Daryl figures out you're touch-starved. It ruins both of your lives.
Daryl Dixon figured out you were touch-starved entirely by accident.
Which honestly made it worse.
Because once Daryl noticed something—
Really noticed it—
He became impossible about it.
And unfortunately for both of you, Daryl noticing you practically melted under casual affection ruined the remainder of your lives permanently.
It started small.
Tiny things.
The prison had become strangely gentle lately.
Not safe exactly.
Never safe.
But calmer.
There were routines now.
Gardens growing in the yard.
Laundry lines swaying in the breeze.
People laughed sometimes.
You still startled when people touched you, though.
Not in fear.
Just surprise.
Like you weren’t used to it.
Daryl noticed because Daryl noticed everything about you.
The way you froze slightly anytime Carol squeezed your shoulder.
How your entire expression softened whenever Beth linked arms with you.
How you lingered embarrassingly long after hugs.
At first, he didn’t think much of it.
Then one evening Glenn threw an arm around your shoulders while telling some stupid story during dinner.
And you—
You leaned into it instinctively.
Tiny movement.
Barely noticeable.
But your whole body relaxed like someone finally loosened a wire pulled too tight.
Daryl stared.
Because the look on your face—
Jesus.
Like warmth physically surprised you.
Then Glenn let go after a second and you smiled like you were trying not to miss it already.
Something uncomfortable twisted in Daryl’s chest.
The realization hit fully a few days later.
You’d gotten hurt on a run.
Nothing major.
A twisted ankle and a few cuts after slipping down an embankment.
Still enough that Hershel ordered you off your feet for the day.
Daryl found you sitting alone in one of the prison cells that evening changing the bandage around your ankle.
You looked frustrated.
Mostly at yourself.
“Need help?” he asked from the doorway.
You startled slightly before relaxing.
“Oh. Hey.”
Daryl crouched beside you automatically.
Large rough hands reaching for the bandage.
You hesitated only a second before letting him help.
Silence settled comfortably.
Then—
When Daryl’s hand wrapped carefully around your ankle to steady it—
You went still.
Not tense.
Still.
Your breath caught softly.
Daryl glanced up immediately.
You looked embarrassed suddenly.
“…Sorry.”
His brow furrowed.
“For what?”
You shrugged awkwardly.
“Nothin’.”
But your face had softened in that same strange way again.
Like simple touch affected you too much.
Daryl stared at your ankle in his hands.
Then slowly:
“…When’s the last time somebody took care’a you?”
The question slipped out before he could stop it.
You blinked.
Then looked away.
Daryl’s stomach dropped immediately.
Because that silence?
That silence was answer enough.
“Oh,” he said quietly.
You laughed awkwardly.
“It’s not a big deal.”
The words sounded rehearsed.
Like you said them often.
Daryl hated that instantly.
He finished wrapping your ankle carefully.
Then without really thinking about it, his thumb brushed lightly over your skin once.
You visibly melted.
Not dramatically.
Just—
Your shoulders loosened.
Your eyes fluttered slightly.
Tiny reaction.
Huge impact.
Daryl’s brain short-circuited completely.
Because suddenly he understood.
You weren’t just shy.
You were touch-starved.
And apparently nobody had been taking proper care of you.
Something deeply possessive and furious rose inside his chest.
Not at you.
Never at you.
At the idea of someone going this long without softness.
Without affection.
Without being held.
Daryl swallowed hard.
“…That feels nice, huh?”
Your face immediately turned red.
You looked horrified at being noticed.
“I—”
Daryl’s expression softened instantly.
“Hey. Ain’t makin’ fun.”
You stared at him uncertainly.
Then quietly:
“Yeah.”
The honesty in that tiny word wrecked him.
After that, Daryl couldn’t stop noticing it.
And once he noticed it—
He started doing something about it.
Not consciously at first.
Instinctively.
Like his body made decisions before his brain caught up.
He’d hand you things and let his fingers linger slightly.
Stand close enough your shoulders brushed.
Rest his palm briefly against your back guiding you through doorways.
Every single time, you reacted.
Subtle.
But there.
A tiny breath.
A softened expression.
A quiet almost-startled look of relief.
And every single time, Daryl felt like he was losing his damn mind.
Because you looked at touch like it was something precious.
Like you weren’t used to being handled gently.
It made his chest ache.
The first hug happened because of a nightmare.
You woke the prison with a scream.
Daryl was moving before he fully woke up.
Knife in hand.
Heart pounding.
He found you sitting upright on your cot breathing hard, eyes glassy with panic.
No danger.
Just fear.
Daryl lowered the knife slowly.
“Hey.”
You looked up immediately.
Humiliation crossed your face.
“Sorry.”
Again with the apologizing.
Daryl hated that too.
“You ain’t gotta apologize for nightmares.”
You rubbed at your eyes quickly.
“M’fine.”
Bullshit.
Daryl stepped closer carefully.
Then stopped.
Because he wanted to touch you.
Badly.
Wanted to comfort you.
Wanted to ease that awful lonely look in your eyes.
“You want a hug?”
The question came out rough.
Awkward.
Like he physically wasn’t used to offering things like that.
You stared at him like he’d spoken another language.
“A what?”
Daryl shifted uncomfortably.
“A hug,” he repeated. “Jesus Christ.”
Your eyes widened slightly.
“You’d hug me?”
The sheer disbelief in your voice nearly fucking killed him.
Of course he would.
Jesus.
Daryl’s chest tightened painfully.
“…C’mere.”
You moved instantly.
Like your body decided before your brain could.
And the second Daryl wrapped his arms around you—
You collapsed against him.
A tiny broken sound escaped your throat as your hands clutched weakly at the back of his vest.
Daryl froze.
Because nobody had ever held onto him like that before.
Like he was safety.
Like he was home.
Your entire body relaxed by degrees in his arms.
Slowly.
Carefully.
Like you were afraid it might disappear.
Daryl tightened his hold immediately.
Protective instinct hitting him so hard it almost hurt.
“It’s okay,” he murmured awkwardly into your hair. “Gotcha.”
You trembled once against him.
Then whispered so quietly he almost missed it:
“Thank you.”
And that—
That absolutely ruined him.
After that, things escalated quickly.
Because now Daryl knew.
And now you knew he knew.
Which meant every bit of affection became charged with unbearable awareness.
Daryl started touching you constantly.
Not even on purpose anymore.
A hand at your waist.
Your knee pressed against his during dinner.
His arm slung around your shoulders during watch duty.
And every single time, you unconsciously leaned into him like a moth to a flame.
Daryl became addicted to it immediately.
The way your eyes softened when he touched you.
The sleepy little sighs you made.
How naturally you started seeking him out afterward.
It destroyed him.
Completely.
Carol noticed first.
“You’ve gotta stop looking at her like that.”
Daryl frowned.
“Like what?”
“Like she hung the moon and invented kindness.”
Daryl looked offended.
“Ain’t lookin’ at her like nothin’.”
Carol stared.
“You carried her juice box across the yard yesterday.”
“…She asked.”
“She was fifteen feet away.”
Daryl grunted and walked off.
Carol laughed herself breathless.
You were not doing much better.
Because Daryl Dixon touched like he meant it.
Careful.
Steady.
Protective.
Every casual touch from him felt devastatingly intimate because Daryl wasn’t casually affectionate with anybody else.
Only you.
And the worst part?
He always looked at you afterward.
Like he needed to make sure you were okay.
Like your comfort mattered to him more than breathing.
One evening in the common area, you ended up tucked against Daryl’s side beneath a blanket.
Halfway through the conversations, you realized his fingers were absentmindedly rubbing slow circles against your arm.
Your brain nearly shut down.
You tilted your head slightly to look at him.
Daryl noticed immediately.
“What?”
“…Nothing.”
His hand paused.
“You want me t’stop?”
Immediate panic hit you.
“No.”
Too fast.
Too desperate.
Heat flooded your face instantly.
Daryl stared at you.
Then very slowly resumed the gentle motion against your arm.
Something soft and wrecked crossed his face.
Like that answer affected him way too much.
Truthfully?
It did.
The breaking point came during a storm.
Heavy rain hammered against the prison roof while everyone crowded into the cafeteria overnight.
Space was limited.
Blankets everywhere.
People sleeping shoulder-to-shoulder.
You sat beside Daryl shivering slightly from the cold.
Without a word, he opened one arm toward you.
Invitation.
Your heart stumbled.
“Y’sure?” you whispered.
Daryl looked at you like the question offended him.
“Get over here.”
You curled against his side carefully.
Daryl immediately wrapped his arm around you fully.
Warm.
Solid.
Safe.
Then—
Without thinking—
You nuzzled slightly closer.
Tiny movement.
Instinctive.
Daryl stopped breathing.
Because holy shit.
You trusted him.
Trusted him enough to seek comfort from him naturally.
His hand tightened carefully against your shoulder.
And then quietly, rough like confession:
“Ain’t nobody been takin’ care’a you right.”
Your chest tightened painfully.
You looked down.
“No,” you admitted softly.
Daryl went still beside you.
Then after a long moment:
“Gonna change that.”
Your breath caught.
You looked up slowly.
Daryl was already staring at you.
Eyes dark.
Intense.
Terrifyingly honest.
“Don’t think I can stop now anyway,” he muttered.
And suddenly you realized something equally devastating.
Daryl wasn’t just comforting you because he pitied you.
Daryl liked touching you.
Needed it too.
Maybe almost as much as you did.
Your voice came out barely above a whisper.
“Daryl…”
His hand slid carefully up your back.
Slow.
Gentle.
“You got any idea what ya do to me?” he asked hoarsely.
No.
No, you really didn’t.
But judging by the way Daryl looked at you right now—
Like touching you had become something dangerous and necessary all at once—
You were starting to understand.
Then finally, slowly, Daryl pressed his forehead against yours.
Summary: You try to hide that you’re sick, but Daryl notices your fever and makes you rest. He acts gruff and annoyed at first, but stays by your side all night, changing the cloth on your forehead, bringing you water, and quietly worrying while pretending he isn’t.
You knew you were getting sick before anyone else did.
It started as a weird ache behind your eyes. Then came the chill that clung under your skin no matter how close you stood to the fire. By morning, your throat felt raw, your arms felt too heavy, and every little noise around camp seemed to hit your skull like a hammer.
Still, you got up.
There was always something to do. Water to carry. Clothes to wash. Food to sort through. People were already stretched thin enough, and you hated the thought of being one more thing for everybody to worry about.
So you tied your hair back, pulled on your boots, and pretended your hands weren’t shaking.
You made it almost an hour before Daryl noticed.
He was sitting near his bike, cleaning dirt from one of his bolts, when his eyes caught on you. You were stood by the water buckets, one hand pressed lightly against the side of your head like you could hold yourself together if you just applied enough pressure.
His gaze narrowed.
“You alright?”
You straightened too fast. The world tilted for half a second.
“Yeah,” you said, voice coming out rougher than you wanted. “I’m fine.”
Daryl didn’t move at first. He just looked at you in that quiet way he had, like he was reading all the things you were trying not to say.
“You don’t sound fine.”
You forced a small laugh and reached for one of the buckets. “That’s because you’re dramatic.”
“Mhm.”
You managed about three steps before your grip slipped. The bucket hit the ground with a heavy splash, water spilling into the dirt around your boots.
Daryl was up before you even had time to swear.
“Hey.” His voice sharpened as he crossed the space between you. “The hell are you doin’?”
“I dropped it,” you muttered, bending down.
He caught your arm before you could grab the handle.
You looked up at him, ready to argue, but his expression shifted the second his hand touched your skin.
His brows pulled together.
“You’re burnin’ up.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m just warm.”
“It’s freezing.”
You glanced away, annoyed because he was right and even more annoyed because he knew he was right.
Daryl let go of your arm, but he didn’t step back. “Go lie down.”
“I’m fine, Daryl.”
He scoffed under his breath. “Stop bein’ stubborn.”
“I’m not being stubborn. I’m helping.”
“You’re about to fall on your ass in the middle of camp.”
You rolled your eyes, but the movement made your head throb. You tried to hide the wince. Of course, he saw it.
His jaw tightened.
“That’s it,” he muttered.
Before you could ask what he meant, he grabbed the bucket with one hand and nudged you gently but firmly in the direction of the house.
“Daryl-”
“Walk.”
“I don’t need to be babysat.”
“Then quit actin’ like a damn child.”
You shot him a look over your shoulder. “You’re very comforting, you know that?”
“Good. Maybe you’ll listen.”
You wanted to argue again, mostly out of pride, but your body had started giving up on you. Every step felt heavier than the last, and by the time you reached the spare room, your legs were shaking badly enough that Daryl had to put a hand at your back.
Not pushing. Not rushing.
Just there.
You sat down on the edge of the bed with a sigh, trying to make it seem casual.
Daryl stood in front of you, arms crossed, looking deeply unimpressed.
“Boots off.”
You blinked at him. “Excuse me?”
“Boots. Off.”
“You’re bossy when you’re worried.”
“I ain’t worried.”
“Right.”
He looked away too quickly.
You smiled a little, though it faded when another shiver rolled through you.
Daryl noticed that too.
He crouched down without saying anything and tugged at the laces of your boots. You watched him quietly, your fever making everything feel soft around the edges. The room, the light through the window, his hair falling into his face as he worked.
He pulled one boot off, then the other, setting them neatly beside the bed like it mattered.
“You eat today?” he asked.
You hesitated.
His eyes lifted.
“That means no.”
“I wasn’t hungry.”
“Course you weren’t.”
He stood and grabbed the blanket from the chair, throwing it over you with less care than he clearly meant to. It landed half across your shoulder and half across your face.
You pulled it down with a weak laugh. “Trying to smother me?”
“Don’t tempt me.”
But his voice was softer now.
He disappeared for a few minutes, and you told yourself you were only going to rest your eyes until he came back.
Then you woke up to cool water touching your forehead.
You flinched slightly.
“Easy,” Daryl murmured.
The room was darker now. You didn’t know how long you’d been out, only that your clothes were sticking to your skin and your head felt like it was full of smoke.
Daryl sat beside the bed, one elbow on his knee, a damp cloth in his hand. There was a small bowl of water on the floor beside him, along with a cup and what looked like the sad remains of some soup Carol had probably forced into his hands.
“You’re still here?” you whispered.
He glanced at you. “Where else would I be?”
“I don’t know. Somewhere useful.”
His face tightened at that. “Ain’t useless.”
You looked at him for a moment.
He wouldn’t meet your eyes.
Daryl dipped the cloth back into the water, wrung it out, and placed it across your forehead again. His fingers brushed your temple, rough but careful.
You closed your eyes.
“That feels nice,” you admitted quietly.
“Fever’s high.”
“You been checking?”
“Had to. You were mumblin’.”
Your eyes opened. “What was I saying?”
“Bunch of nonsense.”
“That’s not an answer.”
He shrugged, but there was the smallest hint of amusement in his face. “Said somethin’ about Rick’s hat lookin’ stupid.”
You let out a breathy laugh, which turned into a cough.
Daryl leaned forward instantly, one hand hovering near your shoulder like he wanted to help but wasn’t sure how to do it without making a whole thing of it.
You waved him off once it passed. “I stand by that.”
“Yeah, well, don’t say it in front of Carl.”
You smiled faintly, but the tiredness was already pulling at you again.
Daryl noticed. He always noticed.
“Drink.”
You made a face.
“Don’t start.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Your face did.”
He helped you sit up enough to take the cup. You tried to hold it yourself, but your hands were unsteady, so he kept his fingers around it too, pretending he wasn’t basically helping you drink water like you were made of glass.
