Jack takes off his prosthetic like it’s any other chore, which it is, because it’ll never be something he lets carry weight.
It’ll carry him, but nothing else, and when you watch him through half-lidded eyes as he removes it with practiced hands, you think he’s beautiful bare. You don’t tell him that tonight.
You’ve learned the whole of Jack well enough that you know he has to be in a particular mood to accept your desecration of his insecurities.
You’ll hunt them down one by one, one day, with your cunt and your need to hold him forever...
With the fact that you’ve given him the most perfect baby girl in the whole wide world, and you’ll give him more and more and more.
“Night.”
Jack sets down his prosthetic against the nightstand, and he’s easy in sliding under the covers and pulling you in with an instinctive tug.
“Goodnight.”
His voice is rough. The house is dark and still. He sleeps for a few blessed hours with you in his arms, but only after checking that the baby monitor is truly on for the third time.
“She go down okay?—”
“Yes, Jack. She’s a champion at knocking out.”
Jack sleeps, but sometime later, he wakes up earlier than he’d like to. You’re still a warm weight nuzzling into him, face smushed against him. There’s nothing wrong except the fact that it’s a shame his bladder can’t make it till daylight.
He reaches toward the nightstand—
And he goes still when his hands find air.
“...The hell?”
Jack, half-asleep and in no mood for wherever the hell his prosthetic leg could’ve gone, frowns before reaching again.
Nothing. His nose flares as the sheets slide off his thighs. He searches the floor, then under the bed, and it’s not fear that’s making his pulse climb. Nope.
It's just the simple, humiliating realization that something he kinda depends on is missing, and he doesn’t know how that happened, so he’s just as confused. Confused and embarrassed. Two very fun emotions. God fuck.
He turns back toward you, the peaceful girl who’s completely unaware that her husband is sitting in the pitch dark because he’s lost a limb. He swallows.
He’s gonna have to ask you. He hates this. He loves that it’s you that’s ruined him and you that can crack him open, that it’s you he’ll be vulnerable with. But he hates having to ask, because the husband that doesn’t deserve you and the father to your baby shouldn’t be losing his fucking limb and making you go look for it.
Jack leans closer and murmurs your name. With no response, he tries again, a little firmer.
“Sleepy. Baby.”
He swallows again when your eyes flutter open, a small sound you make to go along with it.
“...Wha…wha’s goin’ on?”
Jack blinks slows. He’ll smother the embarrassment flickering under his nerves later.
“My leg’s gone.”
You blink at him. Yep. That’s something to blink at. He won’t blame you.
“What?”
Jack simply gestures toward his side of the bed, because maybe if he pretends like this happens all the time, then he doesn’t have to be suddenly hyperaware of what’s not just missing from the room, but from the whole of him. Sounds like a fucking plan.
“I took it off. I put it by the nightstand. It’s not there. It’s not under the bed. It’s not anywhere on my side.”
You squint into the dark. “Well, did you move it? Maybe it rolled under the bed and maybe over to my side—”
You pause, and Jack stares as he watches your shadowed expression shift. It’s confusion to realization, your eyes widening slightly—to a look where you’re finding something…adorable.
“Oh. Oh my God. I can take a guess.”
You throw the covers off, sliding out of bed.
“I’ll be back.”
“Where are you going—”
You squeeze his hand, smiling sleepily. Fitting. “Trust me.”
Well. He has to, doesn’t he? You’re gone into the hall before he can say anything else.
He sits there for a hot minute, and don’t worry, sleepy, he doesn’t have to be reminded of his own helplessness.
Making kiddo look for your limb while you sit pretty. Husband of the year—
You reappear before he can even wonder why he couldn’t hear your footsteps down the hall, but your eyes are glossy, and you’ve found it—you’ve tucked his prosthetic under your arm.
“What the hell?”
“I found it, and you’ll be happy to know where. Oh my god.”
Your face is open in a way that makes Jack’s chest crack open with a furrowed brow. You set his prosthetic in front of him on the bed, and you climb onto the bed on your knees.
You pull out your phone. Jack couldn’t guess what you’re so in awe about.
“What are you—”
“Look, Dad.”
Your voice is trembling between the line of laughter and slight tears, and Jack can only listen when you hold the phone up to him.
He freezes. The sight is—the sight is…
The only thing as beautiful and ridiculous than what you’re showing him is you.
On the screen is a photo you must’ve taken just minutes ago in baby’s room, only lit by her baby-sun nightlight. She’s asleep in her crib, face turned into her pillow.
She’s got her chubby toddler body wrapped around his prosthetic leg like it’s a stuffed animal.
She’s hugging it. Like the thing is comforting.
