your stupid icicle, and whistles. “Wow. I don’t wanna see the other guy.”
“Don’t worry, John. Dr. Abbot saved me,” you huff out a weak laugh.
“Of course he did,” Shen glances between the two of you, amused. “Our noble SWAT doc.”
Jack keeps his gaze on you with that maddening smirk, only breaking eye contact when Princess lets him know the XR tech is there. People start moving around you, and by this point you start to feel everything catching up to you because things don’t seem so funny anymore. You feel so tired all you want is to go to sleep. You try to fight it by blinking at the ceiling, trying to count the lights but failing very quickly.
Jack is suddenly by your head, one hand braced on the bed near your shoulder, closely monitoring the process.
“Hold your breath,” he whispers, way too close to your ear. “Just for a few seconds. You’ve seen a hundred patients do this, right?”
“Have I?” You try to joke, but you sound more drowsy than amused to him.
That makes him frown and straighten up to check your pupils again. “Maybe you do need that CT...”
You squint at the intrusive light, trying to push his hand away but the tech mumbles not to move. “Stop with that–I’m okay, just let me take a nap here…” you say, already closing your eyes.
“No, no. Eyes open,” Jack orders, snapping his fingers in your face to keep you awake. “Stay with me, trouble.”
Your lashes feel heavy but you manage to drag your gaze up to his. It’s easier than trying to focus on anything else anyways. You feel the XR ray tech pulling away and leaving the room.
“You’re gonna be fine,” Jack tells you, so serious that you’d debate if he’d just picked you up from a dumb fall or if he'd saved you from a building engulfed in fire. “We’re gonna patch you up, and maybe get you a few days off. Milk this for all the sick time you can get. Okay?”
You nod, managing a small tired smile. He’s leaning over you now, allowing you to admire his face from up close. His beautiful hazel eyes, his jaw dusted with stubble, the salt in his hair shining under the harsh lights. You can even see the little lines at the corners of his eyes.
That’s when the single neuron left in your brain produces a thought. And you should definitely not say the thought.
You absolutely say the thought.
“Dr. Abbot, you’re so gorgeous,” you announce, loud and clear.
The entire room freezes. Jack feels heat go up to his cheeks. Shen’s eyebrows go up as he sips loudly from his straw, and Princess, who was in the corner pretending to look busy with the vitals machine, bites her lip to stifle a laugh.
“I–“ Jack starts, then stops. Why’s he getting so flustered? “Once again, concussion talking,” he clears his throat, looking around him.
“But I mean it,” you insist, fighting the urge to close your eyes out of pure spite. “Look at your face.”
Jack’s mouth twitches, trying very hard not to smile. Princess is just fighting the urge to pull her phone out and film the whole thing.
“And your stupid SWAT uniform,” you continue, groaning dramatically. “Out of all days you had to wear it today. Ugh. You’re so–you’re so gorgeous it makes me so mad.”
Jack decides this is the perfect moment to turn to the computer in the room, for “charting purposes” but completely forgets the part where he has to tap his ID on it and just stares at the hospital’s logo on the screen.
“Right back at you, sweetheart,” he mumbles under his breath.
Shen and Princess exchange the most dramatic side eye in the history of side eyes and then both simultaneously pretend they heard nothing.
“Abdomen films are back,” a nurse entering the room says, offering an iPad to Jack.
He takes the tablet, shoulders dropping as he scans the images. “Good news! Our icicle is more dramatic than dangerous. No organ involvement. Superficial muscle at most.”
“Boring,” Shen mumbles, chuckling when Princess glares at him.
“We’ll do it here,” Jack decides, handing the iPad back. “Local and a quick pull. Shen, wanna do the honors?”
“I’ll just watch,” Shen shrugs, placing his iced coffee on a table nearby in case he’s needed. “Wouldn't miss it for the world.”
“Okay, little pinch,” Princess warns you. You take a breath as the needle goes in, your hand flies up instinctively, but Jack catches it and redirects it to grip his forearm instead.
His muscles feel solid under your fingers, and this feels like information you should not have in this condition. You squeeze your eyes shut, because if he keeps looking at you like that–
“You’re doing great,” he reassures. His voice is so close, so warm and so low and SO UNFAIR.
You crack one eye open, and immediately regret it. It’s the light brown eyes with little green flecks for you.
“God, that hurts,” you whisper. Not a single sane thought behind your eyes anymore.
“The icicle?” he asks, ready to order more anesthesia.
“No,” you say, a little breathless. “Your face.”
Princess makes a weird strangled noise next to you. Jack actually laughs this time.
“That’s a new one,” Shen says.
“Alright,” Jack smiles at you. “Before you say anything else that’s gonna end up in the groupchat, let’s get this thing out.”
He positions himself above you, one hand pressing your hip to stabilize you, the other wrapping around the base of the icicle, careful not to push it in further.
“Deep breath in. I’m gonna count to three, okay?” he says. You do as you’re told, trying to avoid his gaze. “One–keep looking at me. Two–“
And then, still keeping that steady eye contact, he pulls. The icicle slides out in one slick motion, leaving behind a sharp sting that makes you squeak.
“You took my icicle out before three!” you gasp, scandalized. “That’s not nice!”
“We’ll get you another one next Christmas,” Jack chuckles, tossing the thing into a tray as Shen presses gauze firmly to your side.
“You did amazing,” Princess tells you earnestly, running her hand through your arm. “That was so cool. I mean–not cool that you got stabbed, cool that you–uh never mind. You’re very brave, babe.”
“Best story at the nurse’s station,” you smile at her, throwing up a peace sign.
“Easy there, Winter Soldier. Best story in the group chat, at best.” Shen says, managing a little snort from you.
“Oh the group chat will hear about this,” Princess adds.
Jack shakes his head, but there’s fondness in his features as he strips off his gloves. “Okay, here’s the plan. Observation overnight for the concussion, pain meds for the side, no lifting, no heavy shifts for a few days. And no more confessions, alright?” He smiles down at you, winking playfully. “You’re gonna be okay.”
You stare at him again, taking in his stupid perfect face, his stupid perfect hands, his stupid heroic camo long sleeve.
No, you’re so not going to be okay.
You open your eyes and immediately regret it. Your head pounds, there’s harsh white lights shining down on you, and the familiar ED noise coming from outside the room doesn’t help.
What on earth happened?
You try to push yourself up on your elbows, but the moment your head lifts from the pillow, your body says Not today.
“Shit,” you groan, dropping back down with a wince, squeezing your eyes shut.
“Easy there.”
That voice alone is enough to almost make you forget about the headache and the strange sting in your abdomen. You open your eyes and squint at the doorway, where none other than Dr.Jack Abbot is standing, wearing a black shirt and scrubs pants.
There he is. The bane of your existence and the object of all your desires.
He looks maddeningly calm for someone who exists just to personally ruin your peace. He pushes off the doorframe and walks in with a smug little grin. You stare at him, mind completely blank as he stops beside a little table and offers you a cup of water with a straw.
“Here. Small sips,” he says, gently helping you sit up. And when he uses that voice? All you can do is mindlessly do what he says.
“Thanks, Dr. Abbot,” you rasp, clearing your throat after drinking some water. “So…what happened?”
Jack stares at you for a moment, debating if there’s a chance you’re messing with him, but you seem genuinely confused. It’s normal after a hit like that, so he just huffs a little laugh and explains.
“You were outside the ambulance bay with Princess and slipped on ice. You hit your head, and then got stabbed in the side by an icicle.”
…???
“An…icicle?” You ask in complete disbelief, he nods amused. “Like in Grey’s??”
“Ehh–you’re gonna have to ask that to Princess,” he chuckles. “I wish I was joking, but there’s nothing to worry about, it was superficial. Imaging was normal, Princess numbed you up and I pulled it out. You’re a little bruised and concussed, but otherwise intact. Robby’s gonna have to give you a few days off, though.”
“Oh my God,” you sigh, leaning back into the pillow dragging your hands over your face. “Out of all the ways I could’ve gone down in hospital lore…”
“Tell me about it,” he mumbles, biting back a smile.
“What was that?”
“Nothing,” he says, a little too quickly for your liking, then steps closer. “I just want to check you again before I let you keep hating yourself in peace.”
Before you can ask what that means, he moves to the side of the bed and leans over you, making your entire nervous system short circuit as he removes your hands from your face.
“Wow–” you breathe, shrinking back into the pillow on instinct. Being this close should be illegal for this man. “What are you doing, Dr. Abbot?”
“Shhh,” he mutters, “just checking on you. You hit your head pretty hard.”
His hand comes up, careful fingers tilting your chin slightly. His thumb brushes near your cheekbone as he angles your face toward the penlight and scans your pupils. Your heart starts beating in places it absolutely should not be beating.
Guess the butterflies are flying very low today.
He finishes the exam, but he doesn’t move back. Instead, he shifts just enough to brace one hand on the wall above your head, still leaning over you, caging you into the mattress in a way that feels anything but accidental. This is not helping your concussion, if anything, it’s making it substantially worse.
Your breath hitches, and because your mouth clearly exists to betray you in his presence, you blurt out, “God, that hurts.”
“What hurts?” He asks, tilting his head.
The words are right there. Your face. Your stupid gorgeous face.
“My head,” you say instead. Good girl…or not? Because something you can’t quite point out flashes in his eyes.
“Mmm, well, for what it’s worth…” he says–did his eyes just flicker to your lips??? “I think you’re gorgeous too.”
5@$%)#&
Everything inside you stops. Your face goes hot so fast it feels like your head is about to combust. For one unhinged second you wonder if you’ve blacked out again and this is some kind of fever dream created by your useless brain.
“Did…I said that out loud?” You ask weakly and cover your face again with your hands, creating a barrier between you and the predator above you.
“You really don’t remember, do you?”
“Oh no…” You whine. This is it, this is how you leave this earth.
“Oh no?” He laughs.
“Oh no,” you repeat miserably, peeking at him through your fingers. “What did I say, Dr. Abbot?”
“...Enough,” he says, maddeningly vague. He straightens at last, mercifully putting a little distance between you and your impending death by humiliation. “More than enough, actually.”
“Dr. Abbot,” you insist, more serious now. “What did I say?”
“Mmm, not a chance,” he crosses his arms over his chest. Okay now he's just being unfair.
“Please.”
“Uh-uh.”
“Jack.” That slips out before you can stop it.
His eyebrows rise in amusement, but he clears his throat before turning to check your chart on the computer, like the conversation that just derailed your life didn’t even happen.
“You slept almost through the whole night shift, it looks like you’ll be discharged in a few hours. All the scans were clean but you’ll need someone to stay with you today, though. Hospital policy after a concussion.”
You let out a sigh, looking at your hands over your lap. He turns back to you, a worried look on his face.
“What?”
“I uh–don’t have anyone to call,” you say, trying to sound casual and failing a little. “Princess is probably with the firefighter, so I guess it's just me and…my dog.”
He hums, tucking both hands into his pants pockets, and rocks back a little on his heels as if contemplating something.
“Good thing I’ll be out in a few hours too, then,” he says, casual, too casual.
“…What?” You let out a weak laugh.
“I’m taking you home,” he shrugs, like it’s not a big deal. “Pets are great emotionally, less useful for neuro observation, so I’m making sure you don’t pass out unsupervised.”
“Dr. Abbot–”
“Jack,” he corrects.
“Jack,” you try again, weaker now. “You don’t have to do that.”
“I know…trust me, I want to.” He says it so…certain, with a softer voice that makes you melt onto the mattress. “Try to rest for a bit, drink your water and don’t try to escape. I’ll come get you when your paperwork’s done,” he points a finger at you, half turning to the door. “Just wait for me, gorgeous, okay?”
Jack waits for you to say something, but all you can do is nod slowly, because speech has abandoned you entirely. He gives you one more devastating smile, before stepping out, leaving you wishing you could turn over so you could scream into your pillow. You finally let out the breath you were holding, and very carefully reached for your phone on the little rolling table beside the bed.
There are at least a dozen messages from Princess with a few voice notes. You stare at the screen in horror, and from what you can briefly read without actually opening her chat, you really fucked up last night.
That explains the look on his face. That explains everything.
And still, *wiggles eyebrows*, he is taking you home. Apparently. So, because there is truly no helping you, you can’t help but smile.
Girl whatever.
If Jack Abbot wants to ruin your life, he can go right ahead.
Thank you so much for reading, feedback is always appreciated 🤍✨
summary: you like to give abbot an extra grey hair with your flirting and barely suppressed sex jokes, and he likes to put a little extra in your swear jar. it's a win-win shift.
warnings: grumpy!abbot x sunshine!reader, also lowkey sugar!daddy!abbot, suggestive jokes, tension, flirting, one swear word, abbot trying to pretend sooo hard he’s not in love w reader ᝰ.ᐟ
wc: 2.4k (alina finally learnt how to stfu!! yay!)
You’d have the absolute audacity—and likely the entirety of your medical license—smacked clean out of you if you ever said the next thought out loud, but…it’s 4 a.m., and the night shift has settled into something almost resembling quiet.
Well, as quiet as it can get between drunk driving accidents and chest pains that turn out to be something worse than indigestion. It's like the ER is easing up on you, just for a second. Which is exactly why your brain has decided to fixate on something entirely unhelpful.
Why has Abbot been in a grump.
He’s had that small scowl all night, not quite fully formed, like it’s still deciding where to land and how hard. You’ve been watching it develop with a level of focus you would absolutely deny under oath.
In fact…you kind of hope it lands on you.
Not for any good reason. Not even a logical one. Just the same instinct that makes people watch storms roll in from too close, curious about the exact moment it tips from interesting into dangerous.
“I’m telling you,” you murmur, not looking away from your screen as you type, “it’s going to be something stupid. Like the printer.”
Diaz glances over his shoulder, checking if the subject of discussion is still there, then turns back, scribbling something down. “Nah, too easy. He’d fix the printer before he’d let it piss him off that much.”
You hum, lips pursing as you click through another tab, the system lagging enough to irritate you. “Okay, fine. Then a person. But not a big thing. Something small.”
“You, then.”
“Uh—” You pause, looking up at him, mildly offended. “Rude. He’d never snap on me.”
“No, but he gets all stiff and weird whenever you flirt with him like he doesn’t know what to do with himself, so it’s close enough.”
You cock your head to the side, narrowing your eyes at him. “I do not flirt with him.”
Diaz just raises his brows.
You glance back at your screen, suddenly very interested in whatever half-finished note is sitting there. “I’m just…friendly.”
“Sure,” he drags out smugly.
“I am.”
“Right.” He nods, entirely unconvinced, tapping his pen against the paper. “That thing you did earlier? With the ‘thank you, doctor’ and the smile?”
You frown. “That was polite.”
“That was not polite.”
“It was,” you insist, even as your fingers hover uselessly over the keyboard again. “It’s called good bedside manner.”
“Yeah,” Diaz mutters, “for the patients.”
You open your mouth to argue—fully prepared, actually—but it dies halfway out when you catch sight of Abbot heading towards the nurses’ station.
The scowl is still there.
Diaz follows your line of sight, takes one look, and immediately exhales like he’s just remembered somewhere else he absolutely needs to be. He shakes his head, already gathering his things.
“You coward,” you scoff.
“I’m not doing this.” He holds his hands up, backing away like this is a hazardous situation.
“Huh. You would if Javadi was here,” you mumble, mostly to yourself, but when Diaz pauses, you can’t help the slick little grin that melts onto your face.
“What was that?”
You don’t look at him. Just mime zipping your mouth shut, tossing the invisible key over your shoulder.
“You’re annoying.”
“I’m not annoying,” you argue easily. “Right, Dr Abbot?” you add, just as Abbot comes to a stop at the counter in front of you, earning a very clear middle finger from Diaz on his way out.
You have to tilt your head up a little to see him properly, his scowl edging into view above your monitor.
“…Am I?” you press, because apparently self-preservation is optional, ignoring the small, bright fizz of something that bubbles up every time you decide to push him just to see where the line actually is.
“Annoying?” he repeats, flipping through paperwork in his hands.
You nod once. He glances at you long enough to catch it.
"Jury's still out,” he mumbles, turning the page.
“I know you don’t mean that,” you whisper, leaning in. “It’s okay, Mateo’s gone—you don’t have to hide that I’m your favourite nurse now. No witnesses, no morale casualties.” You wave a hand airily, then reach for your hand sanitiser, squeezing a few pumps.
“Morale casualties?”
“Yup,” you reply, tilting your head like you’re weighing the gravity of the situation. “Could bring the whole floor down if they found out I’m your favourite. Women swoon for you, Doctor.” You smear the sanitiser into your hands. “Men too, I’m sure.”
He snorts, shaking his head as he walks over to the printer, feeding the documents in. “You’re ridiculous.”
“But not annoying.” You point at him, arching a brow.
“How many times have you written the same sentence?” he asks, fussing with the printer, hands gripping the edges as he looks to one side of the machine then the other.
You roll your eyes and glance back at your screen, skimming your notes, only for your stomach to dip when you realise you have, in fact, written patient’s BP is normal three separate times.
“Okay, well, in my defense—”
“You don’t have one.”
“I was just making it very clear that the patient's BP was normal,” you shrug. “Robby likes details.”
Abbot gives the printer a light smack when the paper still doesn’t budge. “Robby’s not here, and I like legible charting.”
You blink up at him slowly. “So you’re saying I should put your preferences and needs over everyone else's?" You do your very best to lace the question with something sultry, though at four in the morning you’re fairly sure the effect is somewhat dampened by the fact your concealer has absolutely creased beneath your eyes and your hair could probably be redone. You commit anyway.
Abbot chooses to ignore your attempt, his hands hovering over the printer. “Do you know how to work this fucking thing?”
“Of course I know how to work a printer, Doctor. I’m not incompetent.” You swivel in your chair to face him fully, smile widening. “...Just admit I’m your favourite.”
“I don’t have time for this.”
“Well, in that case, I think my charting could do with a little improving,” you say, turning back to your computer, smacking your gum a little louder as your finger clicks on the mouse repeatedly. “Might rewrite that blood pressure note a fourth time. Maybe fifth. Really flesh it out.”
There’s a moment of silence behind you, followed by an exhale long enough to extinguish a line of candles.
“Okay. Fine.”
You freeze mid-click, slowly pivoting your chair back to him, the gum between your teeth suddenly tasting a little too sweet.
Abbot is staring at you with an exhausted expression. The one of a man who knows exactly how negotiations should go, having probably run more tense situations than you can imagine, but who also knows he’ll cave if it comes to the right thing. Maybe he’s just good at giving in when he wants to, like a soldier choosing his battles.
“Please. You little terrorist. You’re my favourite and I need these scanned to radiology. Now.”
You grin at him, pushing yourself up from your chair with a spring in your step as you approach the printer. “Fine, fine. Scanning, coming right up.”
He moves to the side, letting you take over.
“So all you have to do is give them a little push,” you murmur, dragging out the syllables, “just enough so they fit snug. And then you make sure the frames are squeezed tight…tight enough to keep everything in place, so nothing slips out.”
He clears his throat, eyes darting around like you’ve said something scandalous, and not just given him a briefing on how to use the scanning function of the printer.
“The paper, Doctor. Get your mind out of the gutter,” you chirp, nudging the papers in and watching the machine whirl to life.
“My mind’s not in the gutter.”
“No?” You glance up at him prettily. “Oh, then you must just be deeply impressed by my ability to handle old things with such ease and efficiency.”
He shakes his head, already looking tired of you in a way that suggests he is not nearly tired enough. “You are unbelievably committed to making HR a recurring issue for me.”
“Thank you for showing me how to use a simple piece of equipment is a sufficient enough reply.”
His mouth twitches before he reins it in. “Radiology. Now. You can shred the original once it’s saved on the system.” He taps the printer once before backing away.
“Aht, aht,” you call after him, snatching the documents and setting them on the counter before rounding it and dropping back into your chair. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”
He pauses, glancing over his shoulder at you with immediate suspicion. “What now?”
You stare at him expectantly. He stares back. Then scoffs like he cannot believe he is indulging this.
“Thank you for showing me how to use a simple piece of equipment,” he repeats flatly.
“That’s very cute. I’m glad you can follow instructions. But—” You hold up one finger before bending beneath the desk and emerging with a very sparkly jar covered in rhinestones, the label aggressively pink and handwritten in looping glitter pen. “You need to pay for the f-bomb you dropped earlier.”
“We have a swear jar?”
“I have a swear jar,” you correct, giving it a proud little shake so the coins inside rattle merrily, loud and obnoxious, “and everyone in my presence has to contribute when they slip up.”
He scoffs again, folding his arms. “And who decided that?”
“Me, obviously.”
“Of course.” He nods once, like that answer somehow tells him everything he needs to know. “Lena know you’re scamming the entire ER?”
“She helped me decorate the jar,” you beam, unscrewing the cap. “Pay up, Doctor.”
He just stares at you. Then at the jar. Then back at you again like he is genuinely trying to work out whether sleep deprivation has finally pushed him into a hallucination.
“This is insane.”
“No,” you say sweetly, wiggling the jar in his direction, “this is discipline. We cannot have you running around the ER with a foul mouth, dropping f-bombs in front of vulnerable patients.” You lower your voice like you’re explaining something terribly serious to a child. “Honestly, I’m doing you a favour. Driving patient satisfaction rates up one dollar at a time.”
“Stop talking.”
“Well either pay up or give me something better to do with my mouth.”
The silence that follows is almost impressive.
Abbot looks like every thought in his head has cartoonishly slammed into the wall. His face doesn’t change, not really, but his whole body seems to lock for half a second like his brain is still trying to peel every single thought back off the surface where they’ve all just splattered at once.
You blink at him.
Then your own words catch up to you.
You like to flirt, yes—lightly, strategically, with plausible deniability. Not…whatever the hell that was. Not the sort of thing that sounds like you are actively trying to plant deeply inappropriate mental images in the mind of a man you have to see professionally every single day.
“Oh my God,” you breathe, eyes widening in horror. “I totally did not mean to say that out loud.”
His eyes are still on you, and your mouth has still not gotten the memo.
“Delete it. Delete the last ten seconds from your memory.”
“I don’t think that’s possible.”
“Well try harder. Please. I am literally begging.”
His mouth twitches. Not enough to count as a smile, but enough to let you know he is finding your humiliation far more entertaining than is medically ethical. “You’re assuming that I want to forget it.”
“Oh, that is not the correct thing to say to me right now.”
His jaw tightens imperceptibly, and it seems to hit him a fraction too late what exactly he has implied. “That came out wrong.”
“Did it?” you ask, already grinning despite your mortification, because embarrassment is temporary but the opportunity to harass him is forever. “Interesting. Because from where I’m sitting, it came out kind of perfect.”
“It didn’t.”
“It really did.” You stand back up and lean forward over the desk, placing the jar next to you. “So just to clarify, you’d actually like to keep thinking about my mouth?”
“You seem very committed,” he mutters, reaching into the pocket of his scrubs, “to seeing exactly how far you can push this before it becomes a problem for you.”
Oh.
Oh.
That shuts you up entirely.
Your mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. No sound. Not one single clever thing. Your brain, usually so eager to produce nonsense at record speed, has apparently packed its bags and fled the premises.
He watches the whole thing happen with far too much satisfaction before pulling out his wallet and flipping it open. “There,” he says, smug enough to make your eye twitch. “Peace at last.” Then he pulls out two fifty-dollar bills, folds them, and places them into your jar.
You’re silenced once again as you try to process exactly what he’s done.
“What the hell?” you blurt. “A hundred dollars? Really? Are you insane?”
His brow lifts. “You want more?”
“No. Absolutely not. I want less, actually.”
“Thank you for overpaying my swear jar after I’ve spent ten minutes sexually harassing you beside a printer is a sufficient enough answer,” he mocks dryly.
“I don’t see you complaining to HR. Matter of fact, this—“ you nod to the jar, “—looks a lot like you rewarding my behaviour.”
“Trust me, if I were rewarding your behaviour, you’d know.”
Your stomach does a humiliating somersault so violent it should probably be documented in your own chart.
He watches your face change and immediately looks far too pleased with himself. “That shut you up quicker than the money did.”
You scramble to recover, cocking your head to the side. “And what kind of behaviour would you lean towards rewarding? You know…for research purposes.”
“Getting those documents to radiology. Ensuring charting is done to the proper standard. No scheming during work hours.”
You roll your eyes and stick a finger in your mouth, mock-gagging. “Ugh, boring!”
“You asked.”
“True,” you concede, plopping back in your chair. “But I have a feeling there’s probably a much less professional answer rattling around in there that you’re not sharing.”
“I’m going to go now, okay?” he says, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Enjoy your earnings.”
“Don’t act like you won’t be back later,” you call after him, twisting your lips as your eyes follow his retreating figure.
Of course you're not wrong, because he's back exactly thirty minutes later.
summary: your best friend has been in love with you since you were kids. he makes sure you don't skip meals, shows up at your dorm during late-night study sessions, scowls at campus idiots trying to get your attention... and apparently now he even offers to fuck you to give your brain a break.
warnings: she/her pronouns for reader; set in college; best friends to lovers; best friend!bucky; whipped!bucky; protective!bucky; reader has hair; size difference; light angst; unrequited love (according to bucky); mutual pining; jealousy & slight possessiveness; swearing; fluff; he uses A LOT of pet names & basically behaves like a boyfriend?; smut; (soft)dom!bucky & sub!reader; praise kink; sex toys; guided masturbation; slight degradation; crying (bc reader feels too good 👅); pussy slapping; orgasm delay/control; edging; oral (f receiving); fingering; nipple play; unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it pls); multiple orgasms; overstimulation; messy & rough sex; squirting; creampie.
word count: 15.8k
a/n: helloo! today it's my birthday 🎈that's why this story is extremely self-indulgent, sorry 🥲 I think this is porn without plot? well, there’s a bit of plot I guess, lmao. I apologize but the smut part might be a little all over the place because l wrote it while studying for an exam and getting ready for a little trip (I’m not going to be very active for a while). I was too exhausted to write/edit something more plot-driven, so I hope you’ll enjoy this anyway 💛
Bucky is halfway through a problem set in the library, equations spread out in messy sheets all over the desk and coffee going cold at his elbow, when he checks the time on his phone and feels that familiar tug in his chest. He’s not even close to being tired, could easily grind through another two chapters, but his focus has thinned to a thread. So he closes his notebook a little too decisively and mutters something about calling it a night, about being exhausted.
Steve looks up slowly, deeply unimpressed. His eyes scream do you think I was born yesterday? but Bucky refuses to meet them. He shrugs, trying to appear casual, and shoves his laptop into his backpack like he’s annoyed at the implication.
Steve’s mouth twitches knowingly. His friend's body has been betraying him for a while— knee bouncing incessantly, jaw tight, eyes landing back to his phone every few minutes.
Bucky has been pulling this move for years and usually Steve would drag it out by raising a brow, asking if he should send flowers already. Sometimes he’d start humming a wedding march under his breath until Bucky’s ears burn red and he threatens to blacklist him from future study sessions. But tonight, his friend just watches him for a second longer than necessary, taking in the barely concealed anticipation in the way Bucky adjusts his puffer jacket, then checks his phone twice in the span of two minutes, clearly hoping for a text.
Steve just nods once and Bucky perceives the mercy like a gift.
The walk back to the dorm is automatic at this point; his feet know the path too well, from the shortcut through the nearby park— technically closed at night but still accessible thanks to the worn patch in the bushes— to the way the lights flicker near the humanities building every fifteen seconds. And the exact amount of steps it takes to reach your floor.
The rhythm of his footsteps carries just enough weight that they draw a satisfying echo from the tile. Although Bucky thought about surprising you after not seeing each other for almost a week, he wants you to notice the noise. You hate unexpected knocks, always have. He remembers you mentioning it to him once, shrugging like it was no big deal, but he is too observant when it comes to you. Something simple like a knock rattling the silence never fails to make your shoulders tense up and your heartbeat accelerate, eyes widening just slightly. That’s why he ensures each footfall is firm, deliberate, loud enough for you to acknowledge a presence in the hallway but soft enough not to hurl your brain into panic.
When he finally reaches your door, Bucky lets his hand linger on the frame. He knows you’re inside from the quiet tapping of a keyboard and the occasional muttered curse over some paper you’re clearly taking too seriously.
The knock is gentle, barely there. “Open up, doll. Campus security’s doing a wellness check.”
“Bucky?” Your voice comes soft, but cautious. Once the door is opened, he takes a step forward and tugs you into a hug, your arms wrapping around him without thought.
“Hi, sweetheart. Hi, angel. Hi, my little overachiever.” He murmurs into your hair, pressing a kiss there, then another to your temple.
Your surprised laugh is half-muffled by his chest. “What are you doing here?”
“Rescue mission.” He promptly exclaims, pulling back just enough to study your tired features. With his hands cupping your cheeks, he looks into your eyes with a feigned frown. “I could feel you stressing from the library, baby. It was like a disturbance in the stratosphere."
You roll your eyes. “I’m not—”
He narrows his eyes, and you hesitate just for a second.
“... That stressed.” Your voice fades into a whisper.
“Hm-hm.” He leans down and presses a long kiss on your forehead. “Keep telling yourself that, doll.”
Bucky nudges the door shut behind him with his foot while guiding you backward into the room, as if he’s lived here with you his whole life. His backpack drops to the floor, forgotten, only for him to engulf you back in his arms.
“You’re freezing, doll.” He murmurs. “Why is your dorm always a sauna in the summer and an arctic tundra in winter?”
You giggle quietly, pulling back just enough to brush a little bit of snow off his shoulders. “It’s just particularly cold these days.”
“Just these days?” He scoffs. “It’s inhumane. I’m having a very serious conversation with your RA about this.”
You grab his sleeve reflexively. “Please don’t.”
He blinks down at you, an eyebrow suspiciously raised. “Why not?”
“Because she already scowls at me every time we pass in the hallway after you cornered her about the radiator in the bathroom.” You mumble. “I told you it wasn’t that big of a deal.”
“It clanked in the middle of the night, and then you would jolt awake and never fall back asleep.” Bucky defends instantly.
