How it feels to genuinely enjoy the Pitt and not get caught up on every little bad thing a character has done because they’re all complex human beings and none of them are truly evil like everyone in this fandom seems to think
summary: You and Jack Abbot become romantically involved, and at first everything seems like a fairy tale. But then he disappears without any warning, ghosting you. As a result, you are forced to deal with his existence on duty, without having an answer.
characters: jack abbot x reader (robby, javadi, dana, perlah & princess, santos, langdon, whitaker, al-hashimi, dr. shen mentioned)
contents: angst, hurt/comfort, mentions of blood and medical procedures (not accurate 'm sorry!) low self-esteem, problems with anxiety and depression (briefly mentioned).
word count: 3.8k
And who's gonna hold you like me?
And who's gonna know you, if not me?
The chatter and chaos were in full swing when you stepped out of the elevator and walked over to the counter to review one of your patients' charts. Perlah and Princess were gossiping about something in Tagalog when the sound of doors slamming echoed through the emergency room.
It was just enough for you to look up and see the reason you've been sneaking through the hallways, running away like a criminal. Jack Abbot in his SWAT uniform entered the room as if he knew every inch of it like the back of his hand—and in fact, he did.
Your heart skipped a beat, your eyes widened slightly, until you lowered your head and muttered, “I'm gonna kill myself.”
The only problem was that it wasn't low enough. Dana, who was a few steps away, turned to you over her glasses with an almost incredulous expression. Robby was passing by at that very moment, pulling on a pair of gloves as he walked toward the stretcher that Abbot was pushing through the emergency room.
“Should I be worried, kid?” It was just a quick glance before he continued walking.
You felt ice flood your veins, your heart beating faster than normal.
Holy shit.
"Whitaker.“ he pointed at you. ”You. With me."
“But I—”
Robby didn’t look back. You swallowed whatever protest you had and followed, the obedient resident instinct kicking in as your feet carried you toward Trauma 1.
Hiro’s neck was already prepped, collar cut away. You slipped in on autopilot, hands steady, brain sharp, working the airway with Robby while Jack took the head of the bed. Suction, oxygen, clean lines of communication. Al-Hashimi appeared in the doorway and offered help. Jack waved her off without looking. “I’ve got it.”
Then Jack begins to saturate Hiro's trachea and Garcia calls out findings on a growing flank hematoma. You tracked everything, adrenaline humming just under your skin, acutely aware of Jack’s presence and refusing to let it show.
From across the stretcher, you caught Al-Hashimi watching Jack, like, really watching him. Then Jack glanced up, met her eyes, and smiled.
The moment landed wrong in your chest.
Once Hiro was wheeled to the OR, you stayed behind to help Robby wrap up and were surprised to hear Al-Hashimi talking to Jack. And the worst came later, when he suggested a “date” to exchange war stories.
No fucking way.
Robby turned from the monitor to look between them. You focused on your breathing, tried to ignore the irritation blooming sharp and fast, like an infection you hadn’t caught early enough.
“All set. I'm going back to my patient.”
Robby nodded and glanced at you.
“Hey kid, is there something I should know?”
What? Your stomach dropped.
“About...?”
“I don’t know,” he said mildly. “You tell me.”
You swallowed hard, afraid that your feelings were overflowing on the surface. Afraid that Robby knew about you and Jack, not that you were anything, but that something definitely happened between you.
As Jack approached, you quickened your pace, trying to avoid any kind of interaction with him.
“No. I have to go.”
And you left without saying another word.
Your patient complained loudly when you left the room—for the second time—to track down Robby. Second-degree burns, courtesy of a whole chicken and a bucket of oil. He insisted it was “basically a fryer.”
You found him putting alcohol gel on his hand after leaving Trauma 4.
“Robby, quick consult. Bay three. Hot oil burn. Tried to deep-fry a whole chicken in a bucket.”
He snorted. “God bless the 4th of July. Where?”
“Right forearm, some splash onto the chest. Second degree. Big blisters.” You hesitated. “I cleaned it, but it looks deeper than I expected.”
