summary: good things happen to those who are found crying in the supply closet by their hot, older, maybe flirty boss-slash-mentor.
wc: 14.5k (i have no idea how that happened)
tags/tropes: age gap (duh), slow burn with an insane amount of tension, lowkey very emotionally rife, hurt/comfort, not-so-unrealistic amounts of crying, langdonmel in the background if you squint (you don’t have to squint very hard i love them so much guys im sorry) vaguely referenced but not subtlety implied bad childhood, gratuitous and frankly ridiculous medical inaccuracies because i took a lot of creative liberty, reader is an ode to Matilda by Harry Styles and You’re Gonna Go Far by Noah Kahan, Pitt Crew becomes reader’s family :)
a/n: this was supposed to be a sort-of drabble for @leeknowpegger. idk what happened. pegger i’m sorry i’ve been so dead recently (always) will you take this as an apology. If you’d like more cohesive tags, more context, extra details, and more in depth warnings, this fic has been cross-posted on ao3, and will be linked below :]
NOT-SO-FRIENDLY-PSA: Any comments asking me to write more, post another chapter, or anything of the sort will be deleted. Please do not send an ask into my inbox either. Screaming in my inbox (not about wanting more, general screaming) is totally fine though!
ao3
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۫ ꣑ৎ
You have been the perfect day shift intern for five months. Five freaking months of listening to mostly constructive criticism, five months of adapting and learning on the go with not a single complaint voiced, five months of diligent note-taking, studying, and practice. Five months of weaseling your way into the list of interns-slash-young-doctors that your residents actually respect. Five months of grueling shifts, hard losses, and never saying no when someone needs you to do something.
Five months of being the untouchable, “perfect” intern. Robby’s newest addition to his growing list of “work-wards.”
Five months of unflinching effort and dedication and it took four hours of your third night-shift to reduce you to a miserable, snotty mess on the supply closet floor. Tucked into the space between the two shelves, just the toes of your blood and snot and god knows what else covered shoes peeking out, the rest of you obscured.
Five months, four hours, and back to back fuck-ups that escalated into Dr. Jack Abbot, the man you may or may not have had the hugest crush on since beginning your intern year, removing you from a case. Five months, four hours, and two parents screaming at Dr. Abbot, telling him that you’re not fit to be a doctor.
Tonight isn’t the first night a patient has yelled at you. Tonight isn’t even the first time you’ve been removed from a case. It’s not the first time Dr. Abbot has had to correct you, and it’s certainly not the first time you’ve made a mistake.
You’re an intern. It’s your job to fuck up, learn from it, and keep going. That’s what Dr. Mohan said to one of the other interns awhile back. They’d ended up flunking out, but oh well. It was good advice. It wasn’t meant for you, but hell if you don’t say it to yourself every night like a prayer.
But right now, the usual calming mantra is doing absolutely nothing. You’re stifling ugly sobs into the tops of your knees, arms wrapped around and squeezing as tight as you can, your chest shaking and shuddering with the force of your complete and total freak-out.
The patient isn’t dead. Despite your mistakes, they didn’t die. There’s really nothing to cry about. Nothing to hide in the supply closet for.
And yet, here you are.
Your first mistake wasn’t terrible, but it was ridiculously stupid and incredibly embarrassing. Triage room, emergency measures being taken. And you, tired and off kilter from being so used to the day-shift, broke the sterile field. Like some dumb medical student, not a fairly seasoned intern who’s drilled sterile protocol into her head until it’s muscle memory.
For a scalpel. You dropped a scalpel. Arguably the worst thing to drop. And then, like an idiot, you picked it back up.
And, well. There’s no time to re-scrub, so there wasn’t a need for you in the triage room anymore.
Your second mistake was equally stupid and avoidable, if you’d focused more. Dr. Garcia was kind enough to let you scrub in on an emergency appendectomy.
It was a test. Not your first.
And you ripped the fucking purse strings.
Once again, you were unceremoniously booted from the room (being kicked out of an OR feels a hell of a lot worse than being kicked out of a triage room) and sent back to the pit. Dr. Abbot immediately caught wind of it and demoted you to scut work until “you get your head back in the game.”
And, well. You tried really hard to devote yourself to your new task, but you had to keep blinking tears out of your eyes every five seconds and you absolutely refuse to cry in front of literally any of your coworkers, lest they think you some weak-willed weak-stomached intern who can’t handle some criticism and correction. You’re a hard worker. You’re good at this. You have to be.
So yeah. Crying in the supply closet.
You’ve always been a frustrated cryer, which is annoying on a good day and downright awful on a bad one (case in point.)
You’re just so upset with yourself. You’re better than this. You know you are. You’ve proven that you are. You don’t drop scalpels. You don’t break the sterile field. You don’t rip purse strings.
But you did tonight. And maybe one day you’ll laugh, but today is not that day.
You just don’t get it. Day shift? Incredible. Manageable. You’re on top of things, put together, and worthy of Dr. Robby’s respect.
But tonight? Quite literally the exact opposite.
You can’t be burning out, right? That’s not how burn out works. There’s like, signs, and you start to feel terrible and awful and exhausted and sure you definitely feel all of those things, but that’s because you work in medicine. And you’re an intern. You’re supposed to feel terrible and awful and exhausted. But maybe you’re not? You do enjoy your work, and it’s exhilarating, especially when you try something for the first time and execute it well, because you always do, you always get things right on the first try, obviously, so that means that this can’t be burn out. You don’t burn out. That’s not you. Right? No. Of course not.
You gasp a particularly rough sob into your knees, air feeling like knives as you inhale, making you cough horrendously. You must be quite a sight.
Unfortunately, due to your alternating hacking coughs and dramatic crying, you don’t quite hear the door open.
You do, however, hear the quiet “Oh.” that’s mumbled a few moments later.
Of-fucking-course.
You scramble upright, aggressively wiping at your face and attempting to make it look like you weren’t just crying on the ground.
“Dr. Abbot! I’m so sorry, this is very unprofessional and I know you have me on scut work but I promise I’m still working on it—“
He holds up a hand, and you slam your jaw shut with an audible click.
“Just needed some four by fours, kid.”
Always one to be helpful (especially to the guy you have a crush on who also happens to be your boss, aka the same person who professionally told you to get your shit together about forty minutes ago) you reach beside yourself and hand him the package of gauze, an awkward smile fixed on your face.
“…Those are three by threes.”
Bitch. Motherfucker. Fuck your life.
“Right,” You mumble, dragging your hand down your face. “I’ll just get out of your way. Sorry.”
You turn to walk past him, attempting to go quick enough that he might not notice the new tears shining in your eyes before a hand lands on your shoulder.
“Look,” Dr. Abbot starts. “You’re one of Robby’s adopted interns, right? Robby-Junior?”
“That is one of the rumors Santos has been spreading, yes.”
His hand is on your shoulder. His hand is on your shoulder. (!!!)
You don’t know what to do. He’s looking at you. Your boss doesn’t fluster you. You’re chill. You’re normal. You’re cool as a cucumber, yep yep yep.
“Robby doesn’t adopt interns lightly. Don’t let one bad shift mess you up. It happens to everyone.”
You purse your lips. You should let it go. Take his advice. Thank him.
The all-consuming-guilt and ever-present-need to prove yourself itches too painfully to ignore.
Dr. Abbot seems to notice, and he catches your gaze again.
“What, it doesn’t happen to you?”
A jolt of panic stabs your chest. “No! Of course it happens to me, I didn’t mean to imply that I’m like, above making mistakes or having bad shifts at all—“
Genuinely what is wrong with you. Why the fuck does he do this you. You’re a smart, confident woman who apparently chucks her brain into the garbage bin whenever her boss is around.
Dr. Abbot, probably picking up on a pattern of behavior by now, levels you with another look that shuts you up fairly quickly. He’s got a sort of impish grin on his face, and it shouldn’t be hot, but he’s got his hand on your shoulder and you’re having a ridiculously shitty night. Does anything matter anymore?
“Usually, we try to mix up interns schedules so you don’t get into a rhythm on one specific shift so that when you inevitably switch, the change doesn’t mess up your flow. But I'm sure your knack for keeping your head down and doing good work let you fall through the cracks.”
He takes his hand off your shoulder and shoves it into his pocket, but you almost don’t notice because he said you do good work.
Abbot gives you another grin. “And I didn’t stick you on scut as a punishment. Mindless work tends to be calming, which in turn helps focus your mind.”
“But I ripped the purse strings,” You blurt like a Catholic school girl in a particularly rife confessional, “Like an idiot.”
“You ripped them like an intern doing something for the first time.”
“I practiced hundreds of times to make sure it didn’t happen!”
He tilts his head, almost cat-like. “Did you also practice on a live person in a higher stakes situation while your body is messed up from a sudden and huge sleep schedule change?”
“…No?”
He snorts. “Exactly. Dr. Garcia probably won’t hold it against you. She’ll give you shit for it, but it’s not like she’s never going to give you another chance.”
You wipe the last bit of wetness of your cheeks with the back of your hand, embarrassment heating your face. Despite the awfulness of being caught crying in the supply closet, the beginnings of pleasant warmth is spreading through your chest, Dr. Abbot’s reassurances echoing in your head.
“Thank you, Dr. Abbot. Um. Sorry about the crying. I promise I don’t usually do that.”
Dr. Abbot snorts as he saunters towards the door. “Wouldn’t judge you if you did, kid.”
—
Dr. Jack Abbot is bored.
He has his work, which is great. He became a doctor after being discharged because he’s always been the kind of man that needs something to do. Something to mind, something to watch, something to fix. Robby and him and much the same in this way.
Working at the ED was enough for a while. There was a certain challenge to it, an unpredictability that itch sated, kept him sane. And, well. Now he’s an attending. Night shift lead.
He started to get restless again.
He thought a pet might work. He was going to get a dog, but it didn’t sit right with him to get an animal built for companionship and then leave it at home for over twelve hours a day. Then he thought a cat might do the trick. He looked online first, saw beautiful, well bred felines that could probably compete and win for best in show for whatever the cat equivalent is for the Westminster Dog Show.
And then he made the mistake of going to the shelter and seeing an old, one eared tuxedo cat that stared at him with something in between fear and spite and its eyes. And well. The shelter attendants assured him that the cat in question prefers being left alone and having its own space, but might warm up eventually, and he brought him home that day.
And then it was just Jack, occasionally Robby, and now his asshole cat who might not love him back.
That also worked for a while. Having Charlie was fun. It was nice having another living creature in his house that wasn’t him. Even if he did have a habit of chewing on power cords when left unattended and eventually progressed into attempting to destroy Jack’s stethoscope if he left it anywhere he could find.
Minding the cat gave him something to do that wasn’t tedious, and it was a special sort of bonus to wake up every now and then and see the cat sprawled at the foot of the bed, snoring away. He didn’t actually know cats could snore like that.
Around the time that the itch came back and Jack was considering adopting a second cat from the shelter (well on his path to becoming a crazy cat lady, as Robby said in the park over beers) he met you for the first time.
Sometimes Jack slips quietly into the ED and watches the chaos of day shift’s conclusions. He’s picked up a very special language of gauging what he’s getting into based on the body language and behavior of the rest of the hospital staff. Robby had told him about the latest intern— a motivated, stubborn sort of girl that frequently went toe-to-toe with Santos but without any of the pushback when receiving correction or criticism. He’d heard that you were smart, capable, and well on your way of becoming a great doctor.
Robby failed to mention that you were pretty.
He’d watch you, comparing notes with Mohan with a certain intense focus on your face, worrying your lip between your teeth and repeatedly tucking a piece of hair behind your ear because it’d fallen out of your disheveled pony tail he thinks ‘Oh.’
And then, a few months later, he finds you crying in a closet, subtly confessing fears of failure and falling short of expectations, and then he thinks ‘Well, there’s something to do.’
Jack tries not to think about you, at first. You, looking up at him with red-rimmed eyes, bottom lip jutted out just a bit, hugging your knees. He tries not to think about how you’d looked at him when he’d assured you that you did good work, the awkward thank you, and the way that for the rest of the shift, all the annoying menial tasks that get forgotten in the chaos were all mysteriously taken care of.
He tells himself that he’s just going to keep an eye on you. For Robby’s sake. He’d do the same for Whitaker.
The next time you have a night shift, you’re clearly more prepared for the exhaustion, and when he finally sees you in true, proper action, he understands immediately why Robby likes you and Mohan frequently attaches you to her cases. Skill, patience, and focus.
When he watches you trach a patient with a certain ease that only comes from practicing hundreds of times, Ellis shoots him a knowing look. Raised eyebrows and smirk. When she passes him in the hall a few hours later, she jabs her thumb behind her shoulder at where you’re diligently filling out a chart.
“That one yours, then?”
Jack shakes his head. “It’s not like that. You make me sound like a creep.”
Another raised eyebrow. “Sure it isn’t.”
“She’s Robby’s intern.”
“Mhm.”
“She’s way too young.”
Parker shrugs. “She’s good.”
“She is.”
The senior resident cuts a glance back to you. “Think she’ll burn out?”
“Maybe.”
Parker crosses his arms. “Are you gonna let it happen?”
“She’s not my intern.”
Up to three Parker Ellis looks and counting.
“It’s an HR nightmare.”
Parker shrugs. “You just said she’s not your intern.”
He narrows his eyes. “You know what I meant.”
“Do I? It’s been awhile, Jack. No one would really judge you for having some fun.”
“Parker.”
“Jack.”
He shakes his head, walks towards the boards. “You’re the worst.”
Parker just laughs. “Sure I am.”
To your credit, he doesn’t find you crying in a supply closet again to see evidence of you doing so for a solid few weeks. But, like most things in the ED, the peace doesn’t last.
You came into work soaking wet, which is odd, considering the fact that he knows you drive, and the walk to the parking lot isn’t far enough to account how you’re shivering in your freshly changed scrubs. He brushes it off, chalks it up to freakish Pittsburg weather.
Some night shifts are relatively slow and mild. Tonight is not one of those shifts. Patients are extra irritable at late hours, which is to be expected, but what he’s not expecting is to walk by South 15 and see a 50-something year old man slap you.
Jack blinks, and in the next second he’s in the room, standing in between you and the patient.
“Excuse me, what the fuck is going on here?”
Gloria will probably give him shit for his language later, but right now all he can think about is the startled look on your face and the echo that the contact made.
“I said I want a real doctor, not this fucking—“
“Get the fuck out of my hospital.”
Shen peaks his head in. “Security’s on their way.”
Jack reaches behind him to where you’re still standing, your hand covering your cheek, and gently pushes you towards Shen, towards the door. You stumble over your feet a bit, but truly, Jack’s never been more thankful for his residents because then Parker is right there, ushering you out the door with a hand on your shoulder. Jack resolutely ignores your mumbled “I’m fine, really, he just surprised me.”
Thankfully, security doesn’t take that long to get to the room, and the second Jack is finished explaining, he’s out the door and scanning the ED for your face. Nurse Young jerks her head towards the break room, and he thinks he manages to give her what he hopes is a thankful smile before he’s beelining for it.
When he opens the door, you’re sitting on the floor again, holding an ice pack to your cheek with one hand and dabbing at your lip with a paper towel. Like you’ve never heard of medical protocol in your entire life.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
You jerk your head up, a kid caught with its hand in the cookie jar.
“Dr. Abbot!”
Lowering himself to the ground is awkward, physically. Prosthetics don’t lend to much mobility and he’s too old to be doing this, but he just. There are little beads of blood collecting and then sliding down your chin, dripping onto the leg of your scrubs. At the same angle of the split in your lip, there’s a little cut he can see peaking out from under the ice pack.
He reaches forward, fingers itching towards the deep scarlet dripping steadily. He pauses, remembering things like words and questions and sees the wild look in your eyes.
“Can I…?” Jack’s voice trails off, the words clunky and useless in this bubble that’s seemed to form around the two of you, on the probably disgusting floor of the ED break room.
You slowly drop the napkin, let the ice pack lower to your lap and nod.
“He had a ring on. I guess it caught me. I didn’t really notice until I got here.”
“Parker and Shen didn’t notice?”
You look at your lap. “I told them I was fine… And covered it with my hand. There are other patients. It’s just a little cut.”
Jack’s fingers finally reach your face, and he almost takes them back when you flinch on the initial contact, shaking ever so slightly.
But then, with noticeable effort, you relax into his palm, his fingers curling around the side of your jaw. He should grab gloves. He should get up, take his hand off your face.
Anyone could walk in right now and call Gloria on his ass.
His thumb sweeps across your cheekbone, just below the cut, which does have some faint bruising around it. And truthfully, the split in your lip doesn’t look that bad either.
But there’s still little dots and trails of scarlet and he doesn’t think he’s going to be able to calm down until he fixes it. He needs to fix something.
“If I leave you here so I can get supplies,” He starts, voice a little rough, “Can I trust that you’ll stay here and not do anything stupid?”
“Uh, yes? Should I move to a real chair though?”
Jack huffs as he hauls himself to his feet. “That’d be preferable.”
Later, when he’s at home in his bed, he’ll assure himself that the night shift wasn’t truly that busy and he trusts his residents to handle things while he’s busy.
No one stops him on his way to the medical supply closet (the irony of the location is not lost on him) and he makes it back without interruption. Upon opening the door, you have in fact moved to a chair, and it seems the bleeding slowed in his absence.
What he should do is sit down in the chair opposite of you and handle this situation like a professional, like the Dr. Abbot, night shift attending, not Jack who’s got a thing for fixing.
He does try to remove his emotions and feelings from the situation, he really does. It’s something he’s generally very good at —which is where he and Robby differ; Robby would prefer to feel too much and Jack would prefer to feel nothing at all— but you’re looking up at him and there’s something really dangerous in the air and it must’ve gotten into your blood stream or something cause it’s swimming in your eyes and he realizes that removing his feelings is not going to be possible.
He decides he could at least tone it down. You’re an intern. Robby’s intern. So what if you’re bleeding all over the break room? Jack’s just doing his job as the attending to look after the doctors and nurses under his jurisdiction or whatever. That’s all.
“Tilt your head up.”
He sets to work cleaning up the cut and split as detached and clinically as possible, even puts on gloves so there’s no skin to skin contact, just protocol, but he can feel the warmth of your skin through the latex and you keep sucking in these tiny little breathes when something stings and he can’t get the sound of the slap out of his head and it’s all just kind of a lot.
He readjusts his hand on the side of your face, sort of holding your forehead now to have better access and control over the cut on your cheek and wow. Your skin is really warm. It kind of feels like you’re burning up.
Jack tosses the piece of gauze he was using and rests the back of his hand against your forehead. Shit, you are burning up.
He thinks back to you, walking in today, soaked to the bone.
“Did you walk to work today?”
You wince. “My car kind of died? On the way here? I was only a mile away. But I called a towing company, so I didn’t just leave my car in the middle of the road.”
He blinks.
“Your car died, so you had it towed and walked a mile to work, in the rain, late at night, and didn’t tell anybody?”
You just keep staring at him, brows furrowed.
“Yeah? I carry a knife and I’ve taken self defense classes, and my car was just towed back to my place, so. I had a shift to work.”
There’s… a lot to unpack in your answer.
“Kid,” He starts, wondering why Robby never thought to give him a heads up before you started working more night shifts, “What was your plan to get home?”
“Walk, probably. I was thinking about taking the bus. Dr. King knows the bus schedule, so I’m probably going to text her.”
Jack decides to just finish cleaning you up, before he does something stupid like shake you by your shoulders and ask why you didn’t think to let your boss know that your car broke down and you’d be walking home in the rain. Or that when a patient slapped you in the face, his ring cut your face and lip open.
God.
“It’s really fine though,” You say, gesticulating animatedly with your hands. “My place isn’t that far, and it’s not the first time my car’s died. The battery’s kind of shot, but I guess my car has a weird battery, and it’s like, crazy expensive to get a new one, so. Besides, I like walking. I’ve been meaning to catch up on my audiobooks.”
He wishes you’d stop talking so he’d stop hearing things that make him want to do things he can’t and shouldn’t do. Like find out what car you drive so he can buy you a new battery. Or buy you a new car all together.
Christ, you have him wrapped around your fucking finger.
“I’ll drive you home. If you’re fine with that.”
Jack has to fight a grin at how comically wide your eyes grow at his suggestion.
“Oh no, you really don’t have to. I promise I’m—“
“Please stop saying you're fine,” He begs, “You don’t have a working car, a patient slapped you in the face, and I think you’re coming down with something.”
The smile that’s seemed permanently fixed on your face since he came into the break room falters, for a bit.
“Well,” You grimace, hands fisting the hem of your scrub top, “Things certainly aren’t… great, but I’ll survive. I’m not like, incapable, or anything.”
Jacks quiet for a bit, not just mulling over your words but the way you said them; the cadence and tone.
He hums. “Is that what you think? That I or someone else here will think you’re not competent or that you’re weak if you take a break or ask for help?”
Your face falters again. “No, no, of course not I just… I don’t know. I’m an intern. It’s my job, supposedly, to mess up and have to be looked after in case I accidentally kill someone and stuff like that. I just don’t want to be someone that people think they have to worry about. I need— internships are competitive. They’re competitions, really. And I want to win.”
Jack Abbot knows what it’s like to want to win. That need to prove yourself, prove that you’re capable and strong and unfailing.
So Jack also knows how quickly that can all go south.
“You’re a smart kid,” He says, voice ever so slightly soft in the quiet tension of the break room, empty except for the two of you, “And you’re going to make a great resident, and one day, a damn good attending. But none of that means shit if you burn out or get run yourself into the ground before you get there.”
He avoids eye-contact while he carefully applies the bandage to your cheek. “This industry will chew you up and spit you back out if you don’t take care of yourself. I get it. We’re doctors. We make the worst patients. But you got slapped in the face during a shitty day. It’s okay to… not be okay for a minute.”
You huff a watery laugh. “Isn’t that what energy drinks are for?”
He shakes his head. “What, trying to die faster?”
“Anything to shake those student loans. Can’t be in debt if you’re dead.”
“Don’t they just pass it to your family? Next of kin or whatever?”
“I don’t think they can give student loans to a cactus. I mean, I consider her my daughter, but I hardly think it’ll hold up in court.”
Jack mentally files that information away for later. What later is, he isn’t sure.
He stands, pulls off his gloves and tosses all the used gauze and shit in the trash can.
“I gotta get back out there,” He jams his thumb towards the door, “But feel free to take five. No one’s judging you. Matter of fact, as your boss, I’m telling you to take a break.”
You roll your eyes. “Whatever you say, Dr. Abbot. But thank you. For the…”
You gesture to your bandaged cheek and lip. “…And for the advice.”
He shrugs, like taking care of you hasn’t become a persona fantasy he may or may not fall asleep imagining most nights. Like it doesn’t matter, like he’s just doing his job.
“Offer for the ride’s still open. Just let me know by the end of shift.”
And with that, he’s out the door.
It’s the end of shift, and you’re staring at the double doors that lead to the outside world, and beyond that, absolutely fucking miserable weather for walking, a dead car, and cold as shit apartment.
You’re not exactly rushing out the door.
You’re clutching at the strap of your bag, regular clothes on, still damp despite the fact that it’s been over thirteen hours since you originally took them off, begging the universe to strike you down where you stand. Spontaneous lightning bolts happen indoors too, right?
The doors just stare back at you, unchanging in their miserable-ness, and after a solid ten minutes of staring, you feel rather than see Jack sidle up next to you.