“Still... She looks at me like I personally filed a lawsuit against her.” You argue weakly.
“Good. Maybe she’ll think twice before ignoring the pipe orchestra in your bathroom at three in the morning.”
“Bucky.” You reprimand him jokingly, squeezing his torso once.
“Shh.” He whispers, his gaze alert as it scans the room. He immediately spots your laptop and a pile of books and binders stacked like some kind of intellectual barricade on your bed. “You’re really going to bury yourself in all this tonight?”
“I have a paper due next week.” You admit, sitting on the edge of the mattress. Bucky doesn't miss the way your shoulders suddenly slump, as if resigned. “I… Just wanted to get a head start.”
He crouches in front of you after carelessly throwing his jacket on your desk chair, his hands blanketing yours perfectly. “Sweetheart, look at me.”
You peer at him through your eyelashes, noticing the exact moment his expression melts into something softer, something only you are allowed to witness. Cupping your face gently, his thumbs brush your cheeks with such tenderness you almost tear up. “When was the last time you took a break?”
You sigh. “Buck—”
“Not a ‘I-scrolled-on-my-phone-for-five-minutes’ break. I’m talking about a real one.”
You look away, suddenly feeling a scorching heat taking over your neck. You know how much he hates when you overwork yourself to the bone, and the thought of disappointing him of all people makes your stomach churn with shame.
Bucky exhales dramatically, pulling you back into his chest with a swift move that makes you yelp. “You’re working too hard, baby. Way too hard. You’re gonna burn yourself out if I don’t intervene.”
You are always three steps ahead, always prepared for some invisible emergency no one else has even considered yet. And not just on an academic level. He’s watched you fix things for others for years. You dig through your bag without looking and somehow produce exactly what is needed. Band-aids in three different sizes– yes, three. A little pouch of medicine: painkillers, allergy tablets, something for stomach aches because “campus food is unpredictable”. Extra pads tucked into the side pocket; two packs of tissues; hand sanitizer clipped to the zipper. A tiny sewing kit because one time someone’s button popped off and you decided that would never happen again. Mints. Lip gloss. Hair ties. Bobby pins. A small comb. A portable charger that’s always somehow fully charged. A granola bar “in case someone forgets to eat”. Bucky literally recoiled when some tomato sauce fell on Kate’s jeans last month and you were handing her a stain remover pen before she could even acknowledge the stain.
He’s seen you pull each of those things out at least once, along the relief on people’s faces when you quietly fix their problem before it becomes embarrassing. You never make a big deal out of it, always ready to reassure them with a smile.
You also remember everything, from birthdays to when your friends have their exams.
Natasha gets migraines when she’s stressed, so you make sure to always carry that specific brand of painkillers that works for her. You keep peppermint gum too, because you once read online it helps, and you don’t even like peppermint.
Steve forgets to eat when he’s buried in his art projects, so you text him reminders and shove protein bars into his hands without ceremony. You’ve memorized his deadlines better than he has, and you once stayed up proofreading his paper even though you had your own due the next morning.
Sam swears he never gets sick, yet you still bring extra throat lozenges when he starts losing his voice– the consequence of him being president of several clubs and giving one motivational speech after another.
Kate is very confident in herself, but she panics before every presentation. You sit in the front row each time, smiling and nodding at her like a proud mom. You never dwell on the mistakes or the stumbles; instead, you point out the strongest parts of her speech– the clever phrasing, the insights she came up with on the spot when the professor started asking questions, the arguments that actually landed. You always highlight the good things, the moments that matter, and she leaves the room feeling lighter, even when she doubts the quality of her work.
Wanda pretends she doesn’t get cold, but you pack an extra scarf in your bag anyway. You walk slower when she’s overwhelmed, checking in quietly, never pushing, just hovering gently in case she needs you.
Yelena acts all fearless, but you always suggest ordering something sweet at the end of a meal, because you know she won’t unless someone tags along.
Every preference. Every weakness. Every tiny crack people try to hide… You smooth them over without them even noticing. And you do it without expecting anything in return, like it’s nothing.
Your brain is constantly scanning, ready to cushion the fall before it happens. You’ve somehow made yourself responsible for the comfort of everyone around you, and Bucky loves how capable you are, how steady your presence is to the point everyone gravitates toward you without even realizing. You’re the calm center, the one people trust, the one who fixes things.
But sometimes… Sometimes it makes his chest hurt, because he sees the cost. You don’t sit down until everyone else has, nor you relax unless someone forces you to. You’re always the one refilling glasses before your own is empty, the one staying behind to stack chairs or wipe down tables even when it isn’t your responsibility. In study groups, you’re the last to pack up, double-checking that everyone understands the material before you even glance at your own notes. You answer texts at two in the morning because someone’s panicking about something, and somehow their anxiety becomes yours, sitting heavy in your chest until you’re sure they’re okay. If a friend is upset, you carry it with you for the rest of the day, replaying their words, wondering what else you could’ve said, what more you could’ve done. You have this way of absorbing other people’s burdens and slipping them into your own pockets as if they belong there.
And Bucky wants— selfishly, desperately— to be the one place where you don’t have to take care of anything.
With him, you don’t need your emergency kit.
With him, you don’t need to think ahead.
He carries the snacks; he argues with the professor; he deals with the guys who don’t stop staring. He drives, fixes, calls, confronts, handles. You are free to flop dramatically across his lap, and steal his fries. You can let your eyes squeeze in frustration and complain about your professors without trying to solve anything, or fall asleep mid-movie, because you know he’ll carry you to bed.
You trust him to handle the world so you don’t have to. He wants to take the weight off your shoulders so permanently that you forget it was ever there, because his affection does not sit politely in his chest. It bleeds. It calls for you. It moves through him like something alive and restless that needs to breath.
Bucky has loved you for so long that he can’t remember what it felt like before. He tries, sometimes, to pinpoint the exact moment it shifted from childhood attachment to a blade pressed under his ribs, not deep enough to kill him, but the wound pulses every time he breathes, as a reminder.
Maybe it was the day you grabbed his hand on the playground and refused to let go when another kid tried to tease him for the scar on his left arm, the one he got trying to prove he wasn’t scared of the ramp behind the old basketball court. Maybe it was during your first ever movie night in middle school, when he sat completely still for three hours after you fell asleep on his shoulder to not wake you up.
Or maybe it was gradual. Like erosion. Like water carving into stone until there’s no version of the rock that ever existed without the river running through it.
He only knows there’s never been an end.
Bucky often reflects on the fact that he’s the safest place you’ve ever known. You trust him in a way that is almost sacred. You curl into him without hesitation. You change in front of him without thinking twice. You press your cold hands under his shirt because you know he’ll yelp and then immediately tug you into his chest to warm you. Bucky finds himself more often than not lying in his own bed and thinking about this, about the way you trust him with your entire body, with your happiness, your quiet and your sadness. But not with your heart. At least, not in the way he wants.
You look at him like he’s home, like he’s already yours. Like there’s no risk of losing him– and he would never give you a reason to think otherwise. That’s the cruelest part. Bucky would stay even if you never loved him back. He’s been staying since he was fourteen and realized that the reason he wanted to punch that boy at the school dance wasn’t because the kid stepped on your shoes, but because he made you laugh too hard. He’s been staying since you cried over your first breakup and let him hold you as he tried to ignore the way his jaw clenched every time you said your ex’s name.
Taking care of you comes so easy to him, maybe too easy. Sam once told him it borders on ridiculousness. But you have no idea what it costs him. You sit in his lap and kiss the corner of his mouth by accident, giggling, looking away too fast to notice how he freezes for a second too long.
You have never kissed him on the lips, though.
Bucky thinks about that more than he should.
He’s prepared for everything: skipped meals that make you dizzy in the middle of a lecture; all-nighters where your eyes get glassy and you insist you’re “fine” as your fingers tremble around a pen; the way you grind yourself down for grades like your worth depends on them. He’s prepared to sit at the kitchen table while you bake and pretend not to want to smooth the wrinkle between your brows when you frown in concentration; or to kiss your lips after you feed him a dollop of custard, because you trust him enough to tell you if it sucks.
He’s also prepared for every guy who thinks your softness means easy access. For every hand that lingers too long and every flirtatious grin thrown your way.
He is not prepared for the possibility that one day, you might actually want one of them.
Bucky watched it happen more often than not. Smiling politely while some guy leans a little too close, and pretending he’s not tracking every movement, cataloging whether the guy’s hand drifts lower than it should.
He never interrupts. He simply waits. Because if you step back even half an inch, he’s already beside you. If your smile falters, he’s glaring at the idiot. If you look even slightly uncomfortable, he’s casually sliding an arm around your waist.
Possessive enough to send a message, but not enough to claim you.
And sometimes... It’s just unbearable.
You call him dramatic when he scowls, laughing as you remind him that you can handle yourself just fine. And he knows you can. He was the one who taught you self-defense in high school, for fuck’s sake. It's just that Bucky wants to be the only one who gets to see that soft little smile of yours when you’re on the brink of sleep, to hear your muttered curses when your fingers fumble through a tangle of yarn. Or watch you get genuinely angry over a dumb misunderstanding while reading one of those romance novels of yours that leave you sighing dreamily at the end.
The territorial edge of these thoughts leaves a bitter taste in his mouth, but the shame dissipates as soon as one of those guys smiles at you, making room for something ugly and hot that crawls through his chest and makes his jaw ache.
Bucky has imagined telling you.
It never gets far.
In his head, the words sound steady, confident.
But you’d blink, go quiet… Look guilty. And he would rather cut his own heart out than see you blame yourself for his own feelings.
So he keeps quiet, and pours his love into other things, like gently drying your hair after you shower, and giving you little forehead kisses– Bucky knows you adore those because you unconsciously shiver each time. But also calling you sweetheart and angel and doll, and all those other pet names Natasha deems ‘corny’ with a grimace. Like they don’t mean anything deeper. He touches you, constantly. Not because he’s careless, but because he’s greedy. The contact reassures him that you’re still here, that you’re still choosing to be by his side, even if it’s not in the way he yearns for.
From time to time, when you fall asleep in the crook of his neck, Bucky presses his mouth to your hair and breathes you in like it’s something he could survive on, his arms tightening around you just how you like. It’s become his favorite thing to do ever since you told him how safe and cocooned you feel in his embrace.
Because when you’re awake, you might see the way his breathing changes when your fingers trace absentminded patterns on his chest, or the way he shivers when you call him Jamie– you are the only one allowed to do that.
You might finally understand that every innocent kiss is just him restraining himself.
So Bucky lets himself slip only in the dark, when no one can see the awe twinkling in his eyes whenever you are around. He’s balancing on a thin line as it is; one wrong move and the entire “best friends” foundation cracks. And he swallows it all. The jealousy, the hunger, those three treacherous words that rise too close to the surface every time you look up at him with those pretty eyes of yours.
But loving you is perpetual. It hums under his skin when you let yourself melt into his hugs; it sits heavy in his stomach when your lips brush his forehead with a quick kiss before you run to class; it blooms sharp and hot every time someone asks for your number.
He wonders if he ruined himself by loving you that young, because no one else has ever fit right by his side. Yet, he would rather have you like this than risk losing you by asking for more. Even if sometimes it feels like his heart is stretched too tight in his chest. Even if when you look at him, tired and soft and wrapped in his comforter, he has to glance away and breathe through the urge to kiss you until you're both left wheezing. With Bucky, you just get to exist. And if this is the only role he ever gets to play in your life, he’ll take it.
He has always thought of himself as the equivalent of an oversized hoodie that’s been worn too long.
Comfortable, warm, easy to grab when you’re cold.
But not the thing you pick when you want to feel special.
Bucky presses a kiss to your cheek, then your jaw. When he reaches the side of your neck, his lips linger just enough to receive a squirm in return and a giggle that softens his smile impossibly more, the most tender thing you’ve ever seen.
“Bucky.” You whisper, half-scolding, half-laughing.
“What?” He asks innocently. “I’m just appreciating my favorite person.”
“You’re distracting me.”
“Good.” He hums, preening inside. “That’s the point, baby.”
Moving onto your bed, his hands tug you gently until you stumble back. “C’mere. Sit with me.” Lying down, he looks at you expectantly, blue eyes prettily begging you to follow him.
“James seriously, I have to finish—”
“Nope.” He grabs your wrists and pulls you forward so you’re kneeling right between his thighs. His hands settle on your hips like they’ve always belonged there, and you shiver, hoping he’ll blame it on the heating not working properly in the middle of winter. “You need to breathe, angel. And you breathe better when you’re not spiraling over footnotes. Look at you, you chewed on that pen like a stressed little squirrel.” He teases, guiding you until you’re reluctantly lying on your front. “You’re too precious to suffer like this. Not on my watch.”
You huff softly, but you don’t dare move away. The knowledge that you trust him to this extent, that you allow yourself to bend your strict study routines for him, floods him with a quiet, overwhelming happiness that makes his heart ache in the best way.
“You know,” Bucky starts softly, brushing his nose against your temple. “You don’t have to be in charge with me.”
Your shoulders drop just a fraction, and he takes that in with a hint of a satisfied smile.
“I’ve got it, okay? I’ve got you.” He continues with a lower voice. You finally go completely slack in his hold, the curve of your body molding against his chest as your ear presses on his left pec.
And God, he would stay like this forever if you’d let him.
Bucky kisses the top of your head again, tracing a path with his lips that ends on the apple of your cheek. “See? There’s my girl.” He murmurs. “You’re adorable, angel. Did you know that? Ridiculously, impossibly adorable.”
“And you’re impossible.” You mumble, eyelids threatening to close under his soft attention.
“I know. I know, bunny.” He murmurs, pretending to pout. “I can’t help it. It’s a curse, really. You’re just… Irresistible when you let yourself go.”
“But you adore me.” He quickly adds.
You don’t answer that, yet he pretends to ignore the way his heart skips when you squeeze your arms once around his torso. A hand comes up to run up and down your back slowly. Protective. Possessive in the quietest way.
“If anyone bothered you today,” he mentions casually, jaw tightening just slightly. “I’d like names.”
You burst out laughing and Bucky tightens his hold just a little at that, a fuzzy feeling tingling in the back of his head as his ears are blessed with his favorite melody. “Calm down, stud. No one bothered me today.”
“Good.” His thumb brushes absent circles on your lower back. “Because I don’t feel like scowling at freshmen tonight.”
“You always scowl at freshmen.” You peek up at him, impossibly cute with your cheek smushed against his chest. The urge to kiss you is so strong he almost shortens the distance between you.
“They look at you.”
“They look at everyone.”
“Not like they look at you, baby.”
There’s a small silence after that, but Bucky fills it quickly.
“Anyway,” He glides over the topic, his voice suddenly too high to sound nonchalant, so he clears his throat. “You’re done for the next hour. Doctor’s orders.”
“You’re not a doctor.”
“I’m a concerned citizen.”
You lift your head just enough to squint at him.
“Chronic overworking, severe lack of cuddling, and acute stubbornness are very serious conditions.” His fingers walk up your spine as he lists your “symptoms”.
You snort, letting your head fall back to its previous resting place. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Mm. Tragic, really.” Bucky shifts, scooting back against the headboard to settle against the myriad of pillows you accumulated throughout the years, tugging you with him. “Prescription says: cuddles, a movie, and you,” he pats his chest, wiggling his eyebrows. “Right here.”
You laugh again, softer now that you have given up. “Alright, alright, Dr. Barnes.” You know he hates when you roll your eyes, but you do it anyway, sighing.
“Ha! Victory!” He whispers triumphantly.
You shake your head, the corners of your mouth betraying you as they lift just slightly when you reach for your laptop. Once you settle back down, you automatically curl into his side, like it’s muscle memory. It’s always been that simple between the two of you.
He shifts immediately to accommodate you, one arm sliding around your waist as the other tucks behind his head.
“You know I’m proud of you, right?” Bucky mentions casually, low like a secret you are only meant to know. “You always work so hard. You’re so good– too good.”
Your fingers tighten slightly in his shirt, but you only nod, pressing closer. You’ve never known what to do with praise. It slides off you most of the time, makes you fidget, causes your eyes to drop to the floor like you’re being accused of something you don’t quite believe. And it’s not as if Bucky’s new at this— he’s been telling you how brilliant you are, how capable, how kind, and pretty since you were small enough to swing your legs off a playground bench. He’s never once missed a chance to compliment you.
Still, every time he does that, your shoulders go tight for a second before you remember it’s just him. Just Bucky. Not judging, not measuring, not expecting you to live up to the compliment. You never thank him with words, just burrow closer, like you’re doing now, hiding your face against his chest as if you can tuck the warmth of his words somewhere safe. They feel so fragile, so precious, and you are still learning how to hold them properly.
“What are we in the mood for, sweetheart, hm?” His words are gentle near your ear. “Something brainless? Something with explosions so I can complain about the physics and you can pretend to be impressed?”
You shift slightly, tucking your leg over his thigh. He adjusts immediately, never failing to make space for you, hand tightening just a little at your waist to keep you steady.
“Blanket?” A small shiver and a nod are enough for Bucky to lean sideways awkwardly, reaching for the fluffy lilac fabric lying on your second desk chair, nearly falling over in the process.
“Careful.” You snicker.
“I’m graceful.” Bucky insists, dragging the blanket back triumphantly. “Military precision.”
“You almost tripped over the air.”
“Well, the air started it.”
He drapes it over the both of you, smoothing it at your hip, before pressing a kiss to the crown of your head like it’s part of the ritual.
“There,” he hums. “Contained.”
His chin settles then on the top of your head. “So? If you don’t choose in the next minute, I’m putting on Interstellar again.”
You go rigid at that. “James.”
“What?” He quips, entirely unapologetic.
“You made me watch that at two in the morning.”
“It’s a masterpiece.”
“It’s almost three hours long.”
“It’s cinema.”
“You paused it every five minutes,” you accuse, lifting your head to glare back at him. “You had diagrams, Bucky. You pulled out a fucking notebook.”
He grins, completely unashamed. “You said you wanted something educational.”
“I did not say I wanted a physics lecture in my pajamas.”
“You loved it.”
You raise an eyebrow. “I fell asleep during the wormhole explanation.”
He gasps softly. “How dare you!”
You burst out in an incredulous laugh. “You started calculating stuff on the back of a takeout receipt!”
At that point Bucky chuckles under his breath, the sound vibrating against your cheek when you drop your head back on his chest.
“You’re impossible.” You mutter, going back to scroll through movies you've already watched, and rated with your best friend. “I need something easy. My brain’s fried.”
“Easy,” he repeats thoughtfully. “So no space, no time paradoxes–”
“No academic lectures.” You add firmly.
“Fine, bunny.” He sighs. “But one day you’re going to sit through the docking scene without complaining.”
“You cried during the docking scene.”
“I did not.”
“You absolutely did.”
With a clear of his throat, he squirms awkwardly under you. “It’s an incredible scene.”
After finally picking a mindless sitcom you’ve both seen a hundred times, he sets the laptop on his thigh, adjusting the angle so it doesn’t dig into you, then shifts again so you’re draped more comfortably over him, leaving his free hand to lie on his chest. You reach forward absently and lace your fingers with his, causing Bucky to go still for half a second, before his fingers squeeze yours back. He presses another kiss into your hair, hoping you won’t hear his heart do something embarrassing in his ribcage.
“Comfy, pretty girl?” He asks softly.
“Hm.” You sigh. “You’re warm.”
“Good. Means I’m doing my job.”
Huffing a quiet laugh at that, you just curl closer.
Bucky pretends to focus on the show, but really he’s more aware of the slow sound of your breathing. His thumb keeps stroking your side, tracing slow, absent circles that leave goosebumps behind, even with the soft fabric of your sweater separating him from your skin. Every so often he presses a kiss into your hairline, or your temple... Just wherever he can reach without jostling you too much.
When you shiver again, Bucky perks up.
“Still cold?”
“No.”
He narrows his eyes playfully. “Liar.”
“I’m not cold.”
“You shivered.”
“I just—” You stop, realizing you have no explanation that you can give him.
You can feel his grin into his next words. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”
You smack his chest lightly, and he laughs— soft and low— then catches your hand to press a quick peck on your knuckles.
“Careful,” he murmurs. “This is violence against your concerned citizen.”
Though the small crease in your eyebrows has finally smoothed out, your fingers keep twitching in his shirt, and your jaw ticks every few seconds like you’re biting back thoughts. The tightness in your shoulders is very much alive and burning under your skin, your breathing shaky at the edge each time you exhale. Bucky can't help but glance down at your leg shifting under the blanket every few seconds.
He lets it go on longer than he should.
His thumb traces the same slow path over your side, patient, grounding. Pressing his lips briefly to your forehead, he waits for you to melt into him the way you usually do. But instead, you sigh. It’s a little, quiet sound, but it carries too much weight.
“What is it?”
“Oh? Nothing, sorry.” Your reply is quick and rehearsed, and Bucky doesn’t like that one bit.
“Hey,” his arm squeezes your torso once. “None of that, sweetheart. You know you can tell me anything.”
At that point you shift onto your back with a slow exhale, staring up at the ceiling. “It’s just…” You hesitate for what seems like an endless amount of time to Bucky, like you’re deciding whether it’s worth saying out loud. “I keep thinking about that paper. I should finish it by tomorrow, because we haven’t made any progress with that group project I told you about last week. I’ve sent four messages on the group chat to ask when we should meet and no one has read them.” A small, frustrated laugh bursts out of your chest. “I feel so dumb for chasing them, but at this point I’ll have to finish it by myself.”
His jaw tightens.
“You know that’s what they want you to do, right? They’re gonna take all the credits while you try to finish the entire presentation by yourself on top of your own assignments. You’re not supposed to carry all of that, baby. It’s not fair.” He frowns. “You've already got enough on your plate and you need to rest.”
“I know.” You groan, momentarily closing your eyes. “But I hate not having any control over it.” Words pick up speed as your eyes flit over the surface of your white ceiling turned orange by the warm lamp on your nightstand. “Everything’s half-finished and sitting there waiting for me, and I can’t stop thinking about it long enough to breathe.”
Bucky lets you vent at your own pace, because he knows better than to rush you. You try to sound calm, reasonable, like this is just another thing to manage, but he can feel the pressure running through your veins, the strain that causes your voice to shake at the end.
“I can help you.”
The words leave him before he can fully consider them.
You immediately turn your head to give him a reproachful look. “James.”
“What?”
“No.”
“Why–”
“You have your own stuff to do–”
Bucky shakes his head, pushing himself up on one elbow so he can look at you properly. “That’s not what I meant.”
“It sounded like it.”
“You know I’d write all your papers if you’d let me, but you’re such a little spitfire, angel. You’ve got this ridiculous way of holding yourself to every rule, every detail... I love it, but damn, you’re stubborn as hell about doing things your own way.” A faint exhale of a laugh slips out the both of you despite the tension. “But I meant I can help you not think about it.”
You study him carefully, brows furrowed. “What do you mean? Aren’t we already taking a break?”
That question sits between you, innocent, and Bucky swears the room is starting to spin.
His mind betrays him with an image so vivid it nearly steals the air from his lungs: you beneath him, pliant and hot, your fingers tangled in his shirt, and your mouth soft against his, muffling your sweet little pants and moans. Just that morning Bucky woke up from the most wicked of dreams. It was of you, of your mouth, of your skin. He was touching and kissing you everywhere. His sheets were drenched in sweat and his underwear embarrassingly sticky when the sunrays split through the curtains to hit him with a brutal dose of reality. He tried jerking off in the shower, but the ache is always there, challenging him.
His eyes close briefly.
This is not the time.
But the truth is sitting at the back of his tongue, heavy and impatient.
“Maybe,” he starts slowly, choosing each word like the world might explode. “You just need something that forces your brain to focus on one thing.”
“Like what?”
His heart is pounding so loudly he’s certain you can hear it. He can't believe he's really going to say it.
“I just–” He swallows. “Have you ever thought about… I don’t know… Sex?”
It feels as if someone snatched the word from his throat and let it fall between the two of you, like a sturdy stone being violently thrown into a still lake.
You don’t react immediately, but you recoil a little, taken aback.
“I didn’t mean it like–” Bucky winces, suddenly aware of the very small distance between your bodies. So he stands up, cheeks flushed as your eyes follow him. “I mean, I did mean it, but not in a–” He exhales sharply. “God. That sounded worse.”
You blink at him, and Bucky runs a hand through his hair, pacing at the edge of the bed like he’s trying to outrun his own suggestion.
“I just meant,” he tries again, slower now. “Sometimes when your brain won’t shut up, you need something… Physical. Something that makes you focus on anything but your thoughts.” He gestures vaguely between you, not quite daring to point. “We’re– We’ve always been– I mean, there’s nothing we haven’t shared, so it doesn’t have to be weird. It could just be...”
You tilt your head. “What?”
“I…” His mouth opens and closes pathetically twice, the words dying in his throat as you adjust yourself, now sitting upright with your legs crossed. “It’d just be… Us.”
The room is plunged into a religious silence, broken solely by the low hum of the old fridge near the kitchenette and the faint sound of your labored breaths. It makes Bucky want to bury himself alive.
Your fingers keep fidgeting with the blanket.
“It’s been a long time.” You admit suddenly.
He stops abruptly in his quest of digging his own grave by walking up and down your room.
“What?”
You stubbornly stare at your hands, chin tucked down.
“Since... The last time I had sex.”
His stomach drops.
“How long?” Bucky croaks out, trying to sound nonchalant but he fails miserably as he almost chokes on his own saliva.
You hesitate for half a second, then mumble. “Since Chris.”
The name lands awkwardly between you, like a relic from another lifetime. Those five letters drag up memories Bucky thought he’d pushed down beneath the careful armor he’d worn around you for all these years. You wailing against his chest in his bedroom, the smug grin on Chris’ face every time he crossed you in the school hallways, and Bucky pretending he didn’t want to hunt that asshole down.
His throat suddenly goes very dry. “High school Chris?”
You nod, still too embarrassed to look him in the eye.
Bucky lets out a disbelieving breath. “That was... Years ago.”
You swallow. “I know.”
“You haven’t–” He can’t finish the sentence, but you understand.
You shake your head once, biting your bottom lip.
His brain struggles to process that. Bucky had convinced himself there had to be someone. Some random fling at one of the frat parties he couldn’t attend because of some last-minute visit to his family, or an assignment started too late. He spent nights lying awake waiting for your text reassuring him that you were home, safe and sound, telling himself he was being ridiculous, that of course you had allowed someone to touch you the way he wanted to.
But now this revelation feels like being shoved off a cliff, blindfolded in darkness.
“So,” you start softly, like you’re testing the word. “You believe… Sex would help.”
He swallows, nodding once. “It might.”
You glance at your best friend, then away again. “You’ve thought about it.”
It’s not a question.
Bucky huffs nervously. “I mean, I’m not blind.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
His right hand reaches up to rub the back of his neck. “Yeah. I’ve thought about it.”
There’s a moment of silence that makes Bucky wonder if being completely honest was the right choice.
“Recently?” You perk up.
He almost laughs at that. “Define recently.”
You try not to smile, and Bucky steps closer again, slower this time, like approaching a skittish wild animal.
“I’m not trying to make this weird.” He clarifies quickly. “I can go away, or– or we can pretend I never said anything and I’ll go back to being your emotional support distraction machine.”
Your head snaps up at that, a spark of hurt flashing in your eyes. “It’s not weird, and you’re not my emotional support distraction machine.” A frown settles on your features, and Bucky’s heart thuds at the adorable sight.
“I was joking, sweetheart.” He reassures you gently.
“I know, but I don’t like you calling yourself that. You know you are everything to me.”
“Yeah?” He strangles out, and you nod, chewing on your bottom lip.
“You are everything to me too.”
The air feels different now. Thicker. You glance at his mouth, just for a fleeting moment, yet his blue eyes– too bright, too earnest, like they’d strip you bare if you let yourself crack the slightest bit– catch that instantly.
“Are you suggesting we try?” You ask, almost daring him.
Bucky hesitates— not because he doesn’t want to, but because he wants it so much he wouldn’t know what to do with himself if you were to accept his absurd offer.
“Only if you want to.” His voice cracks. “I don’t– I don’t want you to think I’m taking advantage of you, or something. We’re just–” He gestures between you helplessly. “We’re us.”
Your silence stretches just long enough for his chest to start caving in. Bucky examines your face carefully, searching for any sign of discomfort, annoyance… Anything he can work with. But you give him nothing.
Just a clean slate of neutrality.
The shift inside himself is dreadful, hope morphing into humiliation. Of course he pushed too far. You’re stressed, allowing yourself to be vulnerable around him and what does he decide to do? He suggests to have fucking sex with you.
Bucky takes a step back without meaning to, already bracing for the fallout. What would you do if he confessed right now? Telling you he’s loved you since scraped knees and shared headphones and walking you home because “it’s on my way anyway”. That every girl who approached him felt like a placeholder. That he’s swallowed the ache years ago, and locked the longing somewhere unreachable, so it would never hurt you.
“Forget I said anything,” he mutters, already stepping back from your bed. “That was out of line. You’re overwhelmed and I just made it worse. I’m so sorry, sweetheart.”
Even the pet name that has been lightning your eyes up since high school tastes bitter now.
She’s trying to figure out how to let you down gently. She’s figuring out if this will change things between you two. She’s wondering if she’s been leading you on without realizing it. She’s suspecting you’ve been trying to get in her pants all along.
Bucky moves another step back, running a hand over his face. “I–”
“James.”
He looks up immediately, and you’re suddenly watching him like you’re going to cry.
“I haven’t done this in years.” You repeat softly. “So if I’m bad at it–”
His stomach drops. “You won’t be.” He rushes out.
You observe him with a rueful smile, shoulders dropping as if suddenly freed from an unbearable weight. “You don’t know that.”
“I do.” He frowns, blushing violently at how certain he sounds.
Your sigh sounds like it's been living in your chest for years, and after you clear your throat, attempting to pull yourself together. “What happens now?”
His heart is pounding so hard it almost drowns out the show still playing in the background.
“Now,” he says carefully, stepping closer. “I ask if I can kiss you.”