…Like it’s Dad.
You shine in watching Jack stare into the screen, and it’s the blunt force of tenderness burning its way into his heart. His throat might close to the point of suffocation.
Not a bad way to go.
“Chubby must’ve took it while we were sleeping. Just…she just dragged it into her crib and fell asleep with it. We’ve got a little thief on our hands.”
“...Why?”
He’s unbelieving. He can’t believe—
“I think she thinks it’s…I don’t know. She’s two. If she has your leg, she has you.” Your voice is warm, near wrecked in the explanation. “I’m surprised she was able to carry it. She’s got baby muscle.”
…He can’t believe he’s this fucking loved.
The joke he tries going for slips out broken with a low sigh. He swallows again, dragging his finger along the metal of his prosthetic.
“My kid…stole my leg.”
“Yes she did. She also had my badge clip. I left it. It might be a little easier to take from her in the morning than your lovely chunk of metal.”
“Inherited her mommy’s love for trinkets.”
You laugh at that. Jack’s mouth twitches into something thin.
He’s loved by a perfect kid from a perfect woman, and he guesses he can only be defeated by their love in its most absurd form. Even if that’s what he’ll never deserve.
“...She can keep it next time. Long as she brings it back to me.”
You lean in to kiss his shoulder. He only wants the moment he leaves this world to be like this, you lingering with your lips, the grainy sight of Chubby needing the part of him he sometimes loathes to go to sleep.
“She loves you so much, Jack. But maybe we can find her a stuffed leg.”
‘i am so sick and tired of being trapped inside my body. i can’t do anything, i can’t work, i can’t sleep- i don’t want to live like this, i just want to be normal.”
When Jack takes off his prosthetic, he has no time to prepare himself for how his daughter looks at the most complicated part of his body with her toddler curiosity.
Chubby has seen her father without his leg before, obviously. There are only so many ways to preserve mystery when she doesn’t believe in closed doors, and Jack’s routine of (slight and tight) relaxation involves removing Leggy, his prosthetic. Leggy is her friend, and sometimes it needs cleaning. She gets to put stickers on the thing and tries feeding it yogurt.
But even with all the familiarity she has with her dad’s lack of leg, you and Jack should’ve expected the question to be asked at some point.
“Chubs, c’mon. You need your pajamas.”
“No pee-jams. No!”
Sitting on your bed in her diaper, Chubby keeps escaping your attempts to pull pajamas over her head.
“You’re naked.”
She looks down at herself, considering your accusation.
“I get diaper. Not naked.”
…Well. She got you there.
“She got you there—”
“I know, Jack.”
Jack sits at the edge of the bed as he unfastens his prosthetic, and you glare at him. He pulls it free.
“She sleeps between us half the time. The body heat of two parents and enough blankets to suffocate a horse works well to keep her warm. But sweetheart, listen to your mother—”
When he sets his prosthetic against the nightstand, Chubby stops trying to crawl away. She sits between the pillows and looks at Jack’s residual limb. The sudden stillness gets your attention first.
When Jack notices, his hand moves to rest over the end of his thigh, as if there’s something indecent about her seeing too much of the part of him that she has literally helped you clean before.
She tilts her head.
“Dada, where leg go?”
Jack glances at his prosthetic, propped up. “Right there.”
“No. That’s Leggy. Other leg. Where it go?”
You lower her pajama shirt into your lap as you know Jack too well to understand that the muscles in his jaw settle in a way that tells you he doesn’t want to answer the question. That he’s arranging his body around her question, and you can’t stop him.
Even if you could, you wouldn’t, because if you know your daughter well enough, too, she’ll know how to charm the hurt into something beautiful.
“I don’t have it anymore. I lost it. You know that.”
He’s been better than good about his leg long before you. He’s let Chubby knock on the socket like it was a door.
...He pretended to answer. But this ain’t a joke. His daughter is looking at him and realizing that his body is different.
He goes still, but he doesn’t stop her when she reaches out and presses a hand to his thigh.
“Does it hurt?”
“No, not right now.”
She plops down next to him, criss-cross-applesauce style. Jack looks at you, but not to plead, which is obvious. He’d probably chew off his other leg rather than ask to be rescued from a conversation with his little girl. But…you see the clear uncertainty, because you’re so good at making big things fit inside small, soft words.
You just nod.
Go on. Tell her there was a world where you existed without either of us and almost stopped existing altogether. Maybe leave the parts that still visit you in your dreams for when she’s older. All she knows is that you kiss me too much and sometimes uses a scary voice when I accidentally leave the door unlocked.
“My leg got hurt pretty badly.”
“Mommy fix with Leggy?”