It should’ve embarrassed you.
It didn’t.
Not really.
Not with him.
When you were done, you sank back down into the pillow, exhausted from doing almost nothing.
Daryl adjusted the blanket around you. Again, not gently at first glance. But he tucked it close around your sides so the cold air couldn’t get in.
“You don’t have to stay,” you murmured.
He sat back in the chair, stretching one leg out. “Ain’t goin’ nowhere.”
“You’ll get sick.”
“Had worse.”
“That’s not comforting either.”
“Go to sleep.”
You turned your head slightly, watching him through half-open eyes. He looked tired. More tired than he’d ever admit. His shoulders were tense, his fingers tapping against his knee, his gaze flicking from your face to the cloth to the window and back again.
Pretending he wasn’t worried sick.
You knew better.
“Daryl?”
“What?”
“You’re being nice.”
He scoffed. “Fever’s makin’ you delusional.”
“No,” you whispered, smiling faintly. “You’re always nice. You just make it weird.”
He looked at you then, properly. For a second, all the gruffness slipped. His eyes softened in a way that made your chest ache more than the fever did.
“Yeah, well,” he muttered, looking down. “Somebody’s gotta keep you from dyin’ over a damn cold.”
You hummed. “So dramatic.”
“Sleep.”
This time, you listened.
You drifted in and out for the rest of the night. Sometimes you woke to the cloth being changed. Sometimes to Daryl shifting in the chair. Once, you woke to him standing by the window, crossbow in hand, checking the dark outside like your fever was something the whole world might try to take advantage of.
Each time, he came back.
Each time, the cloth was cool again.
At some point near dawn, when the sky had gone pale and the worst of the heat had finally started to break, you opened your eyes and found him sitting on the floor beside the bed, his back against the wall.
His head had tipped forward slightly, eyes closed, arms folded over his chest.
He’d fallen asleep sitting up.
You watched him for a while, too weak to move, too warm in a different way now.
“Daryl,” you whispered.
His eyes opened immediately.
He looked at you like he’d been awake the whole time.
“You okay?”
You nodded a little. “Think so.”
He leaned forward and pressed the back of his hand to your forehead. Then your cheek. His expression loosened by the smallest amount.
“Fever’s goin’ down.”
“Told you I was fine.”
He gave you a look. “Don’t push it.”
You smiled.
He reached for the cloth again, but you caught his wrist lightly before he could move away.
“Thank you.”
Daryl froze for half a second.
Then he shrugged, like he hadn’t spent the whole night beside you. Like he hadn’t checked on you every time your breathing changed. Like he hadn’t looked scared when he thought you weren’t awake enough to see it.
“Ain’t nothin’.”
Your fingers slipped from his wrist, but he didn’t move back right away.
His hand stayed near yours on the blanket.
Close enough that your pinky brushed his.
Neither of you said anything.
Then he cleared his throat and stood, grabbing the bowl of water like he suddenly had a very serious job to do.
“Gonna get you more water. Maybe somethin’ to eat.”
You settled back into the pillow, smiling to yourself.
one genre of fanfiction that seems to have mostly disappeared since i became an adult is shenanigans-type fics. like not exactly crack but just "the gang goes to 7-11" type, extremely low-stakes plot stories. the beach episodes of fanfiction. i just feel like i don't see those around so much anymore. whered they go. i miss them :(
a person from 150 years ago would be terrified by modern stuff . however , a duck from 150 years ago would just be all like ,still got lakes? yes ? okay cool
Reblogging again because I thought they changed the quote so I decided to look up the actual quote and it’s not fake that is very much the actual quote
one cool thing about having an autistic dad whose special interest is underwater spearfishing is that when he catches fish he'll just call up a nearby chinese restaurant like "hi. i caught a fish. can you cook it and i'll bring my family by?" and they're like "yeah sure come on over white boy" and the fish is delicious.
it's worth adding that my mom is chinese and she always gets embarrassed by this. like she doesn't want to come to the restaurant with us. she doesn't want to be seen with the white man she caught plus the fish that her white man caught. everyone who works at the restaurant thinks my dad is awesome and compliments him + her for choosing him and we all find this very fun except for her.
this is so late renaissance early mannerism. the controversial male nudity? the lighting and value on the figure of emphasis?? him bathed in light and placed ABOVE while the police are clad in dark and BELOW?? Uh HES HITTING THE CONTRAPPOSTO??
Imagine Grace defined his name as the elegance definition of grace and Rocky spends years thinking how fucking ironic this clumsy leaky space blobs name is.
Until Grace slips out a sentence along the lines of "could you give me a little grace here" and Rocky immediately points out he used a word wrong so Grace has to explain that yeah, grace means elegance but it can also mean mercy sometimes too.
And Rocky has to suddenly reconcile that the clumsy leaky blob that saved his life twice, that almost certainly doomed himself to come back for him, name is Mercy.
“Know I wanna beat it, wanna beat it bad
Oh, everyone looks happy in a photograph
I've crossed the county line, I cannot go back
I'm always on my own.”
-All Them Horses, Noah Kahan
summary: your family is in town for the annual ‘parents berating their kids for their decisions’ get together. jack overhears you talking about how much easier it would be if you had a boyfriend to shove in their face, and offers his services. No strings attached, of course.
wc: 15.7k (steak is too juicy lobster is too buttery)
tags/tropes: jack falls first and harder, reader is an eldest daughter (but not the eldest child) to a large judgmental family who are constantly disappointed in her, jack pretty much uses the fake dating as a chance to show reader what a good boyfriend he COULD be to her if she let herself have nice things, jack 'i'll pay for it' abbot, jack is YEARNING in this one, a teeny bit of mean dom jack as a treat
a/n: how are we all feeling about the latest noah kahan album. Doors is great. i do NOT repeat timestamp 2:14-2:21 of All Them Horses. i’m normal and can be trusted with noah kahan’s discography. fic has been crossposted on ao3 and is linked below :)
acknowledgements: thank you @wesandresons for the amazing gif and @saradika-graphics, @chrisssiren, and @uzmacchiato for the dividers! and thank you @leeknowpegger for your work in keeping up morale and being deranged with me
masterlist | ao3
“Your family’s in town?”
You’re at the nurses station, tucked into a corner with your head in your hands while Shen, of course, drinks what has to be his third Dunkin coffee of the day. Where he’s getting them is one of the world’s strangest unsolved mysteries.
You can’t see his face, on account of the heels of your hands being pressed into your eyes so hard stars are bursting and swirling behind your eyelids, but you can hear the grimace in his tone.
“Yeah. I moved out here to get away from them, but they decided to host the annual family dinner circuit here in Pittsburgh instead. My mom always complains about how it’s such a huge imposition to have the entire family fly out, but I never asked to do it and offered to just fly to them on multiple occasions. Apparently, my work schedule is too hard to work around.”
“Dinner circuit?”
You wave a hand. “It’s actually a lunch circuit now, since I work nights. Basically, for every single day that they’re here everybody has to attend a lunch, no matter what. Most of the time they’re at different restaurants, but sometimes my mom demands to have them at my place.”
“Yikes,” The attending says, sipping on the last bits of his coffee, “And the whole successful doctor thing doesn’t work on them? It got my parents off my back.”
You shake your head. “I’m the only doctor in the family, but they thought I should’ve been a hospitalist or go into general surgery.”
The sound of ice being shaken in a plastic cup rings in your ears. “There’s money in emergency medicine. Eventually.”
“There’s money in all medicine eventually,” You groan, lifting your head and leaning against the wall, blinking dazedly up at the flickering fluorescent lights. “I’m sure if I'd picked general surgery they would’ve found a problem with that too.”
“So your fucked, basically.”
Your eyes slip shut again. “Yep. Anything short of showing up with a rich boyfriend and a promise of grandkids on the way won’t get my mom off my back.”
Shen clasps you on the shoulder. “Best of luck with that. You’re the only intern the night shift has got, so we’d rather you don’t off yourself via poisoned wine.”
“I wouldn’t do poison. I’d choke on bread so they’d have to live with the guilt of not being able to save me.”
“Jesus fuck, man. I mean, clearly, they suck, but that’s brutal.”
You shrug. “Not as brutal as my mom not coming to my med school graduation.”
He gapes. “What reason could she have possibly had for not showing up?”
“I told her at dinner the night before that I was going into emergency medicine.”
“That’s…” Shen trails off, flabbergasted, “…Wow. Now I'm worried you’re going to kill one of them.”
“Way too much effort. They aren’t worth the jail time.”
The attending tosses his now empty coffee in a nearby trash can. “Well, if you snap and kill them all in a fit of extremely valid rage, please don’t call me. I can’t afford to be implicated.”
“You saying I can’t hide a body myself?”
“I’m saying I can’t hide a body.”
“Who’s hiding bodies?” Jack says, sidling up to the two of you with a tablet and a chart open in his hand.
Shen jams a thumb in your direction. “She’s killing her parents later today.”
You roll your eyes. “I’m not. Honestly, so long as I agree with whatever my mom says and don’t bring up any trigger topics, I’ll be fine.”
Jack snorts. “You’re describing being held hostage by someone mentally unstable.”
“Dr. Intern?” Ellis interrupts, using the stupid nickname Santos picked for you when she found out you’re the only PGY1 on the night shift, “There’s a woman in the lobby here to see you. Says she’s your mom.”
Your stomach drops to your feet and your heart seizes in your chest. “It’s six in the morning. Oh my god. Oh my god.”
Someone behind you says “Holy shit,” but you’re already gone. As you’re speed walking you whip out your phone, checking the dates of their flights that you’d only had a chance to skim and— fuck. They got in an hour ago. Why the fuck would she stop here? At the PTMC?
You practically slam the doors open and make eye contact with your mom across the crowded lobby.
“Mom?”
“There you are sweetie. I was trying to explain that there’s nothing wrong with me and I was here to see you, but they wouldn’t let me. Something about a security issue?”
“It’s not safe. We’ve had incidents in the past—“
She waves a hand, dismissing you. “I’m your mother. Honestly, I wouldn’t have had to come down here if you’d just respond to my texts.”
“I’ve told you mom, I’m really busy here and I don’t get very much time to look at my phone—“
“Your brothers take the time out of their busy schedules to text me back,” She sighs, then continues on, “Did you get time off this week for dinner?”
You frown. “I thought we were having lunch.”
“Well, I figured since we’re all making it easier for your work schedule to come to you, you could manage to take a few days off for your family. But if we need to make an extra effort—“
“It’s fine, mom,” You tell her with a gritted-toothed smile, “I can make something work. Can you just send me the dates again?”
“It’s this Friday and Saturday.”
Before you can even open your mouth to respond, a large, warm hand settles on your shoulder. Accompanied by the hand is a steadying one on your lower back, a familiar, rich scent and a low voice.
“Can I help you, ma’am?”
Jack.
Jack fucking Abbot.
Hottest man in the ED. Probably in the world.
Your mom blinks, clearly caught off guard, before regaining her judgy senses and narrowing her eyes at him.
“I’m trying to have a conversation with my daughter. Don’t tell me you’re security.”
You know for a fact that Jack has his stethoscope around his neck and his keycard in his scrub pocket that says ‘DOCTOR’ on it, so your mom’s just being bitchy. Figures.
Jack’s hand in your shoulder gives you a tiny, reassuring squeeze before he speaks.
“I’m Dr. Abbot,” He sticks out a hand for her to shake, the one that was on your shoulder, “I’m an attending here at the ED.”
And my boss, you mentally add. Your mom probably hears it anyway.
“You work with my daughter?”
“Yes ma’am. She’s the most promising intern we have here on the night shift.”
Your lips twitch at his words. He’s joking. Testing your mother— you’re the only PGY1 on the night shift. If your mom remembers that, she’ll pick up on his joke.
She doesn’t. She purses her lips for a moment before giving him one of her big, fake smiles.
“Well that’s good to hear. We’re very proud of her.”
Proud of the money I send home, maybe.
“If you’ll excuse us, I need her working on patients.”
“Oh yes, of course,” Your mom gushes, clearly already charmed by Jack. He has that effect on people. “I didn’t realize she was so important and busy here.“
You would if you’d ever let me talk about work before interrupting me and telling me what I should be doing better.
Jack’s thumb makes tiny sweeping motions on your lower back, little tingling motions that distract you enough to unclench your jaw and relax your shoulders.
“I’ll text you as soon as I can, okay mom?”
Your mom sweeps you into a hug, a rare show of affection. Putting on a show for Jack, more than likely.
“No rush. Whenever you get the chance, sweetheart.”
Jack gives her a parting nod, but you wait until your mom’s turned around and walking out of the lobby before allowing Jack to steer you back inside.
The second the doors close behind you and you’re enveloped in the sounds and smells of the heart of the PTMC, you shut your eyes and release a long exhale.
“I,” You start, “Am so sorry. I never thought she’d show up here, I got the flight times mixed up—“
“Hey,” Jack’s voice is low and steady, a much needed anchor. He uses the hand still on your lower back to turn you towards him, “None of that was your fault. We deal with patients like that every day. It is not your job to keep your mother in line.”
“I know. I know. Still, I’m sorry. She can be… difficult.”
He snorts. “Understatement of the year. But seriously. Don’t worry about it. If I didn’t want to get involved with her, I wouldn’t have swooped in there.”
You huff a laugh. “My hero. I’m pretty sure if you’d introduced yourself as my boyfriend she would’ve had an aneurysm. Or a heart attack.”
“Are those desired outcomes?”
“Mostly.”
He slides his hands into his pockets and leans against the opposite wall. “Might be worth a shot, then.”
It’s a very well kept secret that you’ve harbored an embarrassing, ‘think about him while you’re falling asleep at night’ crush on Jack.
So naturally, your response is to laugh. Loudly. And semi-awkwardly. Because he has to be joking. Obviously.
“Yeah, right,” You say, looking down at your feet because eye-contact has never been your forte and Jack’s gaze is too intense, “Could even take you to dinner with me. Maybe my dad would have a heart attack too. Really just wipe out the whole family.”
“You could.”
“Wipe out my entire family?”
“Take me to dinner with you.”
Jack’s body is relaxed and his tone is even. Not light and humor-filled. There’s no mischievous uptick to the corner of his lips. He looks like he’s serious.
“Are you joking?”
He can’t really be serious. He’s probably just fucking with you. He wouldn’t actually—
“No.”
You run a hand over your hair. “Yeah, sure, laugh it up, haha—“
“I’ll go to dinner with you. As your boyfriend.”
What. The. Fuck.
“No.” You gape, incredulous.
“No?” He raises an eyebrow.
“No, I mean— fuck. Dr. Abbot—“
“Jack.”
You purse your lips. “Jack. You can’t just… pretend to be my boyfriend at a family lunch.”
“Why not?”
“Why not?” You sputter, “For one, we hardly know each other—“
“You’ve been working here for three months. We’re hardly strangers.”
“You’re my boss, your way older than me, you’re—“ You cut yourself off before you can say something embarrassing like ‘you’re ridiculously fucking hot and I haven’t washed my socks in months’, “It wouldn’t even be believable. How would we even have met?”
“In the ED, obviously.”
“How long have we been together?”
“Month and a half.”
“Why are we even dating?”
“Because you’re a beautiful and intelligent woman, not to mention a good doctor.”
Your mouth goes dry, and your stomach does an entire gymnastics routine.
“Have you… thought about this?”
He makes a noncommittal hum, tilts his head back a bit. “Would it work?”
“Are you rich?”
There’s that devilish, pants dropping smile.
“I’m a senior attending on night shifts in an emergency department. I’m comfortable.”