You hold his gaze. “And then?”
“And then, if you say yes,” he continues, fighting to keep his voice steady. “I’m going to do it. Just once. And if you hate it, we pretend it never happened.”
You don’t hesitate, your body unconsciously leaning forward as he kneels in front of you.
“I won’t hate it.”
That confidence nearly unravels him.
“So… Can I?” Bucky’s voice is barely above a whisper, rough around the edges, his hunger leaking out after holding it back for years.
At your tiny, shy nod, that carries more weight than anything he’s ever felt, his chest tightens, almost forgetting how to breathe. His hand lifts slowly, almost reverently, and cups the side of your face, his gaze focusing on the action. His thumb brushes along your jaw, gentle, before his eyes flutter close for a fraction of a second, enough to carve this moment in his soul. When he opens them, his breath hitches at what he sees: your pretty, trusting eyes fixed on him, openly giving him permission.
You don’t pull back. Instead, you tilt your head just slightly, leaning into the touch, and that tiny motion nearly stops his heart.
Bucky exhales softly and bravely leans in, lips brushing yours in a featherlike, tentative contact– a question posed in motion. It's the gentlest of kisses that is meant to taste the waters, to ask if you want this as much as he does. You respond immediately, pressing against him, and in that moment, a spark ignites in his chest.
Every sensation is magnified. The softness of your lips against his, your eyelashes brushing his cheek as you close your eyes, your quiet, pleased sigh… Each one sends shockwaves through him.
His other hand reaches your waist, tentative at first, just enough to anchor you against him. He doesn’t pull, allowing your body to find his to its own volition. The pressure is grounding, careful, and each subtle shift of your weight beneath his palm leaves him more certain, more addicted to the feeling of you.
Your hands slide to his chest, light at first, then press more firmly as if to claim the space that’s always been yours to take. His fingers twitch instinctively, tracing lines along your sides, feeling the curve of your ribcage, memorizing the rhythm of you in his arms. That’s when he deepens the kiss, careful not to overwhelm. Your lips part just a bit, yielding, allowing him to savor the sweetness, the trust, the closeness. And your hair is caught under his fingers as he tilts your head slightly to explore without breaking the fragile balance. The clean, floral scent of the body lotion you recently bought mixes with something inherently yours, filling his senses, grounding him while simultaneously setting his nerves ablaze. You make a high, almost imperceptible mewl that sends heat straight to his crotch, prompting Buck to lean into you just a little more, confirming that this– this closeness, this softness, this moment– is real.
Time stretches, the show hums unnoticed, the bed creaks faintly beneath the weight of you both, and your breathing mingles with his, shallow and intoxicating. Every tremor of yours is loaded with anticipation, your heart racing in tandem with his.
Finally, Bucky pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, the tips of your noses brushing.
“You’re incredible.” He whispers, voice raw and breathy, as if saying it louder would shatter this dream he never wants to wake up from. “Just… Gorgeous.”
Your smile is just short of shy as you press once more into him. He tilts his head, capturing the soft warmth of your lips again. Your sternums touch, and one of your hands grasps the hair on his nape, eliciting a low groan out of him. This time, Bucky kisses you as if he wants it to bruise, his mouth heavy against yours like he is trying so desperately to burn himself into you. You’re trembling in his tight hold, yes, but Bucky is barely holding together the pieces of a lifetime spent loving you in secret. His teeth graze your bottom lip in the middle of it all, leaving behind a surprisingly nice sting that makes you shiver. He wants to kiss you forever, even against the merciless ache in his lungs.
His hands finally gather the courage to move, like you belong to each other. His fingers dig into the meat of your hips, slipping under the cotton of your oversized sweater to graze your bare skin, a moan shamelessly falling into your mouth.
“Bucky.” You whimper as his lips trace an unmapped path along your jaw.
“Yeah, sweetheart?” He gently nibbles a sensitive spot just under your ear that you didn’t even know existed. You shiver again, feeling the curve of his grin against your bare throat. “What is it, doll? Talk to me.” He presses an open-mouthed, heated kiss on the crook of your collarbone, suckling until you squeak.
“I’m–” You gasp. “It’s hard.” You blurt out. “To... To come these days.” Your voice fades into a whisper. “Too much stress. I can’t focus.”
Bucky stills at your timid confession. He presses your foreheads together to quietly stare at you, all blown pupils and this dazed, adoring expression that makes your heartbeat jump. “That’s okay, angel.” He stops your anxious blabbering. “What do you usually do?”
“What?” You gape at him, not expecting that question.
“What do you do when you’re alone, baby girl?”
“I have… Toys.” Your cheeks feel so hot you start sweating.
“Show me.”
“You–You want to watch me while I… ?” You squeak, eyebrows shooting up.
His jaw clenches at the thought, cock already half-hard since your lips touched for the first time, before he nods. “Will you let me, darling?”
“But–”
Bucky calls your name, steady and serious. “Do you trust me?”
“Of course!” The way those words fall from your lips, offended that he would even hint you don’t trust him, elicits a boyish laugh out of him.
“Then let me help you.”
There’s a beat. A long, awful, charged beat.
“Okay.” You whisper.
“Yeah?” He perks up a little too enthusiastically.
“Yes, yes Bucky.” You bite your bottom lip, trying to hide your amusement.
“Where are they?”
“Uhm, second drawer of the nightstand.”
Once the box is opened, Bucky's mouth goes completely dry, so much that it almost hurts to swallow.
His brain stops. Just… Fully refuses to work.
It’s ridiculous how fast heat climbs up his neck, spreads across his chest and then drops straight into his stomach.
A shockingly realistic dildo, a bullet vibrator, a suction vibrator connected to the curled end of a dildo, another dildo, and it vibrates too...
Pull yourself together, it’s just silicone for fuck’s sake.
But it’s yours.
And suddenly his mind, traitorous and vivid, supplies images he has spent years trying not to picture too clearly. You, laughing. You, stretching in one of his large hoodies. You, soft and sleepy in his arms. You, riding one of these fucking toys. You, spread on his bed with that thing stretching your pussy just enough to burn deliciously. You, moaning and whining and calling his name, begging to make it better with his–
And under the mortification, something else coils low in his crotch. Crude, shameful… Disrespectful.
“They’re just toys.” You mumble, promptly looking away. “Right?”
“Yes!” Bucky rushes out, hating the way you seem to make yourself a little smaller, as if ashamed. “Yes, sweetheart. I'm sorry. It’s just… I never knew you…” He trails off absentmindedly, exhaling harshly as his blue eyes trace your curves. His hands slide slowly to your waist, thumbs brushing small strokes over your hipbones as if he’s reacquainting himself with something he’s known forever but is allowed to touch differently now.
“Let me make you feel good. Can I?” Bucky murmurs, momentarily forgetting about the protagonists of his future dreams. He guides you back until he has you propped against your plush pillows by the headboard, their fuzziness and the soft plaid comforter under you easing your nerves.
You nod, certain but coyly.
Bucky then leans in carefully, planting a kiss on the corner of your mouth first, gently.
“Does this feel good? Here?” Half-lidded eyes burn into yours, your breath catching in your throat at the tenderness, and you nod again, quickly.
He smiles against your skin and shifts slightly, lips brushing along your jaw. Slower, lingering.
“What about here, hm?”
You bite down on your lower lip, the smallest sound trying to escape your throat before you swallow it back. Another nod.
His hand slides up to cradle the side of your neck, thumb warm beneath your ear as he presses a kiss just under it. He feels the way your pulse jumps, feels the way your shoulders tense before melting again.
“Oh,” Bucky hums quietly. “Definitely here.”
Your fingers curl into his shirt as a reflex, grounding yourself and him both.
Moving lower, his lips set over the spot where your neck meets your shoulder, charting your skin like an astronomer tracing a constellation he’s spent a lifetime hoping to find.
“Here?”
You nod too fast this time, and Bucky pulls back just enough to look at you, all twinkling eyes and clenched jaw.
“You don’t have to be so quiet,” he murmurs, thumb pressing against your lip to free it from your teeth. “I wanna hear you.”
That only makes it worse.
You shake your head slightly, embarrassed, and he chuckles under his breath, so terribly fond.
“No?” He whispers, leaning back in. “You don’t want to let me hear your sweet sounds?”
He kisses your mouth this time, taking your chin between his fingers and making sure your tongues touch in a slow dance. And you don’t disappoint, rewarding him with the most precious of moans.
“Good job, sweetheart.” Your next breath is shaky, gaze avoiding his as Bucky reaches lower to brush his mouth on the sliver of belly exposed by the raised hem of your sweater.
Another nod, and Bucky smiles against your skin, teasing.
“Hm, still nodding at me?” There’s no bite to it. “Cute, but I know you can give me more.” Your hand slides then into his hair as a response, tugging lightly, yet Bucky almost breaks his composure. He exhales sharply, forehead dropping briefly to your stomach like he is the one being unraveled.
“You like that, huh?” He sighs, voice low. “Making me lose my mind over you?” The corners of your mouth lift mischievously, and Bucky has to grit his teeth to not smile at the adorable sight.
“Careful, sweetheart.” His thumbs slide along your hips, adjusting himself so he can go even lower. “I might just return the favor… In a way you won’t forget.”
Your breath hitches, and his lips return patient, learning you like a sacred treasure.
“Here?” His mouth lands on your hipbone, and you nod, pressing your lips together.
“And here?”
A kiss on your thigh that again gives him a nod in return.
“And what about here, angel?”
Your breath stutters, and this time you can’t stop the high whimper that slips free.
His lips... Kissing your clothed pussy.
Bucky stills for half a second to make sure he heard right, before a smug grin brightens his features.
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Thought so.”
Once he’s climbed back up, hands back at the curve of your waist, he squeezes the flesh, relishing in your startled squeak. “How often do you use them?” He glances between your cloudy eyes and your tantalizing lips as you cling to his broad shoulders.
“What?” You mumble dizzily, blinking as if waking up from a soft dream.
“The toys.”
“It–It depends if–” A gasp interrupts you as he starts mouthing down your jaw and neck. “If I’m in the mood– Bucky.” You sigh, tossing your head back when his fingers dig into your sides.
“Hm?” He barely acknowledges you.
“Tickles.” Your fingers tighten in the fabric of his shirt. His grip eases a little, stroking the skin as if to apologize. He goes back to your lips just in time to swallow your wanton whine. Meanwhile, his right hand grabs the box.
“What’s your favorite, sweetheart?” He asks, planting a kiss on your cheek that feels too pure compared to what you are about to do. Gulping, you sit more upright to examine your secret stash as he holds it between you two. Your lips purse in contemplation, and Bucky can’t resist leaning forward for another quick peck, his left hand gently splaying over your thigh to comfort you.
Your hand snatches the purple dildo that vibrates, your cheeks heating up as Bucky leans back over you with a satisfied smile lingering on his lips to kiss you with more love than hunger. His tongue runs along your lower lip, and when granted permission, he meets your tongue in an eager tangle.
“This okay?” He pants in your mouth, his fingers having traveled to the waistband of your sweats without you even noticing it. His lips have you so dizzy your brain has been turned to complete mush, so you can only nod, already tugging him back to you as he lowers your bottoms, tossing them somewhere on the floor. You whimper in protest when Bucky doesn’t move, taking a moment to examine your panties, something that you were entirely unprepared for.
“You’ve been this wet the whole time, baby?”
Oh.
You feel your eyes widen, jaw going sack as you notice exactly what he was referring to. Glancing away in embarrassment, your hands shoot up to cover your face. You knew you were aroused, but hearing your best friend declaring it so crudely just makes you want to hide under your sheets. Your core throbs just a little, hot and aching under the uncomfortable fabric and his intense attention. Your fingers part shyly just in time to see Bucky reach for your centre, flinching as two fingers start a slow rubbing motion with just enough pressure, and an occasional pinch of your bundle of nerves. Your slick seeps through and turns the cotton to a darker color, and Bucky groans as his digits get sticky with your arousal, his other hand undoing the belt and then unbuttoning his jeans for some room for his erection.
Your stomach churns as you bravely tuck your palms under your chin, finding him still staring at that stain. It’s really happening, you realize at once, particularly vulnerable now that your best friend looms between your spread thighs.
“Your shirt, can you…?” You croak out softly, and that’s when Bucky shoots his head up, clumsily going for the hem of his sweater. You wrap one hand around his neck to bring him back into a kiss as you let the other wrap around the dildo, slipping it between your legs. Still devouring your lips, his fingers focus now on your panties, holding them from both sides until an abrupt rip echoes in the silent bedroom.
You gasp, eyes snapping wide open just in time to see his hand carelessly toss your ruined underwear over his shoulders. Unbothered by the fact that he literally just tore the fabric in two, his whole body tenses at a faint click, followed by a low buzzing noise. The toy comes to life in your hand, tingling your palm, and you give the sensation a short moment of consideration before pressing the button again.
“Fuck.” He exhales harshly, his forehead falling on your shoulder to brace himself as he feels your body tense beneath his, a soft whimper getting caught in your throat when you press the tip of the toy firmly against your clit. “Can I–” He clears his throat, voice so rough you can hear restrain bleed through. “Can I look, princess?” He could bust right now, completely untouched, but your comfort comes first. Always.
“Ah– yes, yes please!” You shiver, eyes falling shut.
“So fucking pretty.” Swallowing back a growl, his hips shift impatiently. His palms land on your thighs, thumbs stroking the skin at a calming pace. “The prettiest pussy I’ve ever seen.” He murmurs, dark eyes glancing up at your scrunched-up features.
“Open your eyes, baby. C’mon.”
The reminder is gentle but you obey instantly, eager to show Bucky just how good you can be for him.
“That's it. Good girl.” That proud look takes over his face again, the praise eliciting a whimper out of you before you can stop it. Your urge to please him definitely goes beyond eating reminders and proper breaks between your study sessions.
It just feels so right.
Your hips jolt up unconsciously when you start grinding the toy against your clit after pressing the small button once to let it vibrate faster. Your free hand scrambles to grasp Bucky’s wrist to find some sort of comfort while you let yourself fall blindfolded into the pleasure.
“Bet that feels so good, right?”
Your eyes drift over him, half-lidded, drinking in the stubble darkening his jaw, the line of his nose, the sweep of his shoulders, each contour and shadow marking him as impossibly real. Scorching heat hums between you, and you feel it not just in your skin but deep in your chest, pressing against your ribs like it could tear you open. The subtle tension in his hands as they hold you, claim you, memorize you, are a wordless testament of the raw intensity that runs through his veins, leaving your body taut and starving for more. Every brush of his lips, every press of his palm, every quiet sigh that slips from him drives you closer to breaking, like stepping through your front door after the world has worn you down, and the pull in your chest finally bursts, and you can only surrender to its force.
“Bucky.” You call out to him absently, panting at the sensations traveling from your core and spreading through your veins like electricity.
“Say it again. My name.” His voice is commanding though you can see his throat bobbing shakily.
“Bucky.” You moan, raw and clear this time, even if your face feels like it just bursted in flames.
“Good girl. Good fucking girl.” He notices the exact moment you register the words, a shiver shaking your body as your eyes close again in pure bliss.
You want to be his good girl. You want him to be proud of you. You want him.
Your pussy clenches and aches for release, the vibrations are cruel, causing your mind to go rogue and indulging in fantasies of Bucky ordering you to come rather than just watch it happen passively.
“Why don’t you take it off your clit for me and fuck that sweet pussy now?”
You twitch, aching desperately with the need to put the toy back, to force yourself over the edge against his order, yet your body complies without hesitation, sliding the dildo inside your soaking core.
This is what you need. To be full, to be fucked. The stretch feels perfect, almost as though it belongs inside you.
“Shit, look at you taking it so good.”
You draw the dildo back out again, relishing the drag, setting a slow and steady pace with your wrist as a wanton moan falls from your parted lips. “Oh Bucky.”
“Love when you say my name like that.” He grits out almost to himself, exhaling harshly. “Faster, baby, c’mon.”
You follow his order, thrusting harder, faster, your eyes rolling back as your pussy clenches tightly around the toy in its desperation.
“Good girl.”
You are a good girl. His good girl.
Just as you’re in the midst of exploring and pleasuring your own body, you experience the added sensation of Bucky’s hands– vast, warm, so familiar yet new as they explore your sides. They glide under your sweater, up and up, until your chest is exposed to the chilly air of your bedroom.
“That’s it, baby. Keep that pretty hole stretched for me.” He encourages, his tongue licking his bottom lip as his gaze locks with your hazy eyes, before slowly leaning down.
His breath is hot on your skin, that’s the first thing your brain registers. You close your eyes in anticipation as he tenderly kisses you, teasing his way down your body, leaving soft pecks that send shivers down your spine. His thumbs expertly brush your nipples, taking his time, indulging in every little moan and restrained gasp. Bucky plants two kisses on the swell of your breasts, then focuses on your already hard peaks. Both nipples receive the softest of nibbles and sweet suckles, the tip of his tongue playfully flicking them only to suck harder.
“Such pretty tits. Why were you hiding them from me, doll hm?” His eyes glance up, slyly grinning when his teeth bite down a little harder and your back jerks up.
“You’re drooling, baby. Can’t imagine what’ll happen when I split you on my fat cock.” The needy, desperate whine is out of your mouth the second the thought enters your mind. He licks his way up, from the side of your breast to your damp cheek, before firmly grabbing your jaw to spit on your tongue. “Swallow.”
Gasping, you quickly follow his instruction, a hint of humiliation swirling chaotically in your belly. “Beautiful.”
“Bucky please.”
His answers is instant, attentive. “Please what? Talk to me baby, what do you want?”
It takes you a few tries to let the words out, arousal and embarrassment making it difficult to string a proper sentence together. “I want– fuck– I want you.” You eventually stammer.
The deep groan rumbling in his ribcage goes straight to your core. “Good girl, sweetheart. I’m proud of you. Fuck that pretty pussy nice and hard for me and you’ll have me.”
You nod eagerly, whimpering as you pick up the pace, pushing the dildo as deep as you can, and it’s not long before you’re floating again, light like a fuzzy cloud of pink cotton candy. This is the best torture you’ve ever experienced, bare to his whims and exposed to his adoring eyes, but you really need more. You need him to fuck you like an animal, to have his strong hands that until now have only handled you with care to ruin you to tears and hold you down as his cock carves its shape inside you.
Bucky coos, observing your reaction meticulously, your legs spreading impossibly wider as you let your head hit the headboard. “That's it. Does it feel good to fill that pussy for me?”
For him. He has such a filthy mouth and it spurs you on even more. Covered in a sheen of sweat, you manage to answer him through the fog in your brain. “So good.”
His grin is something dirtily mocking. “It's been a long time since anyone has fucked you like you deserve, and now my baby needs my cock to take care of her, isn’t that right sweet girl?”
Overwhelmed, something breaks inside of you and you’re unable to hold anything back. With a raw moan you almost sob in frustration. “Please. Bucky please fuck me, need it so bad!”
His shaky exhale gives his anticipation away. “I will, baby. I will.” His eyes lock on your trembling form, steady and safe, as you clench and ache and yearn. “Fucking hell, doll, you’re perfect.” His lips are again all over your face, your lust-glazed eyes unable to do anything but flutter shut with desire. “My pretty girl, all mine.”
It’s all too much and not enough at the same time.
“You ready to come for me, sweetheart?”
Yes, yes! That’s what you need!
Nodding enthusiastically, you chase the climax that you’ve been greedily anticipating, only to realize it’s not going to happen like this. You love being stuffed and pounded, but having an orgasm just from it? It’s not something that comes easy to you. All at once, the pleasurable torture feels more like a cruel punishment, and you can’t help the dejected whimper that escapes your throat. You need more, but pleasing Bucky is necessary, something stronger than the urge to rub your clit.
“Bucky.” You wail, his voice is not enough anymore.
He gently soothes his palms along your thighs and the effect is immediate. You melt into the mattress, the warmth of his skin on yours settling your rapidly unravelling nerves. “What is it? I’m right here, sweetheart. You’re doing so good for me”
“I need– can I touch it, please?”
Bucky sits back on his heels with a playful smirk. “You can’t come if you don’t touch your pretty little clit, can you?”
“No.” You shake your head, a thrill of excitement racing under your hot skin. “I–I hit it sometimes too.” You reveal quietly, the words spilling out before you can stop them.
His eyes widen, Adam's apple bobbing, and his whole body goes still, stripped of every shred of cockiness. “What?”
You quickly swat your hand against yourself, glancing up at him to find him frozen, staring at your bare pussy, wet and shiny. You repeat the action, squeaking. “Like this.”
His nostrils flare, tongue licking his lips like a wolf ready to sink his fangs into his coveted prey. “Sweet girl, you like getting your little pussy slapped?”
At your eager nod, your best friend swears every ounce of oxygen has vanished from the room.
“Then slap it for me, princess.”
Fiercely determined to show him and thankful for finally getting some stimulation on your clit, you swiftly pull the toy out just enough to bring your hand down with a sharp slap. The shock of the impact makes your body lurch, the sensation recoiling through your core as the wet sound resounds lewdly in his ears.
“Fuck!” Your pussy is so hot and tender with the amount of attention it has been receiving from both you and Bucky, but the slap is a welcome change in sensation, spurring you closer to that final edge. Sliding the dildo back inside, you feel delirious with lust.
“Again.”
You strike your flesh harder this time, gasping at the delicious sting. The friction on your clit brings you dangerously close to your climax as you keep alternating a few thrusts of the dildo to the little spanks. You’re not so sure you’d be able to wait for his permission to come if Bucky keeps ordering you to do it.
Humming thoughtfully, his cock hot and throbbing, still trapped in the confines of his wet underwear, Bucky takes a deep breath, trying to regain at least a fraction of self-control before coming untouched just by witnessing the girl he yearned so long for losing herself to this debauchery.
“Maybe one day I’ll make you come just by slapping your pretty pussy.” Your reaction is immediate, hips twitching up and mouth forming a lovely circle around a loud whine. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? My dirty, little girl.” His hand squish your cheeks together with a cocky smirk. “You want another one, doll?”
“Please.” Maybe if he let you, you could come from slapping your pussy now. The thought of orgasming from something so depraved renews that spark of embarrassment, only serving to drive you deeper into this maddening lust.
“So fucking polite.” He growls. “Again.”
Your body jerks violently as the pain ricochets through your whole being. It feels so overwhelmingly good, every nerve alive and sore, tortured by this endless, pulsing arousal.
Tears start running down your cheeks unprompted. “Bucky please! ’M so close.”
Nuzzling your jaw, he cups your face with such tenderness, appealing directly to that part of you that would do anything for him. “I know, princess. I know. One more thing and then I’ll let you come, okay?” You nod weakly, sniffling. “You’re doing so well for me, sweetheart.”
You sob then, so broken and sensitive you aren’t sure how much more you can take.
His velvety voice rumbles against your neck. “Take the dildo out and turn it off for me.”
“But–” Bucky wants to punch himself in the nose at the look of pure misery on your face.
“Do you trust me, darling?” Humming dejected, your hand trembles as you whine at the loss, your hole clenching around nothing.
“Good girl. Breathe with me.”
You pull in some deep breaths, his hand flattening yours against his chest to follow his lead. Of course he wouldn’t leave you like this, and trying to fight off the fog clouding your brain, you wonder if he’s going to fuck you finally.
“Show me the toy.”
You balk at his request, somehow more self-conscious about this than the fact that you’ve been masturbating in front of your best friend for God knows how long.
Hesitant, you lift the damp dildo, and Bucky leans forward to inspect it.
“It’s soaked with your sweet pussy juice, doll.”
A surge of arousal boils in your veins at his words, prompting you to cover your face with your free hand, but Bucky promptly catches your wrist, gently bringing it back to its previous place.
“No need to be embarrassed, sweetheart. Take a look, you did so good for me.”
It’s not much of a surprise to you to find the dildo glistening, yet you bite your bottom lip out of mortification. The thing is, seeing the proof of your raging arousal standing proudly between you two shouldn’t make you leak so much.
Bucky smiles, before guiding you into an open-mouth kiss with a hand on your nape. “Look at you. You're so fucking gone, aren’t you?” He blabbers against your lips. “Beautiful… So, so beautiful. Wanna come for me, baby?”
As you nod enthusiastically, still completely spaced out, he nods along with you. “Yeah, I know you do. C’mon then, put that stupid toy to use.”
Turning the dildo back on, you notice that your wrist is a little sore, but you’ll be damned if you’re going to stop now.
“Oh my God.” Your eyes roll in the back of your head as you start rubbing the toy around your nub, the sensation taking you higher and higher as the room is soon being filled with your lewd sounds. At this point you’re far too close to what you’ve been craving to care about your neighbors.
Bucky diverts your attention before you can get carried away, still cupping your cheeks and hovering over your lips. “Don’t you dare come without my permission, baby girl. I want to know when you’re close, alright?”
While your initial thought is to complain about having to wait a little longer, you bite your tongue and decide to not challenge his patience. The thought of being so obedient for him is too tantalizing to resist, so you do your best to hold back as each vibration hurls you towards your imminent climax.
“Fuck! I’m so close– Bucky please make me come. I can't– fuck.”
“Let go, doll. C’mon, you have been such a good girl for me. Soak it for me, make me proud, and I’ll reward you by licking your pussy clean after, okay?”
The tight knot in your lower belly finally snaps, his words forcing you over the edge and into pure oblivion. Electricity courses through your veins and your poor, abused pussy throbs and clenches, your whole body shuddering uncontrollably. You are on your knees, at your pleasure’s mercy, from your trembling thighs to the noises shamelessly falling from your parted lips. You’re barely able to register Bucky talking you through it, with you every step of the way.
“There you go. You’re so fucking perfect. Fuck, I want to keep you. Please let me keep you, angel. Love you so damn much.”
You have never had such an intense orgasm in your entire life, its power taking the breath from your lungs and leaving you floundering for some kind of stability.
“Deep breaths, honey, c’mon.”
Feeling entirely too sensitive now, you quickly yank the vibrator away, throwing it somewhere on the bed. You try to focus on your breathing as your head flops back to look at the ceiling, utterly exhausted and still quivering from the leftover pleasure.
“That’s it, good girl.”
Without wasting a minute, Bucky is already kissing his way down your body, gently and attentively, as if trying to leave little pieces of himself along your skin. Until he stops between your legs, resting his head against your inner thigh, two fingers run from your clit down to your entrance. You flinch, body lighting up.
“Bucky–”
He softly parts your glistening folds with his thumbs, inviting your pussy to his hungry gaze.
“Haven’t finished with you yet, sweetheart. Look at this pretty mess.” He whispers directly into your pussy, his words sending shivers down your spine, his hot breath tickling your most intimate area. He lightly flicks your clit with the tip of his tongue, teasing you with delicate and precise touches that burn so deliciously.
You feel like your body is going to implode as his fingers slide back and forth between your lower lips, and without warning, he slips one inside, eliciting a strangled moan out of you. Almost immediately, he finds that spongy spot as he leans in to tease around your puffy lips with his teeth, grazing the meat until your hips twitch up with need. He thoroughly licks up the slickness from your inner thighs, savoring every drop of arousal from your previous release. Your body is slowly melting under his unhurried actions, until Bucky decides to attack your clit with his mouth and you flinch, feet digging into the bed as a yelp leaves your throat.
“Ah! Bucky!” You choke out, a hand coming to grasp his wrist while the other fists a handful of your bed sheets.
He knows you are especially sensitive, after all that relentless teasing and prolonged edging, but it only makes it better. “‘S okay, I've got you, sweet girl. Just let it happen.” With a mumble, he leaves a sweet kiss on your inner thigh, then slips another finger alongside the first one, making you cry out as he overstimulates your sweet spot.
“Fuck fuck fuck!” You almost scream, thighs snapping close around his head.
Bucky growls at the pressure, hungrily licking a long, slow strip from your clenching entrance all the way up to your pulsating clit, your natural scent making him dizzy as he literally buries his face in your core. His saliva drips down his chin when his lips eagerly suckle on your sensitive nub, coaxing out desperate moans from your quivering lips. His need to please you is insatiable, and you can feel its intensity from the way his starved tongue laps at you, every flick sending jolts of pleasure through your spine. You are completely lost in this wild lust, so feverishly intense, that you are left trembling with pleasure, on the verge of transcending into another state of being. His actions are an overwhelming assault on your senses, your mind and body both spiraling out of control, thoroughly consumed by the exquisite sensation of his fingers thrusting so precisely inside your poor walls.
Bucky cannot escape the pleasure, his addiction to your unique flavor driving him to new heights of bliss. His eyes stay fixed on your crumpled features, his hand imprinting its shape on the soft flesh of your thigh to stop himself from humping your bed like an animal, so close to his own release that he could come right there with a single touch of his cock.
At some point, he pulls away with a wet pop, groaning in delight at the intoxicating taste. “C’mon, make a stupid mess on my face, beautiful.” He growls, voice husky with urgent arousal. His mouth latches back onto your clit, sucking on it with a steady rhythm, producing such humiliating, sloppy sounds as he eagerly consumes you, his soft groans adding to the melody of pleasure filling the bedroom.
His fingers curl up, massaging that sweet, sweet spot of yours, so lost in the euphoria of it all that his arms shake with pent-up desire, his actions leaving you both teetering on the edge of sublime release.
“I’m gonna– fuck , please don’t stop!” You cry out, fisting his hair and he grunts. He’s a fucking beast as he devours you whole.
“That’s it, doll, give it to me. Grind on my tongue, just use my mouth.”
You obey, literally humping his face, convulsing under a thin layer of sweat. “‘M gonna come.” You sob. “Jamie– fuck!” His tongue abuses the poor bundle of nerves while quickly pumping his fingers even as your walls clamp, your slick pouring into his eager mouth and down his chin, soaking his stubble. He loves when you go limp in his hold, your whole body quivering under his palms.
“Shh-shh, you're okay, pretty.” He slowly retracts his fingers while keeping his eyes locked on your face, still dragging his lower face between your puffy folds, rubbing you raw with his facial hair to gather every bit of your orgasm. He brings his fingers to his mouth once he sits back on his heels, making a show of licking them clean before he crawls forward to hover over you again, his bulge now impatiently pressing against the fabric for your attention.