“Still raining out there?”
“Yep. Looks worse now.”
“Not great weather to walk in. Especially considering the low-grade fever.”
“Mhm.”
“Did you text Dr. King for the bus schedule?”
“No. I didn’t want to wake her up.”
Jack huffs a breath, then jerks his head towards the doors that lead to the employee parking lot.
“Come on, kid.”
The ride is quiet and awkward. Well. Dr. Abbot probably doesn’t think it’s awkward, because he seems like the kind of man not to be bothered by long stretches of silence. Or silence at all.
He’d been kind enough to turn the heat on full blast (you started shivering the moment you stepped outside) and the radio is softly playing, and it’s only thanks to Sabrina Carpenter’s voice that you don’t feel like completely freaking out.
You mouth along to the lyrics, quietly humming the chorus under your breath.
“—I get wet at the thought of you being a responsible guy—“
“—Treating me like you’re supposed to do, tears run down my thighs—“
By the time you’ve realized that perhaps this isn’t the best song choice to sing along to, considering the situation and who’s car you’re currently riding in, the words “I get wet” have already left your mouth so there’s no real point in stopping.
On a completely unrelated note, Dr. Abbot starts smiling a little bit when you hum.
Pittsburgh traffic is terrible, so the drive kind of drags on. The radio is playing Chappell Roan now. Casual specifically. You’re considering changing the radio station because god.
“So,” You start, just to say anything that drowns out “knee-deep in the passenger seat and you’re eating me out, is it casual now?”, “Did you… have a good shift?”
That was a terrible question. Jesus. What the hell is wrong with you? How did you get through medical school?
Dr. Abbot snorts. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that question?”
Ah. Right. The Incident.
“I told you I’m—“
“Didn’t I tell you to stop saying that?”
Your lap has never looked more interesting. Wow, is that a loose thread on your sweats?
He continues. “Fine or not, a patient assaulted you. Even if he didn’t leave a mark, that’s still shitty.”
“Have you been hit by a patient before?”
He huffs. “Hell yeah. It happens to everyone eventually. It’ll happen again. You get better at keeping your cool.”
“Sorry you had to step in. I’ve been hit by a patient before and I was fine.”
“Oh yeah?”
You nod. “It was during my Pedes rotation, actually. I’ve always known working with kids probably wasn’t going to be for me, but, well. Kid came in for intussusception, and she was screaming and writhing in pain, and I failed to restrain her properly.”
“What, did she slap you too?”
“Nope. Kicked me in the chin. Ended up biting almost clean through my tongue.”
“Fucking hell, kid. What’d you do?”
You shrug. “Kept my blood in my mouth until we finished sedating the patient. Ended up with three stitches.”
Dr. Abbot lets out a low whistle. “Always the patients you least expect.”
“The importance of proper patient restraint was thoroughly impressed upon me, I assure you.”
The silence after your short conversation is slightly more comfortable, and thankfully the radio station has decided to play less pointed music.
Between the warmth of the car, the smell permeating the seats that smells distinctly like Dr. Abbot, and the drumming of rain outside, it doesn’t take long for drowsiness to begin to overtake you.
Your last thought before falling asleep is that you don’t remember if you gave Dr. Abbot your address or not.
Someone is gently shaking your shoulder, and you feel like shit.
“What?” You attempt to say, but the side of your mouth is pressed against the seatbelt and your shoulder so it comes out sounding like: “Whamfgh?”
Opening your eyes is a herculean task, like someone sewed miniature weights to your eyelids while you were asleep. You’re absolutely freezing, despite the steady hum of the car's heat, still on high, and you vaguely recognize the street the car is currently parked on.
Oh right, your apartment.
“Oh,” You yawn, hauling yourself semi-upright, aiming for woman who has it together, and less disheveled swooning woman in a Baroque painting.
Dr. Abbot is staring at you with equal parts humor and concern.
You rub at your eyes. “How long have I been asleep?”
“Little over forty minutes. You looked like you needed it.”
“It doesn’t take that long to drive to my place, even with traffic.”
Your brain is moving like molasses, so it takes you a second to catch up with the implication of his statement.
“Did you just… park in front of my house? So I could keep sleeping?”
He just shrugs. “Like I said. You looked like you needed it.”
Embarrassment and a touch of something else floods through your body, hot and cold at the same time.
“Sorry. You didn’t have to wait.”
“If I didn’t want to, I wouldn’t have.”
Still moving slowly, you gather up your bag from where it partially spilled on the floor all over your feet, shoving old receipts and pads and chapstick back in with the reckless abandon of a person who isn’t nearly aware enough of social cues to be in a car alone with their hot boss.
Whilst you're grabbing and shoving, Dr. Abbot reaches into his back seat, rifles around for a bit, and then drops something rather unceremoniously over your head and shoulders. After a quiet “hey” you pull it into your lap, and then that hot feeling is back in full force.
It’s a rain jacket. Clearly Dr. Abbot’s. You can see his name written on the inside pocket. It’s nice too. Definitely not the kind of rain jacket you could afford on an intern’s budget.
“For the next time your car dies,” He clarifies, as if the jacket’s purpose is the thing that’s stupefied you, not the fact that he’s the one giving it to you, “In case of rain.”
“You really don’t have to,” your words are rushed and clunky in your mouth, tumbling over each other in your haste to say something, anything, “I mean, I can just buy my own—“
“First of all,” He cuts you off, voice smooth and rough at the same time, “Do I seem to be the kind of guy in the habit of doing things I don’t want to? And second of all…”
He tilts his head, gaze sharp. “Are you really going to buy one for yourself?”
Your mouth goes dry.
“I was planning on looking online—“
Dr. Abbot interrupts you. “Now you don’t have to.”
Like it’s that easy. Does he want it to be?
“Dr. Abbot, I—“
“Jack.”
His grin goes from mild to shit-eating as you stare at him, obviously radiating confusion.
“Jack,” you start, testing out the name in your mouth, hearing how it sounds in the air. “I can take care of myself. You don’t need to give me your jacket. I’ve been doing just fine on my own.”
“Kid—“
The prickling of perceived weakness makes anger spark in your chest.
“Don’t call me kid like I’m stupid.”
Dr. Abb— Jack seems simultaneously impressed that you interrupted him for a change and vaguely put out.
He holds up a finger, effectively silencing anything else you were thinking of saying.
“I don’t call you kid because I think you’re stupid. I don’t think you’re stupid. You’d know if I thought you were stupid, because I would tell you. ‘Kid’ is a…” He trails off, free hand tapping thoughtful rhythms on the steering wheel, “…Nickname. Term of endearment. Whatever you want to call it, but it’s not derogatory.”
Jack holds up a second finger.
“You have not been taking care of yourself. If you were, you wouldn’t have a low grade fever, and you would’ve called me as your boss or one of your friends to drive you instead of walking after your car died. You’ve been surviving. There’s a difference.”
Shame burns white hot through you— all your recent failings laid out by the person you want least to notice them. Clearly, he has.
Possibly out of pity in response to your no doubt miserable expression, Jack continues.
“Don’t beat yourself up about it. It’d be an honest-to-god miracle if any intern managed to properly take care of themself. Hell, residents don’t do it either, and neither do attendings. Does Robby strike you as the kind of man who takes perfect care of himself?”
“That depends. Is my answer going to make it back to him?”
Jack huffs a quiet laugh. “Exactly. Doctors make the worst patients, in and out of a hospital setting. Knowing better doesn’t actually make us all that inclined to do better. Terrible misconception.”
He nudges the jacket on your lap. “So just take the jacket. One less thing to worry about.”
Emboldened by his recent streak of kindness towards you and the flush of fever running through your veins, you look over to him.
“You worry about me?”
Something dances in his eyes for a split second, gone before you can blink.
“I worry about all the interns and residents on my service, but especially the ones my best friend has taken a liking to.”
Right. Of course. He only cares because of Robby. And Robby only cares so he can add another doctor to the already short-staffed PTMC. It’s not like Jack actually likes you or anything.
You clutch the jacket to your stomach, finally finding the energy to get out of the car. Jack’s car.
“Well. Thanks for the ride, Dr. Abbot. And the jacket.”
“No problem, kid.”
And if later on that evening, in the safety of your tiny apartment, you take in the deep, fresh, almost spicy smell that makes up Jack, lingering on the jacket, that’s no one’s business but yours.
—
From that night on, it feels like Jack Abbot is everywhere.
Whether it’s something he’s doing on purpose or you’ve just developed a heightened sense to his whereabouts— it doesn’t matter. Sometimes it’s a whiff of his cologne (eerily similar to Dior Sauvage, which makes you shudder. Certainly he didn’t choose a cologne similar to the number one male manipulator scent on purpose?) or seeing his handwriting on a whiteboard or his notes in a chart, he’s there.
You’re being scheduled for night shifts fairly regularly now, in addition to the 24-hour shifts you have the pleasure of being put on as an intern.
Working a double isn’t horrific, really. Exhausting, sure, but Robby and Jack’s solid presence makes the shifts more bearable. Plus, you’re quickly becoming friends with the fresher residents, Whitaker and Santos, plus some of the older residents like Mohan and King. Even Dr. Langdon gives pretty solid advice and mentorship, despite the tension in the air whenever he happens to be working with or near Robby.
Normally, 24 hour shifts are grueling, but not impossible. Somewhere around the 15 or 16 hour mark, the sleep deprivation hits, and you can just coast on stress-induced inertia and a healthy does of energy drinks and mania.
Today, though, has been particularly fucking awful. Maybe it’s the fact that the fever never really went away, or the fact that you started your period the day before (being sick on your period should be illegal.) It’s probably both of those things.
But there isn’t really anything to do but grin and bear it. The day will pass, and you have the next two days off anyways. Just survive the next however-many hours of the shift and then you can go home, dress in exclusively fluffy clothes, and binge watch tv whilst eating heart-stopping junk food.
You’re distracted from your charting, propped up on the counter at the nurses station by a light tap on your shoulder and someone saying your name.
Dr. Langdon has sidled up next you, voice hushed.
“Hey, uh. I just wanted to let you know that you seem to have… bled through.”
If a spontaneous earthquake could open a chasm beneath your feet and swallow you whole, now would be the time.
“Fuck fuck-ity fuck fuck,” You mumble, wiping your hands down your face. “Right. Yeah. Of course. Thank you for letting me know.”
In a moment that is as mortifying as it is kind of sweet, Langdon passes you a hoodie that is clearly his.
“To tie around your waist,” He clarifies, holding the object out across the meager space between the two of you, voice a bit awkward and stilted, like you might decide to spit in his face or something.
You don’t actually know what it is that Dr. Langdon did before your arrival that makes the break room go quiet when he walks in (unless Dr. King is there) but you don’t particularly care. If it was truly something horrific that you should be worried about, he wouldn’t be working here. Robby wouldn’t let that kind of thing slide.
So you take the offered hoodie with a strained smile (can this shift just be over) and speed-walk to the break room, praying no one decides to snag you on the way there.
What you should do is go to your locker where your stash of pads, tampons, spare underwear, and extra scrubs are, and then probably the bathroom to get changed, so you can keep on going but you also just saw Dr. King go into the break room and you just really need a hit of her specific brand of optimism.
The woman in question perks up when she notices your arrival, hastily eating the same snack she always eats around this time— a tiny bag of pretzels.
She watches as you collapse into the chair across from her, letting your head thunk onto the table.
“Bad shift?”
“Bad life,” You grumble. “Dr. Langdon had to give me his hoodie to tie around my waist because I bled through onto my scrubs. Like a middle schooler who doesn’t know what pad sizes are for.”
Dr. King nods thoughtfully. “He asked me if it would be weird of him to let you know and offer his hoodie. To which I replied that periods are a normal bodily function and he’s a doctor.”
“Here here,” You half-heartedly cheer, any actual cheer or enthusiasm severely lacking in your voice. “How did you survive your intern year, Dr. King?”
“We’ve been working together for awhile, you can call me Mel,”
She pops another pretzel in her mouth before answering. “But to answer your question, I mostly just kept telling myself that failing wasn’t an option. Which. Probably isn’t helpful, or good advice, but it worked for me. Something that’s nice is if you have a fellow intern or doctor that you enjoy working with. I know the other two interns who matched into the PTMC dropped out of the course, so it’s just you, but you have Dr. Robby, right?”
You nod, picking absently at a spot on the table and ignoring the way that it wasn’t Robby who popped into your head, but Jack.
Your teeny, ignorable crush on him has become a full-blown thing, with semi-weekly dreams about him in various… situations, and casual daydreams at all hours of the day of what it would be like to just be with him, or hear him, in any capacity that couldn’t be qualified as work or a boss checking on his employee. Intern. Whatever.
Hormonal and fever-ish, you suddenly feel like you’re going to explode and die if you don’t have someone to confide in right this very second. You haven’t heard Mel really talk about anyone you work with outside of professional doctor-to-doctor conversation, not even about Dr. Langdon, who she seems almost suspiciously close with.
“Mel,” You start, voice a little too thick and watery to just be talking about your stupid, annoying, one-sided workplace crush, “Can I tell you a secret?”
She seems to consider the pros and cons first, and looks fairly caught off guard, but she answers. “Um. Sure?”
“Have you ever had a crush on a coworker before? Or like, a boss or mentor?”
Mel sets down her bag of pretzels. “Is this about Dr.—“
“I have the biggest crush on Dr. Abbot and I think it’s ruining my life.”
The words burst out of you all at once, and Mel’s expression goes from shocked, to confused, before finally settling in abject amusement.
“Ah,” She says, sliding the pretzels across to you. “Um. Well I personally don’t have a crush on Dr. Abbot, but I think I understand the sentiment.”
You bury your face into your hands and groan. “It’s awful. It’s so cliche. It’s so fucking Grey’s Anatomy.”
“I’ve never actually seen that show. Becca likes it though.”
Mel allows you a few moments of wallowing and pretzel eating before she speaks again.
“Have you… acted on it?”
“No!” You snap your head up. “I mean. No, I haven’t. I’m not naive enough to think that he would reciprocate. He’s an attending and I’m an intern.”
She leans in. “But…?”
“But sometimes… I wonder? I don’t know. I’m probably crazy. He drove me home the other day, cause my car died, and it was raining, and I got slapped by a patient, and that was when I first came down with this stupid fever, and like, that’s normal, right?”
Mel nods. “Fr— Langdon drives me to work when we share shifts, and sometimes when we don’t. I think Dr. Santos and Dr. Whitaker carpool too. So maybe?”
“Right. Yeah.”
She takes the pretzel bag back. “Is there more evidence that makes you feel crazy?”
Your skin flushes hot at the memory alone.
“He gave me his rain jacket. To keep.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
Mel once again takes a few minutes, and the rest of her pretzels before responding.
“I’m honestly not the best person to ask for advice about this. I’ve been told I can be… dense when it comes to romantic endeavors.”
You shrug. “You’re a great listener, and you haven’t steered me wrong in the past.”
She brightens. “That’s good! I think my advice would be to talk to Dr. Mohan. She has experience with your… particular situation.”
Mel tosses the empty pretzel bag and heads toward the door. “I’ll let Robby know you’re taking ten, so don’t worry about someone looking for you while you’re changing.”
“You’re the best. I love you.”
The resident flushes at your gratitude, and then ducks out the door, leaving you alone to stew on her advice.
—
Talking to Dr. Mohan proves difficult, at first. How exactly do you start that conversation? “Hey, I heard you had advice on having a world-ending crush on your boss, got any tips?”
Additionally, she’s kind of hard to track down. You greatly respect Dr. Mohan’s work ethic and truly aspire to her unflinching devotion to patient care at the PTMC.
After a few days (which turns into a few weeks, because you are an emotional coward) of trying (and failing) to find a moment to talk, Dr. Mohan actually ends up finding you.
“Hey!” She jogs up to you as you’re walking to your car, a too-bright smile on her face for the fact that you both just got off a fourteen hour shift.
“Sorry to be that annoying coworker who talks to you in the parking lot, but I wanted to catch you before you left. Mel said you wanted to talk to me?”
“Right!” You stammer, slightly mortified. You admire Dr. Mohan so much and really want her to think you’re capable but you really need some advice on Jack Abbot as a whole, and it sounds like she’s the only expert around. “Yes. That. It’s a really normal question, you know.”
Dr. Mohan just nods, a smile still fixed on her face, like this is a totally normal conversation. “Uh, sure?”
There’s a beat of silence where you both stare at each other, and then she gasps.
“This is about Abbot, isn’t it?”
You groan, throwing your head back in defeat. “Am I that obvious?”
She laughs goodnaturedly. “No. Probably not. You’re just the only intern in the ED right now so I try to make it a habit to keep an eye on you. Plus, Mel is literally the only person in the world who knows about my now-dead crush on him, so. I just connected the dots.”
“He’s so hot, Dr. Mohan. I feel like I’m dying.”
She makes a noise of sympathy. “He is. It’s fucking annoying, at a certain point.”
“Thank you!” You shout, “Like it’s just so there. It should be illegal to just walk around and look like that. I should be focusing on like, studying and learning, but instead I’m just harboring this stupid crush on an attending.”
“Have you ever seen Grey’s—“
“Yes. I know. I can’t be Meredith. Meredith was like, always a mess. Am I a mess?”
Mohan purses her lips. “Well. You did just say you felt like you were dying.”
“I know,” You sigh. “It makes me feel… shallow. I like being a doctor. I was so excited to get matched into the PTMC, and this stupid crush is throwing me off my game.”
“It can’t be that bad.”
“On my first night shift rotation I dropped a scalpel, picked it back up, and then ripped the purse strings on my first appendectomy.”
She winces. “Oh. That’s not… great.”
Your hand finds its way to your comfort necklace. “He found me crying in the supply closet like some medical student, and then he comforted me. It was terrible.”
Mohan starts ambling towards the direction you assume her car is in. “Well, if it’s any consolation, I’ve been caught crying in the supply closet several times. I think it’s a right of passage. And as for that second part…”
She shrugs. “Abbot gives credit where credit is due, but he won’t coddle you. If he actually offered real comfort or advice or whatever, then he meant it.”
“That’s what he said. It just didn’t really help the whole crush-on-him part. And then there was the slapping incident, and he drove me home, and now I have his rain jacket in my backseat in case my car dies again.”
Mohan actually looks taken back.
“Okay. It sounds to me like this is a situation that is in serious need of wine. Do you drink?”
“Whenever I have a spare twenty dollars.”
She grins. “I happen to have a couple bottles at home that might do the trick. Follow me back to my place?”
“Yes please.”
Wine and, eventually, takeout at Samira’s is much more enjoyable than you expected— considering the fact that you’re an intern and she’s a resident. She confides that she doesn’t have very many friends outside of the ED and was excited at the opportunity to have “real girl-time”.
She shares how she weathered her own seemingly life-ending crush on Jack, gasps and screams at the appropriate times when you tell her about the slapping, the events that occurred in the break room afterwards, the drive home, and the jacket.
You leave her apartment feeling lighter than ever. Like life might be worth living. Like you could survive your intern year.
Maybe everything will be okay.
—
Everything is not okay.
You’re now two full weeks into a never-ending fever, you keep getting stuck with shitty shifts (how many times a month can one person possibly be scheduled to work a double?) and top it all off, you’ve been pissed on not once, but twice in the same fucking shift.
Santos snorts when she sees you go by in your third set of scrubs for the day.
You shoot her a look. “Supportive as ever, Dr. Santos.”
“I try.”
You sink into the chair next to hers, taking a moment to press the heels of your hands into your eyes and maybe, like, take a thirty second nap.
It doesn’t help much.
There’s a particular misery in watching the day-shift rotation handoff with the night shift and not being able to join in the process. Because you’re still there. And will be, until you see them again for your handoff, in twelve fucking hours.
Patients tend to get bitchier the later it gets, and it’s one of those nights where every patient bleeds into the next in a never-ending sea of complaints, pain, and fixing.
The fixing is fine. You like the fixing.
You’re just… having a hard time keeping up with everything while the fever perpetually runs you down. It’s the kind of thing where no amount of sleep can help you. Unless it was for 48 hours straight and then you got another 48 hours off after that to relax while you’re awake, and then another 48 hours to be productive.
A vacation. A week off. You’re describing taking a week off work. It’s comical, actually. Imagine requesting a week off from work. Gloria or whoever it is would never grant that. Not as an intern.
You notice Jack lingering around your general vicinity, which is fairly normal on a night like tonight. Technically, as the only intern on shift, you’re the only liability he has to really worry about.
Somewhere around the eighteen hour mark, he slides into the chair next to you while you’re charting.
“You’re flagging.”
Your eyes burn as you tap information into the tablet, then check on the computer in front of you. “I’m fine. I just need a Redbull or something.”
He slides the tablet out of your hands. “Part of being a good doctor is knowing when to take a break. Can’t be a good doctor if you’re falling asleep during the exam, right?”
“I would never fall asleep during an exam.”
He shrugs. “I’ve seen it happen.”
Jack jerks his head towards the break room. “Take five. Get an energy drink or whatever. Then I want you on chairs for at least an hour.”
“Yes sir.”
He rolls his eyes. “Get going.”
Chairs don't prove to be as uneventful as you (and probably Jack) hoped it would be. You get vomited on by a teenage girl, who apologizes profusely when she finally manages to stop throwing up, narrowly avoid a swing from a patient that quickly becomes a behavioral case, and become an unwilling participant in another patient’s doctor fantasy.
Security had to get involved with that last one. It was. Something.
Your shift ends with little fanfare. It’s honestly a miracle you survived. You’re exhausted, achey, and still feverish. The only thing you can think about is crawling into your bed, indulging in a rare expense of turning your heat up, and sleeping until your next shift.
Walking into your apartment ends up being a slap in the face. First of all, it’s fucking freezing. As if you left every single window open while you were gone. Secondly, it’s dark. Like, not even the clock on the microwave is on.
“Fuck,” you mumble under your breath, tears beginning to burn with unshed tears digging through your bag and fumbling with your phone, about to text your landlord when you see that he’s already texted.
Eric (Landlord): Power and AC is down. Might take some time to fix. Power should be back on by tonight.
And that’s just the last straw, really.
You slam the door behind you, not even bothering to go inside your apartment at all, chest tight and face hot, you race down the stairs, trying to find Samira’s contact through blurry eyes. When you think you’ve found it you click call, collapsing on the curb with your body doubled over, crying like a crazy person into your knees, at something like nine in the morning.
The phone rings for a bit, and you’re about to give up when the line finally stops and somebody picks up.
“Hello?”
It’s not Samira who answers. It’s Jack.
You sniffle. “Why are you answering Samira’s phone?”
“I didn’t. I answered my phone. Because you called me. Are you okay?”
“Oh,” You decide to ignore his question, “I meant to call Samira. Sorry.”
“Wait,” Jack’s voice comes out all rough and tinny through the speaker, but even distorted through a phone, you could listen to it for hours, “Answer the question. Are you okay?”
Your bottom lip wobbles dangerously.
“The power’s out in my building. And the heating went out too. My landlord said the power won’t be on until tonight, and I just wanted to go to sleep, but it’s cold and I'm tired and this stupid fever won’t go away.”
“Do you have a place to stay?”
Always a man of action, Jack is.
You shrug, then make a non-committal noise when you remember he can’t see it. “I was supposed to call Samira and see if she’d let me sleep on her couch.”
“I have a guest bedroom.”