You worry your lip between your teeth. “I still can’t… I appreciate the offer, but I can’t subject you to my family. No one else should have to suffer through these lunches and dinners.”
“But you do?”
“They’re my family.”
Jack doesn’t respond, but he doesn’t move off the wall and walk away either. Distantly, you really hope a patient isn’t coding somewhere.
You sigh. “Why would you even offer, anyway?”
“You need help, and I’m in a position to give it. Plus life has been kind of boring recently. My therapist told me to pick a new hobby that doesn’t involve people dying or getting shot at.”
“So you thought spending an evening being subjected to backhanded questions, comments, and not very subtle micro-aggressions was a good substitute?”
“Beats drinking beer in the park.”
You can’t say yes. It’s crazy. One, it would make your crush a million times worse and you might never recover on that fact alone, and two, when this inevitably blows up in your face, your family will never let you live it down and bring it up in literally every conversation for the rest of your life.
On the other hand, if it works, it will work. Your mom would probably get off your back for a while. You wouldn’t be a complete and total disappointment. If it works, it would be a much needed win.
“So. We’ve been dating for a month and a half?”
Jack nods, another smile playing at his lips. “I asked you out, of course.”
“Flowers?”
“Naturally.”
“You pay?”
“For every meal.”
“What’s my favorite color?”
“Navy blue. Mine?”
You roll your eyes. “Black. What are we going to tell my mom when she pokes at the age gap?”
Someone rushes by, pager beeping, and you both wordlessly start moseying towards your respective patients.
“Will she really be that upset about it?”
“Probably not, but she’ll definitely ask about it. My dad will probably be angry, but he’s easier to placate than my mom is.”
Jack hums thoughtfully. “When’s the lunch today?”
“Twelve-thirty, at that Italian place that has that mussel dish.”
“How about this,” He starts, apparently not needing anymore clarification on the location, “Lets focus on finishing our shifts right now. Then go home, get some sleep, and I’ll pick you up at eleven so you can pick my brain for every detail that you want to make this work. Deal?”
Last chance to back out. Say hell no, this is a crazy idea, why would you even volunteer for it, I changed my mind.
“Deal.”
—
Holy fucking shit. Jack Abbot is your boyfriend.
Fake boyfriend. But for the next few hours, he’s as good as yours. Kind of.
In a way.
You’re standing in front of your bathroom mirror, dressed in the outfit you picked out for the stupid lunch when your mom texted you the plane ticket details a month ago.
Neither your makeup nor your hair are cooperating and you really need them to because you have to be perfect, so you need your mascara and stop clumping and your hair to stop laying like that and you just don’t want to fucking go.
Before frustration induced tears can ruin your half-done makeup, a knock sounds at the door.
You rush through your apartment, nearly cracking your skull open on the corner of the couch when you trip over a stray shoe.
Shit, he’s here and you’re not ready, god he’s going to be so upset you have to make him wait it’s so rude—
“Hi!” You swing open the door and plaster what you hope is a cute-frazzled smile and not a panicked one. It’s a thin line between the two, “I’m almost ready, I’m so sorry, you can come in and sit down wherever, I promise I won’t take too long to finish up. Sorry.”
You turn, unable to bear the anger or frustration on his face and dart away (an old method— hiding and disappearing is much better for everyone in the long run) but a hand encircles your wrist before you can successfully escape.
“Woah, easy girl. Nobody’s mad at you. We have time, remember?”
Your smile is definitely coming across as panicked.
Your nails wander and find a hangnail to pick at while you talk. “I know, but that was so we’d have time to plan and it’s rude to make you wait and I really need time to plan, but I can’t get my makeup to look right—“
Jack nudges you into the house and you cut yourself off with another apology. Right. Cause he’s just standing in the hallway and you’re rambling on like someone deranged. God. Why can’t your brain just work? Get into gear? Actually function properly?
“First of all,” Jack starts, gently steering you towards your couch, “You look beautiful.”
Why does he have to say these things? Has he no care for what he’s doing to your heart? Is he unaware that Simone Biles would be impressed with the flip routine your stomach is currently doing?
He places a throw pillow in your hands which were previously clenched in your lap. It’s your favorite throw pillow, actually, because the texture is very soothing. You squeeze it and rub your fingers across the grain.
“Secondly, we don’t have to do this if you don’t want to. I can go home and go to bed and if you want, I’ll never bring it up again. Not even to Robby.”
You crack a wobbly smile. “Not even to Nurse Evans?”
“She’d probably guess on her own, but I would never confirm her suspicions.”
You tuck your feet under your legs, shrinking into the corner of your couch. “I couldn’t even if I wanted to. I already texted my mom to add a person to the reservation, and if I show up without a plus one there’ll be hell to pay.”
“You could swap me with someone else?”
“Do you think I would have agreed to let my boss be my fake boyfriend if I had someone else to bring?”
“Touché.”
The corner thread of your throw pillow has begun unraveling, and your wandering fingers pull and tug at it erratically.
“I’m sorry. I’m not usually this neurotic, I swear. My family brings out the worst in me.”
“I ain’t judging, sweetheart,” Jack soothes, “Besides. We’re ER doctors. We’re all a little neurotic.”
Steadfastly avoiding his gaze (again, just a little too knowing, like he can see every insecurity you’re trying to hide) you stand on shaky legs and rush to the bathroom.
“I’ll just. Finish up. Sorry again.”
“I’m gonna start a tally of unnecessary sorry’s. You’re gonna owe me an hour of overtime for each one.”
Oddly enough, getting ready (the rest of the way) feels much more manageable and much less difficult with Jack nearby. He doesn’t critique how long it takes you, the fact that you change earrings three times, or tell you that you look good enough and should just go.
He just hangs out in your living room, on the couch, practically oozing calm and nonchalance. The foolish, romance-starved part of you wants to cancel on your mom and spend the rest of the day curled up next to him on the couch, like a cat. Lazily dozing while Jack watches TV or something sounds like a much better way to spend your time after work than experiencing all five stages of grief over the course of one lunch. Repeatedly.
Finally ready, and with your sanity intact thanks to Jack, you pause by the kitchen and debate the merits of taking a shot to loosen your nerves. Unfortunately, your mom would undoubtedly somehow smell the alcohol on you and no doubt chew you out for a minimum of twenty minutes. Heaven forbid you make the event bearable.
Ever the kind host, you peek your head around the kitchen wall. “Do you want a shot, Jack?”
“You’re aware that I’m fifty?”
Right. That's probably an unhinged question.
“Just thought I’d offer,” You say, meekly tucking the bottle back under the shelf, slightly embarrassed, “Sometimes alcohol is the only way I can survive these things.”
He’s leaned up against the couch, hands in his pockets when you exit the kitchen. “It was very considerate, thank you. But I think the days of vodka and tequila shots are behind me. I’m more of a whiskey man, anyways.”
“I’ll keep that in mind when we end up at a bar afterwards to drink away memories of the lunch.”
Jack raises an eyebrow. “You act like we’re going to be hung, drawn, and quartered after showing up.”
You worry your bottom lip between your teeth. “Sorry. I just don’t want you to be unprepared, because they’re not always bad but when they’re bad they’re bad, you know? And I just don’t want to scare you off, and ruin the day you could be spending sleeping, and I really am thankful, by the way, I just don’t—“
“Do you always ramble when you’re worried?” Jack interrupts, tilting his head to the side.
“Um. No? I don’t know. I try not to. But like I said. My family brings out the worst in me.”
He searches your face for a moment, then taps the underside of your chin with a crooked finger, raising it slightly.
“We got this, okay? I’m not easy to scare. Combat med vet, remember? Plus, if it really gets that bad, I’ll fake a call from the hospital. Say there was some horrible accident and we’re being called in.”
“Won’t my mom get wise when she never hears it on the news?”
Jack shrugs. “It’s the city. Something horrible is always happening here.”
He holds the front door open for you when you’ve got your shoes on and purse ready, but as you’re sliding past him, he leans down, the angle of his jaw almost brushing the side of your neck, and breathes in deeply.
“You smell good.”
Fuck the gymnastics routine. Your stomach is going for Olympic Gold.
“Oh,” You exhale, a shiver running up your spine and a pleasant tingling sparking where your skin barely brushed his, “Uh— Thanks. Vanilla and spice. I like layering scents.”
“It’s nice. Suits you.”
You manage to squeak out another awkward “Thanks” before hastily locking the door, hoping he can’t tell just how flustered he keeps making you. Judging by the smile playing at his lips, your hopes are in vain.
The car ride to the restaurant is longer than it should be, on account of Pittsburgh traffic, but the time goes by quickly as you pepper Jack with questions to prepare for the million and one that your mother will no doubt ask.
(“What should I say if she asks if we’ve slept together?”
“Do you really, honestly, truly think your mother is going to bring up the topic of sex at the table, in a nice restaurant, with your entire family present?”
“Fair point.”)
By the time you arrive, you’ve picked and torn every single hangnail and loose cuticle around your fingers down to raw flesh and tiny dots of blood. Jack parks the car (parallel parks easily in one go, no repositioning needed, in downtown Pittsburgh. It’s one of the hottest things you’ve ever seen in your life) a good distance away from the restaurant, so that your family wouldn’t be able to see you if you decided to flee to his car to escape them.
At least, that’s what he says.
“I want you to hang onto the car keys, okay? If they get too much, you can sneak out through the kitchen and go to the car. I’ll meet you there.”
You can’t help but smile at his efforts. “And what will you be doing while I’m sneaking out?”
“Singing your praises, of course.”
Exhaustion from the shift you worked in what seems like a lifetime ago lines your limbs, but as you step out of the car (through the door Jack insists on opening for you “In case they’re still watching,”) and loop your arm through Jack’s, you feel… almost capable.
The lunch is going to suck. That’s a given. But Jack assured you he’s seen worse (“Probably done worse, sweetheart,”) and will not leave the lunch in a fit of rage and cause a scene. His arm is firm and solid —and fucking huge, how are his biceps that big— under your arm, and his presence is steadying.
As you cross the street and begin your final walk towards the building, he un-loops his arm from yours, but after you make a questioning noise in your throat, worried you’d be completely untethered (how pathetic to already be this reliant on a man, but there’s no time to unpack that now) but instead he wraps his arm around your waist instead, drawing you to his side and effectively grounding you to his body.
The entire left side of your body lights up at the contact, and if this were your apartment, it would be very difficult to refrain from climbing him like a tree or doing something equally embarrassing, like plastering yourself to his side and begging him to never stop touching you.
You’ve almost managed to come off unaffected, but then he leans down, lips almost brushing your ear, and whispers:
“You’ve got this, baby. And if you don’t, I do.”
Forget your family. Jack Abbot is going to be the death of you.
When you walk into the restaurant, hyper-aware of Jack’s grip on your body (your delusional mind has you thinking how… possessive the hand almost feels, if you ignore the fact that this is all fake) your family is waiting in the foyer, talking amongst themselves.
Your mother immediately zeroes in on you. “Honey, we’ve talked about you being on time to these things. You can’t be late to important family—“
You watch in real time as your mother’s gaze finally flicks to Jack, and the shades of recognition, shock, almost disgust, and confusion before settling back into forced pleasantness.
Your father, however, looks downright murderous. Looks like the age gap isn’t going down too well.
If Jack is at all nervous or put off by the several stares and outright glares from your family, he does not show it. He exudes cool confidence, the same unflappable energy he has during chaotic night shifts. The same calm that makes him so alluring to you in the first place.
He sticks out his hand for your mother to shake, a mirror of earlier that day in the PTMC lobby.
“I believe we’ve met before, but I’ll introduce myself again. I’m Dr. Jack Abbot.”
Your mother shakes his hand, but looks between the two of you like you’ve just spilled wine on her Persian rug that she can’t afford in the first place.
“You’re my daughter’s plus one?”
Jack nods. “Her boyfriend, yes.”
Your brother’s gape. Your dad’s glare intensifies. You want to kiss Jack.
“Honey,” Your mother says, gaze darting to you, “You didn’t say—“
“I didn’t want you to meet him at the hospital,” You tell her, hoping the lie doesn’t come across as too rehearsed, since you did rehearse it several times with Jack in the car on the way over, “The lobby of the hospital isn’t the best place to introduce people. And we really did have patients to get back to.”
Your mother purses her lips. “Why the last minute addition? If you’d told me that he was coming before today, it would’ve been easier to make the reservation.”
Jack is quicker to respond than you. “That’s my fault, actually. I didn’t think I was going to be able to come, what with my shifts as a senior attending, but when we met in the lobby I understood how important it was to make the time.”
You have to try hard not to smile at Jack’s not-so-subtle flex. Senior attending.
“Yes, well. My daughter doesn’t always stress the importance of these things.”
Jack’s grip on your waist tightens ever-so-slightly at the backhanded remark, and your mother’s gaze darts to the point of contact. But your father jerks his head towards the tables before she can say anything. “I’m starving.”
Everyone files in behind him, with you and Jack at the back of the line. Again, he leans down to whisper to you.
“How’d I do?”
You elbow him in the side. “We’ll discuss your performance after this is over.”
“Looking forward to it.”
The hostess leads everyone over to a large table near a window (your mother is particularly about seating) and everyone finds a seat. One of your brothers, either as a test or just to be a shit (your money’s on the latter) slides into the open seat next to you before Jack can.
To his credit, Jack doesn’t cause a scene, but he doesn’t back down either. He just stares at your idiot brother for awhile before finally asking:
“Do you really wanna do this right now?”
Your brother must sense that Jack Abbot is not a man to be fucked with (just a man you want to fuck), and scurries to his own seat, tail between his legs.
Once everyone is seated and the food is ordered (you don’t bother ordering anything other than the salad; Jack orders the most expensive thing on their menu. He’s never seemed like one to care for finery and expensive Italian restaurants where you practically have to order in Italian, but again, his unfazed demeanor makes him fit in anywhere) your family immediately begins peppering him with questions. Questions you knew they’d ask and appropriately prepared him for.
“So. Dr. Abbot—”
“Just Jack is fine.”
“—How long have the two of you been dating?”
“A month and a half.”
“Why’d you start dating?”
You take a generous gulp of your wine.
“Because your daughter is an incredible woman and an even better doctor.”
“Do you think she’s pretty?” One of your brothers chimes in.
Jack takes it in stride, despite that not being a question you prepared. “I’d have to be blind and stupid if I didn’t.”
You feel hot from the tips of your ears down to your toes.
That’s going in the mental folder.
“Have you always wanted to be a doctor?”
“Pretty much. Took a bit of a detour as a combat medic first, though.”
“Why’d you leave?”
“Honorably discharged after I lost my right leg. Below the knee amputation.”
You drain the rest of your glass and inconspicuously motion to the waiter for more wine.
The table is silent for the customary length of time after someone drops the “got a limb chopped off” bomb. Your family is clearly mildly uncomfortable, but Jack just keeps sipping his drink, his free hand drifting down and brushing the side of your thigh.
Your dad clears his throat. Here we go. Home stretch. Final questions before we’re in the clear.
“Mr. Abbot—“
“Either Doctor or Jack works.”
Ooo. There was some bite in that one.
Your Dad frowns. He does not like to be interrupted or corrected. You’ve been on the receiving end of far too many hour long lectures (read: berating and borderline verbal abuse) to know better.
But Jack isn’t his daughter. Jack is pretty much his equal. Actually, the fact that Jack not only served but is now a doctor places him above your father, by social conventions.
This no doubt infuriates your father. He’s always hated it when he couldn’t tear somebody down to his level. A true coward.