Oh. That’s a heartkiller. Jack looks at you again, swallowing.
“No, baby. I didn’t know Mommy yet.”
Chubby turns to stare at you. She’s disturbed by this. You understand totally. A world in which you and Jack did not know each other feels unreal to you, too.
“Mommy not there? Who fix you?”
“Doctors helped me. They tried to fix the hurt leg, but it was hurt too badly. So they had to take it away to help the rest of me get better.”
Chubby stares down at the rounded end of his thigh, her small fingers curling into his shirt.
“You were sick like me? Like Mommy when she cough?”
“Sicker than that. I was in the hospital for a while.”
“You cry?”
…Oop. That is also a heartkiller, the way she says it. The way Jack sighs.
“Probably.”
“You were scared?”
Jack lowers his eyes at Chubby’s question. He feels as much as he feels he should lie. He could easily…well, not easily, but he could tell her that Dada knew everything would be okay and that he was brave.
But she deserves more than that. She may be too small for the truth of fear, but she doesn’t deserve some false version of her dad. That’ll make the truth harder to take down the line. He doesn’t know if he could handle that.
“Yeah, I was scared.”
Chubby’s face goes blank before it twists at the fact she’s just learned that her father can hurt. Of course, you should expect a tantrum or a wail for her dada, the immovable object of her life. The broad chest runs into, and the deep voice that makes the monsters beneath her bed dumb for even trying.
Her eyes begin to tear up. Her lips begin to pout. You instinctively shift closer, but Jack rubs her back first.
“Hey, hey. It’s okay.”
Anyway, Jack should think it beautiful and flattering that his being scared is harder for her to understand than his having one leg…considering it’s the most his heart can do before it dies on itself at her cries.
…The way yours is right now.
“Dada scared!”
“I was, but that was a long time ago.”
Her lip trembles as she sniffles.
“Your leg gone, you almost gone?”
…You’re not sure if Chubby even knows what she’s asking. Gone to her usually means work, or when you have to use the bathroom, and she can’t handle it. Or when she throws bun-bun under the couch.
But, apparently, she’s put enough of the pieces together, and when you look at Jack, you think he’s the man that must’ve been in that hospital bed.
You lay your hand over his before your tearducts can follow your daughter’s.
“I’m here now, baby—”
“No! Don’t go Dada! No Dada go!”
Chubby scrambles into him and locks her arms around his neck. Jack hugs her, which is too easy considering how tiny she is.
“I’m right here, baby.”
“No go.”
“I’m not going anywhere right now.”
You hear the care he takes with the last two words, because Jack never promises forever, not with the future that he watches like a hawk. And as annoying as it is, you understand his point.
But when your baby girl lifts her head and looks into his eyes, you understand the way he breaks in on himself.
“Stay, Dada.”
And jeez, how can he not at that? You, though? Breaking inward—silently, that’s not your style.
“...Dada’s not going anywhere. Can’t. I’ve got two girls to take care of.”
You dismantle Jack's shift when he decides to text you at 11pm. He doesn't even give you something sweet. He's so stern and smarmily dominant.
Update.
Not even a miss you? Soooo unromantic! Your first instinct is to ignore him. Your second is to remind yourself that Jack is at work, which means he's probably been checking his phone between patients with his "discreet" panic he believes passes for casual concern.
Your third instinct is of evil. Pregnancy has made you very creative.
You’re home now because Jack, Robby, Dana...and your obstetrician formed a freakin munity against you and your right to remain an employed nurse until your water breaks on Pitt property.
Fine. Whatever. Your back and tits hurt, and your skin feels too tight around your baby doing backflips inside you.
...And you are also naked.
It's just after you've taken a shower. You attempted to apply lotion, and you're ashamed to admit you were exhausted by the time you reached your back. Motherhood is already beautiful.
You're huffing and collapsing on the bed until you look into the mirror across from you.
Your tits are fuller than you ever thought possible, heavy against the top of your bump. You look...very pregnant. And bare.
...Like something that would stop Jackie's heart with great efficiency. Metaphorically, of course.
Your phone buzzes again. You find only your name in the text.
Oh? Not even Sleepy? Baby? Whore? He must be irritated.
You smile like a wimp and settle yourself above the pillows. You hold the phone and take a picture.
The first one is awful, the second catches the loaded basket of dirty laundry. Not very seductive. But the third is...good. It's not exactly as polished or as purposefully hornified as the garage-gym wall photos you've gifted Jack. The ones he pretends are purely motivational.
You're just naked and fresh from the shower. Your mouth is slightly curled in a sleepy little smile.