“Holy shit.” You huff, on the brink of passing out.
“One more.” Bucky kisses you, like an apology for being so needy.
“What?” You squeak, still dazed yet blinking at him, more awake than ever.
“One more, baby.” He pleads, his hand soothing along your hips and waist as you faintly catch the rustling of fabric. “You were crying so prettily for my cock before, don’t you want it anymore?”
Before you can beg to give it to you, a weight settles on your soppy core, hot and solid, sliding between your folds. Your eyes shoot down as Bucky thrusts forward, the underside of his length grinding along your heat, coating him in your slick.
“Shit.” He grits out.
Gaping, your hand slowly reaches down to grasp him. He’s so thick and heavy in your palm, throbbing with desire as precum dribbles from the bulbous tip and over your knuckles.
“Yeah, touch me like that, baby.” He rasps out, panting. “You’re so sweet to me. Letting me play with your pussy until you’re dumb and drooling and all pretty and relaxed for me.” He wraps his fingers around yours on his girth, tightening and squeezing the base. “There we go.” He grunts, bending down until there isn’t a sliver of air between you both.
You mewl pathetically, garbling nonsense. He’s deliciously mean as he lovingly bullies your clit with his cock. Your raw nerves burn with every thrust, your juices spilling down your ass. “Oh, you like that, don’t you, sweet girl? Wanna be my pretty slut, baby? Spend every day being stuffed full of my cock? You won’t have to think about anything, just be nice and wet for me. I’ll put it in your mouth, and then get you on your hands and knees just to spank your pretty ass until you’re begging for me to fuck you.” He chuckles darkly as your eyes glaze over and your breaths go thin and shaky, every cell in your body buzzing as you cling to his forearms.
“You feel me on your pretty button, baby?” He grinds again. “Poor little clit must feel so sensitive. Is that why you’re crying?”
Above you, Bucky curses, mouth watering at the sight of the creamy mess you made on his cock, soaking the bed and his thighs as well.
“Are you going to let me inside, baby girl? Fill you up with my seed, and watch it leak out because it’s too much for you to keep inside?”
“Please, please, Bucky.” You beg, nails digging into his skin. “‘M ready, so ready for you.” A pulse of agony beats through you.
He shushes your blabbering softly, cupping your cheek. “Alright, pretty girl. I'm here, just a little more patience.” The reverence in his blue eyes pours into your heart, unraveling in a delicious storm. “Thank you for letting me have you like this. Thank you for giving me the honor.”
You’ve been yearning for his touch for what seemed like a never-ending lifetime. Every fiber of your being has ached for him, and now that you have him like this, warm and gentle and incredibly gorgeous, staring down at you with his blue eyes so full of fondness, you can’t ignore it anymore.
“I love you, Bucky.” You blurt out, tremblingly grabbing his face with both of your hands, bringing him down into another kiss– hard, and desperate, and filthy, your heart beating so fast you’re convinced it’s going to escape your chest anytime now.
With flushed cheeks, Bucky pants, tip of the nose brushing yours. “Sweetheart,” he soothes dotingly, an ache to his voice that creeps through the tenderness as he buries his face into the crook of your neck. He breathes you in reverently, brought to his knees by three simple words. “You don’t know how many times I’ve dreamed about this. Of you. And now I’ve got you in my arms, and you’re mine– you are mine, right?”
“Wanna be yours, always have.” You whine, and with a broken groan, he caresses your hips, mapping out every inch of your body with his strong hands, kissing any part he can reach like this. He trails from your neck to your collarbones and then your breasts, capturing a nipple between his lips. Your arms hook over his shoulders to keep him close, softly moaning as he switches between your tits, his warm tongue taking care of both nubs thoroughly.
“You’re so beautiful, you know that?” He murmurs, forcing himself to stay still as you adjust to his length teasing your entrance. “You’re gonna take it for me like a good girl, right?”
“Your good girl.”
That earns you a feral kiss that you break with a sharp cry when your hole starts stretching wide, welcoming the leaking tip with some resistance. Bucky initially distracts you with sweet pecks, but as he sinks into your warmth maintaining a clear head becomes tricky, his forehead dropping to your shoulder as a choked groan leaves his throat.
“So deep.” You squeal, thighs trembling around his hips as his base finally meets your core.
“I know.” Bucky kisses your cheek, shuddering. “I know, but you’re taking it so good. Jesus, look at you.” He swallows as his hips ease back slowly, until you can feel only the head inside. You squeak out a pathetic whimper, hands coming to cling onto his shoulders. Then he bottoms out again, quicker this time. You gasp, back arching.
“Fuck!” You almost scream, your insides feeling more sensitive than before.
Bucky finds a temporary steady pace, letting you melt beneath him, then shifts your legs back, until they almost touch your chest, and thrusts harder as soon as you respond with a sob of pleasure, the new angle sending your eyes back in your head.
“Oh shit! Bucky!” You reach around and dig your nails into his shoulders, toes curling.
He can’t take his eyes off you, drinking carefully in your little details as he fights the urge to squeeze his eyes shut every time your pussy pulses with a new sensation. At some point his wet mouth is on your breasts again, flicking your nipple some more just to listen to your pathetic whimpers and feel you arch back into him. His hips are picking up their pace, slamming against that deep spot at an almost desperate speed. When his fingers momentarily leave your hip to pinch and rub your sensitive clit, your lips open in a silent scream as you clamp involuntarily around him.
“That’s it, baby, there you go.” He coos, bullying your nub some more before he traps you completely under him on the rocking bed. His pecs press against your bouncing breasts, your sensitive nipples rubbed raw.
“I love you so much, sweetheart.” His tongue drags up your cheek, your bitter tears fueling his primal side as he stifles your wanton noises with his tongue, your lips and teeth clashing in a filthy kiss.
“Can feel you clench so hard, are you gonna squirt and make a stupid mess all over my cock?” His arms slide under your back, keeping you firmly against him with every rough thrust. “I’m gonna make a mess on your pussy and fill you up with all my love.”
The shameless sound of your flesh slapping against his is so loud but you can’t hear it, too dizzy and lost in the feeling of his dick hitting your sweet spot with a new kind of precision and his muscled arms keeping you safe and still for him to play with you.
“Fuck, wish you could see yourself right now.” He growls, pounding into you earnestly, panting like a feral beast. “This is my pussy now. Gotta keep you marked up, show everyone that you're my girl– shit.” His voice breaks when you clench, choking him. “Wanna be mine forever, sweetheart?”
It’s too much– his fierce, insistent thrusts, his pubic hair stimulating your clit, the way he talks to you as if he’s losing his mind, just blabbering whatever pops into his head.
And you? You just take it. You take it and you scream his name, eyes rolling back and mouth unable to close. You whine and your toes curl with each thrust, your hips trying to rock back onto his, unsuccessfully. Until your climax unravels violently and you ascend to heaven. Your body erupts in flames, and you squirt as Bucky marvels with gritted teeth at the broken fountain making a mess of his lower abdomen and cock, still fucking you through it to prolong your pleasure as much as he can. He needs to ruin you for anyone else, the only thought in your mind each time your fingers plunge into your pussy being him and only him.
You shake uncontrollably in his hold, but he keeps you firmly locked on his cock, balls deep against your quivering, gushing hole.
He growls against your tear-stained cheek, every muscle contracting. “Gonna come, baby. Gonna come so fucking hard for you.” He repeats, his voice bordering on a snarl. “You are my girl now.” He pants, digging his fingers in the flesh of your ass. “Love fucking you, love watching you come, love you–”
Your vision is blurry, yet you don’t need it to know Bucky is completely surrounding you, from the heavy panting of his chest against yours to his damp skin sticking to your body. You decide to not acknowledge the creamy mess where you’re connected though, too embarrassed by what you have done. It’s intense, the way you’re so wet, warm and tight around him.
Bucky groans gutturally, harshly pressing his lips to yours, his face scrunched up tightly as he pins you down, not a sliver of space between you. “Fucking take it, fuck– take it, please–” His hot cum floods your ruined hole, spurting along your stretched walls to claim you fully. There’s so much that it spills out and down his pulsating length to his tense balls, joining your mess everywhere.
Bucky ends up collapsing against you, forearms firmly planted on the mattress to keep himself from completely crushing you, mindful of your well-being even as he feels like he is going to pass out after this powerful release, fueled by having restrained himself for who knows how long.
You’re still shaking in his hold, exhausted and sated, but definitely more alert now that you have both freed yourselves of years of longing and pent-up sexual frustration. He’s reluctant to let you go just yet– and you couldn’t be more grateful for that, your body feeling like it’s going to crumble after your last climax– so he opts to pepper the slope of your neck in lazy kisses, indulging in your soft mewl when he finally reaches your mouth. Bucky shifts just enough to brush a thumb over your cheek, watching your eyes flutter close and then back open, as though checking if he’s still there.
“Hey,” He clears his throat, voice still hoarse. “Are you okay?”
Your lips part, words sticking somewhere between your throat and the tips of your tongue. You try, but only a breathless hum escapes, and it’s enough. Bucky leans closer, resting his nose against yours, inhaling, grounding himself in the reality of you.
“You don’t have to say anything,” he whispers more to himself, worry threading through his awe. “I just… I just want to know if you’re okay.”
You manage a weak nod, letting your fingers curl around his wrists. His eyes, wide and unguarded, observe you like you’re the only thing he’s ever wanted to understand.
“You’re perfect,” he says finally, the words spilling urgently, reverently. “Every damn bit of you. You’re—” He swallows, shaking his head slightly, as if even language feels too clumsy for this. “You’re everything I’ve ever needed.”
A small, exhausted laugh catches in your throat, and you bury your face into the crook of his neck, letting him feel your trembling, the last threads of overstimulated energy slowly unraveling. He holds you tighter, hums a low, almost inaudible note against your hair, and for a long while, neither of you speaks.
When he cradles your face in his hands, Bucky looks more lucid. “We can talk after. But you need to know, doll, you are my whole world.” His forehead presses to yours, like he needs the contact to stay upright, as if pulling away means the gravity of the moment would swallow him whole.
“You have no idea,” he murmurs, voice breaking at the edges. “How long I tried to hold this in. But I can’t anymore, not after tonight, not after having a taste of what it feels like to be completely and utterly yours.” His thumb traces the curve of your jaw.
“I think I’ve loved you,” his breath hitches, because he can’t believe he’s finally saying it out loud for you to hear. No moans, no bed creaking to drown the words. Just the quiet stillness of the night, as if the moon itself is holding its breath with him. “Since I was too young to even understand what that meant.”
Your hand flattens against the rapid drum of his chest, perceiving every thrum, every irregular skip, every fierce, insistent beat that has somehow always belonged to you. For a moment it feels as if the rest of the world has fallen away, leaving only the two of you suspended in this fragile, trembling bubble. Your eyes glisten with tears you haven’t let fall, tiny, fragile sparks that catch the dim light like stars reflected in dark water, and your chest tightens with the ache of everything you’ve held in silence for so long. All the unspoken words between you, the years of stolen glances, quiet worry, and secret yearning suddenly all converge in this single moment. His shoulders shift, leaning ever so slightly toward you, and your fingers press more firmly, almost desperate, into the heat of his chest.
“Jamie,” your voice quivers. “It’s always been you.”
And when you glance up at him, so radiant and so inevitably his, Bucky finally looks at you without any restraint, staying like he always has, and always will.
ending notes: I don’t do taglists anymore, sorry. thank you for reading!
I feel like there are probably too many people just scrolling past this so let’s go through everything that’s going on here.
1. With Roger’s voice actor standing off camera, Bob Hoskins acts into empty air and frantically sawing at his handcuff, continually looking up and down at different visual marks of various depths. Look at the slow pan up of his eyes in gif 4, and then the quick shift to his side. Think about how, on set, he was looking at nothing.
2. Starting in gif 2, The box must be made to stop shaking, either by concealed crew member, mechanism, or Hoskins own dextrousness, as he is doing all of the things mentioned in point 1.
3. In all gifs, Roger’s handcuff has to be made to move appropriately through a hidden mechanism. (If you watch the 4th gif closely you can see the split second where it is replaced by an animated facsimile of the actual handcuff, but just for barely a second.)
4. The crew voluntarily (we know this because it is now a common internal phrase at Disney for putting in extra work for small but significant reward) decided to make Roger bump the lamp and give the entire scene a constantly moving light source that had to be matched between the on set footage and Roger. This was for two reasons, A) Robert Zemeckis thought it would be funnier, and B) one of the key techniques the crew employed to make the audience instinctually accept that Toons coexisted with the live action environment was constant interaction with it. This is why, other than comedy, Roger is so dang clumsy. Instead of isolating Toons from real objects to make it easier for themselves, the production went out of its way to make Toons interact more with the live action set than even real actors necessarily would, in order to subtly, constantly remind the audience that they have real palpable presence. You can watch the whole scene here, just to see how few shots there are of Roger where he doesn’t interact with a real object.
The crew and animators did all of this with hand drawn cell animation without computerized special effects. 1988, we were still five years out from Jurassic Park, the first movie to make the leap from fully physical creature effects to seamlessly integrating realistic computer generated images with live action footage. Roger’s shadows weren’t done with CGI. Hoskin’s sightlines were not digitally altered. Wires controlling the handcuff were not removed in post.
Who fucking Framed Roger fucking Rabbit, folks. The greatest trick is when people don’t realize you’re tricking them at all.
This movie will be studied and analyzed and revered and worshipped for generations because, not only of the ground breaking techniques they used to make the magic happen but, for those of us that grew up with Bugs Bunny and Tom and Jerry, for 2 hours we were able to believe that they all really existed.
This is one if the LAST great movies that was ever made.
Let’s also not forget that writing. “Only when it was funny” isn’t just hilarious, it’s great comedy theory. It lampshades the joke, but also serves to remind the viewer that Toons have a separate set of physical laws they adhere to, mostly revolving around comedic value. Roger cannot remove his hand from the cuffs… until it’d get a laugh from an audience.
Everything about this movie, EVERYTHING about it, is so finely crafted. I could wax lyrical about it for days.
pairing: king!bucky barnes x commoner!reader, cinderella au
warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, dilf bucky, age gap, a man who yearns is a man who earns, jealousy, possessive behavior, daddy issues, physical violence and parental abuse, arguments, sexual tension, banter, semi-public sex, power dynamic, oral f!receiving, fingering, breeding kink, size difference, pet names: "my dear" "sweetheart" "my love"
word count: 16.3k
masterlist || 𝓹𝓽. 1
a/n: due to popular demand + the new bridgerton season inspiring me. fic playlist
synopsis:
After fleeing the palace, you are now the most wanted woman in the kingdom—caught between Prince Jamie, who won't let go, and his father, King Barnes, who refuses to lose.
After your discreet exit from the palace, you hadn’t expected your step-family to return so soon. You had hoped for a few hours of solitude to bask in the memory of the King’s touch—to hold onto the feeling of his lips against your skin before reality reclaimed you.
But Beatrice wouldn’t even spare you that small courtesy.
When you had tentatively mentioned your surprise at their early arrival last night, Beatrice had ripped her gloves off with a look of pure agitation—already in a bad mood.
“The King cleared the entire ballroom,” Beatrice snapped, her voice trembling with indignant rage. “Apparently, some woman he was seeking went missing without his notice, and he turned into a madman. He ended the festivities right then and there, nearly throwing the delegates out of the palace in his haste to find her. The Prince had to deliver the King’s order because of how upset he was.”
She narrowed her eyes at you, unaware of the way your heart quickened anxiously at her words.
“A complete waste of a perfectly good gown. All because of some nameless little tramp who didn’t know how to stay put.”
Beatrice paused, her tirade dying in her throat as she noticed your hesitation.
She took a slow step toward you, the sharp clack of her heels against the floors made you snap back to a reality you weren’t ready to face.
“I’m surprised you’re still awake,” she pointed out suspiciously. Her eyes trailed over you, scanning from your head to your toes as if searching for a single hair out of place.
You blinked, forcing your spine to straighten despite the ache in your muscles.
“I—I had only just finished the kitchen,” you stammered. “I was about to climb into bed when the door opened.”
Her eyes narrowed into thin, venomous slits, and you swore you saw her eyebrow twitch as if she realized something. She stepped closer, invading your personal space until you could smell the expensive perfume. For a terrifying heartbeat, you were certain she would call you out, strip you of your dignity, and banish you from your own home and onto the streets to fend for yourself.
But she didn’t.
Instead, a cruel, satisfied smirk curled her lips.
“Good girl,” she said, the praise sounding more like she was addressing a well-trained hound than a human being.
And now, with the morning sun rising over the large windows, you find yourself on your hands and knees again, the soaked sponge scrubbing against the marble floors. You were scrubbing a surface that should have already been polished—had Agnes not stomped across the foyer in her muddy riding boots without a care in the world.
“And don’t forget to polish the shoes right after! I’m going riding again later.” Agnes called out, kicking her boots off haphazardly.
They tossed in your direction, hitting the floor with a heavy thud that splattered even more fresh droplets of muck across the area you had just cleaned.
You winced at the sound, your shoulders aching with a deep, bone weary exhaustion. Your body was utterly spent, and your mind was miles away, still lingering in a dark study filled with the scent of ink, papers, and sex.
You remembered the way the King’s body had pressed into yours, the feel of his salt and pepper beard tickling your chin just before his lips collided with your own. He was a King who never knew what it was like to be hungry, yet he took you and made love to you like a man starving.
Agnes let out a tired groan, dragging her feet to meet her sister Margaret on the couch. She slumped down next to her, tossing her head back against the cushions with a weary sigh, acting as if she even knew what a truly hard day felt like.
“I can’t believe it,” Agnes whined, her voice high and grating. “Such gorgeous dresses wasted on a night that lasted a mere—what? Three, four hours? Ugh, I just can’t believe it!”
“Tell me about it, sister,” Margaret sighed, flipping the page of a book she was hardly reading. “Prince Jamie throws the most beautiful ball—and then his father comes in with a snap of his fingers and ruins it all.”
“I didn’t see much of King Barnes last night either,” Agnes added, leaning in closer like she’s sharing a secret. “He appeared for the toast and then vanished like a ghost. He didn’t even acknowledge the receiving line!”
Margaret let out a sharp, cynical laugh. “King Barnes is always out and about, hardly ever present at his own balls, much less his son’s. Makes you wonder why he ended it early in the first place. You know, I hear His Majesty has been messing around with several women behind closed doors.”
You felt your body go rigid.
“Margaret! You mustn’t speak of the King that way!” Agnes giggled, though she didn’t look the least bit offended.
“What? It is true! There are rumors,” Margaret insisted, smiling wide. She leaned in, using the book as ‘cover’, though her whispers were anything but quiet.
“They say he’s a coldhearted rake who keeps a string of nameless girls in the west wing just to pass the time. He probably found a new plaything in one of the corridors and decided the ball was no longer worth his attention.”
You squeezed the scrub brush until your knuckles turned white, the soapy water burning the small cuts on your hands. Every word out of their mouths made you feel sick—almost disgusted with yourself.
They were talking about the man who had held and kissed your hand with such kindness, the man who had looked at your burn marks and seen beauty instead of a blemish.
But to the world, he was just a predator who took what he wanted simply because he could—and you were nothing more than a nameless rumor to be laughed at over morning tea.
“Now, ladies,” Beatrice’s voice rang from the stairs, echoing off the high walls.
Her hands gripped the railing as she stared down at everyone from above, slowly making her descent. With each step, the sharp clicks of her heels sounded like a threat.
“That’s not the way to talk about our King,” she warned.
“It wasn’t fair!” Agnes continued anyway, picking at a loose thread on her sleeve. “The Prince didn’t even look our way. He spent the entire night dancing with that… that nobody.”
“A random woman,” Margaret scoffed, finally shutting her book with a sharp snap. “She wasn’t even that beautiful. Her hair was far too simple, and that dress? It looked like something from a past decade. Where was she from, anyway? Some… obscure foreign land?”
“She must have been,” Agnes added, her voice rising to a whine. “Did you see her? She could hardly even dance! The Prince asks you to dance and you can’t even deliver? Ridiculous.”
Margaret leaned forward, her eyes malicious. “And the Prince only had eyes for her. But that wasn’t even the scandalous part—she danced with the King, too! Right in front of the entire court.”
Agnes blinked, as if piecing something together. Then, she let out a sharp gasp that made you jump.
“What if Prince Jamie is no better than his father? What if they’re just alike? Perhaps they shared her in a corridor in the west wing before the night was through.”
They both broke into fits of snickers, their hands covering their mouths as they giggled at the mental image of your degradation.
You just wished the marble floors would open up and swallow you whole.
To them, the most beautiful and profound moment of your life was nothing more than a dirty joke.
Beatrice met them in the living room, crossing her arms over her chest. “Fret not, ladies. She was probably some impoverished Duchess from the North, trying to sink her claws into the crown before the night was up.”
You kept your head down, your fingers tightening around the damp handle of your scrub brush. Your skin crawled as they picked apart your appearance, your dancing, everything. They were completely unaware that the so called ‘impoverished’ woman they were mocking was currently kneeling in the dirt at their feet.
Every insult only felt like a splash of cold water, reminding you that in their world—and Bucky’s—you were merely an interloper who didn’t belong.
From the corner of her eye, Beatrice noticed the frown on your face. A slow, cruel smile tugged across her red lips. To her, your grimace was nothing more than bitter jealousy. She turned to you, smoothing her skirt as her eyes locked onto yours with a sympathy so forced she might as well not have bothered.
“It’s a shame you couldn’t have gone,” Beatrice said, her voice sweet and fake. “The palace was truly beautiful. The way the light hit the gold… it’s a world you can’t even begin to imagine, isn’t it, dear?”
You bit your tongue so hard you tasted copper. You wanted to tell her. You wanted to look her in the eye and tell her that not only had you shared a dance with the Prince they sought after, but the King had worshipped you.
He had called you his girl.
He hadn’t ‘ruined’ the ball—he had ended it because he couldn’t stand a single second of it without you by his side.
But you knew that arguing with the ignorant would get you nowhere, so you did what you did best, which was staying silent and unassuming.
“But then, someone has to stay behind and make sure the house doesn’t fall into ruin. We can’t all be Princesses for a night.” Beatrice let out a small, airy laugh—as if this was all just a joke to her.
“Anyway, back to work!” She suddenly commanded. “Agnes’ riding boots won’t clean themselves, and I expect the foyer to be spotless before afternoon tea.” She glanced at her daughters slouching on the couch. “Up, girls. It’s time for piano lessons.”
Agnes and Margaret pushed up from the couch, giving you glances they would as if it giving it to a insect—though, they’d probably look kinder than that.
You dipped your brush into the bucket, the cold water stinging the raw skin of your hands. You had dreamt of him in the few short hours of peace you’d found in your bed, and even now, amidst the dirt and cruel insults, your mind was still entirely consumed by him.
You could still feel the phantom sensation of his touch against your waist and the husky rasp of his voice calling you his.
His girl.
And even though you knew deep down that a maid had no chance of being with a King, a small, stubborn part of you couldn’t help but wonder.
You wondered if he was standing in that cold, empty study right now, staring at the empty space on the desk you’d left behind. You wondered if, despite the crown and the kingdom, he was still thinking about you all the same.
Back at the palace, the morning sun bled through the towering windows, but the light felt intrusive. Bucky stood eerily still, staring out over the kingdom that belonged to him, his tired gaze fixed on the town below.
He hadn’t changed his clothes. He hadn't slept.
In his hand, he held your white lace glove. He squeezed it so tightly his knuckles turned white, the delicate fabric bunching against his palm. He kept finding himself closing his eyes, bringing the lace to his face to inhale the fading scent of rosewater that still clung to the threads.
Every time he exhaled and opened his eyes, those icy blue orbs were filled with a dangerous mix of both yearning and fury.
How dare you leave him?
He had marked you. He had claimed you. And yet, you had slipped through his fingers like smoke, leaving him with nothing but a scrap of lace and a hollow, agonizing ache in his chest.
He knew he should sleep. He should take a hot bath, wash the scent of the night off his skin, and finally eat—but he couldn’t.
Not when you were still clawing your way into his mind, nearly driving him mad.
A set of footsteps approached him with caution. It was the same attendant from last night, looking pale and trembling.
Bucky knew he should have sent the man to the gallows the moment he realized the attendant had helped you escape. It would have been easy. But it also would have been unreasonable—the man was simply doing his job and doing what he was used to with… Bucky’s shameful previous moments before you.
“Sire,” the man stammered, bowing so low he nearly tipped over. “Regarding the girl... and the abrupt end to the ball.”
Bucky didn’t bother turning around. “Speak.”
“It seems Prince Jamie also ordered the ballroom to clear shortly after you left the dais,” the attendant whispered. “He told the guests it was by your direct command—that the King demanded the palace be emptied for a search. He spent the remainder of the night with the captain of the guard, scouring the lower gates for a ‘missing guest.’”
Bucky’s grip on the glove tightened until the lace threatened to tear.
Jamie.
His own son had used his name to chase after the same woman. Bucky’s jaw clenched so hard his molars ached. The boy gets one dance with a pretty woman and he forgets himself. He forgets who he is—and more importantly, who his father is.
“He did, did he?” Bucky’s rumbled.
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
The silence between them was so still and heavy, that the faint ticking of the clock across the room sounded like a hammer against an anvil. The attendant remained rooted to the spot, standing so rigidly perfect that his spine began to ache, his breath held in his chest as he waited for the King’s next move.
“Bring him to me,” Bucky finally ordered. He glanced at the attendant over his shoulder. “My son. Bring him to me. Now.”
“Y-yes, Your Majesty!”
The attendant gave one final, frantic bow before scrambling away to fetch Jamie. Left in the sudden quiet, Bucky turned his gaze back to the window, his mind a turbulent storm of a million different thoughts.
Bucky had always prided himself on being a good King. He was a man who ruled with a steady hand, treating his people with a fairness that was rare for his station. He gave everything to the land and asked for very little in return; he was hardly ever a selfish man.
He took that same pride in his role as a father. He had raised Jamie with meticulous care, shielding him from the hardness of his own past. He had taught the boy how to be a gentleman, how to be polite, and above all, how to treat a woman with kindness—all the virtues Bucky himself had lacked growing up.
But now, staring out at the kingdom he had built, Bucky realized that his own teachings had backfired.
He had taught his son how to recognize a woman of worth, and now, they were both hunting the same girl.
“Father,” Jamie panted, the words catching in his throat as he reached the top of the stairs. He came to a halt behind Bucky, maintaining a respectful distance between them—the gap between a Prince and his King.
“You called for me?”
Bucky turned slowly to face his son. He didn’t offer a greeting; rather, he simply watched, his eyes tracking the way Jamie’s shoulders rose and fell with every labored breath. He took note of the sheen of sweat on the boy’s forehead and the way he struggled to compose himself after the lengthy climb.
Bucky pursed his lips, a small pang of disappointment hitting his chest as he judged his son’s lack of stamina.
Perhaps he hadn’t been such a good father after all. Because as he stood there, watching Jamie stumble over his own exhaustion, the only thing Bucky could think was that the boy was outmatched.
Jamie was too soft, too unseasoned. He could never hope to catch up to a woman like you—and he certainly wouldn’t be able to catch up with you in bed.
“I hear that you cleared the guests out shortly after I performed the toast,” Bucky said, dangerously calm. “I couldn’t quite remember if the invitation mentioned the ball ending at midnight. I found myself wondering why the palace was being emptied with such… urgency.”
Jamie stayed quiet.
Bucky took a step closer.
“I was also told that you ordered every guest to leave under my command,” Bucky added, his tone dropping deeper and quieter. “Using my name to finish a party that you were so excited to host. Why is that, son?”
Jamie stood up straighter, his own blue eyes sparkling with an enthusiasm that made Bucky’s eyebrow twitch. He didn’t see the storm brewing in his father’s expression; he only saw an opportunity to confide in the man he looked up to.
“I had to, Father,” Jamie admitted, a small, sheepish smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “There was a woman. I’ve never seen anyone like her—she wasn’t like the usual court vultures. She was... magnetic. But she vanished the moment the clock struck twelve.”
Jamie took a deep breath, his chest puffing out slightly as he warmed to the subject, completely oblivious to the fact that his father was slowly losing his grip on his patience.
“I used your name because I knew the guards wouldn’t question it. I needed the halls clear so I could find her before she slipped past the gates. I just… I couldn’t let her go without knowing who she was. I think I might be in love with her, Father. I’ve never felt this way about anyone before.”
Every word out of Jamie’s mouth felt like a personal insult—a boy’s shallow infatuation trying to claim territory already conquered by a King.
A desperate part of him hoped, prayed, that the woman Jamie was describing wasn’t you. He wanted there to be a small, flickering chance that Jamie had met someone else, anyone else, who wasn’t the girl in the silver blue dress.
“In love?” Bucky repeated bitterly in disbelief. “You shared a single dance with a stranger, and you’ve decided it’s love?”
“It was more than a dance,” Jamie insisted, his voice rising with that same stubbornness Bucky had at his age. “There was a connection. I could tell she felt it, too. She was shy, hesitant, but there was a fire in her. Surely, you understand? You danced with her, too.”
Bucky felt like he wanted to punch a wall.
“You saw her up close. She was beautiful—even underneath the mask. Her eyes were so kind—”
Bucky couldn’t stand to hear another word.
“—and her laugh was hypnotizing. She didn’t even know how to dance, but she was the sweetest thing in the room—”
Bucky felt like he was going insane. He had never, ever hated anyone as much as he hated his own son in this very moment. Each compliment Jamie uttered felt like a hand reaching for a prize that Bucky had already locked away in his soul.
“Son—”
“—I want to marry her, Father,” Jamie interrupted, his voice suddenly stern and determined.
His blue eyes—so like Bucky’s own—met the King’s with a steady gaze, and Bucky felt a wave of nausea roll through him.