“Jack,” Your dad continues, a trademarked forced smile to save face, “You’re a smart man, yeah? Haven’t you ever considered the age difference between the two of you might be a little much?”
Yikes. Questioning Jack’s competency is not the way to go. Jack is very competent. And smart. And capable. It’s really hot.
Your fake-boyfriend just reaches over and grasps your hand, over the table, and looks at you with such devotion in his eyes that you forget how to breathe.
“War doesn’t really lend to longevity. I’ve learned to hold on tight to things I care about.”
For a moment, it doesn’t feel fake. There’s raw, punched emotion in his voice, and his thumb rubs your hand gently. Like he really does care that much. Like he wants to hold on.
But then your brother fake-gags and your fake boyfriend looks away with that, he’s passed the tests, and the conversation moves onto to different topics. Jack laughs at all the right moments, doesn’t bring up any argument-starting topics, doesn’t rise to bait when it’s thrown his way.
He’s perfect.
Eventually lunch is drawn to a polite close. You have one last glass of wine while Jack settles the bill. Himself. With one card. He doesn’t even look.
Your mom sends a smirk your way after he waves off your father’s attempt at splitting the bill or offering to pay. It’s probably the third time she’s actually looked at you for the entire duration of the lunch, but since it’s positive, you’ll let it slide.
Pretty soon bags are grabbed, hands are shook, and Jack’s hand magically finds its way back to your lower back and you’re being (very gently) escorted out of the restaurant and to the car.
“Wow,” You breathe as you slide into the passenger seat of his car. “I think that’s the smoothest a lunch with my family has ever gone in my entire life. You’re really good at this.”
Jack doesn’t respond though. Doesn’t make any kind of noise that he heard you. His hands are nearly white knuckled on the steering wheel and he’s staring straight ahead.
“Jack?”
“They didn’t even talk to you.”
You blink.
“What?”
“Your family never tried to include you in the conversation. Didn’t even ask you any questions.”
You snort. “Trust me, it’s better that way.”
He hasn’t started the car yet, just keeps staring off into the middle ground. He can’t be old enough to start doing a thousand yard stare already, right?
“You ordered a salad.” He says, a very prominent frown on his lips.
“So? It wasn’t too expensive, was it? I swear, if I knew you were gonna pay for the whole bill I would’ve looked at something cheaper, I don’t know why salads are so expensive—“
“Please don’t apologize for ordering a salad,” Jack says, voice pained, “Especially because I know you hate salads.”
Oh.
“How do you know that?”
“I overheard you talking to Dr. King that time you two were discussing the merits of Olive Garden. You said the salad there was the only kind you like, because of the dressing and the pepperoncinis.”
Your cheeks heat. “I never said I hated all salads. I said I like that one in particular.”
“You hardly ate anything during lunch.”
“My family tends to have that effect on my appetite.”
Jack does not look placated. He doesn’t take the out that your little joke provides. Doesn't so much as huff. He looks upset. Distressed.
Something about what he said goes ding! in your mind.
“…Mel and I had that conversation like, last month. You seriously remembered that?”
He frowns harder, like the answer to your partly rhetorical question should be obvious.
(It’s not. Why would he remember that conversation? Why would he care at all?)
“Of course I remember.”
There isn’t much to say after that. You’re not really sure what in particular has upset Jack, what possibly blunder or error you’ve made to incur him going completely monosyllabic and frowny. Ever eager to appease, you refrain from any attempts to cajole him, make conversation, breathe too loudly, or make any kind of indication that you’re still present.
The tension in the car is thick and uncomfortable. It prickles at your skin and the hairs on the back of your neck, but the only thing you dare to do is scroll through Pinterest, only looking at the safest, basic boards in case Jack glances over (he doesn’t.)
But then he does glance over. He just doesn’t look at your phone.
Jack just keeps looking at you.
He’ll look over, eyes darting over your face like he’s looking for something, and then he’ll look away. Over and over for almost the entire course of the drive. He only stops when you accidentally time your staring (monitoring) of him wrong and make eye contact.
He parks by your place (he once again sexily parallel parks with ease) and then puts the car in park. And then he starts talking.
“You’re so much more than them.”
Jack has the heat on, but the air in the car suddenly feels cold.
“What?”
“Your family,” Jack clarifies, like that was the confusing part “Your parents. I hated watching you… disappear like that. You deserve better than that. You are better than that.”
You try to swallow, almost choking on the sudden lump in your throat.
“Listen,” You start, unaware of how to even begin processing what he said, let alone formulating the best response because your brain is just flashing abort! Abort! Abort! in big neon letters,, “Thank you for today. I really appreciate it. But if this is all just too much, I can handle things from here. Really. I can say that someone called out and you had to cover shifts—“
“No.”
Jack says it with such vehemence, bordering on vitriol, that it startles you, and you flinch backwards ever so slightly.
An old habit.
Something flashes across his face —gone before you can decipher it— and he noticeably forces himself calmer.
“I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I let you go alone again. Ever.”
Your brain starts short-circuiting at his words. “I really can’t ask you to—“
“It’s a good thing you’re not asking me then.”
“Jack—“
“Please.”
You’re stunned silent at the rawness in his tone— the pain.
He said please. He said it like he was begging. He is begging.
“I don’t know how you do it,” He continues, jaw working, “I can see it on you, plain as day. How you hate what they do, how it makes you hurt. But you keep going.”
You shrug uselessly. “Is there another option?”
Jack reaches out for you, then falters, like he thought better. A tiny part of you wishes he’d followed through; bridged the yawning gap between the two of you that’s made up of the center console in his car, a couple decades, and your own unwillingness to try at vulnerability.
“I’ll walk you to your door.”
The walk to your door is a stark contrast to the walk to the restaurant. There’s no mischief on his face now, only a mask of stony distress.
At the doorway to your apartment building, you pause. It seems customary. Appropriate. Necessary.
Really, you just want to look at Jack some more. Try to puzzle out why the lunch that felt like it went so well made him so upset. Where you’re getting signals wrong and crossing wires. Why success to you is failure to him.
(As an ED resident, you’ve seen child abuse cases. You’ve seen foster care children littered with cigarette burns and criss-crossing scars of broken bottles and the corners of coffee tables and haunted eyes.
You know your family isn’t great. But there aren’t any cigarette burns or glass scars or eyes that track fast movement.)
You have this burning inclination to apologize to Jack. Logically, you know you haven’t done something wrong, but you feel like you have because he’s upset so maybe you can make it better?
“You have that look on your face.”
You frown. “What look?”
“The ‘I’m gonna apologize for something stupid’ look.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
“You were thinking about it,” Jack ducks down, catches your eyes, “Hey, listen to me. You cannot fix what I am upset about. It is not your job. My mood is not your responsibility.”
“It’s freaky when you do that.”
“Do what?”
“You always know what I’m thinking.”
Jack just huffs; shoves his hands in his pockets.
Emboldened by his reassurance, you ask: “Why are you upset?”
“Because your family treats you like shit, and I want to fix it, but I can’t.”
“Oh.”
It’s not that bad. It can’t be that bad. You’ve seen bad. This isn’t it. It’s hard, but it’s not bad.
He stays quiet, seemingly sensing the inner turmoil his words have sparked. That, or he really is that good at reading you.
Jack nods towards your door. “We can talk later. Get some sleep. We both have shifts tonight.”
Right. Yeah. All of these events roughly occurred over the course of six hours. Time makes sense.
Despite the fact that you are exhausted and desperately need to sleep if you have any chance of surviving your –quickly approaching– shift, you linger.
“How am I supposed to repay you for all of this?”
The question that’s been burning a hole in your pocket since he said I’ll do it.
He just shakes his head. Like it’s simple. Easy. “This isn’t something I want repayment for. Now go. You’re no good to me as a zombie.”
“I’ll just have some of Shen’s Dunkin.”
“He doesn’t share that shit. Besides, he’s off tomorrow.”
“Maybe I‘ll—“
“Sleep,” He points at your door, “Now.”
You smile at his insistence. He’s sort of like cold coffee with sugar. Seems all bitter but then you get a bit of that sweet crunch, so it balances out. He balances out.
Sometimes it feels like he balances you out.
“Goodnight.”
He gives you a little smile of his own.
“Goodnight.”
—
Jack Abbot does not take his own advice. Mostly because he knows if he doesn’t talk about what happened during that lunch from hell, he’s going to do something that will end in him being thrown in prison and having his medical license revoked. More importantly, if that happens, he won’t be around to take care of you.
So instead he collapses on his couch, works his prosthetic off to give his stump a needed break, and dials the number at the top of his favorites in his contact list.
“This really isn’t a good time—“
“Robby,” Jack starts, “They didn’t even fucking talk to her.”
“Jesus, okay. Whitaker! Cover for me a sec, will you? I gotta deal with this.”
“They just…” Jack continues, genuinely at a loss for words. His vocabulary feels woefully unequipped to relay the depth of anger he feels about the events of the lunch, “…Ignored her. They talked over her, didn’t ask her questions, hardly ever let her finish speaking when she did finally get a chance to speak, and threw jabs at her constantly. It was fucking awful.“
The background noise quiets over the phone, and Jack knows Robby’s moved to either the break room or an empty patient room.
“She fight back at all?”
“No. Just… grinned and beared it. It was fuckin’ unsettling, man. I’ve seen her yell back at rude patients, watched her stand her ground to EMT’s who think they know better. It was like she hollowed herself out to sit at that table.”
“Christ.”
“She flinched away from me. Afterwards, in the car, when I raised my voice on accident.”
“Fuck. Do you think—“
“I don’t know. Maybe when she was younger. They don’t live in state, so if they are, she’s safe.”
Jack scrubs a hand down his face. “God. I don’t know what to do, Robby. It doesn’t seem like she’s got… anybody. She didn’t even understand why I was upset. She doesn’t get why that would be upsetting.”
“She’s friends with Mel and Santos, right?”
“And Whitaker by extension, yeah. But those are recent friends. I’ve never heard her mention anybody from back home. No boyfriend or best friend or anything. She’s just been doing everything on her own.”
Jack can picture Robby nodding. “We’ve done our fair share of that.”
“Yeah, and look where that got us. I can’t just leave her here. Fuck, it was like watching someone kick a puppy, over and over.”
“That bad?”
“Yeah.”
The line goes silent for a bit, both men stewing on the subject at hand.
“She’s always had these habits. I thought they were just personality quirks, you know. I mean, we’re all fucked up, but watching it happen…”
“It’s different.”
“You could say that,” Jack sighs, “She soaks up praise like a fucking sponge. She looks surprised every time I do something nice for her. And she keeps trying to make me happy.”
“You lost me on that last one.”
“It doesn’t… She’s not doing it to make me happy, exactly. She just does everything she can to keep me from getting mad.”
“Is there a difference?”
“There is. Eager to please versus eager to appease.”
“Are you sure you want to get involved?”
“Bit late for that.”
“You could pull back.”
“Fuck no, I can’t. Then I’d be kicking the puppy.”
“She is a grown woman.”
“Who happens to look like a kicked puppy.”
He scrubs a hand down his face, groaning into the microphone.
“You finally realize how ridiculous you sound?”
Jack grunts. “I’m not giving you the satisfaction of answering that.”
The line crackles with the staticky sound of Robby chuckling. “That’s an answer in it of itself, and you know that.”
He lets the line go quiet again, briefly debating just hanging up.
“I don’t know, Robby. It’s just…”
“Worse than you expected?”
“Yeah.”
“Come on. You knew that was a possibility. Has it put you off, at all?”
“Fuck no.”
“Exactly. Now please, go to bed so I can get back to saving lives? Whitaker is covering for me and he’s only gone through two pairs of scrubs so far today. I’m not a betting man, but if I were, I’d bet money that he’s moved onto his third during this conversation.”
“I save lives too.”
“You won’t save any if you fall asleep on the drive over and die.”
“I would never fall asleep behind the wheel.”
“That’s what they all say.”
Jack really does hang up after that, plugging his phone in and rushing through everything he needs to do before bed.
But even as exhaustion pulls his body down into deep, dreamless sleep, he can’t stop thinking about that hollow look on your face. And he knows, even half-asleep, that he won’t be able to let it go.
—
The next night at work is weird, because nothing has changed, except now you know what the inside of Jack’s car looks like and how his voice sounded when he begged you to let him help.
It’s jarring, to say the least. Unsteadying and mildly world-rocking if you’re being honest.
But gossip travels fast within the walls of the PTMC, so by the time night shift is halfway over, you’re convinced you’ve heard every variation in existence of the same two questions:
“Did you and Jack go on a date yesterday?”
And:
“What’s Jack like on a date?”
The answer to the first question is complicated and embarrassing, so you don’t answer it or any of it’s variants. The answer to the second question is not complicated but it does, however, stir some very complicated feelings, so you refrain from answering that one too. You just try to refrain from thinking about or seeing him in general.
You’re not avoiding Jack, per se. Just keeping busy. With other stuff. That’s conveniently nowhere near him.
Ellis keeps shooting you entirely too knowing looks, Mckay, who’s pulling a double, pats your shoulder and tells you she’s there if you want to talk, Shen is absent as Jack said he would be, and Jack himself is acting like nothing happened and everything is normal and he’s never been to your apartment smelled your perfume.
(“…I like layering scents.”
“It’s nice. Suits you.”)
It’s all too much.
Hence the avoiding.
You try to curb your own ridiculousness for the sake of your patients, but it’s oddly difficult. You’ve always been amazing at compartmentalizing. If your family gave you any kind of skill, it’s the ability to shove your feelings in a box, and then shove that box in a corner of your mind you won’t access consciously until you end up on public transportation with your headphones. You should be more than capable of gathering up all the loose feelings labeled ‘For: Jack Abbot’ and tucking them all nice and neat in that little box and then shove it in a dark mental corner.
But you can’t. And along with the flurry of Jack Abbot causing a hurricane in your head, there’s a lesser storm that is the result of your family. More specifically, how they look to Jack.
All roads lead back to Rome. Or, in your case, to Jack.
You catch yourself during every spare moment or menial task that doesn’t require 100% of your brain power analyzing every interaction he had with them. Everything they said, everything they did, and how Jack would’ve taken it. And why. Because clearly, the act of dealing with them isn’t the problem. The ease and finesse in which he did so crosses that off the list. So it’s something else.
It’s how they treat you.
You understand, logically, that it would be upsetting, from his point of view. If you were in his place, you’d also probably be upset too.
But this feels different. Jack’s reaction is different. Jack is different.
It’s just never really been something that anyone should be upset over. Your family are who they are. Not great, but not truly bad either. You deal with them sparingly. You don’t even live in the same state anymore. It’s not a big deal.
“Why are you hiding from me in a supply closet?”
You whirl around, a box of gloves clutched in your hands.
“I’m not hiding from you.”
Jack crosses his arms and leans against the doorway. “This is the third time you’ve been here in two hours.”
“So? I just want to be… on top of things. I’m a productive person.”
“You are,” He amends, “But all of your productivity tonight has been pretty strictly nowhere near me. Funny how that works.”
You sigh, placing the gloves back on the rack. “Things are just… weird, okay? I don’t know how you’re being so normal about all this?”
Your fingers wander and find a loose piece of skin on the edge of your cuticle, and you begin absent-mindedly picking at it.
You can’t exactly disagree with him, right here, in the supply closet at the hospital. But you can’t quite bring yourself to agree either– because whether he acknowledges it or not, things have changed. Seeing him outside the hospital, perfectly placating your family into one of the most peaceful get-togethers you’ve had in years isn't just nothing.
It’s everything. And you, for one, can’t just pretend that it didn’t happen.