The statement hangs in the crisp morning air. You think of Jack’s encouraging advice, Jack’s steady presence, Jack’s warm car and his nice smelling rain- jacket. Jack, Jack, Jack.
“Jack?”
“Yes?”
“What’s your address?”
The drive over involves bawling your eyes out to Vienna by Billy Joel. It’s just that kind of day.
You have no problems finding parking (miraculously) and no one stops you as you head up to Jack’s apartment as directed.
It’s… fancy. Like, polished floor lobby, lounge area adjacent to the front desk fancy.
The actual building itself isn’t very tall, nothing like a skyscraper, so it’s not exactly surprising that Jack’s apartment is the penthouse. It’s just suddenly very awkward standing in front of the door, in the same sweatshirt you’ve had since high school, sweats that have seen better years, looking exactly like the kind of girl who sobbed on the ride over to Billy Joel.
Jack opens the door almost immediately after you knock, and.
If seeing him in scrubs was bad, it doesn’t hold a fucking candle to him in a tight, army green shirt and grey sweatpants. Grey sweatpants. That couldn’t have been intentional, right? Is he online enough to know these things? God.
His features soften when he takes in your tear-streaked face and disheveled appearance.
He makes a low noise in his throat.
“Oh, you poor thing. Come here,”
Jack had actually been gesturing to the apartment, saying ‘come inside’ but the dam breaks the moment he says “poor thing” and you don’t have the wherewithal to think anything more complex than “Jack=Comfort and Safety".
Your bag drops with a dull thud onto the ground and then you’re crashing into him, face pressed into his chest and arms wrapped around his middle. You can barely find it within yourself to be embarrassed.
Jack doesn’t react at first, going completely stiff in your hold, and you think maybe you’ve gone and fucked this up too, like everything good in your life, but right when you move to pull away a hand finds its way to the back of your head, and another rubs circles on your back.
“Poor girl,” he murmurs, voice a soothing rumble with your ear close to his chest, “They been running you ragged?”
You nod uselessly, feeling raw and cut open— like you’ve been smashed against a rock and everything you keep tucked inside is spilling out and you can’t stop it.
“I’m so tired.” You half-mumble-half-sob into him, a sentiment that feels too light to convey everything that’s happened since you became an intern at the PTMC, and everything else you don’t talk about that happened before.
“I know sweetheart, I know,” Jack is solid beneath your cheek and arms, a lifeboat in a storm. “How about we get you inside and get you warm, huh? That sound nice?”
At the promise of warmth you finally detach from him, shame burning through you when you eye the wet spot on his shirt.
“Sorry,” You say, voice barely above a whisper. “I think I got snot on your shirt.”
“Trust me kid, it’s seen worse.”
He grabs your bag before you can even make a move for it, and you trail behind him into his apartment, attempting to ground yourself by looking around his apartment.
It’s nice. Lived in, not sterile. It doesn’t, actually, look the inside of a dentist’s office, like you were half expecting. Most new apartments have that doctor’s office lobby feel. Not exactly comfortable when you’re a doctor and the goal of home is to not remind you of your job.
Jack hangs your bag on a hook by the door, right next to his own. Something twinges in your chest at the sight.
There’s a feeling under your skin you can’t place as you shuffle into his apartment, something warm and skittish that aches for this to not be a one time thing, to be able to compare the pale morning light you’re watching now to late afternoon sun. To know where he keeps his mugs, what drawer the silverware is in, if he’s got a junk drawer with random shit in it, and what the random shit is. What it feels like to be in his kitchen, shoulders brushing.
But that’s a lot of complicated things to name or voice just past the threshold of the foyer, so you wrap your arms around yourself and toe your shoes off, then pad quietly after him.
Jack is— inviting, or maybe enticing; all those words that beckon the skittish thing closer and it feels just on the tip of danger to obediently sit on the couch he ushers you to.
“By the way,” Jack says somewhere behind you, maybe in the kitchen? “I have a cat. His name is Charlie. He probably won’t come near you, but be warned, he’s an asshole when he wants to be.”
“Oh, that’s fine. I like cats. Especially the asshole ones.”
“That explains a lot of things.”
His statement is kind of loaded, chock full of subtext you don’t care to parse through at the moment.
“Um,” You start, feeling a bit unsteady, “Is— Do you mind if I shower? I kind of smell gross probably, and I feel… grimy. Your apartment seems clean and I’d hate to get my hospital grime on anything.”
Jack just chuckles. “One, I wouldn’t care if you got ‘hospital grime’ on anything because that would be a very hypocritical thing to care about, and two, of course you can shower. Do you have spare clothes?”
“I might’ve forgotten to grab those.”
Another huffy laugh. “That’s fine. You can borrow some of mine. I’ll leave them on the bed.”
That’s like. Wow. Yeah. You’re just gonna borrow some clothes from him. From Jack. You’re going to shower in Jack’s shower and use whatever bodywash he has (hopefully not 5-in-one) and then put on his clothes and you are totally capable of being Completely Normal about these things.
“I already started on dinner when you said you were coming over. Should be done by the time you get out of the shower. Chicken noodle okay?”
Damn Jack Abbot and damn your shitty emotional regulation and damn your life for putting you in these situations.
“Yeah,” You croak, thinking about things like soup and family and being cold and strong and alone, “Yeah that’s fine. Thank you.”
Jack politely does not comment on the fact that soup is reducing you to a tangled heap of emotions and tears, and instead directs you to where his shower is and says to use whatever you want and take however long you want. He says want, not need. You’re not sure if there’s an intention behind the word choice.
Once in the shower, you allow yourself time to cry, to feel awful and self-pitying and all those things that are terrible to go through in front of another person. His shower is expensive and the water is warm and he does not have 5-in-one. There’s a litter box nestled next to the toilet, and it’s not funny, but it kind of is, because Jack would be the kind of guy to look at a litter box and put it right next to the toilet. Everything in its place.
Maybe that’s your problem. You haven’t felt like anything is in the right place in years.
You want to stay in the shower, in the bubble of protection it provides, but the idea of running up Jack’s water bill is enough to guilt you into getting out. You shiver, dry, aggressively attempt to make yourself look less like a wreck at the sink, and then tip-toe into the attached bedroom and carefully pull on the clothes Jack left for you on the bed; a faded, oversized college shirt, and a comfy pair of sweatpants.
They smell like him. You smell like him, like his body wash. The house smells like him. Everything you take in is a pleasant assault of Jack, Jack, Jack.
Enough guilt to fuel an entire room of ex-Catholic’s is the only thing keeping you from snooping around his room. The idea of stumbling upon something private or hidden away makes you feel slimy and gross, so you exit the bedroom and pretend like you don’t feel like a foster dog on its first night home from the shelter.
(Do shelter dogs miss the shelter? Do they miss its familiarity? Do dogs miss anything at all?)
The apartment smells of more spices and good smelling food than you privately thought Jack capable of. You’d read him as the kind of guy to subsist on takeout and maybe like, protein bars. But he’s dutifully stirring a metal pot with all the diligence of the military man that he once was.
Quietly, as if he might throw the wooden spoon he’s stirring with if you make too much noise or take up too much space, you carefully pull out a barstool in front of his kitchen island, the one closest to the door, and haul yourself onto it.
He gives you an examining glance over his shoulder, turns a knob on the stove, then rests his forearms on the island counter across from you. His rather delicious looking forearms, you might add.
“Feeling better after your shower?”
You hum an affirmation, folding your arms and resting your chin on them.
“Isn’t it kind of weird to make soup for breakfast?”
He shrugs. “It’s dinner for us. Or, well, me. I’m not sure your body knows what meal it is.”
He taps a pointer finger rhythmically on the counter. “Any word from your landlord?”
“No. Sorry for… all of this. I know you’re tired.”
“I wish you’d stop apologizing for things I don’t mind doing for you.”
You don’t really know how to respond to that, or what to do with how it makes you feel, so you elect to save it for later. Good at compartmentalizing, ED doctors are.
You clear your throat. “I can call Samira whenever. She’d probably be excited to have girl time. So you know. Don’t feel like— I have other options. If or when you want me to leave.”
“Do you want to leave?”
You wish he’d stop asking questions you don’t want to answer.
You try to play it off, smother your fear and exhaustion with humor. Robby’s kid, through and through.
“Well, I can’t have you getting sick of me. You’re the only person I know who has a very rob-able house if this whole internship doesn’t pan out.”
Jack straightens, shoulders pulling and flexing. “Who said I’d get sick of you? Maybe I like the idea of you in my house.”
“Do you?”
You ask the question before you’re aware of how terrified you are of the answer. But you’ve already said it, and it feels nice to be the one asking the hard question instead.
Jack, likely experienced in this sort of thing, doesn’t look outwardly bothered by it, but he gets a sort-of-sad look on his face, almost like he’s disappointed that you had to ask.
“Have I given you any reason to think otherwise?”
“I don’t know,” You look down, picking at a hangnail to avoid his expression and his eyes and his everything, “I don’t want to assume anything.”
“You’ve already assumed quite a bit.”
You scrunch your face. “That’s different. Those are safe assumptions.”
“Are they?”
“Obviously, it’s safer to assume that you don’t want me to stay here, or at least not for very long, because if I assume that I do I’ll bother you and I want you to—“
You cut yourself off, jaw shutting with a firm click, but the end of the sentence hangs in the air unspoken anyways. It’s not hard to figure out what you were going to say.
I want you to like me.
Jack sighs, and alarm blares are going off in your head and your chest starts to feel tight and cold despite the warmth of his apartment, and then he’s rounding the island and you turn your body to follow him —never turn you back, never let your guard down— and then he’s standing in front of you, over you, and you’re not sure if you want to run or metaphorically curl up at his feet, tail tucked.
It’s pathetic. It’s embarrassing. It’s impossible to ignore.
(What does a shelter dog think, on that first night? Do they hope? Do dogs hope?)
He raises a hand, slowly, giving you a chance to lean away, and when you don’t, it comes to rest on the side of your face, his thumb swiping at the barely-there wetness from earlier tears.
It’s cleaning the cut from the slap, it’s a kindness you can curl into, and it might be a threat. Might be bad, might turn harsh and painful, might leave without a word.
Unlike that day in the break room, there’s no fluorescent lights to suck any heat out of the room and no gloves as a barrier; as a reminder of who he is, of what you are, of how things work.
It’s just you and Jack, in Jack’s apartment, wearing Jack’s clothes, and pretty soon you’re going to eat food that Jack made. Just for you.
And you think maybe, possibly, if he stops here you could kind of hold onto this moment for the rest of your life and it would get you through being alive and strong and alone, and you’d make it through this, whatever this is, if he stops here.
He doesn’t. He starts talking.
“I like knowing that you’re safe. That you’re taken care of. I like knowing with certainty that these things are true because I’m the one making sure of it.”
Your breath hitches in your chest.
“That’s kind of a lot of work, though.”
He hums. “It is. Luckily, I just so happen to be a pretty hard worker.”
Everything about the current situation is a lot and your nerves are over-taxed and dialed up to hundred, so it’s not surprising that you start crying again.
Jack brings up a second hand to the other side of your face and gently wipes away the tears as they come. It feels sort of like the physical version of everything he’s been doing for you since that day in the supply closet.
“You don’t have to do anything, or say anything, or make any kind of decision right now, okay? We can do whatever you want. I’ll do whatever you want.”
There’s the word choice again; want, not need. Is there a difference? What does the difference mean to him? What does he mean? Why is he doing any of this?
Jack's phone goes off in his pocket, and he steps back, drops his hands, and goes back to the stove.
Jack said you don’t have to make a decision right now, but you kind of feel like if you don’t do something you’re going to be sick with everything that’s swirling and clawing inside you, threatening to burst. Like the very essence of you is going to explode, and your soul will be painted on Jack’s perfectly decorated walls.
That would be something, wouldn’t it.
You stay seated at the island, turning to stare at Jack’s back while he adds the final touches to the soup. He doesn’t talk anymore, but he keeps looking back every few minutes, like he’s making sure you’re still there.
Eventually Jack turns the stove off, dishes up a bowl of soup for you, and sets it gently in front of you. He uses his pinky to cushion the placing of the bowl, so there’s no loud clinking noise when he sets the bowl down.
There’s a tiny sprig of parsley on top of the soup, right in the center. Like a Panera ad for soup in September.
You start crying again, in earnest.
“I’m sorry,” You gasp, pressing the heels of your hands into your eyes. “I’m sorry, I don’t know why I’m— I don’t know. I don’t know.”
You’re hoping the last sentence encompasses an entire lifetime of events, accidents, mistakes, and memories that have never been able to find a place in your head except dead center, at the forefront of your mind at all times, stamped on your forehead for anyone with eyes to see.
Your life hasn’t been wants or choices for a very long time. And here Jack is, giving you an array of both, and saying things like he wants you to want.
“I’ll do whatever you want.”
“Hey, hey hey hey, shhh,” Strong arms wrap around you, tucking your head into a warm chest, effectively shutting off all sensory input that isn’t Jack. “You’re okay, you’re safe, you’re okay, I got you.”
He rubs circles into your back, then switches to tracing shapes, and he lets you cry into him again and he doesn’t tell you to stop, or to calm down, or you’re being too much too fast.
“You’re okay, you’re gonna be okay sweetheart. Take your time. I’m not going anywhere.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
—
You, embarrassingly, fall asleep right there, sitting at the kitchen island over a bowl of soup and twenty-something years of holding up your life with hands that never quite seemed big enough to do it.
You wake up in Jack’s bed, his comforter pulled up to your chin and the clock at the bedside table reading 8:17 p.m. There’s the muffled sound of several voices coming from beyond the door.
Holy shit. What the fuck.
Deciding to ignore the implication that Jack carried you to bed, you mentally take stock of what’s around you.
In front of the clock is your phone (plugged in to charge), a glass of water, and a note with Jack’s handwriting on it.
Kid-
I’ll probably be in the ED for the night shift by the time you wake up. I called Mohan (who called Mel, who was with Langdon, for reasons unknown) to go to your place and grab you some things. There may be people in the apartment when you wake up. You are in no way obligated to interact with them. They have to leave eventually.
Charlie is in the room with you because he hates strangers, but he probably won’t leave the bathroom. Probably. Drink water and eat something, if you can. Text me if you need anything.
The voices beyond the door are, more than likely, the aforementioned individuals who have now seen the glorified closet you call home. It’s not ideal, but you’re wrung out and don’t have the energy to really care. Besides, Samira and Mel are too nice to judge you that hard (you hope) and from what you’ve heard, Langdon isn’t really in a place to say anything.
On one hand, going out there requires socializing. Which, ew. On the other hand, Samira and Mel are the best. Langdon is maybe okay.
Before you can talk yourself out of it, you shuffle out of bed and then continue shuffling to the door, hoping that whatever you look like isn’t too terribly awful.
Samira, Mel, and Langdon are standing around the kitchen island, various takeout containers and bottles of alcohol littering the space. For some reason, Trinity, Dennis, and Robby are also present.
Samira and Langdon are engaged in what looks to be a rather animated discussion-slash-argument, and Mel is standing just a little closer to Langdon than what could be considered normal for friends. Trinity is very obviously ignoring Langdon’s general existence, bickering with Dennis on the couch, and Robby is seated in the armchair by the window, nursing a beer and watching both conversations unfold.
You sniff aggressively, and all heads snap to you.
“There are more of you here then there’s supposed to be,” You grumble, scrubbing at your face. “Why are you all here?”
Mel is the first to speak.
“It was Frank actually!” Trinity rolls her eyes, and part of you wants to share the sentiment, “He figured Trinity would be upset that something happened to you and he knew and didn’t tell her, so Trinity decided that me and Samira would get your stuff while everyone else stayed here in case you woke up before we came back!”
Wow, okay, that’s. A Lot.
You squint. “That doesn’t explain why you’re all here. I mean it does, but only like, why you’re here physically.”
Robby frowns. “We heard that you were going through a rough time and you had to stay with Jack, so we came.”
Trinity snorts on the couch and Dennis, next to her, looks like he’s about to have an aneurysm.
Robby shoots her a look, but continues. “We care about you. We— I don’t want you to feel like you have to do everything on your own. In or out of the ED.”
Trinity blows out a loud sigh and low whistle. “Jee-zus Robby, give the woman some time to wake up before trying to induce tears again.”
Robby does look a little apologetic, maybe a teensy bit chastised (and annoyed that Trinity was the one doing the chastising) and turns his deep brown eyes back to you.
"Sorry. Can't help these Dad tendencies, you know."
Your face gets hot, maybe a tiny, wet prickle behind your eyes forms while Robby smiles, and the tension leaves the room all in one go, and you start to think that maybe things are in the right place.
–
At the ED, Jack Abbot, who's been checking his phone whenever he gets a free moment like a highschooler with a crush, opens the first text that pops up on his screen after hours of waiting.
It's a picture from Robby. You, with your head thrown back in a cackle of a laugh, not a single bit of stress evident in any of the lines of your body. There's one text accompanying the picture:
Please don't make me give you a shovel talk. I think you already know what's at stake here.
Jack snorts and pockets his phone, because yeah, he does.
–
When Jack finally gets back to his apartment, he's half-expecting to see the kind of mess that a large grouping of obnoxious people leave behind. Trash, maybe a few red solo cups, empty takeout containers, someone asleep on his couch, someone passed out on the floor.
He's not expecting to see a clean space. The only evidence that people were there at all is some rearranged pillows, a half-empty bottle of wine on the counter, and some new takeout menus on his fridge.
And then there's you. You're lying on the couch, eyes glued to the TV, watching a show he doesn't really recognize. There's a well-loved backpack on the floor, just under the coffee table. The shocking bit is Charlie, his resident asshole, is 'loafing' right on your chest, purring away.
You lift your head when you hear the jingle of his keys, a smile immediately brightening your face. He mentally takes a picture, right there, so he can remember this exact moment forever.
"What'd you bribe him with?" Jack says instead of something much more neurotic, like 'You don't have to go back to your place when the power comes back on.'
You shrug, unaware of his emotional and romantic pain. "You were right. He came out from under the bed after everybody left. He kind of growled at me for a little bit, but once I settled down here he just kind of... came right up."
You plant a little kiss to the top of his head, right in between furry ears. Great, now Jack's jealous of a senior cat with one ear who licks his own butt. "How could I resist this face? I see why you brought him home."
Jack rounds the end of the couch, shuffling by, and Charlie opens his eyes just enough to shoot him a look that Jack takes to mean: If you make her get up and move me, I will kill you in your sleep.
Jack does not disturb his cat as he sits down on the couch. There's a moment when things almost get hairy- you pull your legs back when he goes to sit, slightly jostling The Asshole, who pins his only ear back in annoyance.
Jack solves this problem by taking your legs, clad in some soft flannel pajama pants and pink fuzzy socks, and lays them across his lap. There. Problem solved.
The warmth of your legs on his lap and the look on your face is reward enough for him. He can't think of a way he'd rather spend his time.
Jack, in a rare show of mercy, does not tease you, and decides that you've probably had enough excitement for one day.
"So," He says instead, looking up at the TV and grimacing at the mutilated corpse on the screen, "What are we watching?"
He watches you shrink into yourself. He hates it when you do that. He hates that you feel like you have to.
"Uh, Bones. I can turn it off, though. I'm sure you don't want to watch this."
He doesn't answer the question you've not-subtly voiced, instead choosing to redirect the conversation.
"Why did you put it on?"
You start chewing on your lower lip. Your signature 'I don't want to answer this question so I'm going to think really hard about it' move.
"It's kind of my comfort show? I don't know. I watched it a lot growing up. We didn't have cable, but the hotels I stayed at sometimes did. I'd wait until my dad fell asleep and then I'd turn on the TV and watch from the sci-fi or drama channels. Watched a lot of Bones. Supernatural too, and sometimes Doctor Who, if it was on. But Bones was my favorite."
The characters on the screen are involved in some sort of car chase now, police siren flashing on a black SUV. Jack isn't paying attention to that at all, because this is the first time since the day you walked into the PTMC and introduced yourself that he's ever heard you talk about your childhood.
"How come?"
"I don't know. I've always liked procedural shows. Had a huge House MD phase. Death and bones and corpses and stuff has never really grossed me out, which is part of the reason I became a doctor. But also..."
You point to the male character. "You see him? That's Booth. Seeley Booth. They all have kind of crazy names. He's an FBI agent, and his partner is that woman there. Temperance Brennan. Booth calls her Bones."
"She doesn't look like an FBI agent."
You smile. "She's not. She's a forensic anthropologist, but she consults on murder cases and stuff like that because she's kind of a genius. She's smart, strong, and capable. She and Booth don't always get along, because they both can be headstrong and stubborn. But he respects and trusts her, implicitly. No matter what. They love each other."
Your throat bobs, but your voice is steady when you speak.
"And when Brennan needs him, if she's in trouble or she needs him by her side, even if she doesn't know she does, he's always there. He always saves her."
Jack can picture it, in his mind. You, small and alone, watching these characters on some shitty hotel TV and getting it into your head that this kind of thing only exists in TV shows. He pictures you dreaming of having a Booth, of having someone to be there for you, to pick you up when you fall. He thinks of you crying in the supply closet and how quietly you'd done it. Almost silent.
He thinks of what happens to a person to make them learn how to cry without making a sound.
He rests a hand on your ankle, fingers instinctively drifting towards the pulse point there- posterior tibial. He keeps two fingers on it, even though he can't feel it through your fuzzy socks. With his thumb he makes circles, because he's seen how you lean into Robby's shoulder grabs, how you preen at physical and verbal praise, how you'd slumped like a marionette with its strings cut into his arms just yesterday.
"Jack?" Your voice is tentative, unsure.
"Hmm?"
"Am I..." You start chewing your lip again, "Are you— I don't to assume anything. So if I fuck this up and make you uncomfortable—"
"I want to kiss you."
Jack has learned how to speak fluent you. He knows how to stop an incoming spiral, how to soothe old wounds rearing their heads.
He continues when you don't speak.
"I want you to wear my clothes. I want to take care of you. I want you, in whatever way you'll let me."
"Oh."
"I was laying it on pretty thick, kid."
You look away from him, and this is another moment he'd like to keep forever.
"I thought I was just reading into things!"
"Do you think I call every intern sweetheart?"
Jack is positive Charlie's presence on your stomach is the only thing keeping you from actively squirming in place.
"I thought maybe you were just one of those guys. Samira said it was possible!"
He rolls his eyes. "You can't ask Mohan for romantic advice. She's you in a different font."
"I'm going to take that as a compliment."
You turn back to your show, losing yourself in the plot for a while. When the murderer has been caught and the credits are playing, you look at him again.
"We don't. Um. Can we just keep doing this? For now?"
For the first time since meeting you, Jack gets to say exactly what he's thinking.
"We can do this forever. We can do whatever you want."
Summary: you get a migraine and Helmut helps you through it. [WC 872] [AO3]
Warnings: reader has chronic migraines, fluff,
Request: Zemo x reader where the reader has chronic migraines and he does his best to help her manage @goblin-king-of-anarchy67
You don’t realize it’s coming at first.
It starts as a whisper behind your eyes—faint, almost ignorable. You’re used to it. You’ve always been used to it. So you keep reading, keep pretending the words on the page aren’t beginning to blur, that the candlelight isn’t suddenly too sharp, too loud somehow.
Across the room, Helmut notices before you say anything. He always does. “You’re squinting,” he says softly, not looking up from the record he’s carefully placing onto the turntable. His voice is low, measured, but there’s a shift in it—subtle tension.