“I finally found her—my Princess. I want her to stand by my side at court as my wife. She would be the most perfect woman for it,” Jamie continued, a small, subtle blush creeping onto his cheeks at the mere thought. “Princess Barnes…”
Princess Barnes?
Bucky scoffed, a rude, incredulous sound that escaped his throat before he could stop it. Jamie’s head tilted, noticing the reaction, but Bucky was far beyond caring about appearances. Princess was a title for a girl playing at house. It was a secondary rank, a title that lived in the shadow of another.
No. That wasn’t right at all. You weren’t meant to be a Princess. You were meant to be a Queen. Queen Barnes. His Queen. His equal, his partner, his obsession. Not his son’s plaything.
Bucky forced himself to reel back, drawing a slow, heavy breath into his lungs. He was a father first, a King second. He needed to speak carefully, to dismantle this before it ruined them both.
“Do not be a fool, Jamie,” Bucky said. “You are talking about a woman you do not know. You are rushing into a fantasy. Marriage is about stability, about the crown—not about a girl who didn’t know how to waltz... or… or one who didn’t even have the decency to stay!”
It was cruelly ironic. He was lying through his teeth, and the taste of it was bitter. Every criticism he hurled at you felt like a sin, but he had to dissuade his son.
He had to make you sound small, sound insignificant, so that Jamie would stop looking for you.
“Wait for the reports,” Bucky continued, his voice biting and harsh. His hand tightened around the lace, his grip crushing the delicate fabric more with every word.
“Do not waste your time. Focus on your duties. Do not go chasing shadows in the—”
“Father,” Jamie interrupted suddenly.
“What?” Bucky snapped, his patience fraying.
Jamie took a step forward. The moment Bucky saw his son’s eyes lock onto the white fabric clenched between his fingers, his blood ran cold.
“That glove,” Jamie whispered, his eyes widening with shock. He looked back up at his father, his breath hitching. “I recognize it. It’s hers. I held that hand while we danced... I know the pattern of that lace by heart.”
Bucky pressed his lips together, his entire body coiling like a spring. He braced himself for the explosion. He expected Jamie to yell, to seethe in betrayal, to realize that his father had been hiding the woman he ‘loved’ just a room away last night.
But instead, a bright, hopeful smile tugged at Jamie’s lips. His eyes sparked with a pure, joyous relief.
“You found her,” Jamie breathed, letting out a small, huffing laugh of disbelief. “You found her for me, didn’t you? You saw how much I wanted her... and you went and found her.”
And now, Bucky wished Jamie would’ve just yelled at him instead.
Before he could even respond, Jamie was already beaming with glee. Any other father would relish seeing their own son happy, but for Bucky, he felt like he was suffocating.
“We must arrange a carriage for her at once!” Jamie exclaimed, already pacing the rug. “I need to have her here—in this palace. I have so much to say to her, I—”
Bucky shut his eyes tight, his mouth shuddering as he felt the delicate lace of your glove crushing against his palm. Right now, it felt like it was the only piece he had left of you.
“Son. Enough—”
“This is incredible! I… I never expected you to go out of your way for me like this, Father. I thought you were disappointed, but you were actually—”
Bucky’s heart was clawing its way out of his ribs. It was a frantic, taunting thud that made him feel like he was about to collapse under his own deceit.
“Jamie. Stop it—”
“Thank you, Father! Truly. Once we bring her back here—the moment she steps off that carriage—I’m going to propose. I’ll give her the world. I’ll—”
Propose?
Give you the world?
He wanted to give you the world?
Jamie didn’t even know your world. He didn’t know the way you tasted, or the way you trembled when a real man laid hands on you.
Bucky had given the order to the attendant the moment you vanished. He had planned to have his men quietly intercept you, to bring you back to his private chambers before your carriage could even take you past the palace gates. But Jamie’s ‘fake command’ had ruined everything. The sudden, chaotic crowd of hundreds of guests—the horses, the carriages, the shouting—had created a wall of bodies and steel that Bucky’s men couldn’t penetrate.
The guilt Bucky felt was suddenly swallowed by a surging, irrational wave of resentment. This was Jamie’s fault. All of it.
His son’s childish interference was the reason you were gone. His vanity was the reason Bucky was standing here with an empty heart and a stolen glove.
Bucky’s restraint vanished completely. His arm moved in a blur of pure, enraged adrenaline. His fist collided with Jamie’s jaw with a sickening crack, the force of the blow sending his son stumbling back in pain.
“Goddamnit, Jamie!” Bucky barked, his thunderous voice echoing off the high walls like a cannon firing away. “I said that is enough!”
Bucky’s chest heaved, his eyes widening with horror as dark crimson began to leak between Jamie’s fingers, staining his pristine white cuffs. The adrenaline that had fueled the punch evaporated instantly, leaving behind a cold, sickening hollow. He stared at his own knuckles, then back at the blood on his son’s face.
“Fuck,” Bucky cursed. He took a frantic step forward, his hand reaching out. “Jamie—”
“Don’t!” Jamie hissed, flinching away from the touch. He looked up, his eyes glassy with tears he refused to let fall. He wiped his nose with the back of his hand, but the blood only smeared across his cheek, making him look even more broken.
“I just wanted to make you proud, Father. That’s all I’ve ever tried to do,” Jamie muttered, his gaze dropping to his boots.
“Jamie, that isn’t—”
“I thought you’d be happy!” Jamie’s voice broke. “I thought you’d finally be glad to see me take a wife, to see me grow up. I thought this was my duty—to find a woman who could lead by my side. But… but I can never win with you, can I? No matter what I do, it’s never enough. I’m never enough!”
Bucky felt like his chest was being stepped on.
He had hit his own son.
In all the years of training and discipline, he had never once raised a hand to the boy in anger. The glove remained clenched in his palm—the very thing that had started this—and it suddenly felt as heavy as lead.
“Jamie, please,” Bucky’s voice grew quieter, shakier than it had ever been. “You have to understand. It’s… it’s not that simple. There are things you don’t know—”
“I understand plenty,” Jamie spat. He glared up at his father, a look of such pure resentment that Bucky had never seen before. He wanted to die right then and there.
His own son no longer looked at him like a hero, but like a villain—a tyrant guarding his hoard.
“You don’t want me to have her,” Jamie said, his voice turning to a cold, final whisper. “You don’t want me to have anything.”
“Son, I—”
Before Bucky could grab his arm, Jamie turned and bolted for the stairs. His footsteps thundered down the hall, each heavy stomp of his boot against the cold floor echoing like the heartbeat in Bucky’s aching chest.
“Jamie! Jamie, wait!” Bucky called out, his voice cracking.
He started to follow, but he only made it halfway before he stopped, watching his son disappear around the corner and out of his reach.
You were out in the town again, but the atmosphere felt different, and almost suffocating. As you moved through the market, you couldn’t help but notice the royal guards posted at every corner.
Usually, the guards were a lazy fixture of the town—slumped at tavern tables playing cards or nursing drinks, doing a halfhearted job at best. But today, they were different. There were far more of them than usual, all standing with rigid shoulders, their steel armor gleaming with a sharp, intimidating light against the dusty cobblestone walls.
At first, the way they scrutinized the passing crowd—specifically the women— seemed merely inappropriate. But as you stole a glance, a chill settled deep in your bones.
They weren’t just watching; they were searching.
You saw them whispering in low, urgent tones, gesturing toward various girls and pointing to the shade of a woman’s hair… or the curve of a jawline as if comparing them to a mental checklist.
They were looking for someone with very specific features.
They were looking for you.
You quickly averted your eyes, tucking your chin and clutching your wicker basket against your chest like a shield. You weaved through the morning crowd, trying to make yourself as small and unassuming as possible, desperate to melt into the shadows of the common folk.
You were just steps away from the safety of a produce shop when a commotion at a nearby bread stall caught your ear. Usually, you would have kept your head down, but the desperation in the young man’s voice made you pause.
A boy with a deep hood pulled low was caught in a heated argument with the stall keeper. Even from a distance, you could see his hands were shaking. A dark, ugly bruise was already blooming across the bridge of his nose, accompanied by a faint smear of dried blood.
“It’s just a loaf of bread and some cheese!” the young man argued, his voice surprisingly prideful for a man who’s supposed to be hungry. “You’re charging me five times the worth!”
The stall keeper let out a harsh, mocking laugh, leaning over his counter with a sneer.
“Well, when you’re wearin’ a brooch like that,” he pointed a greasy finger at the glimmering silver pin tucked under the boy’s cloak, “it means you’ve got money. Or you stole it. Either way, pay up or move on, fancy lad.”
“I told you, I don’t have the coin on me! I… I left in a hurry,” the boy muttered, his fingers instinctively clutching the brooch. “I won’t give you this. It’s a family heirloom.”
The keeper scoffed, pulling the tray of food back. “Then starve. I don’t run a charity for runaways.”
The boy looked so small in that moment, his shoulders slumping with a defeat that felt all too familiar to you. Despite the danger of the guards nearby, your heart ached for him. You knew exactly what it was like to be seen as insignificant, to be at the mercy of someone more powerful.
Before you could talk yourself out of it, you stepped forward. You pulled a few copper coins from the deep pocket of your skirt and dropped them onto the wooden counter.
“That should cover it,” you said. “And the change is for your trouble. Let the boy have the food.”
The keeper’s eyes didn’t even glance at you nor the copper. They remained glued on the glimmering silver pinned to the boy’s chest.
“I don’t want your coin, girl,” he grunted, his gaze narrowing with greed. “I want that brooch. That silver alone is worth more than my entire stall.”
The young man bristled, his hand tightening over the heirloom, but before he could snap back, you spoke first.
“Come on, Gary,” you said softly, a small, knowing smile playing on your lips. “Didn’t you used to pride yourself on making your craft affordable for the needy? You’ve helped me out plenty of times when the month was lean. Surely, you can lend a hand to someone else in need.”
Gary finally shifted his eyes away from the boy. When he realized it was you standing there, his harsh expression faltered just slightly. He took a long look at you, then back at the battered, hooded boy, and finally at the humble copper coins on the counter.
He knew you; he knew you worked hard and rarely asked for favors.
“Fine,” Gary grumbled, snatching the coins off the wood with a reluctant huff.
He wrapped a loaf of bread and a thick wedge of cheese in a rough cloth and shoved it roughly toward the boy. “You owe her one, spoiled brat. Don’t let me see you around here again.”
The boy lifted his hands hesitantly to grab the parcel. He swallowed hard, shifting his attention toward you. His face flushed, and you couldn’t tell if it was the humiliation of a common maid helping a man like him, or simply the throbbing pain of his injury.
“Thank you, miss—” he began.
As he tilted his head back to look at you, the sunlight caught the high curve of his cheekbones and the unmistakable cool shade of blue in his eyes.
The Barnes eyes.
Even with the dark, jagged bruise across his nose, there was no mistaking that it was him.
The blood drained from your face so fast, you felt your head spinning. You froze, your hands tightening on the wicker basket. Your heart, which had been steady just now in your confidence with Gary, now thrashed against your ribs like a trapped bird.
“I… I—” you stuttered. You took a step back, bumping into a frantic man who yelled, “Watch your step!” but you paid no mind. Your gaze darted to the guards huddled at the end of the street.
It was no wonder why there were so many of them posted today. They weren’t just looking for you. They were also looking for Bucky’s son.
If they saw you talking to him—if they realized who he was and who you were—it was over.
You braced yourself for Jamie’s face to light up, expecting him to seize your hands and declare he’d finally found you. But instead, his brows furrowed in confusion. He took in your messy hair, your trembling lip, and your simple, soot-stained maid’s uniform.
To him, you were just a kind girl of the working class—a far cry from the elegant vision of silver, blue, and lace he had held in the golden ballroom.
Jamie leaned in slightly, his gaze searching yours with a look of dawning and haunting familiarity.
“Are you quite alright?” he asked softly. He paused, his eyes narrowing as he studied the shape of your face—the curve of your jaw, the fullness of your lips, the depth of your eyes. “Wait…”
He trailed off, and you felt your stomach turn.
“Do I know you from somewhere? You look... strangely familiar.”
“I… no,” you stammered, forced a short, brittle laugh that sounded more like a gasp of air. “It’s a small town. You must have me confused with someone else. I—uh, have a good day, Your Highness—I mean, sir!”
Jamie’s face shifted, a flicker of recognition sparking in his eyes. You sucked in a sharp breath, mentally cursing yourself for that slip-up. Before he could voice the realization, you turned on your heel and bolted, weaving through the thicket of market-goers frantically.
“Ma’am, wait!” Jamie’s voice called out from behind you, sounding strained and breathless.
You didn’t look back. You kept your head down, convinced that every second spent in his presence brought you a second closer to a prison cell.
If the guards found you and dragged you back to the King, the rumors would devour you. You’d be branded a whore. Your step-family would throw you onto the streets without a second thought. The King would never provide for you; he was a King, and you were a maid, for God’s sake. And now, you weren’t just caught up with the King, but with the Prince as well.
“Please, wait!” Jamie’s voice grew more distant and more desperate the further you pulled away.
You rounded the corner into a narrow alleyway. Just as you were about to disappear around the far end to lose him for good, curiosity—or perhaps lingering empathy—made you glance over your shoulder.
Jamie wasn’t running anymore. He was halfway into the alley, his body swaying dangerously. His face, already pale, had turned a sickly shade of grey. He reached out a trembling hand, catching himself against the damp brick wall to keep from collapsing.
You stopped. You were ten feet away from freedom, but you couldn’t move. You watched as his knees buckled, his head dropping as he fought a losing battle to stay conscious.
You hissed a curse under your breath. You were a commoner, a maid who had no business meddling with anyone associated with a crown.
Yet, your feet were already moving back to him.
You hurried back to him, slipping into the shadows just as he began to slide down the wall. You caught him by the shoulders, your wicker basket dropping to the cobblestones as you struggled to stabilize his weight with yours.
“Sir? Sir, look at me,” you cooed, but Jamie didn’t answer.
He instinctively leaned into your touch, his head rolling forward until his forehead rested against your shoulder. He was bigger and far heavier than you expected. Realizing you couldn’t hold him up for long, you allowed him to slide down the wall, sinking to the ground with him to act as his support.
He smelled of expensive cedar wood and the sharp, metallic tang of blood. A soft, pained groan escaped his lips, and he weakly gripped your forearms, his fingers digging into the rough fabric of your sleeves.
“I... I have you,” you murmured, shifting your body to support him. “Just breathe. You’re alright.”
Jamie let out a jagged, shallow breath, his eyes squeezed shut as he leaned more heavily into you.
“God… this hurts like hell,” he rasped.
A small frown creased your brow. Despite the danger, the sight of him—so young and so clearly suffering—pulled at a maternal instinct you couldn’t suppress.
“Hush now,” you murmured.
Reaching up, you gently pushed back the heavy fabric of his hood. It fell back, revealing the full extent of the damage. The bruise was even worse up close. A deep, angry purple had swollen the bridge of his nose. You reached out, your fingers brushing his sweat dampened hair away from his forehead to get a better look at his face.
Up close, the resemblance to the King was haunting, but where Bucky’s features were hardened by duties and age, Jamie’s were still soft and pure.
You wanted to ask what happened—how a Prince who was always protected, who had likely never raised a hand in a real fight, had ended up looking like that in a place like this, so far from the safety of the palace.
“Stay here. Don’t move,” you commanded softly when he tried to shift.
You stood up and reached for the clean rag tucked into the waistband of your skirt—a bit of linen you used for work—and hurried to the small stone well tucked into a nook near the alley entrance. The pulley creaked as you splashed the fabric into the bucket, the water coming up icy and clear.
Wringing it out, you rushed back to his side and sank back down onto the cobblestones. Jamie’s head was lolling against the brick, his eyes half open and glazed.
“Here,” you whispered.
You pressed the cold, wet cloth gently against his nose and forehead. He hissed, flinching at the initial sharpness of the cold, but then his eyes fluttered shut as the chill began to numb the throbbing ache.
“Thank you,” he breathed, his hand coming up to weakly cover yours, holding the rag in place. He stayed like that for a long moment, leaning into the coolness and your presence.
Then, without opening his eyes, a small, pained smile touched his lips. “You have very kind hands, for a stranger.”
You swallowed hard, keeping your eyes on the damp cloth. “That’s just what we do in this town,” you spoke softly, your voice barely above a whisper. “We help each other. Even strangers.”
There was a soft, moment of silence in the damp alleyway. Gradually, Jamie’s ragged breathing began to steady into an even pace. He seemed stable enough now to be left on his own—you could leave, you should leave—but for some reason, your feet wouldn’t move. The way his shoulders had completely slumped was a sign that he felt safe.
Safe simply because of your presence.
“Yeah,” Jamie breathed, the word trailing off into the quiet air.
He didn’t open his eyes yet, but his head tilted slightly toward you, his skin appearing ghostly white against the dark, angry bloom of his bruise.
“But you’re not a stranger, are you?”
You froze, your hand still trapped beneath his on the wet linen rag. You didn’t dare look at him, terrified that the recognition in his voice would be reflected in his eyes.
“I… I don’t know what you mean, sir,” you managed to say, though your heart was beating so loudly, you were certain he could feel it through your hand and up your arm.
“Your hands,” he murmured, his thumb brushing over your knuckles, “they feel familiar. Hands I’ve held before. And your voice…” He sucked in a shallow, shaky breath, his eyelashes fluttering as he finally opened his eyes to look at you. “It’s soothing. Just like hers.”
You knew there was no point in playing dumb any longer. Prince Jamie was smart—and he had already seen right through you. Continuing the charade in front of an injured man—much less a Prince— felt less like a safety measure and more like rubbing salt into an open wound.
With a defeated sigh, you tried to pull your hand away, but his grip tightened to keep you there.
It seemed that being unyielding and possessive were simply the many traits of the Barnes bloodline.
“Your Highness—”
“Please,” Jamie interrupted, his voice weak and tired. “Just call me Jamie. I… I hardly look like a Prince at the moment, and I certainly haven’t been acting like one.”
Your frown deepened. You found yourself relaxing under his touch. He looked utterly defeated—lonely, exhausted, and stripped of the regal armor he usually wore so well. Your heart ached for him, and the question slipped past your lips before you could think to stop it.
“What happened, Jamie?”
Jamie’s shoulders tensed, and you regretted the question the second it left your lips. But before you could retract it, he surprised you by actually answering.
“I had an argument,” he began, his voice sounding hollow. “With the King—my father.” He paused, a flicker of pain crossing his features that had nothing to do with his physical injuries. Then, his eyes locked onto yours. “We had an argument about you, actually.”
You held your breath, not daring to speak.
“I wanted to find you,” Jamie continued. “I wanted to find you and make you—” he swallowed hard, a sudden flush of embarrassment creeping up his neck. “—I wanted to make you my wife. I thought you were the perfect woman to stand by my side on the throne. I assumed you were a noble woman in hiding.”
“Oh, dear…” you muttered before you could stop yourself.
Jamie caught the remark and huffed a dry, self-deprecating laugh. He seemed to realize in that moment just how naive his assumptions had been.
“I just wanted to make my father proud. I wanted to do my duty as his son—to finally choose a bride. But when I told him I had decided it would be you, he…”
Jamie’s jaw clenched as he remembered the look in his father’s eyes—the look of a man who had no intention of letting his son claim the woman he wanted for himself.
“I’ve never seen him act like this,” he continued. “He hasn’t slept, eaten, or even changed his clothes since the ball ended. When I told him I was adamant about finding you, he raised his hand to me. And… I left. I couldn't stay in that palace a moment longer.”
He tried to sit up a little straighter, groaning.'
“My father is usually a cold, composed man. To see him lash out like this… to see him unravel over you—it made me realize that I wasn’t the only one who wanted you. And who am I to compete against a King?”
He let out another laugh, though there was no humor in it. Only sadness.
“My father,” Jamie swallowed hard, his sad blue eyes meeting yours. “He loves you. And I can see why. You’re kind, gentle, and…” he looked down at your frayed, dirty dress before tracing back up to your face, “even though you’re a maid, you’ve captured my father’s heart. Terrifyingly so.”
“Jamie,” you sighed, forcing a reassuring smile. You reached up, your hand gently cupping his cheek to try and calm him. “The King doesn’t love me. He loves the woman he saw at the ball. Nothing more.”
Jamie tilted his head, his brows furrowing. The look he gave you was hauntingly similar to Bucky’s—that same piercing, knowing gaze, as if he were silently calling you out on your bullshit.
“He didn’t fall in love with the woman at the ball,” Jamie corrected softly, his eyes searching yours. “He fell in love with the woman he saw at Martha’s dress shop.”
You froze, blinking at him in sheer disbelief. “M-Martha? You know her?”
“Martha is a long-time family friend,” he explained, his voice finally steadying. “She was the first person I ran to after I fled the palace. She told me everything.” He let out a weary, ragged sigh. “Turns out there’s a lot I don’t know about my father these days—like how he often sneaks out of the palace alone just to linger around her shop as a commoner.”
You bit your lip, the memory of that day rushing back vividly. You remembered him acting as a commoner who had been so charming, stumbling over his words as he spoke to you.
To say you hadn’t fallen for him right then and there would have been a lie.
With a tired sigh of your own, you shifted closer, looking him directly in the eye with the firm authority like someone scolding a stubborn child.
“Jamie, you need to go home,” you lectured softly. “There are guards posted everywhere looking for you. Your father must be worried sick in that lonely palace of his.”
You watched his eyes carefully, noticing the deep well of hurt and loneliness they held. It made you want to stay, to protect him—because you knew exactly what it felt like to be cast aside and alone.
“Your injury would be healed much faster by proper medics at the palace, not by one of my cheap rags and cold well water,” you added, offering a small smile and a forced, lighthearted laugh to ease the mood.
But Jamie didn’t budge.
“Probably,” Jamie whispered, his voice so vulnerable that it made your heart ache. He shrugged so weakly that it looked more like a shudder. “But this feels far better. It feels like I’m being cared for by a mother I never had.”
For a moment, you felt as if the air had been knocked out of your lungs.
For a man who held such a prestigious title and a legendary bloodline, he looked so small—so utterly defeated. Every word that left his lips felt like a needle pulling at the strings of your heart.
With a soft, resigned sigh, you knelt back down in the dirt in front of him. You couldn’t leave him like this; you couldn’t send him back to a cold palace when he was clearly starving for even a shred of genuine warmth.
“I know that feeling all too well,” you said, your voice barely a whisper as a sad, knowing smile touched your lips.
“I live in a house that feels far too big for the little space I’m allowed to occupy. I live among people who look at me but never truly see me—who see a pair of hands to do their bidding rather than a heart that’s breaking. I know what it’s like to starve for a kind word in a home that’s supposed to provide shelter.”
You looked at the dark bruising on his face, your own chest aching with every breath he took. “But Jamie… your father isn’t like my family. He doesn’t look at you and see a servant. I saw the way he looked at you at the ball; I heard the speech he made in your honor. He doesn't just love you—he lives for you.”
“He struck me,” Jamie whispered, his lip trembling.
“And you should’ve struck him right back,” you added firmly. “And God knows, if I had been there, I would’ve struck him, too.”
Jamie couldn’t help but laugh—a genuine, breathy sound—at the absurdity of the image. “Strike the King? Do you truly wish for a death sentence for the both of us?”
You couldn’t help but giggle, and the sound seemed to make Jamie’s heavy shoulders ease just a little more. “He wouldn’t do that to you—he values you too much. Me, on the other hand? I’d be ‘off with my head’ before I could even blink.”
He rolled his eyes again, though his lips remained curved in a soft, lingering smile. “Don’t be ridiculous. He wouldn’t dare.”
“So, you understand how kind your father is, despite everything?”
Jamie chewed the inside of his cheek, his gaze dropping to the dirt wedged between the cobblestone. He knew the answer—but just like his father, his pride was a stubborn barrier, refusing to let him admit it aloud.
“I’ll return to the palace,” he said instead. “But only on one condition.” He reached out, taking your hand in his again. “I want you to come with me. My father… he’s been searching for you since the moment you left that ballroom. He’s going insane in there, and he needs you.”
“Jamie, I can’t,” you whispered, pulling back slightly. “I’m a commoner. A maid. I don’t belong in those halls.”
Jamie didn’t argue. He didn’t try to persuade you with logic this time, or even use his title to his advantage.
He simply slumped back against the damp brick wall and crossed his arms over his chest with the indignant, brooding pout of a stubborn child.
“Then I won’t go,” he declared flatly, that princely entitlement coming back into his tone. “I’ll stay right here in this alley. I’ll rot in the dirt and let the guards find me like this. And it will be all your fault.”
You blinked, stunned. “You can’t be serious—”
“Oh, but I am.”
You stared at him, realizing that for all their power and prestige, the Barnes men were impossibly, infuriatingly stubborn. You glanced toward the mouth of the alley where the guards were pacing.
You cared for him, but you had to put yourself first.
If Jamie returned, the hunt might end. The streets would clear. You could complete your chores without looking over your shoulder every five seconds.
You forced a smile and stood up, brushing the dirt from your skirt before grabbing your basket. You reached out a hand to him, and he looked up at you, his eyes wide and shimmering with sudden hope.
“Fine,” you nodded. “Let’s go back to the palace then. Together.”
Jamie blinked at you, his expression frozen for a second as if he couldn’t quite believe you’d actually agreed.
Then, a bright, genuine smile broke across his face. He gripped your hand, using it to hoist himself up—though he was clearly doing most of the heavy lifting—and began brushing the alley dust from his trousers.
“Okay,” he breathed. “Let’s go.”
You let go of his hand and motioned to the end of the alley, where the silhouettes of the guards were still visible against the sunlight. With the wicker basket tucked carefully into the crook of your arm, you gave him a playful bow.
“Lead the way, Prince Charming.”
Jamie couldn’t help but snicker, the sound light and boyish.
As he led you out of the alley, his chin held high and his hood pushed back, the market noise began to ripple and change. The chaotic noises of bartering died down, replaced by whispering as people realized exactly who was walking among them.
“Is that Prince Jamie?”
“Look at the bruises on his face!”
“What is Prince Jamie doing outside of the palace?”
“Is that why there are so many guards?”
One of the guards finally spotted him as the crowd parted like a sea of fish.
“Prince Jamie!” he shouted, stumbling forward as his eyes went wide. “Your Highness! The King has been worried sick—he’s nearly razed the palace to the ground—”
Jamie raised a hand, stopping the guard’s rambling. “I am here, and I am safe,” he said calmly. “Now, arrange a carriage immediately. For me and the maiden. We are going home.”
The guard blinked, visibly confused. “Y-your Highness?”
Jamie raised a brow, the Barnes temper flaring just slightly. “Well, don’t just stand there gaping! I said arrange a carriage for me and—” he turned halfway, gesturing to the space at his side where you had been standing just a second ago. “—the maiden.”
But as Jamie looked back, the space was empty.
You were nowhere to be seen.
You found yourself back on your knees in the living room, tending to the flickering flames of the fireplace.
Ever since you’d returned, Beatrice had been even snappier with you than usual. Your encounter with Prince Jamie had made you much later than intended, and for Beatrice, whose patience was already paper thin, this was the final straw.
“Hurry up with those flames,” Beatrice barked from behind her teacup. “And once you’re finished, we need a fresh pot. Make it quick—you’re already falling far behind schedule.”
“Yes, ma’am—”
You hissed as a stray spark leapt from the hearth and bit into your finger. You dropped the iron poker in pain, the metal clattering loudly against the stone.
“Incompetent girl,” Beatrice sneered in disdain. She set her saucer down on the side table with a sharp clack and swept out of the room, leaving you alone in the dim light of the rising fire.
It had been days since Jamie returned to the palace. You felt a twinge of guilt for breaking your promise to go back with him, but you told yourself it was necessary. He was a smart boy— surely, he would understand that a dirty maid couldn’t simply walk through the front gates of a large, pristine palace.
With Jamie home, the number of guards roaming the town had decreased significantly. It was exactly what you had hoped for, yet a small, desperate part of you realized something that hurt.
Bucky hadn’t been looking for you all this time.
He was looking for his son.
Your eyes pricked with tears, though you tried to hide it behind the pain stinging your fingers from the fireplace spark.
It was selfish.
It was sad.
It was pathetic for you to crave the feeling of being desired—of being wanted by the King—yet push away every advance both he and the Prince had given you.
As you pushed yourself up to start a new pot of tea, Beatrice’s voice rang out from the other room, shrill and demanding. “The floors are disgusting! Clean them this instant!”
You called out a quick, “Yes, ma’am!” and retreated outside to the well. After fetching a heavy bucket of water and mixing in some soap, you began to scrub. The water, which had been clear only seconds ago, was already turning a murky gray. You had just deep cleaned these floors yesterday—what could they have possibly done to make them this filthy again so quickly?
As you scrubbed, your body began to ache with every movement. You leaned back on your heels for just a small moment of respite, trying to catch your breath. The sudden sound of horses’ hooves clacking against the cobblestone made you instinctively look out the window.
Your eyes widened as you saw the carriages—fancy, polished, and several of them in a row.
The horses looked powerful and well fed, taken care of far better than you were.
Through the glass, you watched as the carriage door opened, and you felt your heart drop into the pit of your stomach.
King Bucky stepped out, looking every bit the sovereign in his dark, tailored suit. For a moment, you didn’t believe a word Jamie had said about his father lacking sleep or refusing to change his clothes. This was the exact man you had encountered in the garden the night of the ball—clean, determined, and terrifyingly intimidating.
But it wasn’t just his appearance that caught your breath.
It was the small, delicate flash of white tucked into his breast pocket. Peeking out from the dark fabric was a lace glove.
Your glove.
“What are you doing? Did I tell you to stop?” Beatrice’s voice shrieked from the hallway, sharp enough to shatter your moment.
You flinched, tearing your gaze away from the window. “Sorry, ma’am,” you murmured, your voice trembling as you gripped the scrub brush.
You forced your head down, focusing entirely on the floor as you tried to make yourself invisible. You couldn’t understand it—why was he here?
He had already retrieved his son, hadn’t he? What more could he possibly want?
Why couldn’t he just leave you alone?