“Hey,” He calls your name softly, “What’s on your mind? What’s bugging you?”
“Nothing.”
He snorts, pushing off the doorframe and shutting the door behind him, so it’s just the two of you alone. “Liar.”
He doesn’t probe any further, just leans against the now closed door with his hands in his pockets, eyes flitting over you like they’re looking for an answer. An answer you’re too hesitant to give.
“I’m just worried.”
“You? Worried? No.”
You cut him a glare, “There’s a very real chance that this could all go horribly awry, you know.”
“Sure,” Jack dips his head, “But that’s not what you’re really worried about.”
“And how do you know that?”
“Because that doesn’t address the fact that you’re avoiding me.”
You sigh, scrubbing a hand across your face.
“Why do you care?”
The question that’s been nagging at you since the beginning. The little itch in the back of your mind that you just can’t seem to get rid of. The puzzle you can’t figure out; the tune you can’t place.
You’re a logic driven person. You like knowing how things works– why they work. Why things do the things they do.
You like having the why. Having the why makes the world make sense.
Nothing about Jack Abbot makes sense.
“Why do I care about what?”
“This,” You gesture vaguely to the air, “Me. I don’t buy that you just didn’t have anything better to do or whatever it was you said. People don’t just… do that. You’re really ruining your life for an entire week for what? So I'm a little less uncomfortable? Me? At the end of the day, we’re just coworkers. I know how important your down time is for you, so I just don’t get why you’re so okay with being miserable just for my sake. I’m not that important. These stupid lunches aren’t that important.”
It’s a stupid confession. Much too vulnerable for a supply closet and a man you’re harboring feelings for.
He doesn’t respond right away. Hums, stares at his shoes for a bit. Re-adjusts so his prosthetic isn’t taking so much weight.
“You are important. You’re important to me, to this hospital, to your patients. And for the record, I am not ‘ruining my week.’ If it was that easy for my week to be ruined, I never would have become a doctor, let alone joined the military.”
“But why?”
“Jesus, you watched a lot of the science channel growing up, didn’t you?”
You snort. “Guilty as charged.”
Now it’s his turn to sigh.
“You… seem to have this misguided belief that caring is reciprocal in nature.”
You frown. “It is.”
“It isn’t. At least it shouldn’t be, but I don’t think anyone ever told you that.”
You scoff. “So this is about my family.”
He shrugs. “Amongst other things.”
“They’re not that bad.”
“They are.”
“Other people have it worse.”
“It’s not a competition.”
You resist the urge to throw your hands in the air. “Why is this such a big deal to you?”
“Because it’s a big deal to you.”
The air gets quiet and tense. Like the supply closet and all the medical supplies in it are holding their breath. If they were alive, if they were holding their breath, you’re convinced they’d all be looking at you.
It’s Jack who speaks first though.
“I can see it. You do everything yourself, get back up even when it’s hard. You look out for other people more than you look out for yourself. You’re selfless and kind and I don’t think very many people give that back to you.”
A reflexive smile pulls at your lips, a habit you never quite managed to kick after years of people telling you ‘smile, look grateful, stop looking so upset, there’s nothing to cry about.’ It feels awkward and clunky on your mouth but you don’t know what else to do. There’s no pre-written protocol for something like this.
“I still don’t really get it.” You murmur, more to yourself than to Jack.
Jack sends you a light grin. “We’ll work on it.”
“We will?”
“Sure,” He shrugs, “Already started anyways.”
“If you’re sure.”
“I’m sure,” He opens the door, “Now get back out there. And bring the gloves too.”
You roll your eyes but comply, snagging the box off the shelf where you’d left it and following him out.
The rest of your shift passes much smoother than before, even with the routine influx of patients as the time inches closer to morning. Jack doesn’t hover, but doesn’t pull the disappearing act that you (totally fairly) pulled on him either. He truly seems unfazed. Like it really, actually doesn’t bother him.
Well. Correction. It does bother him, but not because it’s something he’s doing for you, the part that bothers him (apparently) is how all of this affects you. All this caring makes you feel like a deer in the headlights.
You recall something he said that night. Something that had made you shiver– something that hit the nail right on the head.
“Hey, listen to me. You cannot fix what I am upset about. It is not your job. My mood is not your responsibility.”
He always seems to know exactly what to say to you. How to act, what to do, what specific worry you’re feeling and the best course of action to soothe it. It’s great but it’s also difficult, because there’s a part of you that wants to let him keep doing it, but then there’s the part of you that bristles every time and wants to snap that you’re completely capable of doing things yourself.
That probably wouldn’t even work. He’d just say something infuriating and sexy, like “I know, but I want to do this for you.”
He would. He totally would.
The thought is equal parts haunting and reassuring.
(And maybe, also, a little, kind of really sweet?)
–
The next two lunches go great. Jack is still freakishly incredible at charming your family. And, with his help, you actually manage to hold a (mostly) civil conversation with your parents for the first time in… years.
The lunches are fine, but the part you’ve started looking forward to is the before and after. Before, Jack comes to pick you up, and sometimes he comes early and helps prepare (which mostly involves him either talking you off the ledge, pouring a shot or two, or assuring you that your makeup and outfit look great. Not fine, great) or just to hang out. The hanging out part is nice, because he never comes with any sort of expectation. He’ll sit on your couch and scroll through his phone and entertain all the inane chatter you like to get out of your system beforehand but never had an outlet for before.
The after is even more fun. You run through the highlights of the night and hate on all the annoying things your family said to you. This usually also involves stopping somewhere for food (only for you, Jack’s never hungry because he eats t=at the restaurants but you’re never allowed to order anything that isn’t a salad) and then the two fo you fight over who pays. You always insist since you’re the only one actually eating any of the food, but then Jack usually takes your card, puts it in his pocket, and uses his own.
It’s as frustrating as it is hot.
But for the most part, the lunches and your shifts at work have actually been pretty good– as good as night shifts in a trauma center can be, anyway. Jack’s presence is… steadying, even when he’s not physically there. He’s always present in some way– whether it’s little reminders he leaves at your favorite spot for charting (he only uses blue sticky notes) or a real lunch left for you in the breakroom fridge (you weren’t previously aware he actually knew how to cook, or that he knew how picky you are when it comes to what you’ll actually eat for lunch and how often you get too busy to properly make something.) Sometimes he’s there in your head; in little things he’s told or taught you that you remember in the moment.
It’s nice. To have someone be around. Someone you can relax with, joke with– someone who hasn’t looked down on you for the the way you turned out.
You were pretty ready to declare smooth sailing ahead, but then on the third lunch your mother shows up and is decidedly not in a good mood and the seas turn choppy and the boat smashes into the rocks below.
At least, two peach bellinis in, that’s what it feels like.
“Honestly,” Your mother puffs, “I don’t understand why making some simple appetizers could take so long. This is why I hate going to restaurants during lunch hours, the staff just gets so lazy. The menu is always better at dinner anyways.”
You ignore the thinly veiled dig and instead choose to quietly drain the rest of your third peach bellini. They taste like juice and take a much needed edge (or two) of the evening. Lunch. What-fucking-ever.
Jack, ever aware of the best way to survive these functions (somehow) whilst keeping his sanity, remains silent as your mom huffs and puffs, seeming to understand that trying to placate her when she gets in these moods is a fruitless endeavor that only leads to your mom getting more upset and everyone else more annoyed.
You, made slightly optimistic by the wonderful powers of alcohol, attempt to put her in a better mood.
“I have the next three days off, mom. We’ll be able to do dinners instead.”
Your mother, however, only scoffs. “That’s no good to anyone now. We’ve already spent half this week dealing with poor restaurant service. I mean, no respectable job would have such a ridiculous schedule."
“I’m a doctor, mom. It doesn’t get more respectable than that.”
Jack nudges your leg with his, either a silent laugh, show of support, or quiet question of your sanity. Maybe all three.
Another bellini appears in front of you, this one heavier on the alcohol than the last. Your server is getting a giant tip when this is all over.
“You work in the emergency department, dear. That’s hardly stable, and stable is respectable,” Jack clears his throat, and your mother at least has the manners to look mildly sheepish, “No offense, Jack.”
He smiles thinly. “None taken.”
Conversation from there is stilted at best with even your brothers tip-toeing around your mother. No one wants to be the subject of a nitpicking lecture, even when the version she gives them is a slap on the wrist compared to what you endure.
So you keep drinking your bellini’s and they keep coming. After your fourth, you think you should maybe slow down a little, but then your dad starts grilling Jack about his life (again) and you decide that alcohol is, in fact, necessary.
“Have you ever been in a serious relationship before, Jack?”
That one almost makes you ask the server for a shot of vodka, straight. That’s a question you ask a nineteen year-old pimple-faced boy, not a fucking fifty year old man.
“I have, yes. But, like most things in life, they were learning experiences. I’ve moved on.”
Your dad snorts, then gestures to you. “You could teach her a thing or two about moving on.”
Your blood runs cold.
Jack sets his glass down. “And what do you mean by that?”
It’s your mother who answers. Because one vulture circling your soon-to-be carcass wasn’t enough.
“I’m surprised she hasn’t told you. It was all she ever talked about for years. She’s had exactly one boyfriend before you– what was his name honey?”
“Christopher,” You answer hollowly, stomach churning.
Your dad snaps his fingers. “That’s it. It took ages for her to get her first boyfriend. We were fairly convinced it would never happen, but then one day she came home with Christopher. Whole family wanted to throw a party– finally found someone to put up with all that attitude!”
Your family laughs, but Jack doesn’t.
“Where’s the funny part, in all this?”
Your mother clears her throat, just a tad awkward. “When she broke up with him it was awful. She refused to leave her room for works, cried all the time. Honestly, I would have understood if he had broken up with her, but it was all her decision.”
Your dad nods in agreement. “We had to have a sit-down conversation with her about decisions and consequences before she finally stopped crying and hiding in her room. Christopher was such a nice boy, we hated to see him go.”
Jack opens his mouth, poised to fire something back and defend you, but you beat him to the punch.
“He cheated on me with my best friend.”
At that, your mother frowns. “That’s not what Christopher said. You were in your teen angst era, remember? Always picking fights? He told your brother that you were so distant with him he didn’t know you were still together.”
“I wasn’t distant, I was really busy. I was studying for the MCAT. He knew that. He knew how important medical school was to me.”
Your brother rolls his eyes. “Med school was all you talked about. It’s not like you were putting out.”
Your mother snaps her fingers once. “That is inappropriate talk for public. You know better.”
“Come on, mom. It’s true. Everyone knows–”
“Sorry to interrupt,” Jack says, not at all sounding sorry, “But the hospital just texted. There’s an emergency, and we’re needed, so we have to go.”
Jack does not wait for your mother or father to excuse him. He just stands, offering you his hand. It turns out that you need it, because there is, apparently, such a thing as too many peach bellinis. Your mom sends you a pointed glare as you stumble once, after which you make a concerted effort to look more sober.
Neither you nor Jack bother saying proper goodbyes. Once he grabs your jacket and purse (and your vision stops swimming so much and you’re sure you can walk in a convincing approximation of a straight line) you’re both gone. You pass your server on the way out, who is slipped a very generous cash tip for the excellent bellini service.
By the time you get to the car, you realize that you’re about to have to save patient lives and you are very, extremely, drunk. There is no way you are capable of doing any life-saving at the moment.
“Jack,” You mumble, fumbling with your seatbelt, “I think I’m too drunk to go in. Did they say how serious the emergency was? Can I just get a banana bag?”
“There is no emergency,” He says calmly, batting your hands away and buckling you in properly, “I made it up. I figured you’d be okay with ducking out of there.”
“Oh. That was nice of you.”
He clicks you in and gives you a wry grin. “Told you I would handle things.”
You nod, the movement exaggerated and lopsided. “I hate it when they bring up Christpher. They always take his side. Like, is there ever a situation where it’s okay to cheat on a girl with her best friend? I was studying for the MCAT. I didn’t even wallow or break up with him when I found out. I waited until after I took the exam so I didn’t fuck up my score.”
“That’s my girl.”
“Christopher was an asshole. He was a real dickhead. The whole situation sucked. I lost the only two people who I thought cared about me at the same time. My family acted like I was the fucking anti-christ for being upset about it, too. It was fucking terrible. I’m so glad I don’t live with them anymore. I mean, I still love them, and I care about them, cause they’re my family, but everything is just so much easier when they’re not around.”
“You’re allowed to hate them, you know.”
“I know,” You say, fiddling with a hangnail. “I know I probably should.”
You sigh, tilting your head back against the headrest. “I always keep holding out hope, you know? That one day they’ll apologize, figure their shit out, care about me in a way that matters. I know it’s stupid.”
“It’s not stupid.”
You frown. “It’s not? It kinda seems stupid. You’d think by now I would know better.”
“No,” Jack eases the car out of the parking space, “We’re biologically wired to love our families. It’s the reason why they can fuck you up so bad. Your brain can’t compute why the people who are supposed to love you above all else just… don’t. Not in any of the right ways.”
You blow air through your lips. “I think my parents fucked me up. I was so happy when I matched into the Pitt, because it was so far away. But then I got out here it just kind of hit me, all at once, that I was alone. My best friend was gone, my ex boyfriend sucked, and I was too busy in med school taking care of myself and my family to make any friends.”
Shit, that sounds so whiny. “But it turns out it wasn’t so bad. Now I've got Mell, and Santos, and I’m pretty sure I’m friends with Shen too. Mckay is nice too. I like her. She’s cool.”
Jack huffs something that could be a laugh, and you turn to study him; the angles of his face awash in the glow of the red light you’re currently stopped at. From here, you can see the tiny bits of tension he carries in his face— a slight pinch in his brow, the tiniest downturn of his lips. It’s the only evidence that he’s not as unaffected by your family as he pretends to be.
Then the light turns green, and his face isn’t illuminated the same.
“And what about me?”
Oh. Well. That’s a loaded question.
The alcohol emboldens you to answer honestly. “I don’t know what to think about you.”
“Oh really?”
“Mmm. Nope.”
“How come?”
"You're so–” You gesture vaguely, “Confusing. I can’t figure you out. For a while there, I was pretty sure you hated me, but then you offered to help me with this and you keep saying you care so I think I’m wrong.”
“You think you’re wrong?”
“Still can’t figure you out.”
“And how can I show you that I mean it?”
That’s. Hmm.
“I don’t know. I think what you’re doing is working,” You pause, debating the pros and cons of continuing to just say whatever the fuck you want before deciding you’re too tired to care, “It helps that you’re really hot.”
His lips twitch. “Oh, does it now?”
“Mhm. You’ve got this whole… capable thing about you. It’s hot. Competency is in.”
“If you say so.”
“I do say so. I feel like if I had a problem I could call you or something and you would fix it. You’re so…”
“Competent?”
“That’s the word.”
If he’s at all irritated, annoyed, or otherwise put off by your stupid rambling, he didn’t show it.
“You should call me whenever you have a problem. Chances are, I can fix it.”
“Are you like Bob the Builder?”
“I’m a doctor, so no.”
“You’re kind of like Bob the Builder.”
“Whatever you say,” He pauses at an empty intersection before continuing on, “Before I start heading towards your place, do you want to stop by mine? You didn’t even get to eat your salad, and I have leftovers. You can say no.”
“Are you gonna be mad at me if I say no?”
“No.”
‘Then yes.”
“You sure? I wasn’t lying.”
“I know. But I like your cooking.”
You spend the drive to Jack’s continuing to ramble about nothing and everything, to which he entertains with a seemingly endless amount of patience. The only time he interrupts is to hand you a bottle of Gatorade he procured from his back seat. Apparently, he bought a few to keep in his car after the first lunch. “For any alcohol excursions.”