“I’m fine,” you murmur. A lie. A practiced one.
The music never starts.
Helmut’s hand stills mid-motion. Then, with deliberate care, he lifts the needle back before it can touch the vinyl. Silence settles instead.
He turns to you fully now.
“Liebling,” he says, quieter, “look at me.”
You don’t want to. The light hurts. Everything is beginning to hurt. But you do. And that’s all it takes. The faint crease between his brows deepens—not dramatic, not panicked. Helmut does not panic. But there is something sharper beneath the surface now. Focus. Precision. Care sharpened into something almost surgical.
“When did it start?”
“A few minutes ago,” you admit, voice small despite yourself.
He crosses the room immediately. Not rushed—never rushed—but efficient. Controlled. Like every movement has already been calculated. “Up,” he says gently, offering his hand.
You hesitate. “I can walk—”
“I know you can,” he interrupts, not unkindly. His thumb brushes once against your knuckles, grounding. “You shouldn’t have to.”
That’s the thing about Helmut Zemo. He never treats you like you’re weak. But he refuses to let you suffer unnecessarily. You let him help you up.
The bedroom is already dim. You don’t remember when he started doing that—keeping one room perpetually prepared, curtains thick and drawn, lights low and warm. A space carved out just for days like this. For you. He guides you to the bed, movements quieter now, like the world itself needs to soften around you.
“Shoes,” he murmurs. You barely register him slipping them off. “Drink this.”
A glass presses into your hand—cool, steady. Water. Always water first.
You take a sip, then another.
“Good,” he says, almost to himself.
The pain is building now—slow, crushing pressure behind your eyes, crawling into your skull. You wince, pressing your fingers to your temple.
His hand intercepts yours. “Don’t,” he says gently. His fingers replace yours. He knows exactly where to press. Not too hard. Not too soft. Just enough to ground you, to dull the sharpest edge of the pain. His thumb moves in slow, deliberate circles at your temple, his other hand bracing lightly at your jaw.
You exhale, shaky. “I hate this,” you whisper.
“I know.” There’s no empty reassurance. No it’ll be fine. Just truth. And presence.
Minutes blur. Or maybe it’s longer.
The pain crests and you curl slightly into yourself. Helmut adjusts instantly, shifting behind you on the bed, guiding you back until your head rests against his chest. One arm wraps around you firm enough that you don’t feel like you’re drifting apart. His fingers find your wrist. Counting. Always counting.
You noticed it once, asked him about it. He’d only said, “Your pulse tells me what you cannot.” Now, he tracks it quietly, adjusting his touch when your breathing stutters, when your body tenses. “Breathe,” he murmurs near your hair. “Slowly. With me.”
You follow his rhythm. In. Out. In. Out. The world narrows to that. To his voice. His hands. The steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek.
At some point, you whisper, “I’m sorry.”
His hand stills. “…For what?”
“For being like this. For—” You gesture weakly. “Ruining things.”
The silence that follows is different. Not soft. Not gentle. Sharp.
Helmut shifts, just enough to tilt your chin upward despite the way you flinch at the movement. “Look at me.”
You do, barely. And there it is—that intensity he usually keeps buried. Not anger. Not at you.
Something more dangerous. “You are not an inconvenience,” he says, each word precise. “You are not a burden. And you do not ‘ruin’ anything.” His thumb brushes under your eye, softer now. “This,” he gestures faintly to you, to the room, to the quiet he has built around you, “is simply something we manage.”
We.
Your throat tightens.
“You understand?”
You nod. He studies you for a second longer, as if committing the moment to memory, making sure the thought is gone—erased.
Then he presses a light kiss to your forehead. “Good.”
The pain doesn’t vanish. It never does. But it dulls. Edges soften. The pressure loosens its grip, bit by bit. You drift, half-asleep, still tucked against him. Helmut doesn’t move. Not when your breathing evens out. Not when your grip on his shirt loosens. Not even when time stretches long past comfort.
He stays exactly where he is—one hand resting over yours, the other still lightly at your temple, just in case. Always just in case.
Because if there’s one thing Helmut Zemo does well, it’s preparation. And if there’s one thing he does better it’s taking care of you.
Jack Abbot finds out that you want to kiss him. It breaks his brain a little.
Because what do you, the angel of the pitt, everyone's favourite nurse, the one who holds the hands of parents and little kids and who sneaks snacks to those who are allowed food and who is so good and kind, want with a man like him.
A man who's scarred and missing a leg, who struggles to sleep through the night, and is a SWAT medic because his therapist told him to get a hobby. A man who's old and widowed and and and ..
But you don't see any of that. You see a man who is kind and yeah damaged but not broken. A man who is big and strong capable and helpful and loving and caring and so so good.
He hears it by accident.
That’s the worst part.
Jack isn’t meant to be in the stairwell — he’d taken the long way down because the lift was too crowded, too loud, too much. His knee had been aching, phantom pain curling up his missing leg like a bad memory, and the quiet seemed like a better option.
Then he hears your voice.
Soft. A little embarrassed. The way you sound when you’re trying to pretend something doesn’t matter as much as it does.
“I just— I don’t know, I think I want to kiss him.”
Jack stops.
Not pauses — stops. Like someone pulled the plug on him. Hand tightening on the rail, breath caught somewhere between his lungs and his throat.
There’s another voice — Santos, maybe — teasing, disbelieving.
“Jack Abbot? You want to kiss Jack?”
You laugh, and it’s nervous now.
“Don’t make it weird.”
“Oh, I’m making it weird. He’s—”
“I know what he is,” you cut in, quieter this time. Softer. Defending.
Jack doesn’t hear the rest.
He can’t.
Because his brain has already short-circuited.
You.
You, who sit with scared parents long after your shift ends.
You, who crouch down to eye level with kids and somehow make hospitals feel less like hospitals.
You, who sneak extra jelly cups to patients when they’re cleared for solids like it’s some kind of sacred mission.
You, who smile at him like he’s just… normal.
You want to kiss him.
Jack grips the railing harder.
It doesn’t make sense.
It doesn’t make sense.
Because what do you want with a man like him?
He’s too old.
That’s the first thing his brain offers up, quick and brutal.
Too old, too worn down, too done.
You’re light. You’re warmth. You’re everything soft in a place that eats people alive.
He’s—
He swallows.
He’s a man who wakes up at 3 a.m. because his body still thinks there are gunshots.
A man who reaches for a leg that isn’t there.
A man who became a SWAT medic because his therapist said find something that gives you purpose again and he didn’t know what else to do with himself.
A man who’s already had a whole life. A whole love.
A man who buried his wife and never really figured out how to come back from that.
And you—
You want to kiss him.
Jack lets out a quiet, disbelieving breath.
“Jesus Christ.”
He avoids you.
Of course he does.
Not obviously. Not in a way anyone else would clock.
But you notice.
You always notice.
He’s a little quicker to leave a room when you walk in. A little more careful not to brush against you in tight spaces. His usual low, dry commentary disappears, replaced with something… stiff.
It hurts more than you expect.
You corner him three days later.
Not aggressively. Not dramatically.
Just… gently.
He’s in one of the supply rooms, checking inventory like it’s the most important job in the world, and you slip inside, closing the door behind you.
“Did I do something?”
Jack freezes.
God.
That voice.
Soft and worried and directed at him.
He keeps his back to you for a second longer than he should.
“No.”
“You’re avoiding me.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
He exhales slowly, shoulders tightening.
You step closer.
“Jack.”
There’s something about the way you say his name — like it matters — that undoes him a little.
He turns then.
Big mistake.
Because you’re right there.
Close enough that he can see the tiny crease between your brows, the concern in your eyes, the way your hands fidget like you’re trying not to reach for him.
“You didn’t do anything,” he says, quieter now. Rougher.
“Then what is it?”
He laughs, but there’s no humor in it.
“You really wanna know?”
“Yes.”
You don’t hesitate.
That’s the problem.
You never hesitate with him.
Jack studies you for a long moment, like he’s trying to figure out if you’re real.
Then—
“I heard you.”
Your breath catches.
“…heard me?”
“In the stairwell,” he says. “Other day.”
Oh.
Oh.
Your face burns instantly.
“Oh my god.”
“Yeah.”
“Jack, I—”
“You wanna kiss me?”
He says it bluntly. Like ripping off a bandage.
Your embarrassment falters.
Because under it… there’s no shame.
You swallow, then nod.
“Yeah.”
No hesitation.
No backtracking.
Just… honesty.
Jack shakes his head slightly, like he’s trying to reset himself.
“Why?”
It comes out harsher than he means.
You blink.
“Why?”
“Yeah,” he repeats. “Why me?”
There’s something raw under the question now. Something fragile he clearly didn’t mean to show.
You step closer.
“Do you really not know?”
“No,” he says immediately. “I don’t.”
He looks almost frustrated about it. Like it genuinely doesn’t compute.
So you tell him.
“You’re kind.”
He scoffs, but it’s weak.
“You are,” you insist. “You just don’t make a big show of it.”
You take another step.
“You stay late for patients who don’t have anyone. You check in on people without making it a whole thing. You notice when I’ve skipped lunch and suddenly there’s a protein bar on my desk.”
His jaw tightens.
“That’s just—”
“That’s you,” you cut in softly.
Your voice gentles.
“You’re good, Jack.”
He shakes his head again, sharper this time.
“I’m not—”
“You are.”
You don’t let him dodge it.
“Yeah, you’re hurt. Yeah, you’ve been through things I probably can’t even imagine. But you’re not broken.”
That lands.
You can see it.
“I don’t see a man who’s too old or too damaged,” you continue. “I see someone who takes care of people even when it costs him something. Someone strong. Someone safe.”
Your voice drops just a little.
“Someone I want.”
Silence.
Heavy. Thick.
Jack looks at you like you’ve just said something impossible.
Like you’ve rewritten the rules of his entire world.
“You don’t mean that,” he says, but there’s no conviction behind it.
“I do.”
You’re close now. Close enough that he could reach out.
He doesn’t.
“I’m not—” he starts, then falters. “I’m not easy.”
“I didn’t say you were.”
“I don’t sleep. I’ve got baggage. I’ve got—”
“I know.”
You say it so simply.
Like it doesn’t scare you.
“I’m still here.”
That breaks something.
Jack exhales, long and shaky, like he’s been holding it in for years.
“You don’t know what you’re signing up for.”
“Then let me learn.”
God.
You’re going to kill him.
He stares at you for a long moment.
Then, softer than you’ve ever heard him—
“You really wanna kiss me?”
You smile, just a little.
“Yeah.”
There’s a beat.
Another.
Then—
“Alright.”
It’s almost reluctant.
Almost disbelieving.
But there’s something warm under it now.
Something that wasn’t there before.
He hesitates only a second before lifting a hand — rough, careful — like he’s not entirely sure he’s allowed to touch you.
You lean into it without thinking.
That’s what does it.
That quiet, instinctive trust.
His thumb brushes your cheek, and he exhales again, softer this time.
“Jesus,” he murmurs. “You’re gonna ruin me.”
You smile.
“Worth it.”
His mouth finds yours like he’s been holding himself back for far too long—and finally, finally lets go.
It’s not rushed.
That’s the first thing you notice.
For a man who lives in chaos, who moves fast and reacts faster, Jack kisses you like he’s afraid of breaking the moment. Like he needs to feel it, make sure it’s real, make sure you’re real.
His lips press to yours, firm and warm, and there’s a quiet inhale against your mouth—like the contact alone steals the breath from his lungs.
Your hand comes up without thinking, fingers curling into the front of his shirt, grounding yourself.
He makes a low sound at that.
Soft. Surprised.
And then something shifts.
The hesitation melts.
His hand slides from your cheek to the back of your neck, broad and steady, pulling you just a fraction closer as his mouth moves against yours again—deeper this time, more certain.
It’s still careful… but there’s heat under it now.
Something that’s been building for a long time.
You tilt into him, lips parting, and he follows instinctively, like he’s wanted this more than he’s been willing to admit. The kiss deepens, slow and consuming, his grip tightening just slightly—like he needs to keep you there, like he’s afraid you might disappear if he lets go.
You won’t.
You lean in closer, pressing into his space, and he exhales sharply against your mouth.
“Christ…” he murmurs, barely pulling back before kissing you again.
This time it’s less controlled.
Still not rough—but hungry, in a quiet, restrained way. Like every ounce of restraint he has is focused on not overwhelming you, even as he gives in to the feeling.
His thumb brushes along your jaw, your neck, grounding himself in you. In the warmth of your skin, the softness of you—so different from everything he’s used to.
You kiss him back just as deeply, just as sure.
Because you don’t see anything fragile here.
You see him.
And when your fingers slide up into his hair, when you hold him there like you want him, he falters for half a second—like it hits him all over again that this is real.
That you are choosing this.
Choosing him.
The next kiss is softer.
Slower.
But somehow even more intense.
He leans his forehead against yours when he finally pulls back, breath uneven, eyes still closed like he’s trying to hold onto the moment for just a second longer.
His hand doesn’t leave you.
It stays at your neck, thumb brushing back and forth in a quiet, almost absent motion.
“…You’re dangerous,” he murmurs.
Not accusing.
Not even warning.
Just… awed.
Because whatever this is—whatever you’ve just started—
it’s already gotten under his skin in a way he knows isn’t going away.
description: you and your attending butt heads—and it’s no secret around the ED that Dr. Jack Abbot is harder on you than the other residents. He pushes you further, critiques you sharper, expects more—and you’re done with it. Just as you’re about to go to Dr. Robby to request a switch to days and finally put some distance between you and him, your patient—and his patient—tests positive for COVID-19. Suddenly, you’re both exposed, and with hospital protocol leaving no room for argument, you have no choice but to quarantine together.
tags/warnings: 18+, forced proximity, implied age gap, power imbalance (reader is a senior resident but abbot is still technically her boss), quarantining when no one does that anymore, tension tension tensionnn, fine line between hate and horny, headstrong reader, mutual pining
A/N: i DONT WANT TO HEAR IT THAT THIS IS UNREALISTIC. It’s fun and it’s my fanfic I’ll cry if i want to and u know you’d quarantine in abbot’s house too if given the chance
exposure || day 1 || day 2 || day 3 || day 4 || day 5 || day 6 || day 7 || day 8 || day 9 || day 10 || day 11 || day 12 || day 13 || day 14 ||
Summary: it’s embarrassing enough being seen for food poisoning in your place of work before the attending on shift decides to make you his priority for the night.
Warnings: food poisoning mentions and all that involves, lightly researched medical things, mentions of alcohol, he wears his camo pants in this bc I say he does
Author’s note: Ahh this is my first fic in forever and my first fic for the Pitt at alllll 🥹 inspired by my own unfortunate bout last weekend and my undying love for Jack (it wouldn’t have been so miserable if I had him to take care of me, I’m sure of it). Happy night shift to my fellow Hatosy hoes <3
——
As a doctor, you really should’ve known better.
That’s the thought repeating in your head as you slouch, back pressed against the wall in front of your toilet, contemplating dragging a pillow and a quilt into your bathroom for the night.
Your watch tells you it’s just past 1am now, meaning you’d only had a few hours of blissful, much-needed sleep before you’d woken with nausea, half of your stomach in your throat and the other tied up in knots.
Only as you sit on your flowered bath mat, squinting in the fluorescent light of your bathroom, contemplating another round of your head in the toilet, do you realize that your meal prep had maybe been a bit too far gone.
You’re no stranger to food poisoning — having and treating — and you know you could knock this out with Pepto, fluids and a BRAT diet in 36 hours flat.
But you don’t have 36 hours. You’re back at the Pitt in — you check your watch — five and a half hours.
You dig your phone out of your bedsheets once you’ve decided it’s safe to stand up and stagger back to your bedroom, pulling up your text thread with Mateo while you brush your teeth.
If I come in rn can someone see me for food poisoning
You weren’t holding your breath for an immediate reply, knowing how it can get on night shift, especially after the mess you left them all with at handoff. You had almost felt guilty as you left.
Almost.
But you’re pleasantly surprised when he responds immediately.
NOOOO!!!
Ya come on in, we’re super dead
(✊🪵)
—
You’d texted Mateo like he’d told you to after you checked in at Chairs, the night shift receptionist letting you know he’d tell them there was a VIP out here waiting. But you’d waved him off, albeit queasily, taking comfort in the relative emptiness of the waiting room at this time of night, hoping it won’t be too long without the fast pass.
“Now why am I seeing one of our R2s out here in Chairs?”
You open your eyes, realizing they’d closed as you tipped your head back against the wall for a moment.
Dr. Jack Abbot came through the ED’s main entrance at one point, back from a phone call or a break if you had to guess.
He looks at the receptionist like ‘what gives?’ but it’s all in jest, his smile far too sunny for the darkness of the hour as he turns his attention to you.
That the hottest doctor on either shift at the Pitt might be seeing you in the worst state of your life had never occurred to you on your way over here tonight, but you realize that might’ve been hard to do in between the deep breathing out of the open window and several almost pull-overs you had to do.
Because as Dr. Abbot, in all of his camo-panted glory, makes his way over to you, you’re struck by the fact that even in your weakened state, he’s still absolutely undeniable.
Maybe even more so.
“Dr. Abbot,” you greet.
“What’s going on?” he says, slowing his pace as he nears. You sit up straighter as he immediately begins assessing, feeling a bit exposed under his gaze in your haphazard outfit. You must look as bad as you feel, because you clock the moment his face falls.
You wince, hating every second of this, but realizing you want this over with so quickly that you can no longer care. “Food poisoning. Pretty sure.”
“Yikes, doc,” he says softly, crossing his arms. “Did you tell anyone you were coming in?”
“I texted Mateo.”
“I’m sure he just got pulled into something. Come on,” he nods toward the doors, then looks you over. “You good to come back?”
You mull it over, glancing at the bathroom in Chairs. Abbot follows your gaze, then nods again. He pats your shoulder as he makes his own way to the doors.
“Take your time and then come on back. I’ll order some Zofran.”
—
“So stupid. I didn’t even think how old it was,” you sigh to Mateo, finally seated on an examination bed while he does your vitals.
Mateo nods toward your crossed legs, which you unwind so he can get an accurate blood pressure reading.
He slips the cuff off your arm with a sympathetic smile, and you pull your sleeve back down. “Hey, at least you got the day off now. Can start that zombie show I was telling you about.”
You shake your head. “Not likely. You’ll see me at handoff.”
Mateo scoffs, looking at the clock on the wall. “In four hours? You gonna sleep here?”
You just give him a look, but you thought about it on your way here.
“Alright,” he says, finishing up your chart. “You good? Barf bag? I’ll be back with your Tylenol.”
You shake your head, lying back with your feet propped up on the bed. “Nothing left. I hope.”
“Noted. Someone will be by soonish,” he says. Then a knock on the wall beside your bed comes, and Mateo smirks at you as he opens the curtain. “Or right now.”
Dr. Abbot’s back, nodding his head at Mateo to make way in front of the monitor so he can swipe in.
“How’re we doing in here, Dr. Y/l/n? Zofran kicked in?”
You give a meager thumbs up. “Hoping it will soon.”
“Vitals are good,” Mateo says to him. “She is running a fever, though — I was about to run for some acetaminophen.”
“I brought some just in case. I’ve got her from here,” Jack says, his voice softer, directed to Mateo. “You can go check on your other patients, yeah?”
“For sure. Feel better, Y/n,” Mateo says, and you hear the curtain close again.
You lift your arm off of your eyes, blinking under more fluorescent lighting, squinting slightly as Jack makes his way over, a cup of water and a portion of Tylenol in either hand. “Think you’ll keep it down?”
You push up slightly, taking the cup of tablets, throwing them back and trading it for the cup of water, deciding the risk is worth the mitigation of the chills and aches that have begun to set in.
He takes both cups from you, and you lie back again immediately while he throws them out. “We’re gonna find out.”
“That’s the spirit,” he laughs, and you feel your own lips quirk. “I like it. Alright, I know you just wanted your Zofran, but can I bother you for an abdominal exam?”
You look down at the thick sweatshirt you fell asleep in, realizing you’re wearing absolutely nothing beneath it. “Um.”
Jack’s paused near the gloves. “Walsh is wrapped up, but I’ll ask Ellis to come in.”
“No, no,” you say. You’re a doctor, one who’s on shift in a few hours, and you can handle an attending seeing your midsection. And touching it. “You’re fine.”
“Sure?”
“Sure.”
He nods, satisfied only after your outright consent, and snaps a pair of gloves on — size large, you hate that you can’t help but notice.
You lift your sweatshirt up once he’s at your bedside before you can think too much about it, and he clears his throat.
“Let me know if anything’s tender.”
You feel the warmth of Jack’s hands through his gloves as he works his way through the quadrants with precision, pressing gently into your stomach.
With his focus trained on the exam and your own mind needing a distraction, you notice things — how his freckled arms flex periodically against the sleeves of his scrub top, the collar of the heather gray crewneck he’s wearing today preventing any good look at his chest, the way he has his badge reel clipped to his pants instead of his breast pocket.
The band you know to be graphite that he still wears on his left hand, the imprint visible through the glove.
It’s such an easy exam. Just to rule anything out. You’ve done them hundreds of times — he’s probably in the thousands.
“A med student could’ve done this,” you say, casting your eyes away from where they’d been fixated on the pale underside of his further arm, the muscle jumping as he pressed down. “You don’t have to be here.”
“We’re mid-rotation. They aren’t exactly fighting over food poisoning on the board at this point, even if it’s their favorite resident,” he says, like it means nothing. “We’re slow. Why wouldn’t I take care of one of our own?”
He holds your gaze in case you have an answer, and you don’t.
But Jack bails you out. “Do you know what it was?”
“Dinner,” you answer. “Meal prep from Monday.”
“C’mon, Monday? You know better,” he says, his tone teasing. “What time did you eat?”
“Right after shift, like eight?” you try to remember. But it’s hard to once his hands move to the lower quadrants of your abdomen, and his gloved fingertips skim the waistline of your sleep shorts. “I can’t even remember.”
“Yeah, you kinda sleepwalked out of here,” he comments, with no fanfare.
You watch his side profile, wondering at what point Jack Abbot started noticing you at handoff the way you’ve always noticed him.
He looks up. “Nothing’s tender? No pain?”
“No,” you breathe, realizing that the warmth of his hands, however brief, pressing into your stomach over and over again has created about the most relief you’ve had since you woke up.
“Good,” he says, his thumbs tucking under the bottom of your sweatshirt and pulling it back down for you. He tugs it snugly over the waistband of your shorts, covering you more than you were even when you initially laid back, his thumbs brushing your sides. “Any other symptoms?”
You shake your head, then pause. “Not gonna run me through the list?”
He smiles, and it occurs to you that it’s slightly weird to see him in the in-between, the throes of night shift.
Not bright-eyed, a breath of fresh air greeting you after a hard day at 7pm. Or on the flip side, a more somber sight to see first thing in the morning, his shadow grown in and his hair tousled. He’s settled, but not exhausted. It’s comforting.
“We could get real comfortable if you’d like, Dr. Y/l/n. But I trust that you know the symptoms I’d be worried about and would tell me if you had them.”
Your eyes meet, your heart stuttering slightly at his praise. You’d worked hard and earned everything you’d achieved, but it was no secret that the ED could feel thankless, and receiving affirmation from a doctor you admire was always a lift.