You type, back to smiling like a wimp.
still pregnant
You attach the photograph, and for a moment, you almost consider whether this is a wise thing to do. But where's the fun in that?
You hit send.
At the Pitt, Jack is standing outside room twelve while Shen explains the patient's diagnosis inside. He's listening. Technically. His phone vibrates in his pocket. He ignores it.
"Sooo, the patient stated there was no possibility—"
"There is a difference between a patient’s assessment of possibility and documented confirmation."
"Yes, but—"
Jack's phone vibrates again. He swallows. He knows it's you, and you're doing what he asked. Updating, but needing to focus on work first and foremost is getting to his nerves.
Shen blinks.
"You gonna get that? Could be mama-to-be..."
Shen shuts up at what Jack's glaring. He's got good enough stern eye contact that the guy probably doesn't realize he's also smirking.
Whatever. He'll get it. Not because Shen said that. Because he was going to anyway....well. Eventually.
He opens your message.
"I'll be right back—"
...The pitt ceases to exist when your body fills the screen.
"Jesus fuc..."
God fucking damn it, Sleepy. That's not what he meant by a fucking update.
Naked tits. Round stomach. Your thighs disappearing beneath the sheet, crotch visible enough with the bush he groomed. That's it. That's the picture.
The sleepy, satisfied upturn of your mouth is the cherry on top.
still pregnant
Jack locks the phone as fast as he can. He walks away from Shen as fast as he can.
He gets three steps before his body catches up to the image. Heat moves through him with a harsh force, straight through his chest. Then lower. Then lower.
"Fuck."
He opens up the message again. He sighs low.
Same thing. You're naked and smug with the visible proof that he filled you up.
"You unbelievable little shit."
Jack's probably hypertensive. He is. He's hypertensive as shit. Of course, he is. He's dealing with a professional crisis growing in fucking his scrub bottoms.
His pulse is too fast. This is what you do, kid. You take his body, which has been through a whole fucking lot, and reduce it to a badly managed response with one picture.
...He's standing in the bathroom trying to negotiate with an erection cause his pregnant wife answered a request for an at-home update by sending him her tits and a hint of her cunt. The bravery of the kid.
Jack complains about taking care of you so much that, to anyone who doesn’t know him, it might sound as though your pregnancy has made his life unbearable.
But Robby knows his best friend very well.
"I’m telling you, kid's become completely helpless."
Jack says it while signing off on a chart with his mouth thinly pinched. What is he doing? Detailing a crisis? Not exactly. Robby keeps his eyes on his own screen because he knows making eye contact with the guy will only encourage him.
"Sounds awful for you."
"You trying to be funny? She can't reach her feet anymore."
Jack’s voice drops on the last few words, deepened by something he probably hopes passes as frustration. Robby types into his notes.
Yeah, see right through you, brother.
"Sounds like a fairly predictable consequence of being heavily pregnant."
Jack sighs. "Yeah, well, apparently that means I’m a full-service salon now."
Robby has to glance over at that. The father-to-be's still pretending to read the chart in front of him. His brows are furrowed, his nose slightly flared with every wrinkled line of his face morphed into performative irritation, but there’s a small lift at the corner of his mouth.
...He's disgustingly pleased.
Robby lets out a slow breath as Jack rambles on. This is what friends do, right?
"Shaving her legs. Putting that oil on her stomach. Lotion on her back. In the afternoon, she woke me up because her feet were dry."
"That's basically an emergency. You say no?"
Jack's brows raise. Robby almost snorts, but he doesn't, cause he's not as suicidal as he once was.
Alright, the suggestion alone is insulting. Sunshine could wake Jack whenever the hell she wanted, and he'd be halfway to doing whatever she asked him to do before she even finished speaking. That's his bad.
"She’s carrying my kid. I’m not gonna let her heels crack open."
Robby finally is brave enough to lock eyes with Jack. He looks tired, the shadows under his eyes are darker than usual, and it's probably because the love of his life now requires assistance rolling out of bed.
And yet...he's so fucking smug about it. He's loving every damn second. Good for him, but why lie about it?
"Most people complain because they don’t want to do something."
"I don't want to. She makes me use too much lotion. It gets everywhere. The sheets, my shirt---"
Robby sets down his tablet.
"You could stop helping."
...He's a little too satisfied to catch Jack's offended snap of his eyes. He sits down in the rolling chair as the guy, again, continues to ramble on. And on. And on.
Only you are deserving of such passion, Sunshine. Jeezus.
"I told you, she can't reach. She shouldn't have to strain."
Robby shrugs. "You could buy her one of those long-handled applicators. It's got a pad on the end. She could do her own back---"
"No. Those things are unsanitary."