You stopped mid-hallway. Robby took the chart from your hands and skimmed it.
“Oil burns lie,” he said. “They stick, they retain heat. What’s your estimate?”
“Eight percent. Maybe nine.”
“Then it's not ‘just’ a nasty burn anymore.”
You exhale slowly, clenching your fingers.
“The blisters are intact. I didn't touch them.”
“Good call. If it's not broken, leave it alone. The skin is still trying to help.”
He continues leafing through the medical record.
“All the oil off?” he asked, glancing up briefly.
“Yes. IV fluids, careful cleaning.” The words come out with a breath of air, almost an ostentatious relief.
“Great. No fancy stuff.” Then he pauses. “Plan?”
“Non-adherent dressing, bacitracin, analgesia. Range of motion looks okay, but it crosses the elbow.”
Robby raises his eyebrow.
“That's the problem. If it affects the joint, the risk isn't just infection. You’re fighting stiffness.”
You bite your lip, a little frustrated. “Plastics?”
“I’d have them look, yes. Early consult isn’t failure, it’s judgment.” He handed the chart back. “Pain?”
“Significant. I started meds, but I may need to escalate.”
He nodded, already stepping away. “You’re doing fine, kid. Grab me if you need backup.”
Santos was already halfway out the door, his hand raised to call Robby, but you spoke again.
“Hiro?”
Robby didn’t slow. “He’ll be fine.”
Well, that's good. You almost asked more, almost asked the wrong name, but you swallowed it, nodded, and turned back toward your patient.
Because even if Jack had vanished without a word, even if it still sat heavy in your chest, you cared.
And that part, inconvenient as it was, hadn’t burned away yet.
A few more hours crawl by. You’re running on cold coffee and a protein bar that MaCkay tosses across the hub without breaking stride. You catch it on instinct, already moving the other way.
Then you see him on the other side of the emergency room leaning against the wall talking to a nurse, and you freeze.
Why is he still here?
The question lands heavy, unwelcome. You hate that your body reacts before your brain can catch up, heart stuttering, mood collapsing in on itself. You hate that it touches your concentration, that it steals your balance. You’re the one who smiles through twelve-hour shifts, who threads through chaos like it’s choreography. That’s who you are. Or were.
But Jack Abbot took that away from you the day he decided to be a huge asshole.
You hadn’t meant for it to happen. Not really. It started the way these things always do, glances held a second too long, flirtation tossed casually into the air like it didn’t matter. Jack is a straightforward man—he always has been. So when he wants something, he takes it for himself. And that's what he did with your heart, no mercy whatsoever.
A coffee between shifts that turned into half a sandwich in a 20-minute break—romantic, I know—which escalated to lunch at a restaurant, then dinner, until finally his bed.
It was perfect because you were opposites and attracted each other precisely because of that, your brightness against his gravity. He told you once, quietly, that when he looked at you after a bad day, the noise in his head settled. You knew his baggage. The war. The ex-wife. The things he didn’t talk about. You went in anyway, eyes open, because it felt like momentum more than choice.
Jack and you, it was inevitable.
You stole kisses in the break room, exchanged glances in a crowded room when no one was noticing, you had created a technicolor universe where only the two of you could see. Or so you thought.
Because two weeks ago, when you opened your heart and told him how you felt about him, Jack Abbot disappeared. No calls, no texts, no glances, nothing.
It was as if a fairy tale had turned into a nightmare. And you hated having to see him at shift change, or when he showed up unannounced, like today, like a damn hero, putting his own life at risk.
And it's not like you were married, or even dating, but you found yourself—again—inevitably in love with a man knee-deep in chaos.
Jack turned his face and then saw you. And you expected pure indifference, because he had probably grown tired, given up on what you were living and was moving on, just without telling you.
He held your gaze, the way he always does, his microexpressions saying a little more than he’d like to reveal. You take a deep breath and break eye contact just as Langdon touches your elbow.
“Hey! Want to jump in on this case?”
“What’ve you got?” you ask, already moving. You shove the protein bar into your pocket and snap on gloves as you follow him down the hall.