“I’ll let it slide, Dr. Abbot,” you say. “Diagnosis and treatment plan?”
“Well your fever’s definitely higher than I’d like for food poisoning,” he says, snapping his gloves into the trash. He puts his hands on his hips, cocking his head to the side. He looks thoughtful, “But I’m guessing everything is mostly out of your system at this point. Or hopefully… nearly there.”
You don’t swing your shifts very often, and you’ve only picked up a handful of swaps to night shift since coming to the Pitt as an intern last year.
Which means you really only cross paths with Jack at handoffs, Robby’s barbecues and street team. You detest that one of your few, extended, non-patient-related (yourself excluded) conversations with the man is about your vomiting schedule.
But you’ve watched and learned quality patient care from Dr. Abbot countless times, as he stayed over, showed up early, came in on his off days or during his SWAT shifts — to be the receiver of it is another feeling entirely.
“You know the drill. Rest, lots of fluids. The blandest food possible once you think you can stomach it. Rice, bananas, toast — nothing fun on it. Do you have any of that on hand?”
“Uh,” you wonder aloud, squinting at the mental image of your pantry. Neglected and bare, conditions conducive to the reason you landed in here tonight.
He takes your silence for what it is.
“DoorDash it then, will ya?” he asks, exasperated. “Some electrolytes, too. And Sprite. I don’t think we’re supposed to recommend that, but that’s my old favorite.”
“Alright moneybags,” you laugh, finally sitting up. “I’ll just pay some insanely high delivery fee on Sprite, then, since you say so.”
“I’ll pay for it,” he murmurs, not even looking up over the monitor while he taps your notes in. “Bill me at our next handoff. And I didn’t hear you telling Mateo you think you’re working today, right?”
Your brain has fallen a step behind in this conversation, your feet ceasing their dangling over the side of the bed as you sit frozen.
“Dr. Y/l/n?” he asks, still at the monitor.
“Well, I was — with the Zofran and everything I figured I’d be okay. That’s why I came in tonight instead of just riding it out, so I’d be good for work today,” you explain, rubbing your forehead. Your argument feels weak even to your own ears, but you feel a commitment to the Pitt, especially presently being here.
“You’re no good to anyone who comes in here while you’re sleep-deprived, dehydrated and running a fever,” Jack says, his eyes scanning your face. “You’re actually the opposite. You know that.”
The warmth you felt at his praise only moments ago evaporates at his chastisement, even if you know he’s right.
“Hey. You know that,” he says again. “Yeah?”
You nod. “Yeah.”
“Take a day. Two if you need it. I’ll stay over and help Robby and the day shift get settled,” he says. “You leave him to me.”
It’s a joke if there ever was one, and he seems pleased when you laugh at the idea of Robby giving you a hard time over a few sick days.
You concede. “At least it’s quieter in here now. Which — I’m shocked, by the way.”
“Why? ‘Cause you guys left us such a mess?” Jack quips, logging out of the computer, sliding the curtain open and waiting for you.
“Honestly, yeah. We did,” you say, grabbing your belt bag off of the chair by the bed.
“Well, that’s what we do on nights. Clean up the mess you all leave behind,” he says, reaching for the strap of your bag, draping it over your head and letting you slip an arm through it and letting it rest on your shoulder. “You should try it sometime.”
In another world, where your Zofran and Tylenol had done their jobs already, and you weren’t completely disarmed by the comfort you felt from having the night shift attending put his hands all over you and then offer to pay for your remedies like it would be foolish of him not to, you might find the wherewithal to engage — to flirt back.
Because even your exhausted brain can put together the fact that Jack Abbot is flirting with you. In your sleep shorts, and your problematic sweatshirt. With your four hours of sleep. While you talked about your vomiting habits.
“I’ll have to take your word for it,” you say. “I like my normal sleep schedule too much.”
His head cocks in that way you’ve noticed it does, his grin twitching.
“And yet here you are.”
—
“She lives.”
Two days later, you grace the Pitt with your presence once again, feeling your cheeks warm as Mateo tucks his tablet under his arm to slowly applaud your entrance.
“You say that like you didn’t text me for an update a million times,” you answer, rolling your eyes as he falls into step beside you on your walk to the board.
“My attending was all over me about it,” he says quietly.
You’re feeling good to be back at work, done wasting away in bed and ready to jump back in, but your brain is groggy — slow to catch up to what he’s implying.
When you do, you turn to him, and he’s grinning, looking like he’s bursting at the seams.
“Oh?” you try.
“Did you know that man had never used DoorDash in his life until a few days ago? I had to help him,” Mateo says, leaning closer, his voice dropping a few decibels. “It was… adorable.”
You knew when leaving the ED the other night you’d never be taking Jack up on his offer.
You didn’t realize he knew it too, however, until the delivery driver had shown up at your door later that morning holding three grocery bags bursting with food and drinks, shaking your hand and thanking you profusely for the generous tip you gave on the app.
You briefly thought you might need to walk back into the Pitt and tell them your food poisoning was definitely an infection that was presenting as hallucinations as you stood in your doorway, arms suddenly full of groceries.
You wondered for only a minute who your angel was, but the six-pack of Sprite had been a dead giveaway.
“I was wondering how he’d gotten my address,” you said. “Doesn’t seem like the type to skim it off my file.”
Mateo cocks his head, and his grin is becoming a bit too much for you at 6:45 in the morning.
“He was this close,” he says, pinching two fingers together. “Seriously.”
You shake your head, tossing your braid over your shoulder as you make your way to the locker rooms. “I should go drop my stuff.”
“Mhm,” he says. “You do that. You’re so busy. Here 15 minutes early and everything.”
“Bye Teo,” you say with finality, beelining it to the lockers before anyone else who’d witnessed you a few nights ago stopped you to chat.
A few night shift nurses ask you how you’ve been feeling near the lockers while you put your stuff away and slip your fleece jacket on, affixing your badge reel and checking the whisps falling out of your braid are doing so in just the way you want, but you’re lucky you don’t cross paths with anyone else that had witnessed your plight.
Until you emerge moments later to find Jack Abbot, arms crossed and waiting against the wall across the lockers, a respectable distance away, but no doubt with his eyes trained on the door.
He smiles, post-shift tired. “Thought I saw my favorite patient.”
Feeling well enough to play ball, finally, and frankly having milled over the next time you’d see Jack in your head through two straight days of rom-coms, you take the opportunity you’ve been waiting for.
“I thought I saw my favorite attending, too, but Robby must not be in yet.”
Thoroughly pleased when his mouth drops open slightly, you aren’t surprised when he trails behind you while you walk to your preferred charting station.
“I was gonna ask how you’re feeling, but it seems there might be a cognitive exam in order,” he says in reply, leaning comfortably over the desk as you sit down, sliding your badge through the scanner. You watch the line of his shoulders as he stretches tiredly.
“Better,” you say sincerely, unable to shake the mental picture. Jack asking Mateo for help with DoorDash in the lulls of night shift, using whatever extra time he could find to schedule something thoughtful for you to wake up to. “You didn’t have to send all of that.”
He shrugs. “Wanted to. Figured you were gonna crash as soon as you got home, and going to the store when you’re sick is the worst.”
You shake your head, your smile stubborn. “Way too much Sprite.”
His lips pull up to one side. “But it helped, didn’t it?”
You roll your eyes, asking him how night shift was and enjoying the way he prattles on while you settle back in.
“Did you wanna do your handoff now?” you ask, standing up again, grabbing the tablet off the charger by on your station.
“Oh, I already handed over to Santos,” he says, still making no move to leave your station, when you figured that had been the entire reason he was here. Or at least part of it.
Some of it.
“Oh,” you say. Sweeping your eyes around the ED — it’s still relatively early and things seem, for now, to be on the rarer, quieter side.
You lean against your desk, looking at him expectantly.
“How have you been though?” he asks. “Really. That wasn’t a tiny fever.”
“Good,” you say, sensing his worry. “I promise. It broke later that day. Everything… else subsided by yesterday morning, thank god. All the stuff you sent really, really helped. So thank you.”
“I’m glad. You gotta be more careful,” he says, tapping his fingers on the desk. “You know. Brush up on your food safety education.”
You sigh, wincing. “I know, it was stupid. Just exhausted and wasn’t thinking.”
He nods, considering. “Next time you’re too tired, let me know.”
You come around, leaning against the desk next to him. You think you see Mateo paused at the front door out of the corner of your eye, but you can’t be sure, because you’re too focused on the furrow in Jack’s brow as he looks down at you.
“What are you gonna do, send me dinner this time?”
“No. I’m gonna make you dinner,” he suggests, like it’s casual. But his eyes flit across your face quickly, assessing. “At my place.”
Your lips quirk up.
“Again,” he adds, nodding, but not fast enough to hide that his cheeks are tinged pink. Christ, he’s nervous. Your stomach kicks, in the best way this time, realizing that you are making Jack Abbot nervous. “Educational purposes.”
You hum, nodding your head, too. “And this is a teaching hospital.”
“It is,” he nods. “So, what do you say?”
For all of his confidence, the way he commands a trauma bay in a crisis, runs a new pool of med students like a combat unit, wrangles an unruly pod of frat boys here to watch a buddy’s stomach get pumped, you feel another thrill zip down your spine at his sought reassurances.
He wants to hear you say it. Just like with your exam.
Jack needs a yes.
“That sounds great,” you finally say.
“Yeah?” he asks, his grin growing.
You can’t help it, yours matching, “Yeah.”
He smiles wider, hiking his backpack up higher on his shoulders, and you swear it’s like his chest puffs out just a touch.
“Alright. You gonna give me your number now, or do I have to beg Mateo for that, too?”
—
A week later — only exactly as long as it took for schedules to align and your stomach to settle (Jack’s insistence, not yours) — you’re sat at his kitchen island, watching him chop vegetables with a tea towel thrown over his shoulder.
His home is cozy, a German shepherd named Ruby curled up underneath your feet.
He hasn’t told you what’s he’s making yet, but you can piece together it doesn’t contain anything that had triggered you last week, which you find sweet.
Jack watches you get up, glancing at your water glass to see if it needs refilled, whatever story he’d been telling about Shen and an ortho consult from Park gone awry dying on his lips, his knife pausing, but his lips quirking up as you circle the island nearer to him.
“What do you need, sweetheart? Wanna open a bottle?”
“No. Well — yes,” you say, your hand closing softly over his, the knife resting on the cutting board immediately, his body making space for you between himself and the island while he wipes off his hands. “Just not yet.”
“No?” Jack says, eyes glinting.
This close, you look up at him, your hand flattening to his chest, right over his heart. He’d put on a blue button-down for you, the material soft beneath your touch. He’s still so warm.
“Hi,” you say lamely, your confidence run out.
“You feelin’ me up, doc?”
Your hand slides from his chest down to his stomach, pressing lightly with the pads of your fingers. “You had your turn.”
Jack’s smile is knowing, like he could tell you were squirming on that exam table for more reasons than one but didn’t know for sure until now. Any embarrassment you might feel is assuaged by the fact that you can tell the exchange had had a similar effect on him, confirmed by his next statement.
“I’m gonna need a few more.”
“We’ll see,” you answer, tilting your head with mischief.
“Here I thought I was being a gentleman, waiting until after dinner,” he all but whispers.
“For wine?” you tease.
“You…” he laughs. His hands find your face, and as he leans in, you know you’ll look back one day and think that it was all worth it.
Maybe it’s nerves, your heart stuttering at how strongly you already feel — but you don’t know why you say it, practically whispering against his lips, he’s so close at this point. “I can’t believe the first time you hit on me was when I was literally in the middle of food poisoning.”
But he shakes his head.
“First time you noticed,” he corrects.
His lips meet yours briefly, and he pulls back, his eyes searching for your reaction to that, and he smiles.
Then he kisses your cheek, your nose, your forehead, the top of your head.
It’s like you’re frozen — but so, so warm in his arms.
Jack leans back, his thumbs stroking your cheeks, eyes locked to yours so there’s no mistake, and murmurs, “I’m gonna take such good care of you.”
series desc; Frank Castle is starting to be more than a neighbor who does you favors without being asked. He knows it; and it terrifies him as much as it thrills you. It's a strange 'friendship'. sometimes he's making you laugh your ribs thin, and other times you could cut the air with a knife. The biggest challenge is keeping him from backing away, while not risking ruining the only relationship you have in your apartment complex.
notes; slow burn, just-neighbors to friends to lovers! Frank is horrible at feelings, very manly (yes plz fix everything in my house and don’t let me pay you back), curtis hoyle makes an appearance, teeeennnsssioooon, rom com esque, banter, eventual smut
i know this is random af but you url popped up in my notifs right now and i need you to know that taco bell crunch wraps are THE BEST and i will be thinking about this blog's url for the next three hours.
Summary: Helmut finds letters you thought you had hidden away. [WC 833] [Ao3]
Warnings: feelings?,fluff
He wasn’t looking for them. That’s the part that would matter later—when you stood there, heart halfway up your throat, watching the man who never missed anything hold pieces of you that were never meant to be seen.
It started innocently. A search for a misplaced file. A drawer opened without thought. Paper. Folded. Worn at the edges. Not official. Not coded. Not anything that belonged in his world.
Helmut paused. His fingers hovered for only a second before he picked them up. There was something about the weight—too light, too personal—that made his chest tighten in a way he didn’t quite understand.
He unfolded one.
And then he stilled.
Helmut,
I don’t know how to say this to your face without feeling like I’ve overstepped something sacred…
He didn’t breathe. Didn’t blink. The room—the carefully curated, controlled environment he existed within—fell away into nothing as his eyes scanned the page with terrifying precision.
Another letter. Then another.
Helmut,
You mean more to me than anything I've evr loved….
Each one dated.
Helmut,
How can i tell you how I feel….
Each one never sent.
Helmut,
I need you to know this….I see you in ways I have never seen anyone. You are the world to me in ways I cannot explain to you in person.
Each one… him.
You look lonelier when you think no one is watching.
I wish I could sit beside you without you pulling away.
I think I would stay, if you let me.
His grip tightened, the paper crinkling slightly between gloved fingers. You had seen him. Not the persona. Not the carefully constructed mask he offered the world. You had seen the quiet. The grief. The man he buried beneath control and calculation. And you had written to him like he was something fragile. Something worth loving.
The door creaked behind him. You froze when you saw him standing there. Saw what he was holding. Your blood ran cold. “…You weren’t supposed to find those.” Your voice came out smaller than you intended. Barely there.
But he heard it. Of course he did. Slowly he turned to face you. And there was something wrong in his expression. Not anger. Not amusement. Something deeper. More dangerous. “…No,” he said quietly. “I don’t believe I was.”
Another step toward you. Measured. Controlled. But his eyes—God, his eyes—were alive in a way you had never seen before. “You wrote these,” he continued, lifting one slightly, “with no intention of ever allowing me to read them.”
It wasn’t a question.
You swallowed. “They weren’t meant to… complicate things.”
A faint tilt of his head. "Complicate,” he repeated softly, like he was tasting the word. Then, quieter, “And yet they explain everything.”
That made your stomach drop. “What does that mean?”
He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he looked back down at one of the letters. Thumb brushing over your handwriting. “I had wondered,” he murmured, “why you stayed.” Your breath hitched. “There was no logical reason. No advantage to be gained. No safety in proximity to a man like me.”
His gaze lifted to yours again. Sharp. Unrelenting. “And yet you remained.”
Another step closer. Now he was too close. Close enough that you could feel the shift in the air around him—the tension, the restraint barely holding.
“You cared for me,” he said.
Not a question. A realization. “And you chose silence.”
Your chest tightened. “I didn’t think—”
“No,” he cut in softly, though not unkindly. “You thought perfectly clearly.” His voice dropped, something almost intimate threading through it “You believed I would not return it.”
That silence? That was answer enough. For a moment, neither of you moved.
And then he exhaled. Slow. Controlled. Like he was steadying something that had been knocked dangerously off balance. “…You underestimate me.”
Your heart stuttered. “What?”
He folded the letters carefully like they were something precious, not something to be discarded. Then he stepped even closer, until there was nowhere left for you to retreat. “You saw me,” he said, voice quieter now. “More than anyone has in a very long time.” His gaze dropped briefly—to your lips, your hands, the space between you—before returning to your eyes. “And you wrote as though I was capable of being loved.”
There it was. That fracture in his composure. Small. Controlled. But real.
Your voice trembled. “You are.”
Something in him snapped—no, not snapped. Shifted. Decided.
His hand came up—hesitant for only a fraction of a second—before settling lightly against your jaw. Not forceful. Not possessive. But certain. “You should have given these to me,” he said.
You barely breathed. “Why?”
And that, that earned you the faintest, most dangerous hint of a smile. Because it wasn’t soft. It wasn’t gentle. It was the kind of expression that meant he had reached a conclusion—and nothing would move him from it.
“Because,” Helmut said quietly, “I would have answered.”
Three levels. Two people. One night. You and Bucky learn a little bit more than anticipated about each other from a simple card game.
▸ PAIRING: Bucky Barnes x F!Reader
▸ WARNINGS: Hurt/comfort, fluff, alcohol consumption, miscommunication final boss (because im a sucker for it), idiots in love (fr, you have been warned)
▸ WORD COUNT: 7.5K
▸ A/N: happy bday to my beloved bucky! failed to write a quick fic again. for @star-and-shield-monthly's february prompts for "tipsy and in love" and "what would make you the happiest right now?" no smut? who am i. hope you enjoy anyway!!!
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Level 1
Bucky flips the card over in his hand, frowning as he squints. “If MySpace were still a thing, what would my profile song be?” He looks up at you. “What’s MySpace?”
You stifle your laughter, swallowing it before it can scream you’re so incredibly endearing. He was already hesitant about partaking in this little card game you picked up, so teasing him would be counterproductive. You force yourself to deadpan, “Sometimes I forget that you skipped an entire internet developmental stage.”
He gives you a look, those sharp blue eyes landing in your chest with a thud. Your heart shouldn’t be racing, you shouldn’t feel all warm and tingly from his gaze alone, but you never really had control over your body’s responses to Bucky Barnes.
Tearing your gaze away from him, you explain, “It’s a social media platform, where people would post status updates about their lives or follow other people. You can choose a song to represent you on your profile!”
The befuddled look clings to his face. Social media has always been a strange concept to Bucky, who is used to living incognito; he thinks it’s a security risk, has even made you share yours so he can vet it.
“It’s not a big deal, we can go to the next question,” you say, increasingly flustered the more Bucky stares at you as if you have all the answers.
“Hold on,” he murmurs as he settles back more comfortably into the couch. He tilts his body to face you, elbow propping up on the back as his head leans against his balled fist. His messy hair, wind-swept still from the mission earlier, falls across his forehead.
Your finger actually twitches with the urge to brush it away from his face.
“What do you think my song would be?” His lips are curled into that smile — mysterious, almost teasing, like he’s relishing watching you squirm.
A nervous laugh escapes you as you look towards that deck of cards again. “I don’t know, it certainly won’t be Sabrina Carpenter.”
“It’s… not my thing,” he presses his lips together. You bite down a smile. The scandalous lyrics had, well, scandalized Bucky. He’s no prude, but he also isn’t very used to people singing about how tears run down my thighs on the radio.
“We’ll figure out a song for you, Buck. Maybe one of those sad white boy ballads you’re always listening to in the shower.”
His cheeks flush pink. “They’re good songs!”
“I’m not saying otherwise, don’t worry.” You hold your hands up.
“I don’t like this game already,” he grumbles under his breath.
“Well, would you rather have me destroy you at poker again? Or Risk? Or monopoly?”
Bucky’s mouth curls into the cutest little pout. You don’t think he even realizes he’s doing it; the great Bucky Barnes wouldn’t ever be caught dead pouting. Sulking like a child.
“You don’t even have it hard! You don’t even feel the effects of alcohol so, even if you don’t want to answer, you won’t get drunk from drinking. When I think about it, that doesn’t seem fair, does it?”
“You were the one who made the rules.”
You hum, stroking your chin thoughtfully. Bucky still regards you with that amused tilt of his lips. “Alright, then how about this — you get another penalty if you don’t answer.” His eyebrow raises in question. “Maybe I get to make you do a dare instead.”
Bucky immediately scoffs. “Now that hardly seems fair. You get a sip of a wine that you like and I might have to potentially backflip off a roof if you dare me to?”
A laugh bubbles up your throat. “First of all, you’ve survived literally jumping off a moving plane,” you point out and he makes a face. “Second of all, are you scared of a little challenge, Buck?”
For a second, his eyes thaw into a calmer blue. The sharpness gives way to the warm pools of his irises. You blink at him in surprise and he jerks back to the present, coughing as he looks away from you.
You swear his cheeks are tinged pink but maybe it’s because of the heat running on full blast. “Alright, fine,” he grunts, “Dare. But if it’s anything too crazy, just know that my liability waiver only applies to the Avengers, not you and whatever game you’re makin’ me play.”
Snickering to yourself, you miss the way his grin stretches a fraction wider. “You’re lucky the legal team’s asleep, Tom would definitely take my side.”
The corners of his lips tighten. You’re once again caught off guard by the shift in his expression. You almost hate how sensitive you are to his changing moods (this is a lie, you love that you notice these things about him; it makes it easier to discover his feelings about certain things — like how he had balked at your first attempt at lasagna but had politely said “delicious, I’ll take another slice”).
He was being kind. Bucky’s always kind to you. It’s why you find yourself so enamored with him.
Maybe you’re a little silly — mistaking goodwill gestures for something more — but you can’t help the way your poor little heart dreams.
“You and Tom close?” Bucky asks, drawing you out of your thoughts. His voice is low, almost contemplative.
“We chat.” You shrug, flipping open another card. “Oh, what’s the first thing you noticed about me?”
Bucky flushes a deep shade of scarlet, colors reaching the tip of his ears. Your heart stutters against your ribs.
“Damn, that bad, huh?”
“What?” He blanches. “No.”
“Why do you look like you’re about to run away then? It’s an easy question.” His lips twist together in disagreement. “It is! You really want to pick up your dare on this of all questions? You do realize we’re only on Level 1?”
“There are multiple levels?” Dread settles hard and fast on his face.
“Yes, so you might want to save those for actual questions you don’t want to answer. What? Are you scared of offending me?”
His tongue digs into the inside of his cheek as he relents with a deep breath. His gaze flies to the ceiling as he mutters, “Your eyes.”
“My eyes?”
“You’re very…” he pauses, “expressive.”
“Expressive?” you parrot again, still confused.
“I can tell how you’re feeling based on your eyes alone.” Your head tilts in question. Bucky’s lips tip up. “First time we met, it was right here on campus. I was coming back from a debrief with Steve when Tony introduced us.”
You remember that day. You had been so overwhelmed with meeting everyone on your team, not to mention running into one Avenger after another, heroes you’ve idolized for so long. The final whammy was bumping into Steve and Bucky on your way out.
“Your eyes went wide, size of saucers,” he chuckles, “I didn’t even need to hear you stutterin’ to know you were scared of me. Couldn’t even look me in the eyes.”
At that, you frown. You seem to remember this interaction very differently.
Before you can question it, Bucky continues, “When you’re upset, you have this little pinch between your eyes and it’s like all the light goes out. Your eyes usually just kind of — I don’t know — sparkles? When you’re irritated, you have this dead look; if looks could kill and all that. When you’re sad, it’s similar, like you lose your shine, but softer in a way. Your eyebrows go like this—” He angles his index fingers downwards to represent your supposedly upset brows. He chuckles then, “But when you’re excited, you take in all the light, absorbing all that sunshine that you become it yourself.”