Three solid knocks echoed through the house. Beatrice let out an agitated groan as she stomped toward the door, completely oblivious to the royalty standing just outside. “Who could be here, disrupting my peace?”
As she swung the door open, her annoyed scowl instantly collapsed into a jaw drop.
“Y-Your Majesty!” she stammered, her face turning red in shock.
At the sound of the title, your stepsisters came tumbling down the stairs, silk skirts rustling as they shoved one another for a better view. You didn’t even need to look back to know they were vibrating with glee.
“The King is here!” Agnes whisper yelled into her sister’s ear.
“What is he doing here?” Margaret stood on her tippy toes, straining for a better view. “My, he’s even more handsome in person!”
Agnes’s eyes widened, grabbing her sister’s arm and bouncing. “Do you think the Prince is here, too? Do you think he’s calling on us?”
“He must be!” Margaret beamed, her smile so wide it looked painful.
They both smoothed their hair, convinced the Prince had finally sent his father to claim them after the ball. You wanted to snort at how ridiculous they were. After your time with Jamie in the alleyway, you knew for a fact he would never look twice at those two.
Bucky stood just right outside the door, his presence so massive it seemed to suck all the air out of the foyer. He didn’t look at the daughters. He didn’t even acknowledge Beatrice’s low, trembling curtsy. His eyes were already scanning the interior of the house, sharp and predatory.
“I am looking for someone,” Bucky stated. “A lady who I believe lives in this household. May I come in?”
Beatrice blinked, her hands fluttering nervously at her throat.
She looked back at the living room, where the bucket of gray water sat and you were still huddled on the floor. “Oh, Your Majesty... please, the house is quite a mess. Our maid is currently cleaning the floors—it’s hardly fit for a King—”
Bucky’s eyes snapped to hers, cold and dangerous. “Are you denying your King entry?”
Beatrice’s breath hitched, and she let out a small, terrified squeak. “N-No! Never, Your Majesty! Please... forgive me.”
Reluctantly, with her hands shaking, she stepped aside. Bucky crossed the doorframe with a heavy, purposeful stride, the heels of his boots clicking against the very floors you had just been scrubbing. He stopped in the center of the room, his gaze landing directly on you.
His stare was so heavy, it felt suffocating. Yet you didn’t dare lift your head. Beatrice scurried to his side.
“Are you here for my daughters, Your Majesty?” she gestured toward Agnes and Margaret, who were still lingering by the staircase. “Agnes, Margaret, come here—”
Bucky raised a hand, silencing her instantly. “No.”
Beatrice’s gaze followed the King’s, and when she saw how intently he was watching you, she let out an awkward chuckle. “I apologize. My maid must be in your way.” Then, her voice sharpened, loud enough to make you flinch. “The floor needs scrubbing over here!”
“Y-yes, ma’am,” you muttered, keeping your head down as you dropped the sponge back into the bucket. You groaned, trying to heave the heavy wooden bucket to the other corner of the room. Bucky watched you, his expression pained as he saw the dirt on your skin and the exhaustion in your movements.
“Well?” Beatrice urged, her voice tight with a forced smile. “Be quick! Don’t get in the King’s way.”
As you hurried your footsteps, your shoe caught a wet spot on the floor. With your arms aching from the weight of the bucket, you lost your balance. You gasped as the bucket tilted, and a wave of dirty, murky water splashed directly over the King’s pristine, polished shoes.
“Oh… my… God—” Agnes gasped from behind, her hand flying to her mouth in horror.
“That imbecile!” Margaret hissed, her eyes wide with shock.
Terrified, you didn’t even dare glance at Beatrice. Your head tilted up instinctively, your gaze locking onto Bucky’s with worried, pleading eyes.
In that split second, you didn’t think about statuses or your station; your eyes gave away everything.
Please, don’t be mad at me.
She’s going to kill me.
Save me, Bucky.
His expression remained completely unreadable, a mask of stone that made you feel utterly alone. Out of all the mistakes you could have made, this was the worst. This was enough to get you thrown onto the streets. All the hiding, all the rejecting the Prince and King’s advances—it would all be for nothing because you were clumsy enough to spill murky water all over the King’s pristine shoes.
Weakly, your voice trembled, so quiet that only he could hear. “B-Bucky—”
But before you could say anything else, Beatrice’s voice barked out like a whip crack. “What the hell are you doing just standing there, girl!”
You finally turned to face her. Her features were scrunched into such an ugly grimace of rage, you felt like you could collapse.
“Clean his shoes!” she commanded, her finger trembling as she pointed at the mess.
“I…”
“Don’t be stupid! Polish the King’s shoes this instant!”
Bucky swallowed hard, his voice thick. “That won’t be necessary.”
But you were already too far gone in your panic. Tears pricked at your eyes, blurring your vision as you dropped frantically to your knees. Your heart was beating so hard it actually ached. All you could think about was the cold rage in Beatrice’s eyes and the threat of being cast out, leaving you with nothing but the clothes on your back.
You grabbed the hem of your apron, reaching out to scrub the murky water from his leather boots with trembling hands.
Bucky’s jaw clenched so tight, he felt a muscle leaped in his cheek. His heart throbbed with sharp, visceral pain. He had spent every waking moment since the ball dreaming of seeing you again—of finally finding you—and now, here you were.
You were finally right in front of him, but you were on your knees. In tears.
In any other context, the sight of you beneath him might have stirred a much darker and hungrier feeling in his blood. But seeing you like this—utterly broken, terrified, and humiliated—only made him want to burn the house down with everyone else inside it.
“Get up, my dear,” he murmured gently.
His voice was so soft, intended only for your ears.
It was so gentle it felt out of place in this cold room, but you didn’t even hear him. You let out a small, pathetic sniffle, wiping a stray tear away with the back of your palm before returning to the frantic scrubbing. You were a mess of desperation at his feet, and Bucky couldn’t bear it.
“Sweetheart, please,” he pleaded.
You ignored him again, your hands moving in a blur as you kept scrubbing and scrubbing.
Bucky didn’t care about his suit or his dignity anymore.
He dropped to one knee right there in the dirty scrub water, his massive frame casting a shadow over you. His large hand shot out, firm but incredibly gentle as he always was with you, and clamped around your wrist to force you to stop.
“Darling,” Bucky’s voice broke, his brows pulling together, pleading. He sounded like a man on the verge of crumbling himself. “Please. Enough.”
As your chin was tilted upward, the wall you’d built around yourself finally crumbled. Your face scrunched up, the effort to stay composed failing as the tears spilled over your cheeks.
You were so tired. Your body ached, and your heart yearned for the very man in front of you.
“I’m scared,” you whispered, the words broken and barely audible, a raw confession that you’ve been holding in for years now.
Bucky let out a ragged, shaky sigh—a sound of pure heartbreak—and pulled you forward. He didn’t care how dirty you were, or that the murky water was soaking into his expensive suit. He had never cared about that. All he cared about was you.
He gathered you into his arms, crushing you against his chest as if he could shield you from the very walls of this house.
“Oh, my dear,” he cooed, nuzzling his nose into your hair and breathing you in. “You have no reason to be afraid anymore. I have you.”
Beatrice watched the scene, her face contorting into a mask of absolute horror.
To her, this wasn’t a reunion; it was a scandal.
She saw her foolish stepdaughter throwing herself at the King, threatening the family’s entire existence.
“What do you think you’re doing to our King!” she shrieked, taking a frantic step forward. “Get up, girl! You’re making us look like a disgrace—Your Majesty, please, forgive her, she’s touched in the head—”
“Silence, you wretched harridan!” Bucky seethed. The insult was so sharp it made Beatrice’s eyes bulge out of her head. “The only thing that is a disgrace in this household is you.”
He stood up slowly, bringing you with him, his arm firm around your waist to keep you steady. He looked down at Beatrice and your sisters as if they were nothing more than insects beneath his boots—exactly the way they had always looked at you.
“You have treated this woman—the daughter of this house—as nothing more than a slave. In truth, you have treated her like trash,” he bit out harshly.
“I’ve read the family ledgers. Your husband—her father, may he rest in peace—was a nobleman of the highest order. This girl is a proper Lady of the house. She has noble blood in her veins, making her more significant than the whole lot of you. You, on the other hand, are nothing but a commoner who married into a title you don’t deserve.”
Beatrice gasped in disbelief, her hand flying to her heart as if she were the victim. “Y-Your Majesty!”
“Enough,” Bucky raised his hand, silencing her. “I don’t want to hear another syllable from you. I came here for one thing—and that was her. Now that I have her, we are leaving.”
He looked over his shoulder, beckoning to the line of attendants waiting by the door. “Collect her belongings. Every last item. Whatever she decides to keep, whether it be as large as a trunk or as small as a ribbon, package it into the carriages. We are returning to the palace immediately.”
All the attendants nodded, bowing low to their king. “Yes, Your Majesty.”
The attendants rushed into the house in a quick blur, you could barely process the shift in your reality.
Only minutes ago, you were on your knees in the dirty water. Now, the world was rearranging itself around you.
Bucky looked down at your sniffling face, his heart visibly breaking as he leaned down to bring himself eye to eye with you. His thumb, rough yet incredibly tender, brushed away the tears that traced your cheeks.
“You’re okay now, my dear.” Bucky cooed gently. “I’ve got you. I’m never letting you go again.”
You had spent so much time pushing him away, fearing the consequences or the class divide, but now, even under the scrutiny of your step-family, you no longer cared. You felt your heart pulling toward his, and being in his arms felt like the only sanctuary you had ever known.
Behind you, Agnes and Margaret crept forward, clutching at their mother’s sleeves, their faces pale and twisted with confusion.
“Mother, what is happening?” Agnes whimpered. “Why is His Majesty touching her like that?”
Beatrice ignored them, her eyes locked on the King in a state of pure denial. She shook her head, her voice rising to a shrill squeak.
“Y-You’ve fallen for her, Your Majesty? Truly? B-but she’s just a maid! She’s a servant who spends her days in the kitchen and the dirt! She is nothing!”
Bucky stood back up to his full height, keeping you tucked securely against his side.
“She was a Lady long before you even knew how to spell the word,” Bucky growled, his hand tightening protectively on your waist. “And as for her being a maid? That ended the moment I stepped through that door. From this breath forward, she is the woman who holds the heart of the King. From this moment on, she is your Queen—and you will treat her as such.”
The room suddenly went very quiet.
You looked just as surprised as Beatrice, your breath hitching in your throat. He was actually going to do it. He was making good on every promise he had made to you in the dark room of his study.
Before you could even find your voice to speak, Bucky’s hand found itself on your lower back, guiding you toward the door.
“Come, my dear,” he gestured, his tone leaving no room for argument. “We’re leaving.”
As he led you out of the house that had been your prison for so long, you couldn’t resist stealing one last glance over your shoulder. You weren’t looking to offer sympathy or a farewell, of course. You simply wanted to see if a fly might find its way into their mouths, given how far their jaws had hung.
Outside, a prestigious carriage awaited you. The doorman snapped to attention and pulled the door open as you and Bucky drew closer. Jamie was already waiting inside, seated comfortably on the plush velvet cushions.
Poking his head out, he beamed the moment he caught the sight of you. The bruises on his face already looked a million times better. It was clear that since returning to the palace, he had received the proper care and rest he so desperately needed.
Jamie scooted over, patting the velvet seat beside him with an enthusiastic grin. “I was going to step out to help, but I thought it’d be better if I stayed in here. Your stepsisters would’ve driven me up the wall the moment they saw my face.”
“Jamie,” Bucky interrupted. He stood at the carriage door, one hand on the frame as he leaned in, looking grumpier than ever.
“Out,” Bucky commanded, giving a sharp nod toward the slightly smaller—though still very fancy—carriage waiting behind them.
“What?” Jamie’s brows furrowed. “But we have plenty to talk about! I haven’t even told her about—”
“You can discuss it at dinner,” Bucky said, letting out a heavy, weary sigh. “Right now, I am tired. I want to sit with the woman I just spent three days hunting for without my son’s constant commentary. Move.”
“Oh, I see.” Jamie drawls, eyeing the both of you suspiciously. “The Great King Barnes finally finds his Lady and suddenly his favorite and only son is chopped liver? Is that how it is?”
“Son, consider this a mercy,” Bucky rumbled. “Think of it as punishment for using my name under a false command at the ball. Your sentence could be a lot worse than a private carriage and a bit of silence. Now, move.”
“Truly, the heart of a tyrant,” Jamie muttered.
After a roll of his eyes, he slid out the door, but as he passed his father, he stopped for a brief second. He turned to you, his gaze softening from playful to genuinely warm—like he missed you. He gave you a small little knowing smile—one that said he was glad you were safe, and even gladder that you were finally exactly where you belonged.
“See you at the palace.” He said to you softly.
With that, Jamie hopped down from the steps and retreated to the carriage behind yours. Bucky watched him go until he was settled, then stepped aside and raised a hand to help you up into the plush interior.
As you sat, Bucky occupied the seat across from you. He leaned back tiredly, the carriage creaking softly. For a long while, he just looked at you, his head tilted slightly as he let out a slow, exhausted breath.
Silence filled the carriage. Despite him already declaring you his Queen—his partner—you couldn’t help but sit up straight, folding your hands primly over your lap out of habit and respect for the King of Brooklynne.
You didn’t even know where to begin. You didn’t know if you should thank him for dragging you out of that hellhole you called a home, or if you should apologize for the trouble he had gone through to do it.
“Your Majesty—”
“Sweetheart, please,” Bucky interrupted, his voice sounding almost agitated. “I lost sleep over you. I couldn’t eat. I… I couldn’t even think. I felt like I was losing my sanity every moment I was in that palace and you weren’t there.”
He paused, the clip-clopping of the hooves against the cobblestones filling the space for a second.
“My heart burns for you,” he rasped, almost painful. “The least you can do is offer me the decency of calling me Bucky—just as you did earlier.”
You swallowed hard, your pulse fluttering in your throat. Bucky’s eyes were a cold blue storm of conflicting emotions. You felt as if he were picking you apart, piece by piece, intending not only to love you but to devour you.
He said he couldn’t eat without you, and now that you were here in front of him, he looked as though you were going to be his next meal.
“I’m sorry. I… I just wanted to say thank you,” you admitted softly. You couldn’t maintain his intense gaze, so you looked down, your fingers fiddling anxiously with the coarse fabric of your skirt.
“Thank you for helping me out of that house, and thank you for never giving up on me.”
Your face flushed with a mix of warmth and embarrassment as you continued, still refusing to make eye contact.
“Both you and Prince Jamie have been nothing but kind to me—a mere maid with rags for clothes.”
You huffed a small, incredulous laugh, one tinged with sadness for yourself. “You both extended your hands to me and showed me worlds I never thought I’d experience. In your presence, despite the gulf between our social standings, I have never felt alone. And for that... I am truly grateful.”
Bucky’s frown tightened as he leaned forward, his large hands catching yours and squeezing them firmly to still your fidgeting. The movement forced you to go still, and when he hooked a thumb under your chin to tilt your face up, there was no escaping him anymore.
“Enough,” he rasped, almost desperate. “Enough of this talk about social standings. You know none of that matters to me, not when it comes to you.”
Those piercing blue eyes searched yours, his thumb brushing warmly over the curve of your cheek.
“When I told you I was falling for you in that study,” he continued, lowering himself to one knee in the narrow space between the seats, “I meant every single word with every beat of my heart.”
While one hand remained on your cheek, the other began a slow descent. It traced the line of your ribs down to your waist, giving your hip a firm, possessive squeeze through your dress before trailing lower to rest over your thigh.
“You aren’t a ‘mere’ anything,” he whispered, his lips ghosting over yours. “You are the very air I’ve been gasping for. Ever since the night of the ball, my body and my heart have been craving you. And now that you’re finally here…”
His hand found the hem of your skirt, lifting the fabric slowly, inch by painfully agonizing inch, past your knee. His tongue darted out to lick his bottom lip, a small groan escaping him at the sight of your bare thigh.
“I finally get to have you.”
Bucky leaned forward, his head dipping low as he pressed his face against the skin he had just uncovered. You shuddered at the feel of his stubble pressing against your leg, and he snickered.
He started at your knee, his lips brushing against your skin.
A low, vibrating growl tickled against your thigh as he began to work his way upward. Each kiss was slow, wet, and worshipful. He moved with a starvation that made your breath hitch, his tongue darted out to taste you, marking you as his over and over again.
“These legs,” he growled, his voice muffled by your skin. “I missed feeling them wrapped tight around me. I missed the soft feeling of them in my hands. Did you miss that too, my dear?”
You swallowed hard, your heart hammering against your ribs as you looked down at the King of Brooklynne worshipping your body.
“I-I did, Bucky. I missed that too… being touched by you.”
“Good,” he soothed, his heavy, warm palm dragging up and down your leg possessively. “That’s my good, perfect girl.”
As he continued to worship the curve of your leg, his hand reached beneath the bunched up fabric of your skirt. His fingers hooked into the edge of your thin, worn undergarments, but he didn’t rush; he wanted to savor every second of your undoing.
With a slow tug, he began to peel them down, his knuckles grazing your hips and sending a wave of shivers through you. He watched your face the entire time, his blue eyes dark and hooded, waiting for the exact moment your composure finally shattered.
Bucky was barely holding on. His jaw hung slightly, his lips slick from the way he had been kissing and licking the skin of your legs.
It was an unbelievable sight—the King on his knees, panting over you like a loyal, starving hound.
“I want to break you,” he rasped. His words were threatening, yet his voice was coarse but soft spoken. “I want to see you cry for me while I ruin you. I want to see you come apart for me, just as I did for you when you left me.”
He looked up at you then, still kneeling between your legs, his chest heaving as he took in the sight of you completely vulnerable in his carriage.
“God,” he breathed, taking in your wet slit hidden just beneath the hem of your flimsy skirt. “Is that so wrong of me to want? To see my own woman completely broken for me?”
Bucky’s grip on your thighs tightened, while his other hand went down to cup his own erection through his pants.
“I should hurt you,” he sighed, his voice pent up with frustration. “I should pull you over my knee for daring to leave me... for making me endure that kind of agony. I should bind your arms together so you never even think about defying me again.”
He let out a shaky and jagged breath, his forehead dropping against your knee for just a second before he looked back up, his eyes searching yours, his cock already throbbing at the sight of your pleading face.
“But I won’t,” he whispered, his thumb tracing the smooth flesh of your inner thigh. “I love you and respect you too much to ever truly lay a hand on your pretty little body in anger. You’re my Queen. You’re my soul.”
A dark, self-deprecating chuckle caught in his throat as his gaze dropped back to where he had bared you to the cool carriage air. His fingers twitched, hooking into the waistband of his trousers.
“But fuck, I’m already disrespecting you, aren’t I?” he moved closer, his body hot as he crowded your space, his chest heaving against your knees. “Because we’re nowhere near the palace, and I’m about to fuck you right here in this carriage. I’m about to claim you again before we even reach the front gates. Isn’t that right, sweetheart?”
“You said I was yours, Bucky,” you whispered, your voice trembling despite how hard you tried to keep it steady. “So you can do whatever you want to me. I’m not running anymore. I’m here to stay.”
Bucky let out a low groan of satisfaction, burying his face against your thigh for a moment as if trying to catch his breath. Every word you spoke was like music to his ears.
“Lean back,” he commanded in a rough, broken rasp. “Lean back against the seat and hold on.”
You obeyed excitedly. The moment your back hit the plush velvet cushion, he grabbed your leg, his large hand wrapping around your calf as he hoisted it up, propping your knee over his broad shoulder. The position left you completely open and vulnerable, your thin skirt bunched around your waist as you exposed your cunt to him.
Bucky didn’t waste time with a preamble. He ducked his head between your thighs, his tongue finding the sensitive peak of your clit. Your body jolted at the sudden, wet heat of the contact. He licked you with long, firm strokes, his tongue heavy and wet as he tasted your arousal.
A sharp, needy cry escaped your lips, echoing in the small space. You could only hope the driver was too disciplined to look back.
“Ah! Bu-Bucky…” your hands flew down to his hair, fingers tangling in his brown locks as your toes curled in the air.
Bucky only growled against you, his hand sliding up from your thigh to grip your hip, holding you steady.
His tongue continued to trace eagerly over your wet folds, sucking and lapping in ways that were anything but royal or noble. He was taking everything from you—your pleasure, your scent, the taste of your arousal.
He wanted everything.
When he finally lifted his head to look at you from below, you felt like your heart could leap out of your chest at the sight of him. Drool collected around his chin and his lips were slick and swollen from making out sloppily with your cunt.
Bucky’s smirk was slow and predatory as he took in the sight of you—chest heaving, face warm, and eyes glazed with the pleasure only he was giving you. He looked like a man who had finally reclaimed his throne, but the only kingdom he cared about in this moment was the one between your legs.
“Look at you,” he taunted. “Dripping all over my clean carriage.” He clicked his tongue. “Naughty girl.”
He lifted his hand, his long middle finger dragging slowly up the length of your slit, tracing the seam of your cunt from bottom to top, gently rubbing at the clit before dragging back down and poking his nub against your entrance.
He did it again and again, teasing the entrance until you were whimpering, your hips bucking on reflex for more of him.
“You’re so wet, sweetheart,” Bucky rasped, his pupils blown wide with desire. “Are you this desperate for your King?”
“Bucky, please,” you begged, arching your back against the seat. “Enough with the teasing. I can’t—oh!”
Before you could finish your sentence, Bucky buried his finger deep inside you.
The air left your lungs in a jagged gasp. You were agonizingly tight, your walls clenching and fluttering around him in a frantic, rhythmic pulse that spoke of how long you’d been empty without him. You gripped his shoulder, your nails digging into the expensive fabric of his coat as you tried to pull him closer, your body trying to swallow his finger whole.
“Already making demands out of me,” he scoffed, though he was grinning. “You’ve got no shame, do you, my dear?”
He felt the internal squeeze of your muscles around his digit, making his jaw tighten so hard the bone looked ready to snap.
“God, you’re so tight,” he choked out, his thumb finding your clit and rubbing slow, deep circles against it. “Clenching around my finger like you’re never going to let me go. You’re going to break me before I even get my pants off, aren’t you?”
Your vision blurred as you felt yourself getting embarrassingly close. Your hips stuttered against his hand, your breath coming in shallow and broken hitches as you prepared to shatter all over his finger.
“I’m—I’m going to—don’t… don’t stop—”
But just as the peak approached, the sensation vanished.
Bucky abruptly retracted his hand, the wet, sliding sound of his finger leaving you squelching in the carriage. You let out a cry of pure frustration, your body slumped back against the velvet, twitching and unfulfilled.
“Bucky,” you panted in agitation, “why would you do that! I was close!”
He sat back on his heels, still kneeling in the narrow space between your legs. He looked up at you with a wicked light in his eyes, his chest heaving as he reached for the buckle of his belt.
“Not yet,” he teased. “I didn’t give you permission to finish, did I?”
His fingers worked the leather of his belt and the buttons of his trousers irritatingly slow, his gaze never leaving yours. He watched the way you squirmed on the seat, your legs still draped over his shoulders, trembling and desperate for the contact he had just stolen away.
“Look at you,” he scoffed softly, though his hands were shaking slightly with his own restrained need. “So impatient. I spent my time hunting the city for my Queen, and the moment I get her in my carriage, she’s already trying to come without me. Where are your manners, sweetheart?”
Once he finally freed himself, his length sprang forth, thick and pulsing with a bead of pre-cum bubbling at the tip.
You watched, enamored, as his left hand wrapped around your leg, giving it soft, possessive squeezes, while his other hand wrapped firmly around his cock—giving himself slow, deep pumps that made the veins in his forearm jump.
“Fuck, you missed me, my dear?” Bucky’s thumb catching a bead of his pre-cum and smearing it against your aching clit. “Did you spend every night thinking about this? About how I’d feel inside you again?”
You couldn’t even find the words to argue. You just nodded frantically, your head thrasing against the velvet cushion as you let out a broken whimper. Bucky absolutely loved seeing you like this—completely unraveled, stripped of your prim, timid manners, and desperate only for him.
“Good.”
He positioned himself, the slick head of his cock catching against your wet entrance. He paused for a second to catch his breath, his knuckles white where he gripped the edge of the seat, before he slowly—inch by torturous inch —slid inside.
“Fuck,” he gritted through clenched teeth, the word sounding both like a prayer and a curse.
You were so tight—Bucky had to squeeze his eyes shut, his neck muscles flexed with every powerful effort to not simply snap and bury himself in you all at once.
He wanted to savor all of this.
He wanted to feel every ripple of your body as it stretched to accommodate him.
But fuck, you weren’t making it easy at all.
As he tried to maintain a slow, steady pace, your walls began to clench around his cock in desperate pulses. You were squeezing him so hard it was a wonder he could move at all.
“God... sweetheart, stop,” he choked out, his composure fracturing little by little. “If you keep... clenching like that...”
You couldn’t help it. You had missed Bucky, and your body missed being filled by him even more. Every deep, ragged pant he let out—driven by how unbearably good you felt—only made your muscles flutter and tighten more. He was so big, the feeling of him stretching you made your eyes roll back.
“I’m sorry,” you breathed, your nails digging into the firm muscle of his back through his clothes for support. “I can’t help it. I—I missed you. I missed this.”
“Christ...” the groan escaped Bucky’s lips as his head fell back.
He didn’t even try to be gentle anymore.
His hips surged forward, his massive hands sliding from the edge of the seat to your thighs and then your hips, his fingers digging through your dress as he kept you in place. He drew back just enough to gain momentum before slamming into you again, making your body jump against his.
“Ah!” you cried out as Bucky fucked into you again and again, driving his hips deeper each time.
“So… tight. Fuck,” he groaned, his voice a broken rasp of disbelief.
The carriage groaned under the violence of his movements. The wood creaked and strained, the vehicle rocking so violently that no one could possibly excuse the motion as a bumpy road. You were being jostled and slammed against the velvet cushions, the sheer size of him stretching you until you were sure you’d break—and yet, it wasn’t enough.
You wanted more.
He needed more.
“Bucky! Ah—!”
The sound echoed off the carriage walls, dangerously loud. Bucky’s eyes flared with as he quickly brought his hand up, his palm slamming over your mouth to stifle your cries.
“Shhh,” he hissed against your ear, though his own breathing was a series of ragged, wet gasps. “This is a royal carriage, my dear. All eyes are on us right now. Do you want the whole kingdom to hear me fuck you like a slut?”
He quickened his pace, his cock disappearing and reappearing in a blur of friction as he drove himself deeper into your sensitive pussy.
“If that’s what you want… then I’ll just drag you out of this carriage myself,” he threatened, his voice dropping to a dark, possessive growl. “I'll fuck you right there on the gravel where the whole kingdom can watch their King ruin his sweet little wife. Is that what you want, my dear?”
Wife.
You felt like you could collapse from just hearing the word.
The heat and smell of his warm palm against your lips only made you more frantic. You let out muffled, desperate whimpers into his hand, your eyes rolling back as your walls fluttered and spasmed around him. You were seconds away from release yet again, squeezing his cock so tightly he nearly choked on his own breath.
Bucky leaned in even closer, his teeth grazing the shell of your ear as he inhaled the scent of your skin—a intoxicating mix of salt, sweat, and the heavy musk of sex filling the carriage.
“Fuck,” he groaned against your neck. “You’re cumming already? Just from this?”
He taunted you, and although he would never admit it aloud, but he was barely hanging on. He was simply a determined King wanting to watch you shatter first.
“I—mmph, can’t,” you whined into his palm. Your legs hooked around his waist, ankles locking behind his back to pull him even deeper, inviting him in to breed and fill you right there.
“M’gonna—mph—cum…”
Your mind went dizzy, your breath hitching sharply against his hand as the world outside the carriage ceased to exist.
You no longer cared about the palace or the guards. You only cared about the burning sensation of coming around Bucky’s cock. It was explosive—a kind of release that your body had been starved of.
He felt the way you were milking him, the desperate, crushing tightness of your climax nearly forcing him to join you then and there. But he ground his teeth, refusing to let go just yet.
“This is just the beginning, darling,” he rasped, his palm still firm over your mouth to catch your muffled, high pitched cries. “After this, I’m going to fuck you in every inch of the palace. In every room, against every window, on the cold marble floors until you can’t even remember your own name.”
He pulled back just an inch, his eyes dark and blown wide, searching your face to ensure you understood the delicious lack of mercy waiting for you behind the palace walls.
“The next time I see you on your hands and knees, it won’t be for scrubbing floors,” he growled. “It’ll be with your pretty tongue out, servicing my cock.”
Between the sensitive aftermath of your climax and the filthy possessive promises pouring from his lips, your senses were screaming and overstimulated. Every time his cock thrusted back into you, it felt like he was branding your soul.
He slowed his pace slightly once he felt himself getting close. His hips grounded against you in a circular motion that made you whimper for mercy. He leaned down, his lips wetting your cheek as he began to recite your future.
“From this second on, no one touches you but me. I’m going to take such good care of you, my dear. You’re going to have the finest silks, the softest beds, and the heaviest crown—but you’re going to spend most of your time right here, pinned under me.”
He delivered a sharp, shallow thrust that made your hips twitch.
“I’m going to make you my pretty, perfect wife,” he continued, his hand moving from your mouth to cup your jaw, forcing you to look into his blown out, hungry eyes. “And I’m going to spend every single night making sure I knock you up. I want you heavy with my heirs, so round and beautiful that you’ll never even think about running away again. You’re going to be so full of me that there won’t be room for anything else.”
The thought of it, that same reminder of being his Queen, his wife, and the mother of his children—sent a fresh jolt of lightning through your core.
You were a mess of tears and sweat, clinging to his shoulders as he began to pick up the pace again, his movements becoming more desperate, more frantic.
“I’m going to fill you so deep, you’ll feel my love in your chest,” he hissed, his cock pulsing inside as he felt himself get closer. “My wife. My Queen. My life.”
Bucky’s body suddenly went rigid, his muscles locking tight as he let out a final, guttural grunt of your name. His hips slammed into yours one last time, burying himself so deep it felt as though he was trying to merge with you as one.