You push open the door to the room thinking you'll finally get five minutes of silence. Five. No more, no less.
Instead, you see skin.
Jack’s back is to you. Shirtless. Broad shoulders bent slightly forward as he reached, unsuccessfully, for his own shoulder. Gauze hangs half-applied, tape stuck crooked, a smear of dried blood near his collarbone. The cut isn’t dramatic, clean, shallow, already scabbing. Exactly the sort of injury he’d wave off. Exactly the sort of thing he’d never ask for help with.
You freeze.
The room tilts, pressure building in your chest like a door slammed shut from the inside.
“Sorry,” you say too fast. “I—I thought this room was empty.”
Your hand is already on the doorknob when you hear the sound of the stretcher creaking.
“Wait.”
His voice is low, hoarse. Familiar in a way that fills your chest with rage.
“I have to go,” you reply instantly, without turning around. You close your eyes and squeeze them tight. “I just need five minutes.”
“Me too.”
He gets up from the stretcher and is one step away from you. The barely started bandage hangs from his back, and you hate the fact that your eyes go straight to the wound before you remember everything else. Before you remember the two weeks. The silence, the emptiness.
“Not now.”
“I know I screwed up...”
“Jack, please.”
“And that I disappeared and...”
Your stomach twists hard. The urge to flee spikes sharp and sudden, like nausea.
“I can't do this right now.”
“Then just listen to me.”
You almost laugh. “Listen to you? You had all the time in the world to gather all your bullshit and talk to me.”
Your chest rises and falls frantically. Jack looks down at you, that taciturn gaze, which is another trait of his that makes your heart trip over itself.
“You wanted to disappear. This isn't a delayed conversation, it's a choice you made.”
He takes another step. You don't back away, but you don't move forward either. You're stuck in that tiny, uncomfortable space.
And you give it your all to maintain self-control, where your hands ache to finish the bandage, to smooth tape against warm skin, to count freckles you already know by heart.
“Just let me explain,” he says. “It’s not just that.”
“It's never ‘just that’ with you, Jack. That's the fucking problem.”
You feel the burning in your throat and that uncontrollable urge to cry, but there are at least five patients waiting for you and you can't let yourself get upset during a shift.
“I get it,” you continue, quieter now. “If you don’t want me. If you don’t want this. All I ever wanted was honesty.” A breath. “I guess that was too much to ask.”
“What? No—that’s not—”
“There's nothing to talk about,” you say, more quietly now. “You've said enough by staying away.”
Jack opens his mouth, closes it. For the first time since you walked in, he seems truly at a loss for words.
The door closes behind you with a click too soft for the weight left on the other side.
And the five-minute break never comes.
The door still vibrates slightly when Robby appears in the hallway. He almost bumps into you as you leave, your steps too fast, your eyes too glazed, your hands clenched as if holding something invisible.
He peeks as you turn the corner like a hurricane and then peeks into the room, Jack is still standing there. Shirtless. Gauze hangs uselessly from his shoulder, like he’s forgotten why he started bandaging himself at all.
Robby crosses his arms.
“Care to explain why my favorite resident just ran down the hall like she saw a ghost?”
Jack doesn't answer right away. He runs his hand over his face, dragging his fingers across his jaw, as if trying to reorganize his thoughts.
“She... came in here.”
Robby deadpans. “Astute.”
Jack lets out a short, humorless breath. “Remember the person I told you I was seeing?”
“Yeah,” Robby says. “You haven’t shut up about her for two weeks and—”
It hits him.
Robby's eyes widen and he takes a deep breath, finally connecting the dots. He exhales slowly, looking from the hallway to Jack, then back again.
“Oh,” he says. “Oh, shit.”
“It wasn't supposed to happen like this.” Abbot confesses, putting on his black shirt.
“You have...” Robby looks at his watch and then at Abbot. “Two minutes and fifteen seconds to tell me why I'm having to explain to the rest of the team why two of the most competent people in this hospital can't stay in the same room.”
Jack doesn’t answer. Which, somehow, is answer enough.
The clock strikes 6:42 p.m.