You’re at a loss for words. How do you even respond to that? You didn’t even know Bucky really knew you existed, not until the two of you found company in your fellow insomniac. But the way he talks about you, how well he can differentiate between your moods, you almost feel… seen.
Bucky stiffens when he realizes how much he’s said, quickly casting his gaze away to the coffee fireplace crackling before the two of you. “Anyways,” he swallows, “that’s it. That’s the first thing I noticed about you.”
Heat licks up your skin and you’re sure it’s not from the burning embers.
“I wasn’t scared of you,” you blurt out and Bucky perks up. “It was my first day and you — well, you’re you. You’re an Avenger. I was just in awe that I was going to be working for the Earth’s mightiest heroes.”
“I wasn’t a hero,” Bucky corrects a little too quickly, a little too harshly.
“Yes, you were and you are, Buck,” you softly admonish him. “Give yourself a little more credit. You’ve done a lot for everyone. I’m grateful that I get to work with someone like you.”
His eyes flicker between shades of blue before the fireplace. For a moment, he’s silent like he’s appraising you and you wonder if you’ve said something wrong. Just because the two of you have formed some semblance of friendship — or so you think — in the late hours in this building doesn’t mean that you can speak out of turn.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to— forget I said anything,” you look down at the deck again, “your turn.”
“Thank you,” Bucky murmurs and your gaze immediately lifts to see him. Him smiling so gently at you. Without addressing it further, Bucky picks up another card.
Level 2
The first question in Level 2 leaves you wondering what has been your happiest memory in the past year. The first one that comes to mind is immediately when you and Bucky took an emergency trip to the farmer’s market to pick up groceries for an abrupt birthday celebration for Bruce (Tony did not clue you in early enough for you to plan). It was a simple afternoon but it was one that left you feeling all fuzzy inside.
After all, you did have Bucky all to yourself for a good two hours — and he was following you around like a puppy as you bounced from stall to stall, carrying all of your purchases with one hand.
“I see you smilin’, what is it?”
You realize that you do in fact have a shit-eating grin on your face. Bucky must think you’re a lunatic. How embarrassing.
“Uhm, I need to think about this.”
He smirks, zeroing in on the shame quickly etching itself across your face. “Oh no, you were already thinkin’ of something.”
“But what if that wasn’t the happiest?” you whine, an attempt to deflect.
Bucky doesn’t let you. “It’s the first one you thought of, it should be. Come on. What is it?”
You don’t think twice as you pick up your glass and take a swig. A big gulp, actually. The wine slides with a slight burn down your throat, acidity melting on your tongue. You wince.
“Really? You’re drinkin’ to that?”
“My choice,” you huff, “next question.”
You reach for a card and turn it over.
“Has a stranger ever changed your life?”
Bucky hesitates, eyes flicking over to you briefly. He looks deep in thought, you can almost see the gears in his mind turning as he calculates the risk between a dare from you and being honest here. He likely makes the right call when he simply says:
“Yes.”
You wait for him to elaborate.
He doesn’t.
“Oh, come on. Don’t be a spoil sport. Tell me.”
“It’s not a big deal! I answered the question, didn’t I?”
You cross your arms over your chest. A few more voluntary sips of your wine have made you bolder in the face of Bucky Barnes. “You know, for someone who can talk nonstop during missions and debriefs, you sure keep yourself pretty tight-lipped about personal things.”
“Such a brat,” Bucky mutters, low enough that he thinks you don’t hear him.
But you hear everything.
You gasp, a smile on the cusp of breaking across your face. “Excuse me?”
Instead of addressing it, he continues, “It was during my first month here. First few weeks and I could barely sleep. The nightmares were— they were still rough. I kept waking up. One of those nights, I got a phone call.” You perk up. “Just happened to be awake so I picked up. Someone I considered a stranger then was babbling to me, drunk, about my schedule the next day.”
For some reason, his words trigger a blurry image. You with your friends. The first night you have off on a Friday. You blink and the image is gone.
“That, um, doesn’t really sound like a stranger. I don’t know if that counts.” You crinkle your nose. “Also, how does someone calling you drunk change your life?”
“Well, they were a stranger to me then,” Bucky smiles, a touch of smugness in the curl of his lips, “and they told me to stop listening to all the noise. Focus on the present. There was a lot of press during that time about me joining the team, a lot of very displeased people, particularly politicians. And — I don’t know — somehow, after that call, it was just… quiet. I didn’t think about it too much. Like they said, focus on the here and now and, eventually, all that noise just disappeared.”
Your heart melts, tinged slightly with guilt. There’s a contented look on Bucky’s face, a peace that you didn’t know existed amidst the constant onslaught of war. You remember how brutal the press was during that time, article after article with his face splashed across the front page, accusations of his involvement with the Russians and the assassinations over the years.
You cannot count the number of times you’ve collected all the newspapers in the building to feed them to the furnace in the basement. At least those tabloids should serve some purpose after destroying forests to print absolute garbage.
“So, yeah, it wasn’t this seismic change that shifted the trajectory of my life but, at the time, it helped.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
“Don’t apologize,” Bucky chuckles, hand reaching out to squeeze your shoulder. “I’d ask the exact same question in your shoes.”
You press your lips together into a thin line. Reluctance tugging at your heartstrings. “I’m glad that they called you and told you that, because it’s true. It’s all stupid anyway. We know who you are. That’s all that matters.”
Bucky softens. “Thanks.”
“Also, a stranger saying that to you? Cool, but bold. Very bold. How do they even have your phone number?”
His lips quirk up with the ghost of a smile again. “I wonder.”
He reaches for another question.
“What questions are you trying to answer most in your life right now?”
You let out a little huh and lean back, taking yet another sip of your wine. The buzz is helping with the proximity. Being this close to Bucky, getting a whiff of his clean scent, isn’t great for your fragile heart.
“Thinking about my career,” you murmur. Bucky’s eyes flit up to meet yours at that. You look away.
“What about your career?”
“I don’t really know where I want to take it next. I’m enjoying being here, I’ve learned a lot, but I can’t help but think that maybe I should try something else.”
Bucky is quiet for a moment, a pensive look in his eyes as he stares at the flickering flames. “You thinkin’ about leaving?” He asks, quieter.
A sigh heaves from your chest. “I don’t know yet. Keep thinking there’s more to explore out there. I love being part of the team though, it won’t be easy.”
His arm on the couch extends a little further, enough to brush over your shoulder. The gentlest of touches. You might not have felt it if it weren’t Bucky, if you weren’t so hyperaware of him. “I—” he stops, “we all love having you here. You’re one of us. It would be a real shame. Anything I can do to convince you to stay?”
The words catch in your throat, letters tumbling into the void as your lungs constrict. Bucky’s fingers ghost over your shoulder again, the cotton of your shirt is a flimsy barrier against the warmth of his touch.
“I, uhm—” you try but stop again, “I’m not leaving yet.” A nervous laugh. “I don’t know. I’ll have to think about it a bit more.”
Bucky hums, his hand reaching a little more to brush the hair off your shoulders, the barest of a graze along your neck. “Well, if there’s anythin’ I can do, I’m here. You can always come to me, yeah?”
You nod shyly. “Yeah, thanks, Buck.”
Clearing his throat, Bucky draws his hand back almost reluctantly. He pauses for a second, like he’s about to say something else.
But the words never come.
So you pick up the next question for him.
“What has been your earliest recollection of happiness?”
At first, you think the question is sweet. Nostalgic in a way that makes your heart ache. But then you remember who you’re talking to and how Bucky has been through countless rounds of his memories, his happiness, being washed away again and again.
“You don’t have to answer this one,” you say gently.
“No, I like this question,” Bucky hums, leaning back and looking out to the fireplace again. “Makes me think a little harder.”
You can only nod in agreement.
“Probably me and Stevie. First time we went to the movies. It took us some time to get enough money to afford a couple of tickets but we splurged on snacks and the latest Hollywood production. It was… simpler back then. Steve got beat up in the alley afterwards because he picked yet another fight against some asshole with a loud mouth. I had to beat up the other guy. Mom was none too pleased about two young adults coming home, one with a split lip and the other with split knuckles.”
Bucky looks fond, the usual frown lines on his face dissolving into wistfulness.
“Sounds like a good time,” you whisper, “what movie did you watch?”
“Don’t remember. Some western comedy thing. It was a popular name and we thought it would give us conversation starters with the ladies.”
You giggle, “Ladies’ man Barnes. Steve did mention you were a bit of a player back then.”
“Stevie’s exaggerating.”
“You’re handsome, so there’s no surprise there.”
The amusement slips away from his face, freeing his lips to form a circle in surprise.
Heat immediately floods your cheeks. How could you be so careless? Flirting — or at least trying to flirt — with your boss? A colleague? Bucky? You must be out of your mind.
“You think I’m handsome?”
The teasing lilt in his voice has your blood freezing. “I—”
The corners of his lips lift a little higher.
“I think we should read the next question,” you declare and launch for the card first.
This has to be some sort of sick joke.
When you take too long, Bucky slips the card from your fingers and reads it out loud.
“Are you lying to yourself about anything?”
You immediately lift your wine to your lips, Bucky’s hand darts out to wrap around yours.
“Already? Seems like a simple enough question.” He cocks an eyebrow.
“My choice, right?”
Bucky’s lips twitch. “What are you lyin’ to yourself about, sweetheart?”
Oh. Oh. He plays dirty. How could he use such a heart-wrenching nickname with you? How dare he make your heart flutter with one simple word?
Sometimes, you tell yourself that you’re not in love with Bucky. Because you’re not. He’s a friend. He’s part of the team. He’s a colleague. That’s all.
You tell yourself this enough times, maybe one day you’ll believe it.
“You keepin’ secrets from me?” Bucky smiles.
“No,” you answer too quickly and his lips tug wider.
You take another sip of your wine.
Level 3
Perhaps you shouldn’t have been so generous with the wine for yourself, because now you’re swaying a little bit going into the final level. Your body is alert, but your mind feels a bit hazy. Like you’re floating on a cloud. A very fluffy cloud.
“You’re drunk.”
“No,” you deny with a huff, then laugh, “just a little tipsy.”
“Let’s get you to bed.”
“Too good to be true,” you mutter under your breath, low enough that Bucky misses it and raises an eyebrow at you. “Let’s finish the game first. Let’s do a few more of the Level 3’s. This is where it gets real serious, Buck.”
Bucky shakes his head but the fondness in his expression is undeniable as he regards you carefully, measuring whether this is truly a good idea. You don’t give him time to doubt you further, instead asking your first question.
“What insecurity of yours holds you back the most?”
A choked laugh spills from his lips. “We’re going straight into it, huh?”
“Level 3 ain’t no joke, bucko.”
“Bucko—” Bucky repeats in a choked laugh. “Alright. Clearly.”
“Well, answer the question,” you widen your eyes, wiggling the card before him.
This time, he only gives you a wry look. Not a word. Just a look. The Bucky look.
You frown at him. “What?”
“Do I really need to say this one out loud?”
Your brain may be functioning at half the speed it usually does, but you’re still at a loss with the way he’s staring at you — like the answer is right under your nose and you can’t even smell it. “I’m… confused,” you drawl out.
“Really?”
“I— is it supposed to be obvious? You have insecurities?” The two of you are sharing matching expressions of disbelief, both for entirely different reasons. “That just— that feels unbelievable for you, Buck. Come on. You’re Bucky Barnes. You’re the Bucky Barnes. An Avenger. A superhero. You take down bad guys with one arm. You jump out of planes. You somehow keep Captain America, of all people, together. Plus, you make a killer sourdough loaf — oh yeah, buddy, I know it’s your starter that’s sitting on the counter. I can smell when you bake at night.”
Color rises on his cheeks again at the accusation, but he doesn’t deny it. Not the last part at least. He opens his mouth then promptly clamps it shut again.
“So tell me, Buck, what insecurities do you have?”
“Nothing,” he flushes, “next question.”
“That’s what I thought.”
Bucky reads the next one, “How does one earn your vulnerability?” You pinch your lips, thinking. “This, I’d like to know as well.”
“I’m vulnerable with you!”
“Are you? Or do you deflect with compliments about other people to avoid shining light on yourself?”
You gape. Well, you do do that. Sometimes. Not all the time though. Scowling, you grunt, “I don’t like this game anymore.”
Bucky laughs again and the sound is delightful. “Answer the question. Don’t drink. You’ve had enough.”
“Okay, Dad,” you roll your eyes. You see his lips and fingers twitch. “Vulnerability,” you hum to yourself, “I feel like I’m plenty vulnerable.”
“Yeah? You trust me? Enough to be vulnerable?”
“I’d think so.”
“Then what are you lying to yourself about?”
Your jaw drops. “That’s not fair. I drank to that!”
“I know you did.”
Pursing your lips together, you squint at him. “I think… I’m quite vulnerable with people I consider friends. If we talk enough and I sense that you can trust me, I can trust you back with my heart.”
Bucky’s silent to that. His blue eyes are warm as they assess you, assess your words. There’s a weight in the air, a thickness that constricts your lungs. It’s the way he looks at you, carefully. Thoughtfully. You try to force yourself to look away, but you can’t.
“Do you trust me?”
“‘Course I do.”
“In a way a friend would?”
More than that. I’d trust you with my life.
“Let me ask you this, do you think I trust you?”
Your lips part, a yes on the tip of your tongue, but then there’s that niggling skepticism that questions why on earth would Bucky Barnes trust you? You of all people. Then you swallow. “I don’t know, do you?”
“I do.”
Simple. Fast. Your heart beats a fraction faster. “Why?”
“Because you’re you and I don’t think I’ve ever trusted anyone as fast.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It is to me,” he shrugs. “Can’t tell you why exactly, but something about you makes it really easy to trust you. Ask anyone in this place. They’d give you the exact same answer.”
Your chest tightens with an unnamed feeling. Awe? Surprise? Fear? You’re grateful most of all.
“So, I’d like it if you could trust me a little bit more with your feelings too. I want to be here for you, the same way you are for me.”
Maybe it’s the wine, or maybe it’s the fact that Bucky’s looking at you with such sincerity, but tears prick your eyes and you’re quick to swipe them away with a cough. “I appreciate that,” you whisper.
Your next question has him grinning.
“How would you describe me to a stranger?”
“Cute.”
He stops there and you quirk an eyebrow. “Well, how would you describe me?”
“I answered. Cute.”
“Oh,” you stiffen. “Why am I cute?”
“It’s self-explanatory.”
“Nu-uh, I don’t think so.”
Bucky chuckles, “You just want me to compliment you.” Your responding grin has him rolling his eyes in amusement. “I’d tell them that you’re one of the most considerate people I know. I don’t think anyone knows this team better than you do. You keep things running. You’re the only one who can keep up with Tony’s crazy, who can make Natasha laugh until she spits water, who can ground Steve to the earth and realign his moral compass — and even after all that, you still manage to make room for me.”
Your heart seizes.
“I’d tell them you’re perfect.”
A laugh bursts from your lips. Bucky’s not doing the same. He’s serious. “Buck, you can’t be serious. I’m far from perfect.”
“Well, you are to me,” he mutters then quickly grabs the next question. His ears are stained pink. You don’t comment. “What would be the perfect gift for me?”
Your lips stretch into a smug smile. “This is easy. A day off. You and your bike, full tank. You— you’d want to go somewhere quiet. Away from the city, or at least Manhattan. I’d think you’d go down to Brooklyn but you think that borough’s too gentrified unless you go all the way down. You probably want more nature instead, so you’d go upstate. Rent a cabin for yourself for the week. Ideally, all comms would be off but your strong sense of responsibility means you’ll never leave this team stranded, so you would… keep it on you at all times.”
There’s pin-drop silence for a few heartbeats. As time passes, the more silent Bucky is, the less confident you become. Worry that you’ve gotten it completely wrong has you opening your mouth.
But Bucky beats you to it — “That— does actually sound perfect.”
Your heart skips a beat, a quick pulse that you’re not sure Bucky can hear.
“Really?”
“Yeah,” he laughs, surprised, “I think you should suggest that to Tony for my birthday.”
“Putting that down on my list.” You’re onto the next. “Based on what you’ve learned about me, does my social media portray me accurately?” You set the card down and nearly reach for another.
Bucky stops you. “Wait, why aren’t you letting me answer that?”
“You do not use social media. You rarely even check the group chat.”
“That’s because Thor spams it with those images with words. It’s too much.”
Memes. He means memes.
“But I check sometimes. Your Instagram.”
That surprises you. “Oh, you do?”
He nods, smiling as he leans back. In the time the two of you have chatted, his fingers have drifted along the back of the couch again. Once again gentle over your shoulder, like he’s simply trying to remind you he’s there — as if you can forget.
“‘S cute. I like seeing your life outside of here.”
“I barely have a life outside of here,” you point out.
“Touché, but the life you do have — I like seeing it. I like seeing you enjoy yourself. You post silly pictures with friends who clearly love you. Food you eat, so many of the things you eat. It’s a nice, curated version of you. So I do think it portrays you accurately.” He pauses, “I like that you don’t show too much though, like there are parts of you that you keep to yourself.”
“Hm, like what?”
“Like how you take your coffee in the morning, milk with lots of sugar. Or how you refuse to fold the pages on a book so you carry around ten different bookmarks with you at all times. How you’re secretly competitive but never boastful, even when Thor posts about how he wins one time against your five times. Little things.”
Heat kisses your skin. “I… didn’t realize you noticed.”
“More than you think,” Bucky smiles.
For a brief moment in time, the two of you are simply coexisting. Sitting together as if Bucky isn’t a superhero constantly saving the world and you aren’t part of the team that sits behind the scenes. Playing a game like you’re two friends who met under more normal circumstances. It’s a feeling that sits heavy in your chest. A good kind of weight.
He flips open a card and grins. “What would make you the happiest right now?”
Oh.
Oh.
There’s one answer that comes to mind. And you shouldn’t say it out loud because your judgment is partially impaired by the wine and you’re really just feeling warm and fuzzy from the fireplace and the smell of Bucky’s detergent. And this could risk everything but you don’t think about that right now because all you want to be is honest.
Vulnerable.
So the words leave your lips before you can think twice.
“If you kissed me.”
You watch in real time as Bucky’s entire body tenses. His face morphs into a wince.
You feel in real time how your heart plummets to the floor, the small smile wiped clean in dismay.
“Sweetheart, I— we shouldn’t. I can’t do that.”
He’s pulling away, curling into himself. He clasps his hands together, fingers digging into the back of them so tight, you can see the way his skin pales.
No, no, no. You were making such good progress. You were friends. Now you’ve gone ahead and ruined it all. Ruined this perfectly good friendship. All because you were too selfish to keep your own desires at bay.
Shit.
“No, of course not,” you immediately sputter, embarrassed. Your heart is falling and it’s falling fast and you can practically feel it in your gut. You feel nauseous, stomach churning with guilt and regret as you shuffle your feet closer together, facing the fireplace instead. “Sorry, that was stupid I shouldn’t have—”
You can almost hear him flinch. He’s trying to be kind. He’s always trying to be kind with you. “It’s not stupid. It’s not.”
“I’m going to go, um, to bed. I’m pretty tired,” you rise to your feet, the sudden height making you dizzy and you almost tumble back down.
Bucky moves faster, hand latching onto your elbow to steady you. “You’re drunk. Let me walk you.”
“No, no, I’m okay. I promise. I just— I’m gonna go.” Mortification is rooted deep in your skin. Your feet are weighing you down as you force yourself away from Bucky. You can’t even look at him again. “Goodnight, Bucky.”
Without another word, without another glance, you leave.
Level 0
Sleep evades you for the remainder of the night. Twisting and turning in bed for hours on end do nothing to distract your mind from the absolute humiliation of what had happened with Bucky. As if it can’t get any worse, your mind pulses with the aftermath of your terrible consumption habits as you go into briefing the next day.
The team is supposed to go on a mission tonight and you’re there to support with anything they may need prior.
The team includes Bucky which means he is also one of the first faces you see when you arrive at the conference room.
One of the first faces means you and him literally arrive at the exact same time. Bucky freezes, so do you.
“Um, morning,” you croak, wincing.
Bucky frowns then looks away. “Morning,” he coughs, “how are you feeling?”
“Miserable, but I deserve it,” you laugh and it sounds bitter.
“Maybe we can get you some Advil, I think there should be—”
“No, don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine,” you smile weakly up at him.
Bucky stiffens, gaze dropping to your mouth before flying to the door. “Okay, let me know.”
How can he still be so nice to you after the absolute humiliation ritual you put yourself through last night? You’re a fool to think that just because Bucky’s nice to you that he likes you — likes you enough to kiss you.
As you’re handing out the briefings, you reach Bucky with your heart beating against your ribs. You hope he can’t hear the rattling inside your body as you pass the pages over to him. Bucky tenses again when your fingers brush, eyes quickly shifting away from you.
Your soul slams into the ground.
He’s uncomfortable. You’ve made him uncomfortable around you.
It feels as if someone tore your heart from your chest and twisted your insides with something ugly. You try not to let your trembling fingers show as you complete the rest of the distribution, tucking yourself into a corner for the rest of the meeting.
Bucky’s eyes wander to you a handful of times throughout the meeting. You don’t have to look up to see it, you could feel the weight of it burning into your core. But you refuse to return the gaze, fearing that you would be upset by what you see. After your fumble last night, you wouldn’t be surprised if he looked at you with disappointment or worry.
Or worse, disgust.
You don’t want to remember Bucky that way, you don’t want to think of him being repulsed by you. Ignorance is bliss.
When the meeting concludes, you’re immediately dashing out of the room. You make a beeline for literally any deserted hallway that you can hide in. Bucky calls out your name, you pretend not to hear it.
It’s stupid and childish, but you’ve never claimed to be anything other than. When you’re ready to face Bucky, you will.
In ten, twenty years. Maybe.
Avoiding him is easier than you expected. You don’t live on campus and you busy yourself with tasks that do not involve him. He’s gone for a few days on a mission anyway. He texts you, asking if the two of you could meet before he leaves, but you miss the message in your attempt to keep your hands occupied.
Bucky goes near radio silent in his absence. However, he never fails to check in at the end of the night.
Back at base.
Arrived safely. No injuries.
Steve says hi.
It’s not out of the blue that he sends you these messages. The first time they went on a mission and went completely AWOL, you were a nervous wreck. Your team tells you that this is normal and you had asked them how is that possible? You don’t even know if they’re alive!
Someone told Bucky afterwards, how you had been restlessly pacing, wearing out the carpets until the day they all returned. Since then, he’s never missed an evening text just to check in.
Your jittery heart only calms when you see the text from him.
It’s cordial, like he always is when he sends these. You don’t give it much thought. The last one did get an eyebrow raise but you suppose he’s simply being kind. An olive branch to return things to normal.
You can be normal.
When he comes back, you can be normal.
Except, you’re a lying liar because when he comes back, you avoid him like the plague again. Your phone is constantly on do not disturb to avoid temptation of checking his messages throughout the day. Every time he comes to find you at your cubicle, you’re off doing field work; things that aren’t usually part of your dailiy routine.
Again, immature, but it’s better than the alternative.
Bucky telling you that he’s uncomfortable around you.
Bucky telling you that he needs distance.