“Fuck... cumming!” he choked out almost painfully.
His head snapped back, his eyes rolling back as he finally let his body go. His hips froze as his cock pulsed and throbbed. Then, you felt the scalding, thick ropes of cum pumping into your core—a seal on every promise he had just made.
“Mine,” he panted, holding you close. “All mine.”
He stayed buried deep inside you, his heavy chest heaving as he crushed you into the velvet cushions, his heart beating frantically in time with your own.
For the remainder of the ride, Bucky refused to let even an inch of space come between you, like he was scared of losing you again.
He pulled you onto his lap, wrapping his arms around your shaking, overstimulated body. His large hands, which had been so rough and demanding only moments ago, were now impossibly gentle as he stroked your hair and traced the line of your jaw.
Between the sounds of heaving breathing and the trotting of horses, he kept his lips pressed to your temple, murmuring soft, sweet promises into your ear, “My sweetheart,” “I finally have you again.” “My precious, darling girl.”
When the carriage finally lurched to a halt in the palace courtyard, the footman stepped forward, swinging the door wide and offering a steadying hand as Bucky allowed you to step out first.
Just in time, Jamie had hopped out of his own carriage and met up with you both, huffing a breath of relief.
“Finally!” Jamie called out. “That carriage ride felt so long—” he paused, stopping a few feet away, squinting as he took in the sight of you.
Your hair was a bird’s nest, both of your lips swollen, and Bucky’s collar was half-undone and his hair was disheveled with gray locks sticking out in unusual directions.
“Good grief,” he remarked, completely oblivious to the carnal acts that just happened inside the carriage.
“You guys look rough.”
thank you for all the love you guys showed for part one, and thank you for taking the time to read yet another lengthy fic <3 i wasn't planning on writing a sequel at all, let alone this soon, but the new season of bridgerton got me twirling my hair
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݈݇— pairings: Husband!Bucky Barnes x female!reader
݈݇— themes: Porn with Plot(as always). Oral (M receiving), Manhandling, Pussy slaps, Standing doggie, Couch Sex, Cockworship, Spanking, Rough Sex, Dirty talk, creampie(use protection gdi), No use of y/n. Reader Portrayed as not into lingeries.
݈݇— summary: You completely forgot that today was Valentine's Day. So after work, you did a little bit of last minute shopping for Bucky—and surprise, surprise who do you see in a lingerie store? Your husband. Funny thing is, you don't wear/like lingeries, so what is he doing there?
Author's Note: Part of the Valentine's Specials.
You shove through the mall doors after a day that felt like it lasted three weeks, your feet screaming and your brain on fumes. February fourteenth. How? You swear it was New Year’s, like, yesterday. Now every store is blasting some sultry R&B remix and blasting pink hearts in your face like confetti cannons.
Victoria’s Secret is a war zone. Mannequins in scraps of lace that look like they were designed by someone who’s never met gravity. You pick up a pair of crotchless panties, hold them up, and immediately regret every life choice that led you here. A balconette bra that could launch your boobs into orbit? Pass. Fuzzy pink handcuffs swinging like they’re adorable? You snort so loud a teenager gives you side-eye.
Men are everywhere, clutching chocolates and roses like shields. They look stressed, but at least they have an exit strategy. Flowers wilt, chocolate gets eaten, obligation complete. You envy them with the heat of a thousand suns. You can’t exactly slap a KitKat on Bucky’s lap and shove daisies at him. Men—especially your particular german-shepherd-in-human-form husband—are not swayed by snacks and greenery.
No. If you’re the wife on Valentine’s Day, the unspoken contract is clear: sex. Wild, enthusiastic monkey sex. At least a couple of creative blowjobs.
You’re fine with sex. But the performance? The outfits? The toys? The pressure? Exhausting. Valentine’s cards make you gag. You’re practical. Low-key. Bucky’s the same—The Winter Soldier himself prefers burgers and bad action movies on the couch.
You’re about to bail and grab him an extra Big Mac on the way home when you spot him.
Bucky.
In the lingerie section.
He’s standing there in his dumb perfect jeans and that navy peacoat, looking like a lost Boy Scout who wandered into a burlesque show. Six-foot of pure American beef, staring at a rack of sheer teddies like they’re written in ancient Sanskrit. His hand reaches out to touch something gauzy and red, then snatches back like it’s about to bite him.
Your heart does an unwelcome tap dance.
He’s… shopping. Here. He knows you hate this stuff. You know he’d rather brief SHIELD on alien invasions than discuss thongs.
So who’s the lucky recipient of Sergeant Lingerie?
No. Not Bucky. He’d sooner salute a Hydra agent than cheat. He’s old-fashioned to a fault—still says “gosh” when he’s flustered. Drama isn’t his thing. Neither is chaos. You two are the “quiet night in” couple.
But what the hell is he doing?
Your feet move before your brain catches up. You plow through a display of lingerie, nearly topple a pyramid of scented lotions, and plant yourself in front of him, hands on hips.
He startles like he’s been caught stealing. Then his face floods with relief so obvious it’s almost funny.
“Oh, thank God,” he breathes, opening one arm like you’re supposed to tuck right in.
You don’t.
“What are you doing here?” you ask, voice low and scary-polite.
He blinks those stupidly blue eyes. “What are you doing here?”
“I asked first, Barnes.”
He rubs his jaw and looks around—classic Bucky stalling tactic. “I… may have forgotten what day it was.”
You wait.
“I realized on the drive home. Stopped for flowers—gone. Chocolates—only the gross strawberry cream ones left. I panicked. Thought maybe they’d have a nice robe back here or… slippers or something cozy.” He gestures helplessly at a wall of garter belts. “I was wrong. Very wrong.”
You stare. The words sink in slowly.
He frowns, putting it together. “Wait. If this isn’t your thing—and you know it’s not mine—why are you here?”
And that’s when the tears hit. Out of nowhere. Sliding down your face like you’re a kid who dropped her ice cream. You hate crying.
Bucky’s whole face collapses. “Hey—hey, baby, what’d I do?”
“Nothing,” you choke out, laughing wetly. “I thought you were buying this for someone else. Some girl who actually wants to role-play Valentine’s.”
He looks like you just kicked a puppy. His puppy. “I—what? No. Honey, the only person I want to see in—” he glances around, lowers his voice to a whisper “—any of this is you. And only if you wanted. Which you don’t. I just didn’t want to come home empty-handed like a complete loser.”
You swipe at your cheeks with your sleeve. “I was trying to buy you something because I forgot too. Thought if I didn’t show up in a teddy, I’d be the worst wife ever.”
He huffs a soft, disbelieving laugh. “We’re ridiculous.”
You swipe at your cheeks with your sleeve, sniffling like an idiot. “So, you’re not cheating on me? Or shopping for butt floss for some side chick?”
Bucky's frown is instant and fierce, the kind that could stop traffic. “Is that what you thought?”
“For a nanosecond,” you admit. “Maybe slightly longer. Like… a solid five-Mississippi.”
He stares for a beat, then that smile breaks across his face. The one that reminds you why you married this big, earnest dork in the first place.
“C’mere,” he says softly, opening his arm again.
This time you dive into the only safe place in the universe. Your face smooshes into that hideous plaid scarf he wears every winter—the one you’ve tried to assassinate multiple times. Donation bin, trash compactor, “accidentally” left on a subway seat. It always resurrects itself and slithers back around his neck like some immortal flannel demon.
“I’m actually touched by that,” he murmurs into your hair.
“By what?” you mumble, voice muffled by wool.
“The fact that you thought I might be cheating. Means you still care enough to be jealous.”
“You know I care, dumbass,” you say, giving his ribs a playful punch that probably feels like a kitten tap to him.
“Oh, I know, airhead,” he shoots back, voice fond. “It’s just nice to see irrefutable proof.”
You pull back just enough to grin up at him, something wicked sparking in your chest. “Speaking of which… I just thought of something.”
His eyebrows lift, curious and trusting. “Yeah?”
“I suck at Valentine’s Day.”
He chuckles, low and warm. “I know, honey.”
“No.” You step closer, dropping your voice to a conspiratorial whisper that still probably carries to the poor sales associate folding thongs nearby. “I actually meant I suck on Valentine’s Day.”
You hollow your cheeks dramatically and poke your tongue against the inside of one, driving it in his thick head.
Bucky’s eyes go comically wide. His face flames red from collar to hairline in record time. He glances left, right, over both shoulders like he’s checking for Hydra agents, then cups both big hands around your face like he’s trying to shield you from the entire store. Or maybe shield the store from you.
“Sweetheart,” he hisses, voice strangled and about an octave higher than usual. “There are children in the mall.”
You laugh into his palms, the sound muffled and downright devilish. “Relax, Bucky. Nobody saw.”
“I saw,” he mutters, voice still pitched high with embarrassment, but his thumbs are tracing soft circles on your cheeks now, helpless and fond.
He glances around one more time—full 360-degree super-soldier sweep, like he’s clearing a room—then leans in close, his breath warm against your ear. His voice drops to this low, rough growl that you only ever hear behind closed doors.
“If you keep talking like that,” he whispers, “and I’m gonna drag you into the nearest dressing room, bend you over, and make sure you forget how your legs work for the rest of Valentine’s Day.”
Your brain blue-screens.
James Barnes just said that. In public. Filthy and possessive and hot enough to melt the lace right off the nearby racks.
You pull back just enough to stare at him, mouth actually hanging open. “James Buchanan Barnes,” you hiss, half-shocked, half-turned on. “Who are you and what have you done with my Boy Scout?”
His ears are still scarlet, but there’s a smug little glint in those blue eyes now. “You started it.”
You swallow hard, suddenly very aware that you’re in a store full of strangers and your husband just flipped the script in the best-worst way possible. “Well then,” you manage, voice a little breathless, “let’s get the hell out of here before you get us arrested for public indecency.”
He exhales a shaky laugh, grabs your hand and practically power-walks you both toward the exit—past the thongs, past the fuzzy handcuffs, past the poor sales associate who’s definitely pretending not to notice the two of you speed-walking like you’re fleeing a crime scene.
× × × ×
The second the side door clicks shut behind you, the dam breaks.
You don’t even make it past the entryway. One moment you’re both stumbling through the garage door into the living room, coats half-shed, laughter breathless and edged with hunger; the next, you’ve got him backed against the wall, your hands already working his belt with single-minded determination.
“Baby—wait, slow down,” Bucky rasps, but the protest is weak, undermined by the way his hips tilt toward you instinctively.
“Shut up,” you breathe, the words half-laugh, half-growl as you tug the leather free and yank his zipper down. His cock springs into your waiting palm—thick, warm, only half-hard from the frantic drive home and the cold February air. It rests heavy against your fingers, velvet over steel, and you wrap your hand around him possessively.
“There’s my favorite soldier,” you murmur, giving him a pulling stroke that makes his breath catch.
He exhales a shaky laugh, cheeks still flushed from the mall, from your teasing, from everything. “I was… really hard a minute ago.”
The self-conscious note in his voice tugs at your heart. As if you’d ever mistake the way his body responds to the cold, to nerves, to anything but complete, desperate want for you.
You meet his eyes, letting him see the truth in yours. “I know exactly how hard you get for me, Barnes. And I know exactly how to fix this.”
Then you sink to your knees, the hardwood cool against your skin, and take him into your mouth.
The first slow, luxurious pull around his crown has him groaning low, head falling back against the wall with a soft thud. You feel the immediate twitch, the rush of blood as he thickens on your tongue—hot, heavy and perfect. You swirl around the sensitive head, tracing that spot just beneath the ridge that always makes his thighs tense, and he hardens fully in seconds, filling your mouth until your lips stretch deliciously around him.
God, he’s beautiful like this. You pull back just enough to admire him, saliva glistening along his length, then sink down again, taking him deeper, letting him feel the wet heat of your throat. When you hum in appreciation, the vibration draws a ragged curse from him that sounds almost startled coming from The Winter Soldier’s mouth.
You glance up through your lashes. His jaw is clenched, eyes dark and hooded, fixed on you with that intense focus that always makes you feel like the only woman in the world. If you had spinach in your teeth right now, he wouldn’t notice. He’s too far gone, lost in the sight of you on your knees for him.
“Mmm,” you hum again, pulling off with a soft, wet pop before licking a slow stripe up the underside. “Such a gorgeous cock, Bucky. So thick… tastes like it’s been missing my mouth all day.”
His hips jerk involuntarily, a low, broken moan tearing free as you circle the head with your tongue, teasing that sweet spot again and again until his hand threads gently into your hair.
“God, yes—just like that,” he rasps, eyes locked on you, dark and feral. “Take me deeper. I love watching you suck that dick, you look so fucking perfect with your lips stretched around me.”
You take him deeper, your tongue working in perfect sync as you suck. Years together have mapped every inch of him onto your memory—the exact pressure he craves, the rhythm that makes his breath stutter, the way he unravels when you hit just the right spots. It’s power, pure and intoxicating, knowing you hold him in the palm of your hand.
“That’s it, baby,” you whisper, lips brushing the slick crown as you run your tongue messily over it, coating him in wet heat. You dip the tip into his slit, flicking and thrusting playfully, and the whimper he lets out was high and needy, sending a thrill straight to your core. You do it again, and again, fucking that tiny opening with your tongue until his thighs tremble.
Where did you even learn this? Doesn’t matter. All that matters is the way he’s falling apart for you.
Time to bring out the big guns.
You shrug off your coat in one fluid motion, letting it pool on the floor. Then you yank up your sweater, tugging your breasts free from the practical cotton bra—nothing sexy about it, but the way they spill out perched perfectly on the underwire… you know exactly what it does to him. His eyes drop immediately, darkening with raw hunger as he watches them with every movement.
He loves this; the visual, the tease, the way it pushes him right to the edge.
“You want to come for me, baby?” you purr, wrapping your hand around his slick length and stroking faster, hard enough to make your breasts bounce enticingly. “I want it all. Every drop. Give me that big load, Bucky. . . I’m starving for it.”
He’s beyond words now, just incoherent, guttural sounds that might as well be pleas. His chest heaves, abs clenching under his shirt, and you can feel him swelling impossibly thicker in your grip.
You take the head back into your mouth, sucking hard while your hand tightly pumps him in a relentless rhythm. Suck, stroke, swirl, squeeze. Drool slips from the corners of your lips, it’s messy but in this moment, you feel like a goddess. Possessed by pure, filthy desire, every ridiculous worry from earlier erased by the power of making him lose control.
“Come for me, baby,” you mumble around him, words garbled but intent crystal clear. “That’s it… give me everything. I want to drain you dry. Come down my throat, Bucky…”
You feel it building, the tension coiling tighter in his thighs, his abs, the way his hips start thrusting instinctively, chasing the heat of your mouth. He looks down at you, eyes glazed with helpless wonder, like he can’t quite process the sight of his cock sliding between your lips, slick and shining, disappearing again and again into your eager throat. His expression is pure surrender—brows drawn, lips parted, utterly lost to the pleasure you’re wringing from him.
A low moan escapes him, then another, building until he slaps a hand over his mouth to muffle the sounds. It doesn’t help. The groans break through anyway—rough, desperate, cracking like a teenager’s voice all over again, muffled snuffles and grunts that make your core clench with triumph.
And then he breaks.
One powerful thrust forward, burying himself deep as his entire body goes rigid. His cock surges against your tongue, thick pulses of heat flooding your mouth in hot, endless waves. You swallow greedily, instinctively, milking him through every spasm—sucking harder, softer, perfectly timed to drag out the ecstasy until he’s trembling, oversensitive and overwhelmed.
Pulse after pulse, you take everything he gives, drawing it out until his hips stutter and still. His hand falls from his mouth, fingers threading shakily into your hair as he gasps for air, chest heaving. His cock throbs faintly with his racing heartbeat, spent and twitching in the aftermath.
You pull off slowly, licking him clean with one last teasing swirl that makes him shudder.
You rise slowly, legs a little unsteady, lips swollen and slick as you lick the last trace of him from the corner of your mouth. Bucky’s eyes are still dark, glazed with the aftershocks, but the moment you’re on your feet, something shifts. The gentle soldier is still there, but hunger sharpens his gaze.
He doesn’t give you time to catch your breath. His hands frame your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks with surprising tenderness before he crashes his mouth to yours. The kiss is deep and claiming—tasting himself on your tongue and groaning into you like he can’t get enough. When he pulls back, his voice is low, rough velvet.
“Turn around, honey. Get on the couch and bend over.”
The command sends heat pooling between your thighs. You barely manage a nod before he spins you with firm hands on your hips, guiding you toward the couch with that effortless strength. Your skirt is still bunched from earlier frantic touches; he doesn’t bother with finesse. The zipper rasps down, fabric shoved roughly over your hips until it pools at your feet. You step out of it without thinking, heart racing as the cool air kisses your exposed skin.
He strips off the rest of his clothes impatiently; shirt yanked over his head, jeans kicked aside until he’s gloriously bare behind you. His palms slide up your back, pressing gently but inexorably until you’re bent over the arm of the couch, forearms braced against the cushions, ass presented to him like an offering.
“Good girl,” he murmurs, voice dripping with approval that makes you shiver. He steps in close, the thick length of him already hardening again—nudging against your thigh. “Look at you… so wet and ready after sucking me dry. You loved swallowing every drop, didn’t you?”
“You know I did.” You whimper, pushing back against him instinctively.
His hand cups you possessively, fingers sliding through your slick folds. He spits into his palm, then brings it down in a series of light, teasing slaps against your pussy. Each one lands with a sharp, stinging pleasure that makes you gasp, your hips jerking forward.
“Fuck, listen to that,” he growls, doing it again, harder this time, “This pretty little pussy is dripping for me. Begging to be filled.”
Another slap, then two fingers plunge inside you without warning, curling deep and stroking that spot that makes stars burst behind your eyelids. His free hand grips your hip, holding you steady as he works you open—slow twisting thrusts that have you moaning into the cushions.
“You’re going to take your husband just like this,” he says, voice dark and commanding, leaning over you until his chest brushes your back, lips at your ear. “Got it?”
You can only nod, breathless, body arching into his touch.
He withdraws his fingers slowly, leaving you aching and empty for only a heartbeat before his palms glide over the curve of your ass, tracing your hips with reverent possession. His grip tightens and you feel the blunt heat of his cock nudge against your drenched entrance.
“That’s it,” he snarls, voice shredded and barely holding on. “You're dripping for me…”
With one long, luscious stroke, he sinks into you deep, stretching you open until you’re gasping, head thrown back in a broken moan. Your body yields to him, parting greedily, clenching around his thickness as he claims you completely. The sensation is overwhelming—his hips flush against your ass, the heavy weight of him pinning you, owning you.
“Fuck yes,” you moan, grinding back desperately, forcing him deeper into your soaked heat. “Bucky… I need you to ruin me senseless tonight. Please.”
“Are you sure?” He groans, the sound vibrating through you as he bottoms out, your soaked walls clamping down hard around his thick length in greedy answer. “Shit—alright, you asked for it.”
Then he pulls back slowly, torturously, your walls protesting with a desperate clutch, only for him to drive forward again, harder, igniting sparks behind your eyes. His hands dig into your hips, holding you steady as he sets a steady rhythm—deep, forceful thrusts that slap skin against skin, his powerful thighs flexing with every snap of his hips.
“Fuck, look at you,” he rasps, head tipped back in ecstasy, eyes squeezed shut as pleasure consumes him. “Taking that dick—moaning like a good girl. You love this, huh? Love getting fucked like this—bent over, filled with your husband’s cock.”
“Yes—oh God, yes,” you cry out, voice breaking with each punishing stroke. “Don’t stop…”
His rhythm turns feral, thick cock scraping every swollen, needy ridge inside your dripping cunt until your thighs shake and your whole body quakes. His hands knead your ass possessively, spreading you wider for his invasion, the raw dominance making you clench harder around him.
Then he slows—just enough to tease—and leans over you, chest blanketing your back. His thumb brushes your lips, gentle at first.
“Open that pretty fucking mouth, baby,” he murmurs, voice dark silk. “Suck it like it’s my cock.”
You do, tongue lashing his thumb like a desperate little cockslut, pulling it deep into your wet mouth and sucking hard, cheeks hollowing as you swirl and moan around it, drool already slipping down your chin. The intimacy undoes you: his cock buried deep, thrusting in time with the way you worship his finger.
“There’s my filthy fucking girl,” he growls low, lips brushing the shell of your ear, breath scorching your skin. “Suck it just like that… picture my thick cock choking your throat again while I rail this sloppy, perfect pussy raw.”
“Yes…” you whimper around his thumb, nodding frantically, hips grinding back to meet his thrusts. “Fuck me.”
He growls, hips snapping harder, the couch groaning and shifting under the relentless pounding. “You ready to take my load, baby? Ready to be bred and owned?”
You gasp, releasing his thumb to beg. “Yes.”
He stills suddenly—buried to the hilt, throbbing inside you—and you feel the tremor that runs through his entire body.
“Fuck—I need to be deeper,” he rasps, voice wrecked and dripping gravel.
Before you can answer, he pulls out in one slick glide that leaves you gasping at the sudden emptiness. His urgent hands are on you instantly spinning you, lifting and rearranging you. He guides you to the wide, padded arm of the couch, pressing between your shoulder blades until you drape forward over it. Your hips perch right on the edge, ass tilted high, thighs spread wide, completely open and exposed to him.
Bucky steps in close behind you, one big hand splayed across the small of your back, the other gripping the base of his cock as he lines himself up again. You feel the blunt, slick head nudge your entrance, sliding through your soaked folds before he drives forward in a single thrust.
He sinks deeper than before, the thick head of his cock bumping your cervix on the first stroke, a sharp, electric pressure that steals your breath and turns it into a broken cry.
Your walls flutter helplessly around him, stretched wide, every ridge and vein dragging against sensitive spots you didn’t know existed.
“Holy—fuck,” he groans, voice cracking.
Your needy cries echoes off the walls, and that sound seems to snap whatever thin thread of restraint he had left.
Bucky’s hips slam forward savagely in a cock-splitting rhythm. The angle gives you no escape, every stroke punches the air from your lungs, turns your moans into desperate, broken sobs that you can’t hold back. Skin slaps against skin, the couch creaking under the onslaught like it might give out.
“Fuck—fuck,” he snarls through clenched teeth, voice ragged. His metal hand grips your hip, holding you exactly where he wants you while his flesh hand comes down on your ass in a sharp, stinging crack.
The sting explodes across your skin like fire, and you growl low, feral—“Ugh, what the fuck, James.”—hips jerking back even as your cunt clamps down tighter around his throbbing cock, greedy and shameless. “Give me more.”
The spank is pure overwhelmed aggression, the kind that rips out of him because wanting you this bad fucking hurts.
“That’s it,” he moans, voice ragged and breathless, slamming his palm down again—the sharp crack rings out loud as your ass ripples and jiggles hard under the brutal smack. “This perfect fucking ass—shit, look at it bouncing while you take it.”
Another spank, then another, alternating cheeks, each one jolts you forward, forces you to take him deeper, and he fucks you through it like he can’t stop or won’t stop. Pace turning feral, hips pistoning, cock dragging against every sensitive spot inside you until your vision blurs.
He leans over you, chest heaving against your back, lips brushing your ear as his hand cracks down again—sharp enough to make you yelp and arch.
“You’re fucking perfect, you know that right? Can’t—Christ—can’t hold back with you like this.”
He spreads your stinging cheeks wider, watches himself disappear into you over and over. Your whole body is trembling now, pleasure coiling impossibly tight, you’re dripping down your thighs, pushing back to meet every brutal thrust, completely lost in him.
Bucky’s breath hitches his rhythm faltering for a split second, hips grinding deep as he tries to hold on, you feel it in the way his cock swells impossibly thicker inside you, pulsing against your walls. His whole body starts to shake as he fights the edge, hips stuttering like he’s about to fucking shatter.
A broken whimper spills from his throat—high, helpless, nothing like the growls from before. Another follows, softer, needier, as he folds forward, chest pressing flush to your sweat-slick back, arms caging you in like he’s surrendering completely. His face buries in the crook of your neck, lips brushing your skin as the sounds tear out of him.
“F-fuck, baby—I’m close—”
He’s unraveling, the fierce soldier reduced to this: bent over you, shaking, he fucks you through the last fraying threads of his control.
One final, bruising thrust buries him to the hilt, and he breaks.
A long, shuddering moan tears from his chest as he comes–hot, thick pulses flooding deep inside you, coating your walls, marking you from the inside out. His hips jerk helplessly with every spurt, grinding instinctively to get deeper, as if he could pour his entire soul into you.
“I’m yours–I’m yours…fuck, I’m yours,” he gasps against your skin, voice wrecked and trembling, the words slurring together as wave after wave crashes through him.
Your own orgasm slams into you at the sound of it. His complete, beautiful surrender; walls clenching hard around him, milking every last drop as you moan his name into the cushions. He stays folded over you, breathing hard, lips pressing soft kisses along your shoulder between the fading whimpers, like he’s coming back to himself one shaky breath at a time.
Then, out of nowhere, a low, breathless chuckle rumbles against your skin, soft at first, then building into full, helpless laughter that shakes his chest against your back. It’s that ridiculous, uncontrollable post-orgasm giggle, the kind that hits when everything feels too good, too intense, and your body just short-circuits into joy.
“Oh my God,” he gasps between laughs, voice hoarse and wrecked, forehead dropping to your shoulder as his whole frame vibrates with it. “Holy shit, baby.”
You feel the laughter bubbling up in you too, even as aftershocks still ripple through your thighs. “What are you laughing at?” you manage, voice muffled into the cushion, a grin already tugging at your swollen lips.
He lifts his head just enough to press another kiss to your neck, but the chuckles keep coming, warm and boyish and utterly disarming.
“I don’t know,” he admits, breathless. “Just—fuck. That was…” Another laugh breaks free, and he has to brace a hand on the couch to steady himself. “Are you okay? I kinda lost my mind there for a minute.”
You nod, turning your head to catch his eye, finding his face flushed and glowing, those blue eyes bright with affection and lingering haze. “I'm fine,” you whisper, reaching back to thread your fingers through his hair. “You’re kinda heavy though?”
He exhales a shaky laugh again, shifting his weight carefully as he starts to pull out, both of you hissing at the sensitivity.
“Give me a minute,” he murmurs, voice soft and fond as he eases away and collapses onto the couch beside you, tugging you into his arms. His legs are actually trembling—you can feel it when he pulls you half on top of him, one thigh slung over his.
“My legs are shaking. I think you broke me.”
You bury your face in his chest, laughing quietly now too, the sound muffled against warm skin and the faint scent of sweat and him.
“Good,” you mumble, pressing a kiss over his heart. “Means I did my job.”
He wraps both arms around you tight, metal and flesh. His laughter fades into a contented hum, fingers tracing lazy patterns along your spine, over the warm, tender skin of your ass where his handprints still linger.
You shift on top of him, tilting your face up to meet his eyes—soft and hazy, that post-sex glow making him look younger, lighter, like the weight of the world has finally slipped off his shoulders for a little while. He smiles down at you, small and devastatingly sweet, then leans in to peck your lips once, twice.
“I love you,” he murmurs against your mouth, voice low and rough in the best way. His flesh hand cups your cheek, thumb stroking gently, like he’s memorizing the feel of you all over again.
You melt into it, kissing him back lazily, your own “I love you” muffled between you.
He pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, a breathless little chuckle escaping him again.
“So…” he says, voice dropping into that playful drawl you adore, “should we just order takeout? Because I’m starving, and the only thing I’m capable of cooking right now is toast. Maybe.”
You laugh softly, nuzzling into his neck. “Extra Big Macs?”
He grins, pressing one more kiss to your temple, “Sounds good, order it now so when we finish showering. . .we have food.”
While you grabbed your phone and did the order, Bucky watched you with that fond, sleepy smile, his metal arm curled loosely around your waist, thumb brushing idle circles on your hip.
Order placed, you toss the phone aside and sink back into him, both of you quiet for a moment, just breathing together in the warm afterglow.
Eventually he shifts, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Come on. Shower time. I’ve got… evidence all over both of us.”
You groan dramatically but let him pull you up. The second you’re on your feet, though, your legs wobble like a newborn foal, without warning, he scoops you up bridal-style, effortless as always, your naked body cradled against his chest. You yelp, arms looping around his neck in reflex.
“Woah!”
He starts walking toward the bathroom, voice low and teasing, eyes glinting with mischief.
“What? I’m just helping my wife who can’t walk straight. Though…” He leans in, lips brushing your ear, voice dropping to that rough growl that still makes your stomach flip. “If you keep making those little noises, I might prove I’ve still got another round in me. Right here against the hallway wall.”
summary: as the thunderbolts’ overworked assistant, invisibility comes with the job—late nights, impossible schedules, no recognition. so the single red rose waiting on your desk feels like a mistake. until another appears. then another. each morning brings a quiet gift, easing the exhaustion you’ve learned to carry. by valentine’s day, your desk holds a full bouquet—and far too many unanswered questions.
pairing: thunderbolts!bucky x female reader
content warnings: ⌞18+ MDNI - minor suggestive content⌝ flirting, secret admirer, overworked reader, john walker is kinda a dick (sorry not sorry), first date, first kiss, fluff city, bucky is a loverboy, and a gentleman, spicy kiss with wandering hands but thats it, not beta read we die like men.
w/c: 5.6k
a/n: shoutout to miss tang @salty-tang for putting this awesome exchange together, i’m glad i was able to get in before it was too late! i had so much fun writing this secretly flirty bucky he’s my favorite ever
prompt: a bouqet of flowers.
dt: this is for the almighty @navybrat817! i was so nervous when i got you lol, youre such an inspiration to me and to the bucky community and im so glad to be in this space as the same time as you! happy valentines day, i hope you like it <33
By the time you swipe into the Thunderbolts tower, your coffee is already cold and your head is already pounding.
It’s barely 7 a.m., the sky outside still bruised with early morning gray, and yet the building hums like it’s midday. Security lights glow. Elevators ding. Somewhere down the hall, someone is already arguing about ammo requisitions.