You’ve made it. Another shift survived. Another day where you held yourself together through sheer will, teeth clenched, tears packed away like contraband. You feel wrung out, empty in the way that only comes after sustained effort. Like you’ve been bracing for impact for twelve hours straight.
You avoid Robby for the rest of the shift with surgical precision. You reroute. You duck into rooms. You answer questions with clipped efficiency and give him nothing to latch onto. The fewer conversations, the fewer cracks.
With your backpack on, you sneak past Santos, who is showing Javadi something on her phone. You are finally ready to go when Dr. Shen appears.
“Has anyone seen Dr. Abbot around?”
Javadi and Santos look at Dr. Shen, while you pretend not to have heard the question.
“Last time I saw him,” Javadi says, “he was taking the elevator.”
Oh, damn.
Dr. Shen thanks you and heads off. As you walk toward the exit with Santos and Javadi, your steps slow, the weight in your chest pulling you back like gravity has shifted.
“Aren't you coming?” Javadi asks.
“I—uh.” You swallow. “I forgot my charger in the break room. You guys go ahead. I’ll catch up.”
Santos shrugs easily. “Cool. I’m starving. I’d sell my soul for a burger right now.”
Instead of going straight to the break room—another lie you had told—you took the elevator to the PTMC terrace.
As you pushed open the heavy door, the pleasant breeze hit you full force. Sirens wail below, traffic hums and collides and stretches endlessly into the city, the soundscape overwhelming, catastrophic, alive.
And there he is.
You took a deep breath and walked slowly until you were close enough.
Only you and Robby knew about this “hiding place.” How Jack hid from all the chaos, even from his own mind, by coming up here.
Jack stands at the railing, back to you, staring out at the horizon like the city owes him answers. The wind tangles his short, graying hair, pulls at the hem of his black shirt, presses fabric to muscle in a way that feels deeply unfair. The outline of him is unmistakable, so solid and familiar.
You draw in a slow breath and force your feet to move, each step deliberate, cautious, like approaching a live wire. The wind carries the scent of concrete and exhaust and something faintly metallic. The city pulses beneath you, indifferent.
Jack doesn’t turn.
For a moment, you wonder if he knows you’re there anyway. If he’s always known.
Jack glances over his shoulder, registers you there, then turns back to the horizon like it’s safer than looking at you for too long.
“They're looking for you down there,” your voice cut through the wind.
Jack nodded slightly. “I'll be back in a minute.”
“Should I be worried?”
“I'm fine.”
You nod, because that’s what you do when you don’t believe someone but don’t have the strength to argue. Your fingers curl tighter around your bag strap. When you turn to leave, you take two steps.
Again, he turned and closed his eyes, admiring the beauty of the silence between him and the abyss. When he opened his eyes again, you were there, beside him.
“What are you doing?”
“Looking.”
“Be careful.”
You gave him a ‘seriously?’ look. Because you knew how to take care of yourself and he knew it, but looking out for you was a reflex he couldn't help.
The city roars below you, filling the void as you hold on to the only thing that could keep you from falling.
“I’m furious with you,” you say, the words scraping their way out. “I’m so furious, Jack.”
“I know, sweetheart.” Jack lowers his head and then takes a deep breath. “And I hate myself for it.”
“Do you?”
“Yeah.”
You hesitate, then push forward anyway. “You could’ve talked to me, you know?” you say. “I would’ve understood. You know I’d have.” You turn toward him, hair whipping across your face, the vertigo of the height buzzing in your bones. “Why didn’t you talk to me?”
“Careful—”
Jack takes a deep breath and grabs your arm, and that alone is enough to make your heart race. Quickly, he grabs your waist and helps you jump over the steel bar to the inside of the terrace.
“Jesus,” he mutters. “You almost killed me.”
“Jack.”
He drags a hand down his face, frustration etched into every line of him. “I don’t know if I can do this.”
“Do what, Jack?” you almost scream, desperate for an answer, but your voice is swallowed by the wind, by the noise of everything.
He doesn’t answer right away, his jaw tightens.