Bucky telling you that he can no longer be your friend.
You had seen the way he stiffened, how he couldn’t even look you in the eyes. Whoever said it would be worth it to ruin the friendship has never risked it themselves.
Steve runs into you once, seeming surprised that he even catches you in person. You haven’t been to the team outings in a while. The Avengers are Bucky’s friends first; you’re just another staff member supporting the team.
“Hey!” He beams, “Haven’t seen you in a while. How are you doing?”
Your lips tilt in a wry smile. “Hey, Steve. Good. Busy. You?”
“Yeah, good. Are you taking care of yourself? Do you need anything? Are they working you too hard?”
You blink at him in surprise. Sure, you’ve made conversation with Steve but he’s usually too busy to be peppering you with inane questions about you. It’s a strange feeling you can’t shake. “Uhm, it’s fine. I’m okay.”
“Are you sure? We missed you on game night.”
Wincing, you shake your head. “Sorry about that, duty calls.”
Steve hesitates, like there’s more he wants to say but he stops himself. “If you ever need anything, let me know. Or Bucky — you know he’s—” Steve’s words die out when he sees you stiffen at the mention of him, “nevermind. Just— we miss you. Come hang out with us again.”
“I will,” you smile weakly. You don’t say when.
When all is said and done, the Avengers are his family and you — you’ve got your own life. And maybe that’s okay.
Even if you miss him. Even if you really fucking miss him.
Level 10000000
Your evasion attempts last a couple more days before it all comes to a climax. You’re getting yourself ready for a potential night out. You’re not in the mood for it, you would rather sulk alone at home in your feelings, but your friend refuses to let you drown. The makeup does its job of hiding the weariness behind your eyes and the dress you slide on has you feeling put together for the first time in a bit.
You always dress up for work, but it’s different when you’re dressing for yourself.
You’re halfway through putting on your earrings when the doorbell rings. Frowning, you glance at the clock to find your friend a whole hour early. She’s never early.
The door swings open.
It’s not your friend.
Well, not the one you’re expecting at least.
Bucky stands on the other side of this threshold. You haven’t seen him in quite some time and the sight of him leaves your heart aching. There are shadows under his eyes that you’ve never seen before, rimmed slightly red from what seems to be exhaustion. A slump to his usually straight shoulders.
“Bucky? What are you doing here?”
Some light returns to his eyes when he sees you. It goes out just as fast when he finally takes a good look at you.
Damn, that bad?
“Are you going out?”
“Um, just with a couple of friends.”
Bucky presses his lips together, gaze shifting behind you then back to you. “Not on a date?”
A snort leaves your lips. “No, definitely not.”
His shoulders sink a little lower.
Was he hoping that you were? Maybe he was hoping that you got over your crush on him. Maybe he was hoping that you would move on so that things could go back to normal. So you’d stop making things so damn awkward for everyone else.
“But I’m back on the apps so maybe soon!” You try. It’s a lie. You haven’t touched dating apps in years. Not since you met Bucky. Everyone else paled in comparison.
Bucky’s lips part before they twist again. Irritated. He looks irritated.
“So what are you doing here?”
“You’ve been avoiding me.”
“Bucky—”
“You have.”
You lick your lips, the strawberry gloss now tasting sour for some reason. “I have.”
“Why?”
“Bucky,” you sigh, “it’s really not a big deal.”
“Do we need to play that game again for you to be honest with me?”
Oof.
“Fine, then ask me one of those questions.”
“What? Why?” You frown.
“Just do it.”
You sputter, panic clawing at your chest. You’ve never been that good at being put on the spot. “I don’t know! What are you most scared of?”
“Can’t answer that.”
Now, you’re the one exasperated. “Then why’d you make me ask you?” You huff.
“I’m not answering,” he says resolutely, “so dare me. Anything. Anything at all.”
“Bucky, what the hell are you going on about?”
It’s his turn again to apparently be peeved with you. Why? You have no clue. “If I don’t answer, you give me a dare, right? So dare me. Anything you want. Anything your heart desires.”
You hold your hands up. “I’m actually very lost right now.”
“Dare me to kiss you,” Bucky blurts out then goes taut. “Actually, no, shit. I don’t need you to dare me. If that’s what you want, I’ll do it.”
For a moment, you’re stood still. Frozen in time. Then your blood boils over because what the fuck? Is this some kind of sick joke? “I don’t need a pity kiss, Bucky,” you spit out, “I’m a grown woman, okay. I was tipsy and stupid. You don’t have to feel bad for rejecting me.”
“I didn’t— I mean, I didn’t want to—”
“Yes, I know!”
“No, I mean I didn’t want to not kiss you! I wanted to. I still want to. Desperately. I’ve wanted to kiss you for so long.”
“What?” You balk, disbelief coloring your features. “You literally said—”
“You were drunk. I wanted you to be sure. I wanted to make sure you weren’t just asking me to kiss you because — I don’t know — I was convenient?”
“You think I’d ask you to kiss me just because I thought you were convenient?”
Bucky pales, “I’m going about this all wrong. I’m stupid. I’m sorry. The point is, I wanted you to be really sure that that’s what you wanted. I was going to talk to you about it the next day but you were pulling away from me and I didn’t want you to be uncomfortable.”
“Me? You looked uncomfortable! You tensed up whenever I got close. You wouldn’t even look at me.”
His hand flies to his face, rubbing in frustration as he lets out a groan. “You— every time I saw you, I had to stop myself from looking at your lips. I couldn’t stop thinking about— all I wanted to do was kiss you. I didn’t know how to approach you. I should’ve kissed you that night but I wanted you to be a hundred percent sure because if I kissed you, I wasn’t going to let you go.”
You falter, knees weak.
There’s barely any distance between the two of you but you still feel miles apart.
“And then you were calling me Bucky.”
“That’s your name.”
“I’m always Buck. I’ve always been Buck to you.”
Your lips part. You hadn’t even realized you had shifted.
“If I haven’t completely fucked up this situation, I’m hoping you could give me one more chance. Just one more to make things right. I’ll do it right this time. I can’t promise you I’ll be perfect, because I’m far from it, but I can promise you that I’ll do my damndest to do right by you. To make you happy. With me.”
“Buck,” you whisper.
He takes a step forward, hands sliding up to cradle your face. His thumbs brush the apples of your cheeks, warm and certain and present. “Can I kiss you now?”
You nod, barely trusting your voice.
And he finally, finally closes the distance between you.
The kiss is soft, almost like a dream that’s long been out of reach. Then he deepens it, apprehension melting away into conviction. Suddenly, your hands are in the clouds and you’re floating. He tastes like every desire you’ve never had the courage to say out loud. He tastes like sunlight and hope and promises of forever. His lips move with yours in perfect rhythm, heartbeats syncing as one.
When he pulls back, it’s brief, barely a whisper of a distance, and it’s only enough for him to rest his forehead against yours. His breath mingles with yours as he murmurs vows — of you and him, of the rest of your lives.
And the thought doesn’t terrify you the way it should — grand desires when you’ve barely had a day — but you believe him and you trust him.
anyways ngl this kinda booty cheeks but Sung Kang fine af. Shoutout
WC: 1400?
Tokyo was loud. Not in the way New York or LA was loud, but a different kind of electric. Neon lights buzzed above your head as the sound of low-revving engines and scattered bursts of laughter colored the night air. You were new to this rhythm, but it didn't take long to find your pulse in it.
You had only been in Japan for a few weeks. A handful of late-night runs through the mountains with borrowed wheels and a name passed from one drifting circle to the next had already earned you a whisper of a rep. Not bad for an outsider.
That's when you first noticed him.
Han.
Noticed—not met.
He never said more than a few words the first time you locked eyes at a meet in Shibuya. You were leaning against your ride, as he strolled past you, casually chewing on Pocky like this whole thing was just a lazy Friday.
He looked at your car first.
Then at you.
"Clean lines," he said, nodding slightly.
You nodded back, a smirk tugging at your lips. "Yours too."
And just like that, he was gone.
You saw him again a few nights later, parked on the edge of a multi-level garage where the Tokyo skyline glowed in the distance. Same calm eyes. Same unreadable half-smile. Word of mouth told you he was one of the best, but the way he carried himself told you he didn’t need anyone to say it.
You exchanged a few greetings over the next week. A nod here. A short “Nice run” there. It was casual. He wasn’t trying to impress, and neither were you. That’s probably why he kept noticing.
Then, finally, came the meet in Yokohama.
The night air was thick with exhaust and excitement. Someone had set up LED strips under their chassis, and a crowd gathered to watch a two-car drift exhibition. You were standing near your car again, running a rag over the hood. Familiar footsteps approached, deliberate and unhurried.
“New paint job?” Han asked, appearing beside you with his arms crossed, a lollipop in place of his usual Pocky.
You glanced at him. “Nah. Just clean. Not everyone treats their car like a trash can y’know.”
A subtle grin pulled at his mouth. “You talk to everyone like that, or am I special?”
You raised a brow. “I don’t talk to most.”
Which wasn’t a complete lie.
Han laughed softly, a warm, low sound that cut through the noise of revving engines and blasting music. “That makes me feel better.”
You tilted your head, curious. “You needing reassurance Han?.”
He looked at you for a beat, like he was measuring something—not judging, just reading. Then, casually:
“Just wanted a reason to keep talking to you.”
You paused, then smiled. “Next time, try ‘hi.’ It’s easier.”
He shrugged. “Where’s the fun in easy?”
—
Days blurred into nights and meets bled into mod sessions at the garage. The air always smelled like rubber, gasoline, and something unspoken hanging between you and Han. The kind of tension no one called out loud but everyone noticed.
You weren’t together, technically. But no one else dared flirt with you, and he didn’t entertain anyone else, either.
He’d show up behind you mid-conversation, casually drape an arm around your shoulders like he’d always belonged there. Or lean over you under the hood of a car, hands brushing too close to yours. His warm arms locking you in place while his breath lingered near your ear.
You never pulled away.
At the garage, you became part of the scene—more than just a racer. You knew your way around an engine, and you weren’t afraid to get your hands dirty. The others respected that. Han respected you.
Nights were often filled with shared glances across the bay, tossed tools, sarcastic remarks, and moments of stillness where you caught him watching you when he thought you weren’t looking.
And then came that night.
The crew had gone out partying after a big win on the docks. You’d raced a guy who underestimated you, drifted tighter and smoother than anyone expected.
Later, you both ended up back at Han’s place, the music from the party next door bleeding through the walls—deep bass rattling the loose tools on the work bench.
You were lying side by side on the couch. The lights were low, the room washed in a soft glow from the kitchen. Han had one arm behind his head, the other toying with your fingers lazily, watching as they went back and forth from their resting state.
Neither of you spoke for a long while.
Then, finally, he asked, voice low, almost too soft to catch.
“You ever think about what we are?”
You blinked, still staring at the ceiling. “I try not to.”
He let out a quiet laugh. “Yeah.”
Silence.
The kind that stretched out. Not awkward, just loaded.
Your voice was quieter this time. “But you know they all think we are, right?”
Han tilted his head lazily toward you. “Yeah. I know.”
You turned slightly, eyes meeting his. “And you’ve never corrected them.”
He shrugged. “Neither have you.”
That hung in the air for a second.
You shifted closer, enough that your knee bumped his. He didn’t move away. Instead, he turned toward you fully, his hand now trailing along your wrist, fingers brushing the inside of it gently.
“You ever wonder if we were to stop pretending?” you asked, eyes searching his.
Han’s expression didn’t change much, but you knew him well enough to see the flicker of something behind his eyes. Restraint. Want.
“All the time,” he said finally.
Your throat tightened a little. The music outside seemed to fade, like the whole city was holding its breath.
“So why haven’t we?” you whispered.
His thumb ran a lazy circle against your skin. “Because once we do, it changes everything.”
You didn’t say anything right away. You just looked at him, heartbeat a little faster, breathing a little slower. His gaze was steady now. No teasing. No smirking. Just raw honesty.
“I don’t want to mess up what we have,” he admitted.
Your fingers found his, locking in a slow, certain grip. “Then don’t.”
Another beat of silence passed. Then Han leaned in, forehead barely brushing yours.
The air between you was no longer still.
It was charged—like the silence before tires screeched into motion. That edge, that heartbeat right before a race, when you feel everything tilt but don’t pull away. That was what this felt like now.
You could feel his breath, steady but quieter now.
“You always this cautious?” you asked, your voice hushed.
He pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, eyes dark and steady. “Only with things I don’t wanna lose.”
Your chest tightened at that, at how serious he looked. Not guarded like usual. No masks, no teasing.
Just Han.
You leaned in a little more, nose nearly brushing his now. Your voices had dropped to a whisper, like you were afraid to break the moment—or maybe just hoping it would never end.
His hand slid up slowly, fingers grazing your jaw. He held you like he was asking permission without saying a word. You didn’t answer with words—you didn’t have to. You leaned into his palm, eyes soft but steady.
“And if we screw this up?” he asked, barely louder than the music thumping through the wall. “You ever think about that?”
You nodded. “All the time.”
A beat. Your heart was racing now. You weren’t sure whose pulse you felt, yours or his, but they were synced.
“But I think about you more.”
That was it.
The moment cracked open, and everything moved fast and slow all at once. Han closed the space, lips brushing yours gently— he was still giving you an out, still giving you room to change your mind.
You didn’t.
You leaned in, full and certain, the kind that didn’t ask questions. It answered them.
His hand slid to the back of your neck, holding you steady as the kiss deepened, and your fingers tangled into his shirt like you’d been waiting to do it for months. Which, let’s face it—you had.
By the time you finally broke apart, your forehead was still resting against his, and both of you were catching your breath. Not from the kiss, but from finally letting go.
“That feel like a mistake to you?” You said quietly, lips still close to his.
Han gave a slow smile, a smile he rarely let anyone see.
“Not even close.”
His hand slipped into yours again, and this time there was no hesitation. Just warmth. Just a silent agreement between two people who’d danced around the edge long enough.
*musing to myself while I think about what I'm doing for my fic*
The thing is. The Thing Is. I do not view Rinzler as being a "permanently changed Tron" for lack of a better term/descriptor. I view Rinzler as a name, an identity given to Tron that was basically like a lock put overtop of his core self that would need some sort of trigger to undo (in my mind, seeing Flynn again was the trigger, both in name and appearance.) Because To Me. I like the idea of a Tron who remembers everything he did as Rinzler once he "comes back" to himself so to speak. The relief of "oh I'm free of the cage I was in" turning into the immediate horror and guilt of "oh god I cannot undo all the things I did nor can I forget them because I was still in there, just dormant" is way too good to me to Not want to explore that angle. I like the idea of Rinzler being pieces of code damage done to Tron that basically enhanced some of his traits Clu would find useful (loyalty, inclination toward violence as an answer to things because of his core function) and that also dampened his ability to say no/refuse an order. You still get the fucked autonomy issues but you also get someone whos clawing to be their old self again who Can't because it's impossible to ignore what you did and what was done to you, and you can't even fully say it wasn't your fault because you were aware enough while it was happening to know what you were doing, even if you couldn't refuse.
(And this goes without saying but I don't think the physical damage of that broken code can fully be undone. That rattling purr is always going to be a part of Tron after he sheds the Rinzler name, its a physical mark of who he was and who he can't easily shake off.)
summary - with fresh snow on the ground only days before your family arrives at winterfell, you decide to soak up the last of your childhood with the starks
baratheon!reader who is betrothed to robb already ;)
you had spent most of the year in winterfell since you were eight years old. you'd grown up with the starks and snow and cold, and you had to admit that you loved it in comparison to the loud, hot, sticky that was king's landing. you were a princess, and yet you despised the castle.
winterfell's homely build was more your speed, and you loved being able to wake in the morning to fresh fallen snow and hot chocolate in the great hall, running out your door to jon and robb's just down the corridor so you could have snowball fights with theon and the other kids who lived around.
you grew used to playing with boys that when your little brother joffrey got older you started messing around with him as well, which earned great loud laughs from your father and a smack in the arm from your mother.
it was moments like that that made you understand your true love for winterfell and its people.
when sansa and arya and bran and rickon got older you tried to include them in your games with the boys - arya taking to it as jon's shadow and rickon clinging to your arm as yours. you carried the little boy around with you everywhere - eleven years his senior you treated him as your own brother.
the little brother you wish joffrey was.
the little brother you hoped little tommen was, but wasn't around much to see.
so, it was days like this, a few months into your likely last stay with the starks, where the snow on the ground was fresh and the sun in the sky was bright, that you were most excited for - even though at the ripe age of seventeen, you were a supposed-to-be regal, well held, proper lady. proper princess, actually.
but that didn't matter when you were in winterfell. nothing involved with king's landing did.
you dressed quickly, appreciating the lack of maidens coming to wait on you and the silence that accompanied the solitude. you tied your hair back in a half up braid that had become your signature style in the north, and dressed in your black and brown leathers and fur - comfortable and easy to move in, as opposed to the layers upon layers that held up the dresses your mother kept for you at the red keep.
and then you crossed the hall, shivering slightly at the chill, and pushing the first door open without a care in the world. you grabbed a pillow off the floor and chucked it at the boy in the bed with a giggle. "come on, robb. it snowed last night."
the auburn haired boy groaned, pushing the pillow away from his face and rolling over in bed. "it's too bloody early. can't a man get some rest?"
"no," you answered simply, pushing the door shut behind you before you crossed to where he was sprawled lazily on his mattress. you pushed at his shoulder, a small smile on your lips. "we have things we need to get done today, so now's the only time we have to mess around."
he considered your words for a few moments before letting out a huff, turning back over so he was on his back, looking up at you with his beautiful crystal blue eyes.
"and what was it that you had in mind?" he asked.
"take a guess," you said, a laugh on your lips.
he grinned at you, reaching for your waist to pull you on top of him, but you swatted his hand away with a laugh, stumbling and leaning against the mattress away from him.
"robb," you said, your voice trying to be stern but breaking with your laughter.
he rolled his eyes, hand still resting on your waist, thumb rubbing circles into the leather there. "it's a valid guess."
"but, an incorrect one," you told him, shaking your head. "try again. i said there's snow outside, do the math."
he chuckled at you, hand falling from your waist onto the mattress beside him as he stretched onto it again. he glanced sideways at you. "a snowball fight?" he asked, the corner of his mouth twitching into a grin as he raised his brows at you. "really?"
"you have a problem with that?" you asked, matching his sideways smile with a tilt of your head and your hands on your hips.
he propped himself up on his elbows, shaking his head slowly as he looked you over for the first time that morning. his dark curls bounced around his face, messy from sleep. "no, i suppose not. but be warned - i'll be aiming for your pretty face this time."
"you know the rules," you told him as you leaned forward to press a gentle kiss to his lips, leaning against the mattress as he tilted to meet you. "no headshots. that's been the rule since we were seven."
he returned your kiss happily, sitting up fully just as you pulled away from him. the sheets pooled around his waist as he grinned. "aye, i remember the rules. no headshots." his hand raised to cup your jaw gently, thumb running over your cheek as his grin grew teasing. "and no puppy eyes to distract me, princess. that's cheating."
"and not in the rulebook," you laughed, pecking his lips again before standing straight and out of his grasp. "i can't promise anything."
"that's not fair!" he objected with a laugh. "you can't just go around using those wide, innocent eyes and expect me to be able to say no to you." he reached out, pinching your side as he shook his head at you. "i swear, those doe eyes are your biggest weapon."
you laughed and dodged another squeeze, stepping back towards the door. "my family sigil is a stag, after all."
he let out a laugh as you moved away, leaning back against his headboard and trying to comb through his messy curls with one hand and failing fantastically.
"alright, consider me warned," he told you as he pulled at a knot on the side of his head. "no more falling for your pretty eyes."
you smiled fondly at him, shaking your head before moving to sit on the mattress beside him and gently push his hands away, working the knot out of his hair carefully. "good," you hummed, "i wouldn't want you to be at a disadvantage." you ran your hands through his hair a couple more times, helping the curls lay more cohesively before finally meeting his eyes.
he couldn't help but stare, a corner of his mouth quirked up as his lips parted. you helping him with his hair was not a new thing by far, but one of the things that always had his heart racing nonetheless.
you met his gaze, holding it with a small smile for several moments before finally standing from his bed again.
"snowball fight," you told him again, nodding once. "you need to get up now. i've got to go get rickon ready before your mother steals him away."
he watched you for a few seconds more before finally nodding, a light laugh on his lips. "yes, alright. you go and get the little wolf." he waved you away as he pushed the blankets off and stood to grab a change of clothes.
you smiled at his nickname for his brother, an image flashing through your mind of a little redheaded toddler with your eyes receiving the same endearment.
"can you wake jon and the others when you're done?" you asked, watching him cross his room, chest bare. "that way we can just meet you in the courtyard."
"yes, love, i know the drill," he answered, shooting a sideways smile your way as he pulled a fresh brown tunic from his wardrobe.
"thank you!" you cheered as you pulled the door open. "see you in a minute."
"bye, love."
you had a bounce in your step as you walked further down the stark hall towards rickon's rooms, his being the smallest and closest to his parents'. seeing robb this early in the morning always put you in a good mood.
you paused at the toddler's door, listening to see if lady catelyn had already risen to wake the boy. when you heard nothing you pushed the heavy wooden door open and snuck inside, crossing the stone floor quickly to kneel beside his bed.
"rickon," you said softly, pushing at his shoulder. "rickon, it's time to wake up now."
he, so like his brother, groaned and rolled over, his back to you as he shook his head. you laughed quietly, rubbing his back gently. "c'mon sweet boy, we only have a few minutes to play before we have to get you to your lessons."
he peeked over his shoulder at you, brows furrowed. "play? play what?"
"there's fresh snow on the ground," you told him with a knowing grin.
he sat up instantly, a bright smile on his sweet face. "is everyone already outside?"
"they're all getting outside, so we've got to hurry," you answered. "do you want to pick out your clothes or do you want me to?"
"i'll pick," he told you as he climbed out from under the furs and dashed for his closet before stopping suddenly and running back towards you. you let out a laugh as he hugged you tight around the shoulders. "forgot, sorry! good morning!"
"good morning, rickon," you said, chuckling still as he pulled away from you.
he broke for his wardrobe as you grabbed a pair of fresh wool socks, the thick underclothes that the north required, and his wintercoat from the trunk at the foot of his bed.
the little boy tossed a pair of breeches onto the trunk as you closed it, holding up two different tunics with a furrow between his brows.
"wear the brown one," you told him with a small smile. "robb's wearing a brown one today. you can match."
rickon was all over that idea, throwing the grey one to the floor and turning to take the rest of his clothes from you.
you turned away as he dressed, grabbing his boots by the door instead and waiting patiently on his bed.
"boots now!" he said as he bounced over to you, sticking out one foot. you quickly slid his boots onto his small feet, talking him through the motions of tying the laces before standing and taking the six year old's hand.
"ready?" you asked, but he was already pulling you to the door.
"yup!" he cheered.
the both of you made your way quickly down to the courtyard, spotting the older kids immediately. theon was tiredly walking in just as you and rickon did, rubbing at his eyes and trying to wake up a bit more. the boy at your side released your hand to run to robb, your betrothed scooping him up easily and mumbling a greeting as jon patted the boy's shoulder.
you did a quick headcount and furrowed your brows. "where's sansa?"