Oh brother.
"...M'pretty sure you can wash them...unless the last ten minutes you spent pretending your pregnant girlfriend allowing you to rub her body every morning is some kind of hardship is just that...pretending."
Jack's nose flares. Robby's heart drops. That could've been a little too much for him.
"It isn’t like that. It's for medical purposes. It's good for her circulation when I help her."
He stares at the guy.
You lotioning her ass for circulation, Jack?
...Okay. Robby doesn't know where you're putting the lotion, but knowing you with Sunshine, he's got a pretty good idea.
Jack scratches his neck, rolling his shoulders. "I’m not gonna make her do all that herself, Robby. You're right, maybe I'm just nitpicking. It's not the worst. She sits between my legs. I do the belly first. Then her sides. Lower back if she can stand it."
...Okay. There's the real reason for his "whining". He wants to talk about it. Robby should've guessed that.
Jack wants to talk about it. He wants Robby to picture you nesting yourself between his thighs, round with his baby, lifting your shirt and trusting him to tend to every sensitive inch.
"Glad you got a system for your hardships, Jack. Sounds like an efficient routine."
"You need one. Otherwise, she gets impatient."
Robby nods like he could ever believe this bullshit, blinking slowly.
"Mm. God forbid."
Jack thinks about it in the truck. He doesn't have it in him to admit he's pathetic enough to sit in traffic as he fantasizes about moisturizing you. He just knows what comes next.
You’ll be in bed, probably wearing one of his shirts pulled up over your stomach. You’ve started waiting there for him during his final hour of work, surrounded by pillows, sending increasingly dramatic updates.
your daughter has lodged her foot beneath my rib. bring pudding or don’t come home
He stops for pudding before going home. He locks the door and checks it twice before moving through the house.
"Kid?"
"In here!"
Jack smiles, and by the time he enters the bedroom, his undershirt sleeves are pushed to his forearms, pudding and spoon in one hand.
You’re sitting against the headboard, pink pajama shorts beneath your stomach and one of his old shirts gathered underneath your tits.
Your belly shines softly in the sunlight. You smile at him.
"Hi, Daddy."
Jack stops.
His eyes remain on your stomach. There’s a sheen over it with a lack of the soft dryness that waits for his palms every morning and evening.
You’re already lotioned.
The fuck?
"Oh! My pudding, you're the best!"
You don’t appear to notice the shift in him. You’re too busy reaching for the pudding cup and spoon. He put the rest in the fridge.
He stands beside the bed, waiting. For what, he doesn’t know. Maybe for you to explain yourself. But you just eat your pudding, round and comfortable and glossy without him.
Jack sits on the edge of the mattress, breathing low.
"You already moisturized?"
You lick pudding from the spoon. He swallows.
"Mhm. I was getting itchy---"
"I was coming home. You couldn’t wait?"
Your brows rise, and Jack can't give a shit over how unreasonable he sounds.
"For lotion, Jack? Wait, are you pouting?"
...But he hears it then. He's apparently wearing it too. Fuck.
papa bear jack is nearly at his worst when you end up being followed home with your daughter...
wc: 4.1k // cw: stalking, u and ur daughter are being followed, obsessive!jack, angst, angst and some fluff // fic directory
You’re convinced that you’re not seeing this man. You won’t be like Jack and let your fear fill the room before any actual danger does. People can exist in the same aisle, right? It can be annoying, especially when you’re trying to shuffle through the Easter candy aisle because Easter is over and there’s a very tempting clearance to take advantage of.
This is why the guy in the faded denim jacket doesn’t scare you when he looks up just as you turn your stroller toward the produce section.
If your daughter has no such anxieties, why should you?
She’s in the stroller, happily munching on her teething ring and distracting you with her round thighs every time she decides to remove her shoes by kicking them off.
“No, baby. Stop.”
You murmur, reaching down to tug her pink baby sneakers over her heels.
“Shoes are required in the grocery store. We don’t need your dad having a medical event cause we lost another pair.”
Chubby kicks once, and you smile. After, you move through the store efficiently. You buy bananas, milk, and the yogurt melts you think she’d kill you for. Coffee too. Jack claims he needs it as much as he needs his girls to survive.
You don’t know if that’s more flattering to you or to the coffee.
At the checkout, you see the man from the candy aisle again. He’s in a different lane, and apparently, he had no interest in buying on-sale Easter candy packs, because he doesn’t have a cart of anything. He doesn’t even have a basket. Just a pack of gum.
He looks away just as your eyes find his.
Your stomach drops, and you’re like Jack in letting the fear overtake you enough that you almost forget you’re at the cash register.
“Cute baby.”