It’s freaky how prepared he is for every situation.
When you arrive, he unbuckles your seatbelt for you (unbuckling is just as difficult as buckling when you’ve had an unknown amount of peach bellinis) and helps you up the stairs to his apartment.
His gigantic apartment.
“Woah,” You mumble as you shuffle through the doorway, pulled along by your hand in Jacks, “I didn’t know they made apartments this size.”
“Its not that big.”
“I think, like, four of my apartments could fit in here. Your living room is the size of my entire place.”
You stumble once, heel catching on the little rug on the entry way, and he’s immediately motioning for you to sit on the little bench by the door and pats his thigh once. You clumsily raise your leg, barely managing to land your foot on the general area he gestures to. He pulls the first shoe off, then repeats with the second with an air of total calm. Like this is normal and he does this all the time for you. Like you regularly find yourself drunk in his apartment.
You decide to unpack the moment when you’re sober.
“One, it’s not that big, and two, that’s what you get for renting a studio apartment.”
“Like you could afford better when you were an intern.”
He snorts, leading you to his couch and gesturing for you to sit. “If you want to change clothes you can borrow some of mine.”
You chew on your lip. The outfits you choose to look nice for your mother are never exactly comfortable, and when else are you going to get the chance to privately live the scenario you fantasize about several times a week before falling asleep?
“Only if you don’t mind.”
“I wouldn't have offered if I wasn’t. Stay there.”
Jack’s only gone for a few minutes before he reappears with a dark grey sweatshirt and a pair of sweatpants in a slightly lighter shade. The sweatshirt is oversized and looks well worn, but the sweatpants are suspiciously new, close to your size, and look eerily similar to a pair you changed into after a shift a few weeks ago.
He hands them to you. Neither of you mention the sweatpants. “You can change in the bathroom. Door locks from the inside. I’m gonna change too, and then I’ll heat up the food.”
Jack shows you the bathroom (you don’t bother unpacking why exactly he felt the need to tell you that the door locks and from the inside, that’s for when you’re significantly more drunk than you are now and when you’re not in his fancy-ass apartment.)
Because he’s a man and men take approximately three seconds to change, he’s already in the kitchen setting stuff on the counter by the time you emerge from the bathroom. His countertops are solid granite, because the apartment is clearly expensive and he’s a man. They’re an inky black color with tiny flecks that sparkle when the light hits them just so.
“What are you doing?” Jack asks when he turns from the fridge to find you tilting your head this way and that.
“Looking at the sparkles.”
“Oookay. Do you want me to heat up the vodka pasta or the chicken?”
“You made vodka pasta?”
He shrugs. “You said you liked it.”
You slide into a seat at the kitchen island, a flush creeping up your neck. “The pasta, please.”
Suddenly exhausted now that you’re in soft, comfortable clothes that smell like Jack, you decide to just rest your head on your arms for a bit. And close your eyes. But you’re not going to fall asleep. You’re not.
“Don’t fall asleep. You need to eat something first.”
“M’ not fallin’ asleep.”
“Mhm. Sure.”
With great effort, you blink your eyes open and watch Jack while he heats up the pasta and prepares something else. A salad maybe?
“What’re’you’ making?”
“Just a little salad. In case the pasta is too heavy for you.”
“Oh. How come?”
“Because I don’t want you to throw up.”
“I promise I won’t throw up on your furniture. I don’t usually throw up when I’m hungover.”
“You drink often?”
“No,” Your head lulls to the side, “I’m too busy. I’m actually not-so-secretly very boring. I don’t really like partying. I much prefer staying at home.”
“Thought you went to that thing with King and Santos?”
“Yeah, but that was ‘cause Trinity really wanted me to come and I felt bad and I didn’t want her to think I was a boring, uptight bitch.”
“I see.”
“Yeah. I kinda had fun, though. I wished you were there.”
“Really?”
“Yeah,” You sigh, probably a hint too dreamily, “Makes me feel better when you’re around.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
He slides a little bowl with a light salad in it to you across the counter, and it's perfectly refreshing. Not at all heavy like the pasta ends up being.
“Sorry I couldn’t finish it,” You say, forcing down a yawn and resisting the urge to burrow into your arms and go to sleep right there, “I feel bad that you went through the trouble of making it and heating it up.”
“It wasn’t that much effort. Besides, now you can just eat it for lunch tomorrow instead. I’ll send it home with you.”
“Mhm.” You hum, slowly inching your arms forward and down onto the counter, your head quickly following suit.
Jack chuckles, and you can hear the light step of his feet as he rounds the corner of the island and nudges you in the arm.
“Come on, sweetheart. You wanna get home to bed, don’t you?”
“No,” You shake your head, “I wanna sleep right here. It’s comfortable.”
“It won’t be when you wake up.”
You whine, curling away from him.
He just puffs another little laugh. “You can either sleep in your bed, or my bed. You can’t sleep on the kitchen island.”
“Why not?” You finally lift your head, “And why is your bed an option?”
“One,” He lifts up one finger in front of your face and slowly drags it back and forth, “Because the kitchen island is not a bed. Two, I’m not letting you sleep on the couch.”
“Why? Is your couch uncomfortable?”
“No,” He says, shuffling back over to where the leftovers are and tucking all the food away in the proper places, “It’s just not right to make a woman sleep on the couch.”
“I like sleeping on couches.”
He shoots you a look over his shoulder, “I’m sure you do. But you’re still a little drunk, and my bed is closer to the bathroom than the couch is.”
You prop your head on your hand. “Who said I’m even staying here tonight?”
Jack closes the fridge. “Do you want to? Because I don’t care either way. We both have tomorrow off.”
“It’d be weird to wake up here.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re my boss.”
“And I’m faking being your boyfriend so your parents get off your back. Pretty sure we’re past coworkers.”
“What would we even do in the morning?”
“Sleep.”
“I don’t want to kick you out of your bed. I’ll sleep on the couch.”
“You’re my guest–”
“You’re already doing so much for me,” You blurt, stomach clenching, “I– You know me. I can only handle so much. Let me do this one thing? Please?”
Jack glowers for a bit, then sighs.
“Only because you asked nicely and I believe in rewarding good behavior. And because I know my couch isn’t uncomfortable. I’ll help you make it up.”
Jack’s apartment is surprisingly tidy for the fact that a man lives in it (Christopher’s room at his parent’s house always looked like shit) and he pulls down a couple options for bedding. You go with the plain black sheet and its matching thick, fluffy comforter. He insists on making up the couch himself (despite the fact that the alcohol has mostly worn off by now) and even sets up a glass of water, a liquid IV packet, and a bucket– “Just in case those bellini’s don’t love you back.”
The sight of it all is almost too much. It’s just so much care. All of it. The fact that he’s helping out with you and your disaster of a family, the way that despite the horribleness of it all he hasn’t judged you at all for how you deal with them. He refuses to let you drive yourself, always pays for every lunch for your entire family and the little snacks you get afterwards. Listens to you rant and he makes you food and gets you blankets and–
“You okay there?”
“Mhm,” You hum, “Just thinkin’.”
He leaves you be for a moment, busies himself with fixing your pillows and and tugging the comforter into its proper place.
Before you can talk yourself out of it, you turn, throwing your arms around Jack’s middle and burying your face in his chest.
“Thank you,” You say, voice muffled by the fabric, “For doing all of this. Thank you for looking out for me.”
Jack is still for a second, just long enough for you to second guess initiating physical contact –a line you were previously too scared to cross– but then his hands come up and it's so, immediately, remarkably over. Because you’re never ever going to draw that line again. You can never go back to your life without having this. Without having him.
Jack’s hands are big and deliciously warm as they slide up, around your waist, lingering to rub a few circles on the mid of your back before moving on. One arm stays, tightening around your waist and drawing you closer while his other glides further up, up, up, his callused palms sliding over the knob at the very base of your neck before his hand settles around your nape, fingers just barely brushing the edge of your hairline.
You barely manage to suppress a whine at how warm and incredible it feels to be fully enveloped by him. You never want him to let go. Goosebumps erupt everywhere he touches, little sparks of electricity lingering under your skin in his wake.
“I will always,” He presses the lightest of kisses to your temple, just a feathering of his lips, “Look out for you, baby. I’m always gonna be right here.”
His arms tighten around you, drawing you in— closer, closer, closer. Wrapped up in everything that is Jack you can’t help but sag, going completely boneless in his grip and allowing yourself to just bask in him.
“You smell good.” You mumble into his shirt, completely lost in the moment.
“Do I?”
“Yeah. Good. Like man.”
He chuckles, the sound vibrating pleasantly against your cheek. “Thank you sweetheart.”
“Why do you call me sweetheart?”
“Because you’re a sweetheart.”
“I am?”
“Don’t play dumb now,” He pulls back a little, just enough to get a good look at you, fingers curling in the fine hair at your nape and tugging down, angling your chin up so you’re forced to look at him, “You know you are.”
You shrug, eyes darting to the side, your cheeks flushing, “I don’t know. I was just making sure.”
“Mhm.” He hums, tone almost mocking, fingers tightening around your hair just before the precipice of pain.
You stay like that for a few moments of charged silence. Jack’s eyes shamelessly rove over the planes of your face, mapping it out in his mind. He keeps his grip on your hair, not completely forcing eye contact but keeping your head firmly in place.
It’s possessive. Bold. Probably too intimate for two people who (supposedly) are not actually dating
And you love it.
Jack only lets his hand (and your head) drop when your jaw opens in a splitting yawn.
“Okay,” He huffs, taking a step back, “Time for bed. Get going.”
Embarrassment is the only thing keeping you from whining at the loss of contact and impending reality of sleeping on the couch alone. But you made your bed (figuratively) so now you have to lie in it.
The couch does look comfortable. Especially since Jack put all the blankets together.
He waits until you’ve crawled under the comforter to bid you goodnight, followed by a parting reminder to “Wake him up if you start aspirating on vomit.” It’s a very Jack thing to say.
You’re out almost the second Jack turns the lights off. You fall into deep, blissful sleep, dreaming of that final moment in the living room, your eyes boring into each other.
Except in the dream, you tilt your head up those last few inches, and kiss your fake boyfriend as hard as you can.
–
Generally, the annual lecture event ends with a massive blow out argument. Something dramatic and filled with expletives, after which your mother will refuse to answer any texts or calls you send before finally telling you that’s she’s sorry if (always if) something she said offended you, but talking to you is just so hard sometimes so she doesn’t want to unless you’re ready to be more civil. By the time the two of you are on neutral terms again, it’s time for the next annual lunch circuit.
You’re a mess of nerves in the hours before the last one. Like usual, your mom requested that the last dinner be held at your place. “So it can feel like a real family dinner.” While you know that there isn’t any saying no to your mother, you also know that there is no way you’re cramming your entire family in your tiny ass studio apartment. It happened once. It will not happen again.
You originally asked Jack during a last minute shift you both got called in to cover if he would help you move some of the furniture at your place to accommodate them, and then he’d gotten this incredulous look on his face and then told you to tell your mom that you’re having dinner at his place.
“Jack,” You’d gaped at him, “It’s fine. My apartment isn’t that small, and you don’t have to help move the furniture if you don’t want to. I can ask Dennis to give me a hand instead. I really don’t think you want to host my family.”
“Sweetheart, it’s just logic. You’ve seen my place.”
“Okay. No need to rub it in.”
He’d just rolled his eyes and pinned you with a firm look. “Come on. You know this is the best option. If your mom throws a fit, tell her I insisted and give her my number.”
“Do you have a death wish?” You hiss, “That’s asking for torture.”
Jack had just shrugged. “Would having it at my place be easier for you?”
“...Yes?”
“Then we’ll do it there. You’re off in a bit, right?”
You’d nodded.
He fishes something small and shiny out of his pocket and tosses it to you. “That’s my spare key. I’ll be here later than you, so just let yourself in if you want to get there earlier to start setting up. I’ll be home soon.”
Robby shouted his name soon after and Jack was whisked away, leaving you standing in the middle of the ED, holding the fucking spare key to his apartment, gaping like a fish.
The line between real and fake has become so blurred you’re not sure if it ever was there to begin with.
He’s started calling you sweetheart more and more often– sometimes when no one's around. No familial audience to be persuaded into the romantic lie you’re selling. Is it still a lie if it doesn’t feel like one anymore?
The question and accompanying feeling follows you all day. All throughout your harried dinner preparation. Even now, with a solid hour until your family is supposed to start showing up, you can’t help but pace the length of Jack’s kitchen, heeled feet clicking on his floor. Jack himself is similarly dressed up, wearing a pair of dark jeans (“I’m not wearing slacks in my own home, and I’m not old enough to start wearing khakis with everything.”) and a black button down shirt with the first two buttons undone and the sleeves rolled up to his forearms. He makes a very nice view and under other circumstances you might take the opportunity to climb him like a tree. But alas. Anxiety.
“Take your shoes off if you’re going to pace. You’re gonna give yourself blisters.”
You ignore him, chewing on an already stinging cuticle.
“Things have been pretty good this far, right? Do you think she’s just waiting until the very end to bring up some secret thing that she’s upset about?”
Jack begins preparing the wine –your mother only likes red– for decanting. “I think if your mother were that upset about something she wouldn’t be able to hide it.”
“True. But what if?”
“I’m not going to help you spiral.”
“Why not?” You whine.
He looks at you with a heavy glare and points to the shoe tray at the door. “Shoes. Off. You can put them back on when they get here.”
You grumble under your breath the entire way but comply. Only because your feet were starting to hurt.
When your family finally does arrive, it ends up being annoyingly anti-climactic. You spend the entire time on the edge of your seat (literally and figuratively) waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for conversation to turn sour, arguments to erupt, someone to choke on a piece of lettuce and die despite professional intervention.
But the argument never starts, conversation remains what it usually is and becomes no worse (or better, unfortunately) and no one passes away due to unevenly chopped vegetables.
The torture is over fairly quickly. Most everyone’s flight back home leaves early the next morning and your dad is paranoid about flight times.
Pretty soon it’s all just… over. They leave, your mother bickering with your father on the way out about something that probably doesn’t matter, and then it’s just you and Jack and the entire scheme is just done. Finished. Just like that.
There won't be anymore knee's brushing under the table, no more shared glances and pecks to the cheek when you make a joke that actually lands. No more excuses just to sit and watch him under the guise of playing the adoring girlfriend. No more late night milkshakes.
You'll just go back to being coworkers-- People who pretend not to know each other intimately. Jack probably won't struggle with it. But to you, right now, the idea of just not having him anymore seems like a another wound, right over top all the others.
You don't want him to become another person who used to know you.
You’ve been staring at the closed door for upwards of five full minutes, clenching and unclenching your fists when Jack comes up next to you. He hands you the same clothes you wore the last time you were there and jerks his head in the direction of the bathroom.
“Why don’t you go and change, huh?”
Your lip wobbles a bit as you answer. “But I want to help you clean up.”
“You can,” He soothes, “After you change.”
“But–”
“Hey,” He interrupts, “No. You’ve been stuck in those clothes for hours. Go change. I’ll wait for you.”
Jack keeps his word. He’s leaned up against the kitchen island when you emerge, rubbing at your –now bare, having had the foresight to bring makeup wipes with you– face.
He looks up when the door opens. “Better?”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
He just hums, heading back over to the kitchen table, stacking plates and cutlery. You follow in silence, and he thankfully doesn’t push for conversation.