"she's not coming," arya huffed, crossing her arms over her chest as she rolled her eyes. "she hates fun nowadays, don't you remember?"
you breathed out a laugh, robb, jon, and theon grinning at each other as they shook their heads.
jon ruffled her hair. "not everyone enjoys snowball fights like we do, arya."
"she used to!" the eleven year old objected. "she says she's grown up now and can't play. you four are all older than her and still play!"
"our priorities are a bit different than sansa's," you told her with a teasing smile. "right now i'm pretty sure all she's worried about is becoming a proper lady for my little brother."
the reminder of the royal family's arrival in a few days sent the group into a fit of sighs. winterfell had gone a bit tense as everyone prepared, and sansa had become obsessed with the idea of marrying joffrey, proclaiming her hopes for him to anyone who would listen.
arya rolled her eyes again.
"well, she's being ridiculous," she said.
"yeah, joffrey doesn't sound like someone worth being so obsessed with," robb hummed.
"you haven't even met him," you laughed, coming to a vague defense of your brother.
he raised a brow your direction. "sure, but what you've told us hasn't exactly been wonderful."
"he sounds like a right prick from what you've said," jon chimed in.
bran, the sweet boy he was, knitted his brows. "why does she want to marry him then?"
"because he's a prince," theon explained with a grin. "why do you think all the girls in the north want to be with robb? he's not handsome enough for all that attention alone - girls love a man with a title."
you and jon busted into laughter as robb frowned, arya grinning at your side as rickon giggled at robb's feet.
"i happen to think robb is very pretty," you said, smiling at the man teasingly.
"you have to," arya said. "you're betrothed."
"point still stands," you hummed. "now enough chatter, we have a snowball fight to start. we'll have rickon choose first; whose team do you want to be on, bud?"
he smiled and left robb immediately, grabbing onto your leg as he announced, "yours!"
you grinned at robb who huffed to himself.
"i want yours too!" arya said, shifting closer to your side. she met the eyes of her black-haired older brother. "jon, you're with us."
jon followed instructions, saluting to the girl as he came to your end of the courtyard.
"that leaves robb, bran, and theon," you hummed. it was actually a decent division given the uneven numbers. rickon usually slowed you and jon down during the fight. "everyone remember the rules?"
the group nodded.
"no headshots, no rocks in the snowballs, and no unsportsmanlike aiming," jon recited with a hint of excitement in his voice.
bran and rickon laughed at the last one, remembering that they were the reason that rule had to be implemented.
"perfect. ready, set, go!"
you each ran to the sides of the courtyard, rickon on your heels as you began balling up some snow in your gloved palms. a snowball smashed against the pillar next to you and you yelped, diving to the side behind a snowbank that arya had fled to.
"make us some ammo, rickon," you instructed as jon came dashing to hide next to you all as well.
"ugh," arya huffed as she peeked over the pile of snow. "they're hiding."
"so are we."
"ha, theon!"
the greyjoy man bolted towards you, chucking snowballs the best he could over your makeshift shelter, but was soon pelted with snowballs from you, jon, and arya, rickon building a steady pile behind you all. he dropped his pile of snowballs, protecting his face. "enough, i give up! ease up!"
"you're out!" jon shouted with a grin.
theon rolled his eyes and laughed. "alright, alright."
"how are we going to get robb and bran?" arya asked as theon moved to the side.
you clicked your tongue, spotting the two tufts of curly hair behind the snowdrift opposite you. "a distraction."
a smirk spread across jon's lips. "you'll distract him? and how exactly are you going to do that?" he asked, dry humor dripping from his tone.
"by drawing fire, of course," you answered, frowning at his line of thinking. "arya, go behind them. jon, cover me."
"sir, yes sir," arya said with a wicked grin, watching you as you hopped over the snow pile and began running to the side, drawing robb and bran's fire.
"dumb move, sweetheart!" robb called with a grin, sitting up on his knees as he chucked snowball after snowball your direction.
you yelped, ducking out of the way and trying to get to the side of their snowbank. "i don't know about that, wolf boy!"
you threw a snowball at him - hard, not expecting it to hit him at all.
except it smashed in his face, earning an instant chorus of laughter.
bran stopped throwing, pointing a finger at his older brother as robb stared straight ahead, eyes wide in surprise.
the man wiped the snow off him, mock glaring at you as you laughed harder. "you're out. no headshots."
"technically, that was a faceshot-"
"you're out, little doe, come on now."
"fine, fine," you laughed, walking over to join theon. "sorry, love!"
"oh, now you're sorry?" he asked, raising his brows.
"you'll get her back next time," theon chuckled, elbowing your side as you stood next to him.
you watched as arya circled the courtyard carefully, hiding behind random snowbanks, jon now out in the open trying to pelt his brothers with snow.
"you're going down, snow!" robb called to his brother, pushing up on his knees to chuck one way too close to jon. "it's inevitable!"
"is it?"
arya smashed two snowballs against her brothers' backs, immediately throwing her hands up in the air as you and jon and rickon began cheering.
robb turned with a slack jaw, arya giggling as she stepped away from him. "we win."
"oh, did you now?" he asked, a grin pulling at his lips as he lunged at the young girl, snatching her up around the middle and running into the middle of the courtyard, spinning her around as she screamed.
"let me down, robb!"
"let you down?" he repeated, slowing his spins and walking a few steps towards where rickon was still sat behind your makeshift base. "i'll let you down."
"robb, don't-!"
he dropped her into the snow, earning loud cackles from theon and jon as you shook your head, smiling even as you helped the girl up. she scrambled to her feet, glaring at her brother.
he raised his hands in defense, smiling as he backed away from her. "you said to let you down. i let you down."
"not in the snow!" she exclaimed, but even bran could hear the amusement in her tone as she lunged for him.
which warranted him throwing a snowball at her and landing it square in the back of her head.
a few more rounds of snowball fights ensued after that, the last one ending with robb tossing you in the snow before arya shoved him in to join you. rickon jumped in of his own free will, giggling as he grabbed bunches of snow in his hands.
"alright children! time to clean up and get to breakfast, there's much to be done today."
you and robb sat up, everyone staring over your shoulder at lady catelyn standing in the entryway with a gentle smile.
arya and bran were the first to follow instructions, followed by theon and jon, both of whom avoided her gaze, and soon it was just you, robb, and rickon left sprawled in the snow.
you grunted, pushing yourself up to stand and grab rickon, the little boy wrapping his arms around your neck to keep himself in your arms. you smiled at him. "aren't you glad i woke you up this morning?"
"yes," he admitted with a small smile. "can we do it again tomorrow?"
"we'll see what the snow looks like," you hummed before your tone dropped to a whisper and you grinned at him. "but probably yes."
he matched your grin before you set him on his feet, letting him run after his siblings towards the dining hall. you turned back to the snow pile, eyes fondly resting on robb. "do you need help too?"
"it'd be appreciated," he answered with a teasing grin, holding his hands out.
you rolled your eyes but obliged, holding his hands tightly and tugging him up to his feet. it was almost instinct, the way his hands fell to your waist and tried to pull you closer, but you pushed him away, opting instead to take his hand to approach his mother. you offered lady catelyn a smile.
"you all sure had fun this morning," she hummed with a distinct fondness in her tone.
"nothing better than fresh snow to start the week," you answered, which earned a gentle laugh.
"nothing better," she agreed.
robb grinned, squeezing your hand. "especially when it's used to pummel my face."
"he's just mad he lost," you told his mother, shaking your head with a laugh.
"i am not mad!"
"of course you're not, dear," catelyn said, meeting your eyes with a smile that matched yours. she stepped to the side, making way for you both to escape down the hall. "get something to eat, you two. there's a lot of work to be done today."
"has father called for me?" robb asked.
"yes, you, jon, and theon will be assisting him today," she answered with a short nod. she looked to you. "you and i will continue preparing for your family's arrival."
"yes, my lady," you said.
she smiled fondly, nodding again. "your highness."
however awkward it was for you to hear the title, you were appreciative of her dismissal, robb pulling you away and down the hall.
he chuckled next to you. "don't look so surprised."
"she never calls me that," you told him, brows furrowed. "no one here does."
"well, maybe she's still doing it while she can. everyone knows as soon as we're married you're taking the title of 'lady' instead," he answered, grinning. "though sansa can't believe you're giving 'princess' up."
"lady of winterfell is much more appealing," you said with a light laugh. "less expectation. less awkward formality."
"more me," he joked, earning another laugh.
"yes," you hummed, squeezing his hand as you leaned into his side, grinning up at him. "more you."
"arguably the best part," he continued.
"arguably," you agreed as he slowed his steps, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. you glanced over his shoulder at the messed up courtyard, your smile softening. "i'm going to miss this."
he followed your eyes, a soft sigh slipping through his lips. "it'll be back soon enough."
you knew what he meant. you'd talked about it a lot.
you get married at the end of the week, and then you'll be expected to have children. eventually, those curly headed pups will be playing in the courtyard throwing snowballs at one another just as you and the stark children and theon had.
"it'll be different," you told him, shaking your head.
your family with robb instead of the whole family.
ned could still be in king's landing at that point as hand to the king, but perhaps he'd be home with his wife. rickon and bran would likely stay. theon as well. but, sansa and arya will be married off in a few years, sansa in king's landing with your idiot brother and arya who knows where. and jon would be at the wall, cloaked in black surrounded by men who weren't his brothers, though he called them so.
"it'll be ours," was his answer, another kiss pressed to your temple.
you looked up at him, smiling softly. "yeah, i suppose that's worth it."
thanks for reading! leave a request in the comments or message me privately! i love writing, so if you've got an idea you need fleshed out on paper i'd love to be the one to do that for you
Warning(s): Very slight mentions of gore, death, depression, and a single suggestive line.
Note: I started this when I had a cat sleeping on my lap so I couldn't move to do anything else. Technically this was supposed to be angst but I truly cannot bring myself to write full angst, so this is where we ended up. Gender neutral reader as always!
Divider credit: @saradika-graphics
Levi doesn't like feelings.
They make everything too…messy. He needs focus, not shit he can't name clogging his throat and making his eyes burn every time he survives another expedition. Hange calls it guilt, Erwin calls it duty.
Whatever it is, Levi is tired of it.
How many times has he watched people die because they felt too much? Marching on through the terror, moving past the viscera of their comrades, only to be killed as if they were nothing more than an ant under a child's foot.
The clock on the wall keeps ticking, steady like his heart beat. His heart, that somehow continues despite how often it feels like it shouldn't. The tightness in his chest, the pit in his stomach, the gnawing sensation whenever he has to tell another family their child is gone.
He raises his tea cup to his lips. Holding the edge almost too tight to make sure it doesn't break. A vivid memory of a soldier being crushed in a massive fist flashes in his mind, the sound of bones crunching, blood squelching, a choking gasp-
Levi sets the cup back on his desk. The tea was cold anyway.
The gnawing is still there, threatening to consume him whole from the inside out. No amount of looking over his shoulder, pushing people away, nothing helps him feel any farther from the maw of despair that seems to fester inside him. Looking into fresh cadets eyes, seeing the hope and determination, only to later close those vacant eyes for them as a final act of respect.
He still feels their gazes, he thinks. Late at night when everything is quiet and his heart beats too fast and too hard, he feels the weight of devotion, the mantle he has to carry for all those who can't. If humanity's strongest can't bear that onus, what hope do they have?
Levi traces the wood grain in the arm of his chair. Even fucking trees couldn't have a peaceful life in this world. Spend god knows how long growing only to be kicked over by a bumbling, ugly titan.
Levi lets his head fall back against the chair with a hard 'thud'. Farlan was better at this. He always seemed to know what Levi was thinking before he did. Isabel too, in a way. Clumsier about it, offering him part of her food or trying to cheer him up with a story.
He digs his palms into his eyes until colors erupt in his vision and his ears start ringing. Snow falls outside, gathering on his window sill and frosting the panes of glass. He glares at the white powder as he sits up again. He never liked winter. Hange had been so excited to tell him about it right after he'd left the underground, going on and on about their theories and different traditions people had.
Why the fuck people celebrated shorter days, wet messes, and cracked knuckles, he'd never understand. He turns his chair back towards his desk, away from the window.
Isabel would have been ecstatic about the whole thing.
Levi taps his finger against the desk, annoyed at the lack of work to distract him. Only experimental expeditions happened in the winter, leaving him stuck in his office with nothing to do but stew in his own miserable thoughts.
A knock at the door shocks his whole system back into awareness. Before he can say anything, your face is poking through the doorway, snow still resting on your shoulders.
"Bad time?"
Levi blinks. "No. Why the fuck were you out there?"
You snort and make your way in, rubbing warmth back into your arms. "I went into town this morning and the storm picked up on the way back. If it was on purpose I would have taken a scarf." You flex your stiff fingers. "And maybe some gloves."
Levi looks and yes, you are noticeably lacking anything that would help keep you warm. "You're worse than Hange."
"No, Hange would try to get frostbite on purpose." You counter, settling on the couch only you ever used.
Well, he couldn't argue with that. His eye catches on his abandoned tea. Maybe he should start another pot? Your hands have been shaking since you stepped in.
"I wish I'd thought to grab some pine needles on the way. Growing up, my family would make a tea with them."
Levi's eyes snap to you, questioning if you'd somehow read his mind, but you were simply watching the snow behind him with a faraway look.
"Not that it was very good tea, though. Literally just the needles in hot water, but it's nostalgic to me now." You say with a smile.
"Sounds gross."
You groan and narrow your eyes at him. "How is it any different than leaves in hot water?!"
Levi shrugs and refuses to answer. You huff and cross your arms, kicking off your boots to stretch your legs on the couch to irk him on purpose.
"Oi." He says right on cue.
"Oh, hush. We both know I'm cleaner than anyone else who'd actually sit here." You say, stifling a yawn.
"The snow makes you smell like a wet dog." Levi grumbles, but doesn't move to stop you.
"Woof."
Levi doesn't humor you with a laugh, allowing comfortable silence to settle instead. The water dripping off your shoes catches his attention, but he pushes it aside. He'll just make you clean it before you leave, assuming you don't fall asleep on his couch. Again.
"Something tells me you don't like the snow."
Levi waves his hand towards the window. "You like being cold and wet?"
"Well, I like one of those-"
Levi raises his inkwell in warning. You giggle and raise your hands in surrender. "I think the snow is pretty, that's all." You wave your finger at him. "And, we don't have to work as much."
"Hange still drags us out with them." Levi grouses.
"Yeah, and there are hardly any titans because they're all slow and cold."
"They're still there. You shouldn't let your guard down."
You frown at the bite in his voice, the sudden shift in mood. "I don't."
Levi rubs his temples, his eyes squeezed shut. You sit up and lean forward, worried. "Are you alright?"
Levi shrugs and shakes his head. You pause for a moment, considering, before standing and gently padding over. You lean against the wall and look out the window, careful to not go too far into his space without invitation. You wait, letting him decide if he wants to push the issue or not.
"I'm tired."
You slowly exhale through your nose. You know he isn't talking about his insomnia, though you're sure that isn't helping him. Sliding down the wall, you sit and pull your legs to your chest, trying to figure out what to say. What can you say? You know Levi would scoff at platitudes, and you can't just say, 'Oh, it'll get better!'. You settle on the only thing you can think of.
"Me too."
Levi rests his head on intertwined fingers. You pull your legs closer, putting more pressure on your chest to try and chase out the gross feelings festering there. The world around you is silent, thanks to the snow, but it makes it so much harder to shut out the dreck in your mind. You trace circles on your skin, eyes fixed on the floor, any further words dying on your tongue.
Maybe this is what you need. What you both need. No medals, no titles, no comments about how you're the 'lucky ones' for coming back alive. Just the acknowledgement that life is shit, but at least it's shit for both of you. Nobody talks about the chest pains, the nightmares, seeing your friends die in front of you over and over, day and night. You can count the number of people you signed up with who are still alive, including you, on one hand.
Yeah, no wonder Levi didn't want to talk about work. You look at him, shoulders hunched, frown etched onto his face. You stand and brush your hands on your thighs. You can wallow later. Levi watches you move around his room, filling your arms with his coat, gloves, a scarf.
"What are you doing?"
You drop the items on his desk in front of him. "We're going to get pine needles." You raise your hand to stop Levi's incoming comment. "The storm died down and it's a short walk. Please? If I ask Hange to go with me we'll be out there all night."
Levi gives you a flat look. He knows what you're doing, getting him out of his office to shock his system. He sighs and grabs his coat. It was better than drinking cold tea in the dark. You smile and bend down to put your boots back on, with Levi already being dressed by the time you're done. You make a move towards the door, only to let out a choking noise when Levi yanks you by the back of your shirt.
"Dumb ass." He says, reaching up to wrap his scarf around your neck and flipping the end into your face for good measure.
His signature clean smell wraps around your senses like a vice grip. Your face feels hot. You choose to blame it on the scarf. "Thanks."
The walk outside is short and quiet, save for you accidentally stepping on a creaky floor board. You scurry ahead of Levi, not willing to stick around and find out if every soldier nearby was waking up thanks to you. Frigid air washed over you the moment you opened the door, along with a few errant snow flakes. You blink away tears, taking a deep breath and stepping outside.
Levi is right behind you, scowling even deeper at the weather. Not giving him a chance to change his mind and go back, you march ahead, snow crunching underfoot. The flakes are fat and fluffy, floating down and settling on your lashes. The sky is a light gray, no moon or stars in sight, but the show shines regardless.
Looking back, Levi has his arms folded tight and he's carefully stepping where you've stepped, but he's still following you all the same. He huffs when he notices you looking. "This is stupid."
You slow to walk beside him. "Want your scarf back?"
He shakes his head. "You said this would be short. My ears aren't gonna fall off if you're telling the truth."
You flex your fingers, hands stuffed deep in your coat pockets. The walk was closer to twenty minutes, but he didn't need to know that. He would've said no, or suggested getting the horses, and frankly you just wanted to get out as soon as possible.
After a few more minutes, you veered off to scoop some fresh snow into your hand. Halfway to your mouth, Levi once again raised concern.
"Are you fucking insane?"
You look at him and stick your tongue out, eating some of the snow. "What? It's just water."
"It was on a bush."
"I only took the top layer!"
You keep walking, ignoring the look Levi is giving you. Tossing the melted snow aside and patting your hands dry, you smile at him. "It's not gonna kill me."
"It's gross." Levi shoots back.
You laugh, the sound ringing out in the quiet. "You think everything is gross!"
"Everything is gross." He grumbles. He blinks, remembering something. "It's your turn to knock Hange out for their bath this week."
You groan, kicking up snow. "They bit me last time!"
"Not my problem."
You sigh and tilt your head to the sky, closing your eyes. "We should make Erwin do it."
To your delight, Levi barks out a laugh at that. "He'd be flat on his ass in two minutes."
You snicker and nod. "Yeah, you're probably right."
You tuck your chin further into his scarf to hide your satisfied smile. Good, this was good! You keep walking, feeling like a weight had lifted from your chest.
Almost too soon, the two of you come upon a patch of pine trees, blanketed in a few inches of snow. Motioning for Levi to step back, you shake the snow off a branch, wincing when it bounces onto you and stings your cheek. Hands cold and hurting, you quickly pull the needles off, pausing to inhale the scent before you stuff your pockets to the brim.
"Do you need the many to make tea?" Levi asks, looking at the green needles poking through the fabric of your coat.
"No, but I'll bundle up any extra and put it under my pillow, or something. I like the smell."
On instinct, you go to put your hands in your pocket, only to promptly get poked. You frown at the situation you've put yourself in.
"Idiot." Levi says, already pulling his gloves off his hands.
"Ah, ah, no!" You protest, grabbing his wrist. "You already gave me your scarf! Like you said, it's a short walk. I'll survive."
Thinking for a moment, Levi hands you one glove. "Put it on your other hand."
You do so with a raised brow, not understanding why. Levi joins your gloveless hands together, tucking them safely into his coat pocket. He gives you a look, silently asking if you get it now. You nod, suddenly feeling like you needed to shed your scarf and coat to cool back down.
Was there steam coming off of you? You felt like there should be. Even as you begin walking back, all you can think about is the feeling in your stomach, so similar to how you felt when you were free falling with your gear. God, you hoped your hand wasn't too clammy.
The rest of the walk back went by in a daze. It could have been an hour or a second, you honestly couldn't tell. By the time you snapped back to reality, you were kicking the snow off your boots and creeping back to Levi's room, carefully avoiding the creaky board. Levi pulls his hand away, much to your relief and disappointment, and shrugs off his snow coated clothes.
"Do you want to start the fire, or start the tea?"
You blink. "Huh?" Levi gives you a blank stare, and you look down at your pockets. "Oh. Right. I'll start with the tea. No promises it'll be good, though."
Levi crouches down to get the fire going. "I'm not expecting it to."
Making sure to grab his discarded tea before you go, you hurry to the kitchen and shove the needles in the pot. You feel hot behind your ears and realize you're still wearing Levi's scarf and one of his gloves, which certainly isn't helping. Your foot taps impatiently as you wait with nothing left to do after setting up the tray to take it all back to Levi's room. You silently pray that this isn't one of those nights where Hange is up late and could possibly find you in this state. You're too tongue tied to even begin answering all their questions.
The second the steam starts to whistle you snatch the pot and put it on the tray, heading back as fast as you can without scalding yourself. Bumping the door open with your elbow, the warmth from the fireplace immediately wraps around you. Levi, to your surprise, has moved the couch from its place against the wall and is resting on one side of it, head tilted back towards the ceiling. He watches you set the tray down on his desk, and turns fully when you stare and scratch your neck.
"Do you seriously not know what you're doing?"
"I'm trying to remember!" You hiss, taking the pause to remove his glove and scarf. You hand them back to him to lay them with everything else by the fire to dry.
"Did you at least wash the needles?" Levi asks, looking at you from the corner of his eye.
"Yes!" You only quickly rinsed them, but what he didn't know won't hurt him. You wave your hand towards Levi, motioning for him to look away. "You're gonna make me spill if you watch me."
"You better not." He warns, turning back towards the fire.
You silently mimic him before pouring two cups of tea, careful not to let any splash while you strain it. Taking them both and kicking off your boots again, you sit on the couch, carefully tucking your legs under you to make sure things don't get too cramped. Levi takes his cup, holding it the peculiar way he does, and gives it a cursory sniff.
"I already told you no promises."
Levi looks at you and shrugs. "It smells fine."
You smile at that and raise your cup towards him. "Thanks for doing this. Cheers to our shitty life, right?"
The corners of Levi's mouth quirk up for a moment as he lightly taps his cup against yours. "Cheers."
You both drink at the same time, and the look on Levi's face has you immediately giggling. His mouth twists up and it looks as if he's fighting to resists spitting the drink right back into the cup.
"That's fucking disgusting."
You keep laughing, the sound bright and warm, and Levi finds himself taking another sip anyway. He knows this feeling of calm won't last, that the nightmares will continue to come and his chest will still feel hollow, but that doesn't matter right now. Not when you're here, and everything is warm and the edges of his vision are no longer dark.
Text: "Once upon a time, in a script long, long ago ( May of 2015 ) there was a movie called TRON, that actually included TRON, Sam, and Quorra. ( I know, right?)
Anyway, I had the opportunity to work with the amazing Darren Gilford on many of the vehicles for this version of TRON : ARES. This was a skimmer ridden by Sam on a mission to rescue TRON from the bottom of the Sea of Simulation. Plenty more TRON vehicle pics to come! Cheers!
Paul"
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jacobvanloon