You sigh, adjust the strap of your bag on your shoulder, and keep walking.
Being the Thunderbolts’ assistant means you’re the first one in and the last one out. It means fixing messes before they become disasters and cleaning up the ones that already are. It means triple-booked schedules, emergency debriefs, and last-minute “I forgot to tell you” requests that somehow always become your responsibility.
It also means being largely invisible. You don’t mind. Most days.
Your office sits tucked away from the main operations floor—small, functional, quiet. Your sanctuary. You unlock the door, flick on the lights, and drop your bag onto the chair with a tired exhale.
That’s when you see it.
A single red rose rests neatly at the center of your desk.
You stop short.
For a moment, you just stare, brain struggling to catch up. The desk is otherwise exactly how you left it—files stacked, tablet charging, sticky note reminding you to call accounting—but the rose is unmistakably new. Fresh. Deliberate.
Your brows knit together as you step closer.
“Okay…” you murmur.
You check the room. The door is still locked behind you. No windows open. No card. No note. Just the rose, stem trimmed, petals deep crimson against the pale wood of your desk.
You pick it up carefully, half-expecting it to disappear.
It doesn’t.
A small, surprised smile tugs at your lips before you can stop it. You shake your head, letting out a quiet huff of disbelief. Probably a mistake. Someone dropped it off at the wrong office. Maybe meant for Valentina. Or one of the analysts upstairs.
Still, you can’t bring yourself to toss it.
You find an empty mug, rinse it out, and set the rose inside with a bit of water. It looks oddly perfect there—like it belongs. You try not to think about it as the day takes over. Meetings blur together. You reschedule a training session after John Walker storms out of the gym. You field a call from supplies about missing equipment. You type, print, organize, repeat.
The sun had well set past the horizon before you've began to pack you bag up, grabbing all three folders and your laptop before slugging your bag onto your shoulder. Your hand were always full leaving the office, as you stepped around your desk to walk out something tugged an invisible string within you.
You turned back and looked at the rose sitting on your desk. Your teeth dug into your bottom lip as you hesitated for second before turning back forward, it was just a rose, you told yourself. It didn't mean anything and likely wasn't for you anyways, you'll probably hear about someone who got one tomorrow and then you'll know.
With your mind set on it being an accident you left the Tower and made your way home, but even the evening breeze had nothing to do with the pink tinge to your cheeks.
The next day starts like always, out of bed before the sun has even greeted the sky and out the door as it's slowly peeking through the horizon. One of your favorite parts of your day was your commute to work, albeit hectic, watching the morning wake itself through the parting clouds with birdsong and beaming sun rays just soothed a certain knot in your chest, making you feel that anything was possible.
That was until you got to the office, of course.
"These mission debriefs need to be typed up and filed."
"The pads in the training room need to be rethreaded."
"Ops want the schedule reshuffled again."
Security needs clarification on visitor clearance, and someone’s requisition form is missing a signature that absolutely, definitely cannot wait. By the time you finally make it down the hall to your office, it’s well past your usual arrival time.
You’re frazzled, coffee-less, brain buzzing with a to-do list that feels physically heavy. You swipe your card, already mentally drafting emails, already bracing yourself for the mess waiting on your desk.
The door opens.
And there it is. A single red rose, resting in the exact same spot as yesterday.
You stop so abruptly your bag slides down your shoulder.
For a second, you just stand there, chest rising and falling too fast, the noise in your head grinding to a halt like someone flipped a switch. The rose is perfect—fresh, unbothered, petals still tight at the center. Deliberate. Still waiting for you.
“Oh,” you breathe.
The tension you hadn’t even realized you were carrying loosens its grip, just a little. Your shoulders drop. Your jaw unclenches. You shut the door behind you more gently than usual, like the quiet suddenly matters.
You step closer, eyes scanning the desk for anything else, some note you missed, some clue, some explanation that would make this make sense.
There’s nothing. Just the rose. You let out a small, tired laugh and rub a hand over your face. “This is ridiculous,” you mutter, though there’s no heat behind it. It has to be a fluke. A delivery error. Someone mixing up offices. Maybe whoever it’s meant for hasn’t noticed yet. Maybe today you’ll get a knock on your door—sorry, wrong desk, can I grab that?
But no one comes.
You set your bag down and move automatically, repeating the same motions as yesterday. You rinse out a mug at the tiny sink, fill it halfway with water, and trim the stem just enough to keep it fresh. You place the rose beside the first one, adjusting it until it sits just right.
The effort feels strangely important.
When you sit, the roses are in your line of sight, vivid against the dull beige of paperwork and screens. You tell yourself you’ll move them later. Somewhere less conspicuous.
You don’t.
The day barrels forward at full speed. You draft reports, reroute calls, and mediate a disagreement that nearly turns into a shouting match. Lunch passes unnoticed. Your coffee goes untouched until it’s cold again.
Every so often, your eyes flick back to the roses.
They ground you. Each time your stress spikes, the sight of them eases it back down—just a fraction, but enough to matter. Enough to get through the next task. And the next.
At some point, you catch yourself wondering. Not wildly. Not romantically. Just… curious.
Who would do this without leaving a note? Who would take the time to come by every morning and leave a single rose, like clockwork, and say nothing at all? Someone quiet, maybe. Someone observant. Someone who doesn’t want credit.
You shake your head and refocus on your screen. It’s not for you. It can’t be for you.
Still, when the day finally winds down and the office grows quiet, you linger a moment before leaving. You straighten the roses one last time, fingertips brushing soft petals, and feel a small, unexpected smile curve your mouth.
You leave them there when you turn out the lights. Just in case.
Today's meeting runs long.
You sit in the back of the briefing room, tablet balanced on your knee, fingers moving almost automatically as you take notes. The Thunderbolts fill the table, boots hooked around chair legs, arms crossed, tension and ego packed into the room like it always is. You’re used to being there without being there, eyes down, voice quiet unless you’re called on.
New assignments stack up fast.
Training rotations. Media clearances. Equipment requests. You jot everything down, already mentally rearranging your afternoon to make it all fit. By the time Valentina clears her throat and fixes you with that sharp, knowing look, your list is already long.
“Before you go,” she says, sliding a separate folder across the table in your direction, “these are personal requests. Off the record.”
Of course they are. You nod, accepting it without comment. A whole new list. A whole new set of fires to put out.
The meeting finally adjourns, chairs scraping back as the team stands in a loose, uncoordinated wave. You tuck your tablet under your arm and gather the folders, already bracing yourself for the rest of the day.
You turn too quickly. And walk straight into someone solid.
“Oh—! I’m so sorry,” you blurt out instantly, stumbling back a step. “I wasn’t looking, I—”
A hand comes up, steadying, though it doesn’t actually touch you.
“It’s okay,” a low voice says. “Really.”
You look up. Bucky Barnes. He’s closer than you expect, taller than he looks from across a room, blue eyes soft rather than sharp. For a split second, your brain stalls.
“Oh,” you say, eloquently. “I—sorry. Again.”
He gives a small, almost amused huff of a laugh. “You’re fine.”
You shift the folders in your arms, suddenly unsure what to do with your hands. You’ve never really spoken to anyone on the team before—never needed to. They exist in one sphere, you in another. Parallel lines.
“Well,” you start, then stop. Clear your throat. “Um. I was just—checking. If there was anything else you needed? From your list?”
You wince inwardly. Smooth.
Bucky blinks, clearly surprised by the question, then shakes his head. “No. You’ve got everything covered.”
Relief loosens something in your chest. “Okay. Good.”
There’s a brief, awkward pause. You debate filling it with small talk—weather, training schedules, anything—but the words refuse to come. You shift aside to give him space to pass.
Before he does, he looks at you again, expression gentler than you expect.
“Hey,” he says. “Don’t work too hard for us, yeah?”
The comment lands heavier than it should.
You smile, small and polite. “I’ll try.”
He nods once, then steps past you, disappearing down the hall with the rest of the team. You watch him go for half a second longer than necessary before shaking yourself and heading the opposite direction, toward your office, your lists, and a desk that, for reasons you still can’t explain—or don't want to admit, you’re suddenly eager to reach.
By the time you make it back to your office, your arms ache from the weight of folders and your head buzzes with overlapping deadlines. You swipe your card, push the door open.
And there it is. Another red rose, waiting in its usual place on your desk.
You stop just inside the doorway, breath catching before you can help it. A smile slips onto your face, slow and unguarded, relief blooming warm in your chest like you’d been bracing for disappointment without realizing it.
“Okay,” you murmur, exhaling. “Good.”
You close the door behind you and set your things down more gently than necessary, eyes flicking back to the rose as if it might vanish if you look away too long. It’s just like the others, fresh, carefully placed, unmistakably intentional.
You shake your head, half-laughing. “You’re really committing to this, huh?”
The room is quiet. The rose, unsurprisingly, doesn’t answer. Still, you find yourself talking anyway as you rinse out a mug and fill it with water. Maybe it’s the stress. Maybe it’s the fact that no one ever hears you complain without interrupting.
“You would not believe the day I’m about to have,” you tell it, trimming the stem with practiced care. “Val gave me a whole separate list. A secret list. Because apparently that’s what my life was missing.”
You place the rose beside the others, adjusting the stems until they sit evenly, then sigh and drop into your chair.
“And don’t even get me started on John Walker,” you continue, booting up your computer. “Who needs three separate uniform fittings in one week? Who? And why is it always somehow urgent?”
Your fingers fly across the keyboard as emails pile up. You vent softly between tasks, muttering about impossible turnaround times and equipment requests that make no sense, about calendars that refuse to cooperate no matter how carefully you arrange them.
The rose listens. Quietly. Faithfully. At some point, somewhere between scheduling a debrief and rewriting a report, you stop. You lean back in your chair and really look at them.
The growing collection of roses sits bright and vivid against the neutral tones of your office, petals brushing together like they belong. You didn’t even realize how many there were now. You count them once, then again, just to be sure.
“This is getting a little ridiculous,” you say softly, though there’s no real complaint in your voice.
Your brow furrows as you wonder, again, where they’re coming from. How someone keeps getting in without you noticing. Why they bother at all. There’s no note. No expectation. Just the flowers. Every day.
For you. The thought sends a small, unfamiliar flutter through your chest.
Work eventually pulls you back in, but something has shifted. You take a real break for once—standing, stretching, sipping water instead of caffeine. When the day finally winds down and the office empties, you move a stack of folders aside before shutting down your computer.
You pause, then slide a pen holder over, clearing a little extra space on your desk. Right where the rose always sits. You hesitate, then smile to yourself, feeling faintly foolish and strangely hopeful all at once.
“Just in case,” you murmur. You turn off the light and leave, the desk waiting quietly in the dark—ready for tomorrow.
The next morning greets you the same way.
Another rose. Another soft, involuntary smile.
You don’t even question it anymore, you just step into your office, let the door click shut behind you, and breathe out like you’ve been holding it all night. The rose waits in its place, perfectly centered in the space you cleared yesterday, as if whoever left it noticed.
That thought lingers longer than it should. You repeat the now-familiar ritual—mug, water, trimmed stem before the day pulls you away from your desk entirely.
Today isn’t a desk day.
Valentina sends you running physical errands across the tower: dropping off documents, coordinating fittings, tracking down approvals in person because apparently email is no longer sufficient. You weave through hallways and training rooms, clipboard tucked under your arm, moving through the Thunderbolts’ space in a way you usually avoid.
It’s louder here. Heavier. You’re double-checking a storage manifest when you turn a corner too quickly and nearly collide with someone again.
You stop short this time.
“Sorry—” you start, then blink. “Oh. Hi.”
Bucky Barnes. Again. He’s leaning against the wall near the equipment lockers, sleeves pushed up, hair slightly damp like he’s just come from training. He straightens when he sees you, expression easing into something familiar.
“Hey,” he says. “We keep meeting like this.”
You huff a quiet laugh. “I swear I’m not usually this clumsy.”
“Seems like you’re just busy,” he replies easily.
You nod, lifting your clipboard. “Errands. All day.”
“Sounds rough.”
You hesitate, fingers tightening around the edge of the board. For half a second, the roses are right there on the tip of your tongue. Maybe he might know something about them. The absurdity of them. The comfort. The curiosity that’s been gnawing at you all week.
You swallow it down.
Don’t be weird, you tell yourself.
“Well,” you say instead, “I should—uh—keep moving.”
“Right.” He pauses, then adds, “If you need anything, let me know.”
You smile, small but genuine. “Thanks.”
You’re halfway down the hall when Valentina’s voice cuts through the air. “Ah. There you are.”
You turn, bracing yourself.
“I’ve decided,” she continues smoothly, already walking, “that we’ll be hosting a gala for Valentine’s Day. Donors. Press. Allies.”
A gala. Your stomach drops.
“I want you to plan it,” Valentina finishes, glancing back at you like she’s just assigned you a coffee run.
You stop walking. “I—sorry—me?”
“Yes,” she says flatly. “You’re capable. You’ll handle it.”
And just like that, she’s gone. You stare after her, heart racing, mind already spiraling through venues, security, catering, guest lists. A gala. In less than two weeks. For this team.
“Oh my god,” you whisper.
“You okay?”
You hadn’t realized Bucky was still there. You look at him, stress written all over your face, and let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. “She wants me to plan a Valentine’s Day gala.”
He blinks. “That’s… a lot.”
“I don’t even know where to start,” you admit. “This is insane.”
Bucky studies you for a moment, then smiles—soft, steady, reassuring.
“You’ve got this,” he says. “I’ve seen how you work. You’ll do a great job.”
The words hit deeper than you expect. Your shoulders ease. Just a fraction. Enough.
“Thanks,” you say quietly. “That actually helps.”
He nods once, like it’s a given. “Anytime.”
When you finally make it back to your office, the roses are waiting. The space you cleared is filled perfectly. You set your things down, take a steadying breath, and open a new document.
Valentine’s Day Gala — Planning
For the first time since Val dropped the bomb, you don’t feel like you’re drowning. You glance at the roses, then get to work.
Valentine’s Day arrives like a held breath finally released.
The days leading up to it blur together in a haze of logistics and late nights, venue walkthroughs, security approvals, last-minute menu changes, donor seating charts that refuse to cooperate. Every morning brings new stress.
And every morning brings a rose.
You stop pretending it’s coincidence somewhere around the fifth one. By the eighth, you buy a proper vase. By the time Valentine’s Day dawns, the roses fill it completely, lush, red, alive, sitting proudly on the corner of your desk like proof that something good can exist alongside the chaos.
They’ve become your anchor.
Now, you’re dressed for the gala, standing in your office in front of your desk, heels clicking softly against the floor as you pace. The dress feels strange after weeks of practical clothes, elegant, fitted, unmistakably formal. You tug once at the fabric, then force yourself to focus.
Your phone is wedged between your shoulder and ear as you review final details with the caterers, fingers tapping nervously against your tablet.
“Yes, confirmed vegetarian options are clearly labeled,” you say. “And the band arrives at six for soundcheck? Perfect. Thank you.”
You end the call, exhaling, then immediately bring up the next checklist. Everything has to be perfect. It has to be. A light knock sounds at your door.
“Yeah, come in,” you call automatically, already turning back to your desk.
The door opens quietly. You don’t look up right away, flipping through notes, muttering under your breath. “If this is about seating, I swear I already—”
You turn. Bucky Barnes stands just inside your office. For a second, your brain refuses to process the sight of him.
He’s in a suit, dark, tailored, broad shoulders filling it effortlessly. His hair is neatly styled, jaw clean-shaven, the sharp line of him softened by something almost nervous in his posture. His hands are tucked behind his back like he doesn’t quite know what to do with them.
“Oh,” you say, eloquently, blinking. “Hi. Um, did you need something?”
He swallows, nodding once. “Yeah. I… actually, I do.”
You glance at your desk, then back at him. “Okay. I can—give me one second and—”
“No,” he says gently. “It can’t wait.”
Something in his tone makes you still. You set the tablet down slowly. “What’s going on?”
Bucky exhales, shoulders rising and falling as if he’s been bracing himself for this moment all day. Then he brings his hands forward.
He’s holding a single red rose. Your breath catches.
“I need to confess something,” he says.
Your heart starts to pound, loud in your ears. You don’t speak. You’re not sure you could.
“I’ve been the one leaving the roses,” he continues, voice low but steady. “Every morning. Sneaking in early, before anyone else got there. I just… wanted to brighten your day. No pressure. No expectations.”
You stare at him, then at the rose, then, slowly, at the full vase on your desk.
“Oh,” you whisper.
He steps a little closer. “I see how hard you work. How you hold everything together without anyone saying thank you. And you’re kind, quietly kind. You don’t make a show of it. You just… do it.”
His gaze doesn’t waver from yours.
“I admire that,” he says. “I admire you. I just didn’t know how to tell you without making it awkward or… weird.”
A breath shudders out of you, half-laugh, half-disbelief. “You broke into my office every morning.”
He winces. “When you put it like that, yeah. That sounds bad.”
Despite yourself, you laugh—soft, overwhelmed, emotional. Your eyes sting.
“You don’t know what those meant to me,” you say quietly. “I thought I was invisible.”
“You’re not,” he says immediately. “Not to me.”
He holds the rose out to you, hand just slightly unsteady. “I was hoping, if you wanted, that tonight wouldn’t just be work. That maybe I could take you out after the gala. A real date.”
The room feels smaller. Warmer. Like everything has narrowed down to this moment. You take the rose from his hand, fingers brushing his.
“I’d like that,” you say, voice soft but sure. Bucky smiles then, really smiles, and for the first time all day, the weight lifts completely.
The gala is perfect.
From the moment the doors open, everything moves like it’s been rehearsed a hundred times, guests flowing in smoothly, music low and elegant, the band hitting every cue. The lights glow warm instead of harsh, the décor understated but intentional. Exactly right.
You move through the evening with a practiced calm, heels clicking softly as you check in with staff, answer questions, and adjust tiny details no one else would ever notice. It all works. Every risk pays off.
Across the room, Bucky watches you more than once. You don’t notice at first—not until you finally pause near the edge of the dance floor, exhaling as the band shifts into a slower song. That’s when he’s suddenly there, standing beside you, offering his hand.
“Dance with me,” he says.
Your heart jumps. You glance around, instinctive panic flaring. “Here? With everyone?”
He follows your gaze, donors, press, teammates, and then looks back at you, completely unbothered.
“So what?” he says simply. “You deserve to be seen.”
The words land deep.
Before you can talk yourself out of it, you place your hand in his. He leads you onto the dance floor, one hand settling at your waist, the other holding yours steady and sure. At first, you’re stiff, hyper-aware of every pair of eyes.
Then Bucky leans in slightly. “Just look at me,” he murmurs.
You do. The rest of the room fades. The music carries you, his movements calm and unhurried, like he’s done this before, or like nothing else matters. Your nerves melt away, replaced by something warm and buoyant in your chest.
For the first time all night, you’re not managing anything. You’re just… there.
The evening winds down gradually, guests filtering out with polite smiles and praise you’re too tired to fully absorb. When the last of them leave, you kick off your heels behind the scenes and start helping staff pack up, dress hiked up, hair slightly loosened.
“You don’t have to do that,” a familiar voice says.
You look up to find Bucky reappearing, jacket off, already grabbing a stack of chairs.
“I do,” you reply. “I always do.”
He studies you for a second, then shakes his head. “You’re impossible.”
Still, he helps. Together, you tidy the space, working in easy silence broken by soft laughter and the clink of glassware. When everything’s finally done, Bucky stops and presses a cool bottle into your hand.
“Break,” he says. “Non-negotiable.”
He leads you out onto the deck, the city lights stretching wide and glittering below. The night air is crisp, refreshing. You pop the champagne quietly, pouring into two plastic cups you somehow still have.
You talk. About nothing. About everything. The absurdity of the team. Your favorite music. The roses, he admits he was terrified you’d hate them. You tell him they got you through the hardest weeks you’ve had in years.
Time slips by unnoticed until the last lights inside click off. When it’s finally time to leave, Bucky walks you down to the curb and flags a cab before you can protest. He opens the door for you, lingering for just a moment.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says, smiling. “For our date.”
He leans in, brushing a gentle kiss to your cheek—warm, deliberate, sweet. You smile all the way home, the city rushing past outside the cab window, knowing that tomorrow… you won’t be invisible at all.
The afternoon stretches long and anxious.
You pace your apartment, outfit choices strewn across the bed like casualties of indecision. Every mirror reflects a different worry—too casual, too formal, too flashy, not enough. You check your hair, your nails, your bag, and then start over.
After an hour of this exhausting cycle, you finally settle on something simple: a soft floral dress that sways just past your knees and a jean jacket that keeps it grounded. You stare at yourself in the mirror, take a deep breath, and tell yourself it’s fine. It’s fine.
The nervous second-guessing doesn’t have time to return. There’s a knock at the door—quick, polite, and undeniably him.
You steady yourself, letting out a small, reassuring breath, and open it. Bucky stands there, looking impossibly calm, holding something that immediately steals your attention. A bouquet, impossibly full and vivid, tucked carefully in both hands.
Pink roses, Gerbera daisies, Oriental lilies, larkspur, white snapdragons, and lavender stock. Petals brushing each other delicately, colors and shapes blending into something breathtaking. You inhale sharply, you'd never seen such beautiful flowers before.
“It’s… it’s incredible, this is the prettiest thing I've ever seen.” you breathe, fingers brushing against the blooms as if they might vanish.
He smirks, that mischievous glint in his eyes. “I've seen prettier,” he says, winking at you.
You laugh softly, unable to stop yourself, and accept the bouquet. The weight is perfect, the scent overwhelming in the best way. You carry it inside and place it in the center of your table, the arrangement spilling over with color and life.
At a glance, your apartment looks like a tiny, personal garden. You turn to him, teasing, a small smirk curling your lips.
“At this rate,” you say, tilting your head, “I’m going to have enough flowers for my own flower shop between here and the office.”
Bucky laughs, low and warm, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Then I’ll have to make sure I keep supplying you,” he says, stepping inside. “Somebody has to keep your flower empire going.”
And just like that, the nerves melt a little, replaced by the warmth of him, the colors of the flowers, and the promise of the evening ahead.
The night begins with the kind of energy that makes your nerves settle somewhere in the back of your chest.
Bucky leads you out into the crisp evening air, the city lights fading behind you as you approach Coney Island. The smell of fried dough and saltwater drifts on the breeze, blending with the faint tang of cotton candy. Your hands are brushing, then locking together, and you realize you’re smiling without even thinking about it.
First stop: the arcade. Lights flashing, tickets clattering, and the smell of popcorn in the background. He insists you start with a game of ring toss, laughing every time you nearly, so nearly, miss a ring. Then he drags you to the strength tester, and you watch him grunt and strain while you roll your eyes, amused.
Next, the claw machine. He makes a show of trying, pulling the lever with exaggerated effort, and after a few failed attempts, he triumphantly hands you a stuffed bear. “For you,” he says, grinning, pride twinkling in his eyes.
“Not bad,” you tease, hoisting it up. Then you spot the air hockey table, and suddenly competitive fire sparks inside you. “Your move, Barnes.”
He laughs, confident, and the game begins. The puck slides back and forth, rapid and loud, but within minutes, you’ve completely beaten him. He feigns outrage, grabbing his chest in mock horror. “Cheater!”
“I think you just needed practice,” you tease, smirking.
Afterward, you walk along the boardwalk, the evening breeze tugging at your hair, the ocean glinting in the distance. Without thinking, Bucky slides a hand into yours. You glance at him, heart thudding. He bends slightly and presses a soft kiss to the back of your hand.
“You’re good at this,” he murmurs. “Being you.”
You let yourself melt a little at that, squeezing his hand. The two of you drift to a quiet spot for dinner, a small seaside café tucked away from the throngs of tourists. Plates arrive, warm and simple, the golden glow of the sunset painting your faces.
As you talk, laugh, and share stories, a dollop of dessert clings to the corner of your lip. He notices it instantly.
Before you can react, his thumb sweeps it away, brushing softly over your skin. You look up at him, heart hammering in your chest, and something electric sparks between you.
He leans in slightly, and you meet him halfway. The kiss is soft at first, curious, hesitant, but quickly deepens, the heat between you building, breaths mingling, teeth catching slightly as both of you get lost in it. You press into his side and feel him hum against you, a hand brushes the hem of your dress before slowly tracing up, pressing soft circles into the skin of your upper thigh.
A soft squeak leaves your lips as he squeezes the soft flesh, making your legs close on instinct, trapping his hand in the warmth. He nips your bottom lip and you sigh, letting your body go lax under his touch. Your mind and heart start to run like an F1 race, the warmth of his hand against your skin makes you shudder and sends a lick of heat up your spine and down to your lower stomach. A cool night breeze washes over you both and finally, you pull back, chests rising and falling in tandem, eyes locking. The world around you disappears, leaving just the two of you and the taste of each other lingering.
“You drive a hard bargain,” he murmurs, voice low, lips grazing yours once more in a teasing ghost of a kiss.
The night isn’t over yet. He leads you to his bike, safe and careful, securing you in front of him. The ride is exhilarating, wind whipping your hair, laughter spilling into the night, city lights streaking past. When he parks outside your stoop, he turns to you, leaning in just enough to press a soft, lingering kiss to your lips, brushing your forehead with his hand.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he whispers, a promise in the night air, before stepping back and letting you climb your steps, heart racing and cheeks warm.
The next morning feels different.
You catch it the moment you step out of your apartment—lighter, brighter, like the world tilted just enough in your favor overnight. You’re practically bouncing as you head into work, replaying snippets of laughter, the wind in your hair, the warmth of Bucky’s hand in yours.
Even the elevator can’t touch your mood.
Valentina steps in halfway down, heels sharp against the floor, already talking before the doors close. She launches into a list of new tasks—follow-ups from the gala, donor reports, future planning that somehow needs to be done immediately.
You nod. “Sure. I’ll handle it.”
She blinks, just slightly, clearly expecting resistance. When none comes, she smirks and turns back to her phone. You hum the rest of the ride.
The sound follows you down the hall, soft and absentminded, as you swipe into your office. You flick on the light—
—and there it is.
Another rose.
This one sits in its usual place, perfectly centered. But this time, a small folded note is tied neatly around the stem with thin twine. You laugh out loud, a real laugh, warm and unguarded.
“Of course,” you murmur. You cross the room and carefully untie the note, fingers brushing the familiar red petals before unfolding the paper.
Hope today’s a good one.
—B
Your cheeks heat instantly.
You shake your head, smiling to yourself as you place the rose into the vase, adjusting the stems until it fits just right among the others. The bouquet looks full now, lush and intentional, like it’s always been meant to be there.
So do you. You step back, taking it in, basking in the quiet glow of it all, the date, the roses, the note, the knowledge that someone sees you. Appreciates you. Thinks about you when you’re not in the room.
Your phone buzzes a moment later.
Bucky: Still smiling?
You bite your lip, cheeks aching from it. You glance at the roses, then back to your screen, heart full in a way it hasn’t been in a long time.
Oh, my GOD! 😍 First, I appreciate the kind words so much, and it means the world that I've helped inspire you. 🥰
And second, the fic!!!
Where do I start?!
It means fixing messes before they become disasters and cleaning up the ones that already are...
You don’t mind. Most days.
As a "go-to" person on my team with no additional title or perks, I sometimes feel invisible, overworked, and tired.
A single red rose rests neatly at the center of your desk.
This would make my day!
It has to be a fluke. A delivery error. Someone mixing up offices. Maybe whoever it’s meant for hasn’t noticed yet. Maybe today you’ll get a knock on your door—sorry, wrong desk, can I grab that?
This would be me. 😂😭
Every so often, your eyes flick back to the roses.
They ground you. Each time your stress spikes, the sight of them eases it back down—just a fraction, but enough to matter. Enough to get through the next task. And the next.
The little things make a huge difference.
You look up. Bucky Barnes. He’s closer than you expect, taller than he looks from across a room, blue eyes soft rather than sharp. For a split second, your brain stalls.
WHOOP. There he is! 😍
Before he does, he looks at you again, expression gentler than you expect.
“Hey,” he says. “Don’t work too hard for us, yeah?”
I'll try not to, Sarge. 😭
“And don’t even get me started on John Walker,” you continue, booting up your computer. “Who needs three separate uniform fittings in one week? Who? And why is it always somehow urgent?”
Why can I see this happening? 😂
“Just in case,” you murmur. You turn off the light and leave, the desk waiting quietly in the dark—ready for tomorrow.
Hopeful and we love it.
“I’ve decided,” she continues smoothly, already walking, “that we’ll be hosting a gala for Valentine’s Day. Donors. Press. Allies.”
A gala. Your stomach drops.
“I want you to plan it,” Valentina finishes, glancing back at you like she’s just assigned you a coffee run.
This bitch...
“I don’t even know where to start,” you admit. “This is insane.”
Bucky studies you for a moment, then smiles—soft, steady, reassuring.
“You’ve got this,” he says. “I’ve seen how you work. You’ll do a great job.”
Encouragement goes a long way. 🥰
You turn. Bucky Barnes stands just inside your office. For a second, your brain refuses to process the sight of him.
Valid reaction.
He’s holding a single red rose.
YAAS!!! 😍
“I’ve been the one leaving the roses,” he continues, voice low but steady. “Every morning. Sneaking in early, before anyone else got there. I just… wanted to brighten your day. No pressure. No expectations.”
He's perfect. I said what I said.
“You deserve to be seen.”
The words land deep.
Sobbing over here. 😭
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says, smiling. “For our date.”
Giggling and kicking my feet.
And the date! The flowers, the arcade (love arcades), the claw machine (yes, also love those), and the kiss. Please. 🫠🫠🫠
Hope today’s a good one.
—B
...
Bucky: Still smiling?
You bite your lip, cheeks aching from it. You glance at the roses, then back to your screen, heart full in a way it hasn’t been in a long time.
Yes. You definitely are.
What a balm to my soul. This is so fluffy and soft and beautiful. You outdid yourself.
Now, if only we could all have a Bucky leaving us roses and making sure we don't work too hard. 🥰
Thank you so much! ❤️
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