Cleaning up doesn’t take long enough. Jack has a fancy dishwasher (and probably doesn’t want to stay standing any more than he has to this late in the day) and there aren’t any leftovers to pack up. Your brothers are bottomless pits when it comes to free food.
It can’t just be over like this. It can't.
When everything is finished and there isn't anything left to do, Jack wordlessly leads you to the couch and puts something quiet and calm on the TV. The white noise washes over you as you attempt to get comfortable, but the knowledge that it's all over proves to be an itch under your skin that you just can't seem to squash.
“So,” You say after the two of you are seated on opposite ends of the couch, “That’s it then.”
“So it is.”
“Guess I owe you big time, huh?”
“I’ve already told you I don’t care about that.”
“Right,” You look down at your lap, “Yeah. Sorry.”
You lapse into silence.
Jack sighs. “Sweetheart–”
“Was it fake to you?” You blurt, jiggling your knee, still staring at your lap, “Were you– did you mean it?”
It never felt fake. It never felt like pretending.
It felt real.
It felt like, for the first time in your life, things could be easy.
Maybe easy isn't the right word. But it life sure as hell didn't feel as hard.
When you look up, uncomfortable in his silence and hoping there’s answers in his face, but instead of finding something like disappointment or irritation, he’s grinning.
“What do you think?”
“I don’t know.”
He dips his head once. “Yes you do. You’re a smart girl, I think you can figure it out.”
Your fingers are curled around the hem of his sweatshirt, white-knuckling the fabric as if to stabilize yourself. Like you’re liable to somehow float away if you don’t dig your heels into the couch and hold on tight.
“What if I’m wrong?”
“You won’t be.”
A scoff escapes your lips, “You can’t know for sure.”
He taps his pointer finger on his leg in an unhurried rhythm.
“You do.”
Your stomach is rolling in a combination of leftover anxiety from the dinner that went better than it was supposed to and the weight of Jack’s gaze on you.
“I think…” You pause, worry threatening to overwhelm you, and take a deep breath before continuing, “I think you might like me.”
“You think,” He drawls, “I might.”
“I don’t want to be wrong!” You cry.
Jack huffs, throwing his head back in a good-natured sigh.
“Come here.”
You scoot further down the couch, sitting criss-cross right in front of him. This is not going the way you thought it would. You were almost certain you’d walk away shamed and embarrassed, forced to fake your death and flee the country out of the sheer humiliation of thinking your boss would actually have a crush on you.
Jack does love to prove you wrong.
“Soo,” You start, still hesitant, “You do like me.”
Jack props his head on his hand, his expression something you’re starting to recognize as fond. “Yes.”
“More than a little?”
“Yes.”
“And you weren’t faking anything. You were serious about the— You know.”
“Use your words.”
“The flirting.” You clarify, ears burning.
“All correct,” He nods, “Though I would have said it differently.”
You frown. “And how would you have put it?”
“I would have said,” He reaches out, snagging your arm and tugging until you fall down onto his chest with a little oof, “That you have a hard time believing things that are good, so I had to audition for my role. Like old-fashioned courting.”
You want to be offended, but unfortunately, it did work.
You frown.
Wait.
“Have you known I liked you this whole time?”
Jack snorts. “Overheard you talking to Whitaker about it during your second week.”
He’s known since the second week?
“Oh my god.”
“Don’t worry, I didn’t tell anyone. Except Robby. He’s been hoping you would figure it out for awhile now.”
“Oh my god.”
“I thought it was cute,” He smoothes a hand over your hair, “You were so much more nervous back then. You’ve come a long way.”
You shift uncomfortably at the praise, but Jack’s having none of it. He wraps his arms around you, holding you in place.
“Can you take a compliment?”
“No.”
He re-positions under you, getting more comfortable. “We’ll try again later.”
“Am I– Can I stay here tonight then?”
“Of course,” he murmurs, “My one condition is that you’re not sleeping on the couch.”
“Fine,” You sigh, long and drawn out, “I suppose we can share.”
“How kind of you to share my bed with me.”
“I have been told I’m kind.”
You both smile, and everything just feels so right and so perfect that you can't help but lean up, clearing the last few inches, and pressing a hesitant, gentle kiss to his lips.
It’s just like your dream.
Only this time, it’s real. And Jack is kissing you back.
what people don’t understand about how adhd is disabling is that it’s not just getting temporarily distracted from, like, school work or hobbies. it’s getting distracted/being unable to motivate yourself to go to the doctor, eat regularly, do hygiene tasks, etc. it’s not knowing when or how long it will take you to do something, ANYTHING, and in many cases that thing is taking a shower or keeping your house from turning into a biohazard. it’s about being fundamentally incapable of controlling your attention and focus on anything, even and especially things you need to do to survive.
Hiiii! could i request bloodmary x fem!reader in a romantic way but reader is from a different space ship and she ends up meeting the boys because her ship was invaded by an alien! (like the xenomorph from the alien movies) and she is the only survivor of her ship 👽
❝ 𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐮𝐚𝐥𝐬. 𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧. ❞ R.G & S.T.C ( BloodyMary )
pairing dr. ryland grace x simon the convict x fem! reader 🪽.
synopsis 𖥧 you thought you were done for when that.. thing raided your ship and killed all of your crewmates. looks like, after a surprising turn of events, you're now sharing a ship with a midschool teacher and a convict.
content 𖥧 canon typical violence (alien & iron lung), poly, fem reader.
💬 : YESS MY FIRST BLOODYMARY REQUEST YESSSSSS !!!!
You don't remember the exact moment they pulled you out.
That's the first thing you'll tell Ryland and Simon much, much later. You'll tell them that the memory is a hole in your head, a black spot where a chunk of your life used to be. One moment you were in the escape pod after three days without sleep, without food, without anything except the sounds of screams and murder and cries and howls echoing in the mothership you'd left behind, and the next moment you were surrounded by light.
Not human light. Not the harsh, flickering fluorescents of the space stations you'd grown up on. This light was warm, almost organic, pulsing in frequencies your eyes hadn't evolved to process. And the shapes moving through it —Eridians, you'd learn later, though at the time you thought you were dead and this was some kind of alien afterlife—were so incomprehensible that your brain simply refused to process them.
You passed out.
When you woke up, you were inside a transparent ball. Xenonite. Though you didn't know that yet.
The Eridians had been gentle. That's the part that fucks with your head the most, looking back. They had no reason to be gentle. You were a strange, soft, small creature that had drifted into their territory in a piece of salvage that was barely holding together. They could have ignored you. They could have dissected you. Instead, they'd built you a climate-controlled bubble: warm, pressurized, filled with a thin but breathable atmosphere. Instead they'd transported you across however many light-years to their homeworld.
You don't remember the journey. You remember dreams. Fragments. Your crewmates' faces, one by one. The thing that moved through the corridors of the Gethsemane, a smell like copper and rot and something else, something wrong. You remember being the last one. Not because you were brave. Not because you were smart. Just because the creature had to kill someone first, and then someone second, and then someone third, and then someone fourth, and you were the fifth.
Someone always has to be last.
It had been your turn to be last.
You open your eyes.
Ryland Grace has been living on Erid for approximately two weeks when he hears the news.
He's sitting on the warm sand and he's staring at the stars through the curved xenonite wall of his habitat. It's a dome, massive and circular, built specifically to house a single fragile human being on a planet where the atmosphere would liquefy his lungs and the gravity would crush his spine. Rocky designed it. Rocky built it. Rocky checks on him every few hours, despite Grace's protests that he's fine, he's okay, he doesn't need a babysitter.
"I am not a babysitter. statement." Rocky says, his voice translating through the device they built together, the harmonic bridge between Eridian chirps and human phonemes. "I am a friend. Are you eating. Question."
"I'm eating."
"You are not eating. I am observing. You are pushing the food around."
Grace sighs and looks down at the bowl of algae-paste in his hands. Rocky is right. He's been pushing it around for twenty minutes, not because it tastes bad but because he's been thinking about Earth. About Stratt. About the Petrova line and the astrophage and the billions of people who are, by now, either dead or alive or something in between.
He doesn't know. He'll never know. That's the part he can't accept.
"Rocky," he says. "can I ask you something?"
"You are asking. Statement. I am listening."
"Do you ever think about—"
The door to the habitat opens.
Grace flinches. The door isn't supposed to open. Not without warning. Not without his say-so. He's the only human on Erid. He's the only human within fifteen light-years, at least, probably more, unless there are other survivors out there, which there aren't, because the Hail Mary was the only ship and he was the only—
But the door is open.
And through it, pushed by a team of Eridian scientists whose segmented bodies are pulsing with what Grace has learned to recognize as excitement, come two xenonite spheres.
They're smaller than the one he arrived in. Transport pods, maybe. Temporary housing. Each one is filled with a breathable atmosphere, and each one contains-
Oh no.
Grace stands up so fast he drops his bowl. The algae-paste spills onto the sand. He doesn't care.
"Rocky." he says, his voice very quiet. "Rocky, what is that."
The translation device crackles. "Those are humans. Statement. Two humans."
"I can see that they're humans, Rocky. Why are there two humans in my habitat."
"They were rescued. Statement. One human was found in a damaged submersible vessel in the blood ocean of a moon in a nearby system. Second human was found in an emergency escape pod. Both humans were recovered by Eridian science vessels. Statement. Both humans require an environment suitable to human biology. Statement. This is the only environment on Erid suitable to human biology. Therefore-"
"Therefore they're staying here?" Grace's voice cracks. He can hear it. He doesn't care. "Rocky, you can't just- you can't just drop two random humans into my habitat without asking me first! I'm not—I'm not equipped for this! I'm not a zookeeper!"
"You are not a zookeeper. Statement. You are a human. They are humans. They require-"
"I know what they require! They require oxygen and warmth and- and therapy, probably, look at them, Rocky, look at them!"
He points at the two xenonite spheres, which the Eridian scientists are now gently positioning onto the sand with one of their huge transportation claws that they use to put things inside his habitat without entering. Inside the first sphere, a man. He's huge, muscular. His hair is dark and matted, hanging over a face that's all sharp angles and shadows. He's wearing what looks like a prison uniform, faded and torn, and his hands are scarred. Knuckles broken and healed, broken and healed, broken and healed until they look like knots on a tree.
The man is sitting in the center of his sphere with his knees drawn up to his chest, and he's staring. Not at anything specific. Just staring. His eyes are dark and flat and wrong in a way that makes Grace's hindbrain start screaming predator.
Inside the second sphere, a woman.
You are that woman.
You're younger than the man, he notes. Early twenties, maybe. You're wearing the remnants of a uniform: a patch on the shoulder that Grace can't quite read from this distance, a name tag that's been scratched out. You're not curled up like the man. You're standing. Standing still, your arms at your sides, your head tilted slightly to one side.
And you're looking.
Not staring like the other man. Looking. Your eyes are moving, tracking, cataloging. Every few seconds, your gaze flicks to the xenonite walls, then to the sand, then to the artificial sun-lamp in the ceiling, then to Grace, then back to the man, then to the Eridian scientists outside the dome. You're not blinking enough.
You looks like an animal that's been cornered and has given up on running and is now waiting to see which direction the killing blow will come from.
"Rocky." Grace says, his voice barely a whisper. "Rocky, no."
"Explanation. They are your same species. Statement. They need the same environment. Therefore-"
"Rocky. Look at them. They don't look- they don't look civilized. That one" He points at the man "looks like he's going to murder someone. He looks like he's done murder."
"Humans are a violent species. Question. You are also a human. Does that mean Grace is violent. Question."
"I'm cuddly compared to that guy, Rocky! I'm a teddy bear! I'm- I'm a middle school science teacher who makes beanbag toss jokes! I'm not equipped to handle whatever that is!"
Grace doesn't like this.
His hands are raised. His palms are facing you and Simon. It is a universal sign of peace, of I am not a threat, but his face tells a different story.
His face says: What the fuck have they dropped into my living room.
"Rocky." he says, trying a different angle, "some humans don't like other humans. Some humans are dangerous. I'm not- I'm not comfortable with this. I didn't sign up for roommates. I didn't sign up for- for whatever this is."
Rocky is quiet for a long moment. Grace can see him through the xenonite suit, his clawed hands twitching in that way they do when he's thinking hard.
Then Rocky says. "They are same species. Statement. They need a suitable habitat. Statement. You are not allowed to refuse."
"I'm not allowed?"
"Clarification. The habitat is Eridian property. The Eridian science council has authorized the placement of these humans in this habitat. Statement. You do not have veto power. Statement. I am sorry."
Grace opens his mouth to argue. Closes it. Opens it again.
"Rocky-" he says, very quietly, "I'm going to say something, and I need you to listen very carefully. Those two humans are not normal. They are not okay. Something has happened to them. Something bad. And I don't know how to help them. I don't know how to be around them. I'm a science teacher, Rocky. I teach kids about photosynthesis. I don't- I don't do trauma. I don't do whatever that is."
Rocky's claws twitch again. "Observation. You also experienced trauma. You also were not normal when you arrived. Statement. I helped you. You helped me. Statement. You will help them. Or they will help you. Or you will help each other. Statement. This is what living beings do."
"That's not—"
But Rocky is already turning away to approach the wall of the dome, speaking to the other Eridian scientists through the wall in a rapid series of chirps and clicks that the translation device doesn't catch. And the scientists are moving, their claws reaching for controls.
They're going to open the xenonite balls.
They're going to open them right now.
"Rocky!" Grace says, panic rising in his throat. "Rocky, wait! Rocky, please. At least give me a warning. At least give me- give me a heads-up or something so I can—I don't know, prepare mentally???"
The spheres open.
The xenonite spheres retract like flower petals, dissolving into the sand.
For a moment, nothing happens.
The man (Simon, Grace will learn later) doesn't move. He stays curled up, his knees to his chest, his head down. He looks like a spring that's been compressed too tight, waiting for the pressure to release.
You don't move either. You stand exactly where the sphere deposited you, your arms at your sides, your breathing shallow and controlled.
Grace raises his hands higher. He's not sure why.
"Hi-" he says. His voice comes out too high. He clears his throat and tries again. "Hi. Hello. Um, Welcome. I'm- I'm Ryland. Ryland Grace. I'm a—I'm a human. Obviously. You can see that. I'm human. We're all human here. Ha. That's- that was a joke. Because we're all human. In this habitat. Which is for humans."
Simon looks up.
Oh, Grace thinks. Oh no.
Simon's eyes are wrong. They're not just flat, they're burning. There's something behind them, something hot and hungry and angry, and it's looking at Grace like he's a problem to be solved. Like he's an obstacle. Like he's prey.
Simon stands up.
He doesn't do it slowly. He doesn't do it gracefully. He unfolds, all at once, like a trap being sprung. One moment he's curled on the sand, and the next moment he's on his feet, his shoulders hunched, his hands curled into fists, his head low.
He's looking at Grace.
No, he's looking past Grace. He's looking at the xenonite walls. At the artificial sun. At the sand. At the stars beyond the dome. His lips are moving, but no sound is coming out. He's mouthing something.
"This is- this is my home. Sort of. The Eridians built it for me. And I'm sure you're both very—" He stops. His eyes dart between you and Simon. "...very.. something. But I need you to just. Take a breath. Both of you. Nobody here is going to hurt anybody."
You do not move.
You have learned not to trust people who tell you that nobody is going to hurt you. The last person who said that was your captain, three hours before the thing ripped him in half.
Your eyes seem to convey your distrust.
Grace takes a step back. "Okay," he says. "Okay. Let's all just- let's all just take a breath. Nobody needs to- nobody needs to do anything rash. We're all friends here. We're all-"
Simon turns his head.
He's not looking at Grace anymore. He's looking at you.