“Love you,” he concludes. “I don’t deserve it. I don’t know if I’m even capable of giving you what you deserve.”
You stand there, listening to the man you love explain—quietly, honestly—why he’s afraid he will never be enough.
You stand there, stunned, tears drying around your eyes, hair whipping your face.
“I should’ve said something sooner, because this—this is all I want.” He exhales, a short, humorless laugh slipping out. “You’re everything I’ve ever wanted. I mean… look at you.”
There’s no charm in it. Just pure disbelief.
“From the first time I saw you, you tormented my every thought and made me believe that I still deserved it, that I was still worthy of it, of this feeling, of love.”
There were unshed tears in his eyes, just as there was a rock-hard honesty on his face.
“Bottom line, kid,” he says, voice cracking, “I don’t deserve you. My head’s too fucked up to be in a relationship. To let myself fall into something where I know I’ll drag you somewhere dark, somewhere even I can’t get out of. Fuck, that's—that's fucking unfair to you because I—”
His breathing is shallow, fragile, and choppy.
“I love you,” he says finally. “I loved you long before you ever said it out loud.”
He shrugs like the admission costs him something vital and stuffs his hands into his pockets, as if he might come apart if he doesn’t anchor himself.
You blink a few times, feeling the sting of tears splashing your vision.
“So when you say I didn’t want you—when you think that—” His voice breaks. “My God, you’re the thing I want most in this world.”
You step closer. The distance between you collapses like it was never real to begin with, and then look deep into his eyes.
“I’m right here,” you whisper, eyes locked on his. “I’ve been here the whole time.”
“I know, sweetheart.” His mouth tilts sadly. “I’m just an old man with too many ghosts for you.”
“Don’t say that.” You scold him while a tear slips free, hot against your cheek. “Don’t ever say that again.”
“It's just—”
“Jack,” you interrupt softly. “I love you. When I said I loved you that day, it's because I feel it here,“ you place your hand over your chest, where your heart is pounding like a drum. ”It's because my heart overflows with happiness when I'm with you, because you complete me in every possible way. And I’ve never felt anything this real before. So when I say it, I mean it.”
Jack hesitates, shifting his weight from one leg to the other.
You move closer, touching his face with your fingertips, as if he might disappear at your touch.
“I want all of you,” you say through your tears. “The good and the heavy and the parts you think make you unlovable. We’ll carry it together. I want to make it lighter for you, if I can.”
He exhales, shaky. “I don’t know what I did to deserve you.”
“Of all people, Jack Abbot,” you say quietly. “You have my heart.”
“And you have mine,” he adds without hesitation.
“Then let’s do this together,” you whisper. “Please.”
That crooked half-smile appears, the one that undoes you completely. He pulls you in by the waist, and the relief of being held hits you so hard you laugh softly, breathless, because this is where you belong. You sway slightly, forehead to forehead, both of you trying to memorize the feeling of still being here.
“Are you sure?” he asks.
“I’ve never been more sure of anything.”
He kisses the top of your head, and you rest against his chest, his warmth surrounding you like shelter. Your hand slips up his back, carefully, until it brushes the edge of the bandage. He shudders.
“That’s for flirting with Al-Hashimi,” you murmur.
You feel his chest vibrate as he laughs. “I'm sorry I hurt you, sweetheart.”
You lift your head, cradle his face. “You're forgiven. Now, I need you to do something...”
You’re too close now. The wind whistles around you. His hands tighten at your waist. His nose brushes yours, breath mingling, familiar and grounding.
“You don't have to ask twice.”
When he kisses you, devouring your lips with a hunger full of longing, you melt into his arms. You are as one, tangled up in wind, salt tears, and love. Jack makes a point of showing you how desperate he was without you: hands everywhere, lips eager and full of lust as he guides your head back each time he moves forward.
When you finally pull back, you wrap your arms around his neck and smile into his shoulder.
“Shen’s going to kill you when he finds you.”
“Worth it.”
You brush your thumb along his cheekbone, your eyes shining. There are still tears there, but they’re different now, it’s a love that overflows there, a strong and vibrant love that you want to give him without asking for anything in return.