The cashier smiles at you. Your hands tighten on the stroller. “Thank you.”
“She’s got perfect cheeks.”
“Yes, she does.” It’s true, and as her mother, you have every right to talk about her perfect, fat cheeks until the sun explodes.
“I'm very proud of them.”
But you’re too busy trying to convince yourself that you’re a little crazy. It’s a small store. People are allowed to buy only one thing, and awkward moments where your glance catches someone else’s happen all the time.
By the time you look back to where the stranger was checking out, he’s gone. By the time you get to the parking lot, you’ve convinced yourself that you are ridiculous. Your nervous system has just been heightened by the beauty of motherhood.
There’s a beauty in that, even if it’s the reason you’ve been googling ‘is my baby choking or discovering she has saliva?’ recently. You have to find the silver linings.
You load the bags and buckle Chubby in. You get behind the wheel.
Your stomach turns when you see the man in denim near the cart return area, and you don’t think it’s your fear clocking that he’s watching you.
But you don’t…you don’t panic. You see no need to peel out or to call Jack, because that would mean him asking a million questions that could turn a relatively good day cold.
If you were to even just slightly mention being uncomfortable because a weird man has decided to stare at you, he’d probably abandon his shift, and that would mean probably abandoning a patient. Poor, hypothetical patient.
Calling or texting him your worries wouldn’t do anything but give a gruff n’ tough fear to a beautiful, thick, freckled body.
Yeah, let’s make it about it being for Jack’s sake instead of yours. That’s much easier.
The park’s for kids, but it really does calm you down. Compare that to Chubby, who might excite herself in the swings so much that it’s not going to be hard to put her down for her nap later.
You press your mouth into the warm, sweet smell of your daughter’s hair. Inhaling all her sweetness is enough to cancel the sourness crawling along your nerves, and you’re just so, so enamoured by the squeaky-bellied laughs she gives every time you push her.
You hope it’ll always be this easy to entertain her.
“Are you having fun, my little tax deduction?”
Chubby kicks both feet, and your smile drops when you see that one is only socked.
“Where did your shoe go?”
Just as she grins suspiciously proud with her gums, you look past the swing set to see a car you’re not supposed to recognize.
You don’t know why you do. It’s not like recognition in the way of seeing something you’ve seen 1,000 times before.
It’s an older, dark car. You don’t know how long it’s been parked. It gives you nothing as you watch it for ten to fifteen seconds. The windshield’s reflecting a blur, you’re not even sure if there’s anyone inside.
..But you’re sure you’re recognizing it in the way of recognizing something you’ve just seen.
You’re scaring yourself, but pretending it’s nothing won’t stop you from being scared. Time to go home.
The thought comes with Jack’s voice, except Jackie would never tell you you’re scaring yourself. You take Chubby out of the swing, cooing when she fusses and not giving a damn about finding her shoes. Her dad would buy her every pair if she wanted.
“Sorry, sweetheart. We gotta go.”
You drive home while checking the rearview mirror more times than you can count, but even as every dark car becomes that one, you’re selfish in the safety you feel as you walk through the door, past the plants you keep forgetting to water.
At least Jack keeps watering them without comment. He’s against plant murder. You can only try to be.
The camera Jack installed when Chubby was born watches you go inside. You remember rolling your eyes when he kept lecturing you on home invasions and the statistically unlikely but not impossible chance of some “freaky fuck” trying to get near you while he’s not home.
You’re certainly not rolling them now, are you?
You lock the door. Then the deadbolt. Then the chain. You set your chubby baby down in her playpen, and you can’t even give a shit about the way your hands tremble once you’re not holding her.
Your phone buzzes. It’s Jack.
You home?
You text back.
yes ❤️all good. Chubs kept kicking off her shoes in public and i think she's taken to trying to do the same with her socks
The dots appear immediately.
Send proof of life.
You laugh despite the day. You're home. You're safe. The both of you are safe.
You enter the playpen to take a picture of Chubby on her back, both fists around her bare foot. She looks innocent, like she's never committed the crime of wasting shoes in her life.
You send it. Jack answers immediately. Duh.
Sockless and disgraceful. That's my girl.
You okay?
...You know what? For the sake of you both, you can take to half-truths.
yeah, just tired.
Eat something.
You smile faintly and look down to find your daughter has managed to take off her other sock.
You hunch over to kiss her baby belly.
"I think your dada's teaching me how to be a worry wart, are you gonna grow up to be a worry wart---"
A knock on the door interrupts your tease.
You nearly drop your phone as Chubby startles. After she decides to not care, she blinks up at you with mild interest. You do not move.
The knock comes again.