His head turns. The motion is slow, mechanical, like a turret swiveling to acquire a target. His eyes find yours. And you see it: the shift, the calculation, the recognition. A potential threat. A variable he did not account for, and variables get people killed.
And you're looking back at him.
Something passes between you. Grace doesn't know what it is. He doesn't want to know what it is. All he knows is that Simon's posture changes: his weight shifts, his center of gravity drops, his hands flex, and your posture changes too. Your shoulders square. Your chin lifts. Your trembling hands stop trembling.
"Okay," Grace says, backing up another step. "Okay. That's- that's a look. That's a look you're giving each other. That's a concerning look. Can we talk about the look? Can we just- can we just use our words—"
You do not know what your face is doing. You have lost the ability to control your face. Somewhere in the three days you spent hiding in the Gethsemane's air vents, listening to the creature drag your crewmates' bodies through the corridors, your face stopped being yours. It became a mask. A flat, wide-eyed, unblinking thing that sees everything and betrays nothing.
Grace sees this. His hands go higher.
Simon moves.
It's not a charge. It's not an attack. It's something more akin to a lunge, a leap, a launch. He crosses the distance between himself and you in less than a second, his arms outstretched, his hands reaching for your throat, your shoulders, your face, anything.
It happens too fast for Grace to react. One moment Simon is standing still, his head turned toward you, his breathing shallow. The next, he is on you. His body crashing into yours, you both hit the sand hard, the wind knocked out of you, and then instinct takes over.
You do not scream.
You have not screamed since the Gethsemane. Screaming attracts things.
But you fight.
Your knee comes up between you and Simon, catching him in the stomach. He grunts but doesn't stop. His fist connects with your jaw, not hard enough to break bone, but hard enough to make your vision white out for a split second. You twist, using the leverage of the sand, and suddenly you are on top of him, your forearm pressed against his throat.
He roars.
It is not a human sound. It is something primal, something scraped out of a throat that has forgotten how to speak. He throws you off with a strength that scares Grace shitless, and now you are both scrambling, both clawing, both grappling. Silent on your end, vocal on his, a symphony of rage and survival and something that sounds like prayer.
Grace is frozen.
He's standing ten feet away, his hands still raised in that useless gesture of peace, his mouth hanging open, his brain refusing to process what he's seeing.
"Rocky." Grace hisses, his voice cracking. "Rocky, do something!"
Outside the xenonite dome, having went out just before the spheres dissolved, Rocky is watching.
His claws are twitching in a pattern that Grace has learned to recognize as excitement. He's chirping to the other Eridian scientists, his voice rapid and almost joyful.
"Rocky!"
"Is this the human mating ritual. Question."
What.
"Rocky, this is NOT a mating ritual!"
"Statement. I am observing. They are gripping each other. They are making sounds. They are exchanging physical contact. Question. Is this not how humans reproduce."
"Rocky!"
"Clarification. I am not understanding the problem. They are mating. This is good."
Grace wants to scream. He wants to tear his hair out. He wants to shake Rocky until his faceted eyes fall out of his head.
"They are not-" Grace chokes on his own words. "They are not doing a mating ritual! They're fighting! They're hurting each other! This is bad, Rocky! This is the opposite of good!"
Rocky's claws stop twitching.
"Oh." he says.
Silence.
"Oh." he says again. "Statement. I may have made a miscalculation."
"You think?"
"BUT THEY ARE SAME SPECIES. EXPLANATION. WHY DO SAME SPECIES TRY TO KILL."
"Because humans are-" Grace stops. Rethinks. "Actually, no, that's a fair question. I don't have a good answer. We just do that sometimes."
"THAT IS BAD. STATEMENT. VERY BAD. BADBADBADBADBAD." Rocky's legs move in an agitated pattern. "THEY ALONE. THEY NEED COMPANY. GRACE DO SOMETHING. COMMAND."
"What do you want me to do?" Grace hisses. "They're either highly trained in combat or they've gone completely feral—I can't tell which—and I am one middle school science teacher. I am not equipped for this. I was equipped for Astrophage. I was equipped for saving the sun. I was not equipped for interpersonal conflict resolution between two traumatized murderers."
Simon has you pinned again.
"EDEN!" Simon howls, and his voice breaks on the word. "EDEN TOOK EVERYTHING! EDEN AND THE- THE GETHSEMANE. THE GETHSEMANE DISAPPEARED AND THIS PLACE-" He punches the sand next to your head, deliberately missing. "THIS PLACE HAS SOMETHING TO DO WITH IT! I KNOW IT DOES! I KNOW!!"
You stop fighting.
Just like that. Your body goes limp beneath him. Your arms fall to your sides. Your eyes, still wide, still unblinking, find his face.
Simon freezes.
His fist is still raised. His knuckles are split, bleeding onto your collar. His chest is heaving. His eyes are wild. But something in your stillness has reached through the red haze, because he doesn't hit you. He can't hit you. Not like this. Not when you are looking at him like that.
"How," you say, and your voice is a ruin. It hasn't been used in days. Maybe weeks. You have forgotten the shape of words. "How do you know about the Gethsemane."
Simon blinks.
His fist lowers, slowly, like a machine winding down. He is still straddling you, still pinning you to the sand, but the violence has drained out of his posture. He looks confused. Lost.
"I'm.. from Eden," he says, and the words come out rough, hesitant, almost questioning. Like a little kid's. "The—the colony. Eden."
"I'm from the Gethsemane," you say, and your voice is shaking now, cracking at the edges. "The ship. The one that went off the grid. My crew- my crew spent years trying to find you. Trying to get back. We were looking for you."
Simon's mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.
"You're from Eden." you repeat.
"Yes."
"You're from Eden."
"Yes."
"The Eden."
"I'm from Eden." Simon repeats once again. His voice is harder now. Defensive. "I was there. They sent me on some suicide mission to pay my penances and you-" He looks at your uniform. At the patch on your shoulder. At the scratched-out name tag. "You're from The Gethsemane."
"I'm from The Gethsemane."
"So you did not die."
"Not when you stopped getting the signals." Your voice breaks again, and this time it's not fear. It's grief. "We were stranded for years after a collission. We tried to search for you. And then—" You stop. Swallow. "And then the thing came. The creature. It got them. It got everyone except me. That's when we died, well, they died. I'm still here. as you can see."
Simon is quiet.
His hands are still wrapped around your wrists. He is still pinning you. His face is still inches from yours.
But something has changed.
His weight shifts. His grip loosens. He's not holding you down anymore. He's holding you still. Like he's afraid you'll disappear if he lets go.
"The Gethsemane." he says slowly. "You were on the Gethsemane."
"I was."
"And you were looking for Eden."
"We were."
Simon makes a sound. It's not a word. It's not a laugh. It's something between—a groan, a sigh, a release.
And then he moves.
Not to hit you. Not to hurt you.
He rolls off you, onto his back in the sand, and stares up at the artificial sun. His chest is heaving. His face is bloody. His hands are shaking.
And you're sitting up.
You're looking at him.
Your eyes are still wide, still haunted, but there's something else there now. Something alive.
"You're from Eden." you say again, like you're testing the words.
"I'm from Eden." Simon says.
You throw yourself at him.
Not to fight. Not this time.
You collapse onto him, your arms wrapping around his neck, your face pressing into his shoulder, your whole body shaking.
Simon makes a sound like he's been punched.
Simon, for his part, looks like he has been struck by lightning.
His hands hover in the air, uncertain, trembling. He does not know what to do with this. He has not been touched in kindness—or anything resembling kindness—in longer than he can remember. But his body knows what to do. His arms close around you, slowly at first, then tighter, until his hold is almost painful.
"GRACE."
"What."
"THEY STOP FIGHTING. OBSERVATION."
Grace turns back to look.
He's standing ten feet away, his hands lowered now, his mouth still open, his brain screaming.
"What." he says to no one. "What the fuck."
"THEY TOUCH," Rocky says, and there is something in his tone that Grace has learned to recognize as wonder. "THEY TOUCH AND DO NOT FIGHT. IS THIS... COMFORT. QUESTION."
"Yeah." Grace says, and for a moment, he forgets that he was panicking. For a moment, he just watches two broken people hold each other on the sand, and he thinks about the months he spent alone, about the nights he talked to a wall because he needed to hear a voice, about the first time Rocky touched his hand and he cried because he had forgotten what contact felt like. "Yeah, we do."
Grace approaches slowly.
He's not sure why he's approaching. Every instinct he has is telling him to stay back, to give you space, to not get involved in whatever the hell is happening. But his feet are moving anyway, carrying him across the warm sand, closer and closer to the two broken humans tangled together on the ground.
Simon sees him coming.
"Okay," Grace says, and he takes a step forward. Then another. "Okay. I'm going to- I'm just going to come over there. Very slowly. With my hands where you can see them. Because I am not a threat. I am the least threatening person on this planet. I am probably the least threatening person in this solar system. I once cried because I ran out of coffee. So. You know. Threat level: zero."
You watch him approach. Your head turns to track him, but your body stays still. Simon's head turns too. His eyes narrow.
Grace stops when he is standing over you. He looks down at Simon. Simon who is still laying on the sand, who is still holding you, who is looking up at Grace with an expression that Grace can only describe as proprietary.
Simon's arms tighten around you.
It is not subtle. His biceps flex. His hands press into your back. He pulls you closer to his chest, and his eyes never leave Grace's face.
Grace blinks.
"Okay." he says. "Wow. Okay. Possessive much?"
Simon doesn't even know he's doing it. But his whole body has shifted, curling around you, covering you, like he's protecting you from a threat.
From Grace.
Simon does not answer. He does not loosen his grip.
"I'm not going to take her from you," Grace says, and he means it to be a joke, but it comes out softer than he intended. "I'm just... I'm just going to sit down. Over here. Away from you. Where I am not a threat. Because I am really committed to not being a threat."
He sits down in the sand, cross-legged, a few feet away. Far enough to give Simon space. Close enough to talk.
For a long moment, nobody speaks.
Simon glares at him.
It's not the same glare from before. That glare was hostile, dangerous, predatory. This glare is something else. This glare is possessive.
And you're still clinging to him.
Simon's expression softens. Just a fraction. Just enough.
And then he looks up at Grace.
"Where are we." he says. It's not a question. It's a demand.
Grace swallows. "Erid"
He then makes a gesture, motioning over to the wall behind of which there are a few Eridians congregated. Simon follows Grace's gesture.
He looks at Rocky.
Rocky waves.
Simon's expression doesn't change.
"An alien colony." he says flatly.
"Friendly aliens." Grace corrects immediately when he sees the way you tense in Simon's arms. "They're- they're nice. Mostly. They're just curious. They saved you, by the way. You and-" He looks at you. "your friend."
You blink at him.
Simon is still looking at Rocky. His expression is calculating. He's trying to understand. Trying to process.
"The aliens brought us here." he says slowly.
"Eridians." Grace says. "And yes. They brought you here. To my habitat. Because apparently I'm the only human on this planet and they thought I needed roommates."
Simon looks back at Grace.
"You're alone here." he says.
"I was alone here." Grace corrects. "Now I'm not alone. For better or worse."
Simon is quiet for a long moment.
Then he looks down at you.
"We're not leaving." Simon says, it's a question.
"Doesn't seem like we have any options here" you answer.
Grace sighs.
"No," he admits. "No we don't."
You and Simon finally separate.
"I'm from the Gethsemane." you tell Ryland, as if testing the words. "I'm the only one left."
Simon's jaw tightens. "I'm from Eden."
The three of you form a rough triangle on the warm sand. The artificial sun is dimming, mimicking a sunset that doesn't exist on this planet. The xenonite walls are glowing softly, casting long shadows across the dome.
Outside, Rocky is still watching.
He's not alone anymore. Other Eridian scientists have gathered, their segmented bodies pressed against the xenonite, their faceted eyes fixed on the three humans sitting in a circle. They're fascinated. They're observing. They're taking notes, probably, in whatever way Eridians take notes.
Grace tries to ignore them.
"You're both from the same system." he says, rubbing his temples. "That's- that's something. That's a coincidence. Or maybe it's not. Maybe the Eridians have been looking for humans. Maybe they found you because they were trying to find you."
Simon snorts. "They found me because I was drowning in a submarine full of blood."
"They found me because I was drifting in an escape pod." you say quietly. "I didn't even know they were there. I didn't even see them. I just.." You stop. Swallow. "passed out. And then I woke up here."
Grace nods slowly.
"The Eridians are rescuers," he explains. "That's- that's kinda what they do. They find things. They save things. They're curious. They wanted to know what you were. They wanted to help."
Simon's jaw tightens. "I didn't ask for help."
"You didn't have to."
Simon glares at him.
Grace holds up his hands. "I'm not saying- look, I get it. I didn't ask for help either. I was forced onto the Hail Mary. I didn't want to be here. I wanted to be on Earth, in my classroom, with my students. I wanted to live."
"But you're here." Simon says.
"But I'm here." Grace agrees. "And I'm alive. And so are you. And so is she." He looks at you. "And maybe, just maybe, that's something. Don't you think?"
You look at Simon.
Simon looks at you.
You both look back at Ryland.
"Eden." Ryland sais. "Tell me about Eden."
Simon's expression shifts. The anger doesn't disappear, it's still there, simmering beneath the surface, but something else rises to meet it. Longing. Grief. Hope.
"Eden is a colony." he says slowly. "A survivor colony. After the stars in our sollar system went out, after the Quiet Rapture, the stations started falling apart. People started dying. But Eden—Eden held on. We had resources. We had leadership. We had-"
He stops.
His hands curl into fists.
"We had a religion." he says, the word bitter on his tongue. "A cult. They said- they said the stars went out because humanity had sinned. Because we had reached too far. They said the only way to survive was to repent. To sacrifice."
Your eyes widen.
"The Gethsemane ship," you whisper. "That's- that's where the name came from. The Bible."
Simon nods. "The ship was named after the covenant. It was supposed to be a pilgrimage. A mission. They sent it out to find—I don't even know what. Salvation. Redemption. Something."
"And you were on it?" Asks Ryland.
Simon laughs. It's a hollow sound.
"I was on it, alright." he says.
A beat of silence.
"So.. this is your place." you say. It is not a question.
"It's... temporary." Grace says. "The Eridians are building a ship to take me back to Earth. But it's going to take a while. Astrophage engines are fast, but they're not instant. So I'm here. Living in a bubble. Talking to a rock."
"And how did you get here?"
Simon looks at him.
"Um- my sun was.. dying, the main star of my solar system y'know and they sent.. me and a few other people to try and fix it." he says. "long story short, those people died and i was alone until Rocky found me, his star was also dying, so we worked together."
"I assume something went wrong."
Simon inquires.
"You assume right." Grace admits. "Things went south in Rocky's ship so I sacrificed my return to earth to get him home safe, and he brought me with him so.. here I am."
A beat.
"I have so many questions to ask you two. But I'm not going to ask them. Because I feel like that would be rude."
Simon snorts. It is the first sound he has made that is not angry or confused. It is almost... amused.
"Rude." Simon repeats. "You're worried about being rude."
"I'm a scientist living in an alien zoo," Grace huffs, a sound almost mimicking an exhasperated sigh. "Manners are all I have left."
Something passes between you and Simon. A look. A shared recognition of absurdity. You are sitting on alien sand, beneath an alien sky, next to a man who talks like he's hosting a podcast, and somewhere outside the dome, a rock spider is watching you with what you can only assume is fascination.
Outside the xenonite dome, Rocky turns to the other Eridian scientists.
"Statement," he says proudly. "Humans are doing the mating ritual."