"Ma'am?"
It's the voice of a man through the door.
Your blood goes as frozen as you are.
...He sounds polite.
"...Yes?"
You try putting on your nurse voice, but it's cracked.
"Sorry to bother you, but I think you dropped something. At the park. Your baby dropped something. I didn't want you to lose it."
You slap your hand to your mouth.
Oh. What the fuck? What the actual hell?
You think you might black out, everything within your line of sight stretches and blurs with the beat of your heart harsh against your bones.
"...What is it?"
"A shoe."
At that, your heart just might lurch out of you and turn you into a screaming mess.
"I---thank you," You can hear yourself becoming smaller, even though you want to ask him if he followed you all the fucking way home to give you your daughter's shoe. "You can leave it where you now."
Being harmless might make this situation easier. Maybe not. Maybe you should scream at him to leave. Maybe you should call the police.
But you don't know how many windows are locked, and making him angry might make him want to figure it out.
“I don’t want it to blow away. It's pretty windy. I can hand it to you.”
“It won’t. Please, leave.”
Leave, weirdass! Leave---
You almost drop your phone when it buzzes again. Again.
What’s going on?
Your thumb hovers over the keyboard as the man knocks again.
“You there?”
You type fast.
Nothing
...Jack's reply comes so impossibly quickly that it feels more like his fingers pinching the back of your neck than an actual text.
Nothing is the man at the door?
You freeze. Again.
Move away from the door. Now.
...You had forgotten that he'd be able to see everything through the app on his phone, the one linked to all the cameras around the house. He can see the man.
He can see your lie.
And you practically jump when you hear his voice come through the speaker outside. It's low, rough in the gravel of his beautiful throat. Too calm.
“Step away from the door and leave.”
You can hear a scuffle outside, maybe the man shuffling back as he gives a nervous laugh.
"I'm just returning something. She dropped---"
"No."
Jack's decided not to yell or get loud, which is worse. You hate the voice he uses when he doesn't want to ask people for compliance more than once. It's usually with residents. Or drunk patients.
It's funnier with them.
You can hear scraping against the porch.
“Look, man, I was just trying to help.”
“You followed my wife to my house? How else would you have my daughter's shoe?”
“I didn’t follow her.”
The man sounds genuine, at least. Like, he actually believes that. You imagine Jack at the hospital, his shoulders high and tight, and face emptied out to let rage in. He's watching the camera feed, the man with Chubby's little shoe in his hand.
...But Jack, seeing that, calling him out on that, tells you he does have her shoe. Isn't that a perfect excuse to stalk you for miles?
“...You’re on camera, fucker. Leave."
Jack's voice puts the chill in you. Chubby starts fussing.
You back away from the door and hurry to the playpen, scooping her up. She's offended by the suddenness and tells you that with another fuss, but she just presses her warm cheek against your collarbone.
Not afraid like you, thank God.
Your phone rings. Jack's name flashes on the screen. You answer instantly.
"Jack—"
"Bedroom. Lock the door."
"Jack, I’m sorry—"
His voice is now in your ear. You can hear his clipped breath.
"Bedroom. Lock it. Take the baby."
"I have her."
You hear him swallow.
"Good. Good girl. Go."
You move down the hall with Chubby clutched to your chest. She grabs a fistful of your shirt and chews on the neckline.
You get into the bedroom and scramble to lock the door.
"I'm in the bedroom, it's locked. Is he gone?"
You can hear movement on Jack's end now, the sound of the Pitt before a demand leaves him, away from the phone and controlled.
"Robby. Take my rooms." A pause, a muffle. "No, I’m not asking. I'm supposed to be leaving here, anyway."
A muffled, distant voice sounds out. Robby, probably. The sound of footsteps, Jack's, are what become the forefront of noise.
"There’s a man at my house. I have to go."
"Jack, I’m locked in. He’s probably gone. You can't just leave. I'll call the police if you want---"
Jack's voice drops when he decides he's having none of your excuses.
"You lied to me."
You feel your spit caught in your throat. Chubby nuzzles.
"You were scared, and you lied to me."
"I didn’t want you to---"
"What?" ...He's snapping. "To know? React like anyone would? Come home? Keep you alive? Pick one."
Your throat might close up on you. It makes for the rushing silence that sits between you and him, just until you hear him inhale.
"Sorry, I’m sorry. I’m not---kid, I’m not mad at you. I'm just out of my fucking mind."
His apology comes out angry, really. Ironic. Like he can still find ways to be mad at himself in this situation.
"I saw him at the store, then I thought--I thought I saw his car at the park. But I didn't know. I didn't want to be dramatic---"
"You saw him at the store. And at the park. And you came home?"
...Jack might as well be swallowing the knives in the kitchen with how he sounds. You stutter things that are barely words, bouncing Chubby.
"I didn’t know what else to do, Jack."
I did. But I didn't want to deal with this on top of everything else.
"You call me!"
"I didn’t want you to scare me more!"
That's your and Jack's talent. Escalating. You regret your words when the lines go quiet.
When Jack's voice returns, it sounds stripped. It's quiet, and you'd rather he'd yell like he just did.
"Yeah. Okay. That makes sense."
"...Did I hurt you?"
There's a breath with a hmph. That's an answer enough. You hold in your breath, only letting it go against Chubby's hair.
"You did. And that doesn’t matter right now. Stay where you are. I'm going to hang up to call the police. I'll be there soon, Sleepy."
Jack hangs up. You start crying then, and your baby lifts her head and stares at you with confusion, even more offended than before.
You don't know how long you cry, but you're finished when Jack's truck tears into the driveway. He gets home before the police do. The distance between here and the Pitt...him getting home so quickly shouldn't be possible.
But shouldn't be one to not believe in him.
The front door opens, and you think it's okay to disobey his demand and leave the bedroom.
You find him pale with a jaw locked down so hard that you want to tease him and tell him that he's going to eat his lip. He looks at you, then at Chubby, then at every window in the room.
Chubby lights up.
"Da bah bahhhhh!"
He crosses the room, and you want this to be something you can tease later so badly, even though you're sputtering and reaching for him, because he looks like he could be called Dr. Violence right about now. Violence got himself a medical degree and scrubs and beautiful, silver hair.
Dr. Violence. Papa Bear. Jackie.
"Jack."
His arms come around you and your baby. One hand cradles the back of your head as you instantly fall into his stern, stoic body. He holds you too tightly. Never too tightly. Never tight enough.
"I’m sorry I lied."
He slips his fingers to your neck, squeezing there with the rough tumble of his voice against your skin.
"Don’t apologize yet. I’m deciding how mad I’m allowed to be without becoming fucked about this.”
Call the progress, baby. He's trying.
You pull back just enough to look at him.
"You’re shaking."
"I watched a man stand on my porch with our daughter’s shoe in his hand. It's there. I can't touch it. I need to...I need to check the locks. The police should be here soon."
"Jack...let's just...let's just talk about this---"
"I need to check the locks. And the windows. And I'm getting more cameras tomorrow. And motion lights. I don't know why I didn't get motion lights before. That fucking...that fucking bastard. You don’t know what it was like seeing him there and knowing you told me nothing. Knowing there was a whole day of you being afraid that I wasn’t inside. I wasn’t there. I didn’t know. I didn’t---"
"Jack, let's get you sitting down---"
"You’re not going anywhere alone for a while."
...You should've guessed that's what would be the answer to this at some point. You swallow, voice softening carefully.
"We can talk about that."
Jack blinks. He rubs your neck. He only looks slightly helpless when he glances at Chubby.
Jack decides, for your sake, to command you around as you get ready for bed. Of course, sleep does not come.
cw: just some roughfucking, dirtytalk, slight degradation, smut, MDNI, dom!jack, dom/sub dynamics, a lil bit of oral (f receiving) // just a lil tidbit of filth with a caring man who is definitely not taking advantage of sleepy's (reader's) fatigue // fic directory // word count: 1.2k
Jack decides that he has no choice but to take the reins away from you after a hectic, short-staffed shift where you ended up taking on charge-nurse duties for most of it. When it’s time to go home, he can tell you’ve been wrung out like a dishcloth.
Right? You were too good at taking them on. The reins, he means.
You spent twelve hours triaging everyone else’s feelings on top of their injuries, redirecting chaos, making a million decisions a minute with a bubbly smile and a flirt for him every time you passed, a wet-mouth peck to go along with.
Because you were torturing him just as much as you were doing everything else, his girl’s a multi-tasker.
But now, there’s practically nothing left of you, kiddo. Poor fucking girl. Jack’s gotta let you surrender the control you’ve been wielding all shift. It’s a sacrifice he can handle. Definitely.
Nothing selfish about wanting to take over while kiddo’s helpless in his truck's seat. She just needs him sometimes.
“Where are my shoes—”
“Shut up. They’re in the backseat. You don’t need them right now.”
So, Jack decides “taking the reins” makes fucking the lights out of you.
When you’re nothing but his to control.
“Sit still, Sleepy.”
Jack tugs your socks off and massages your arches. You sigh. You don’t think you’ll ever not be thrilled by how easily he does this. Your entire awful, awful, heavy day weighs nothing to Jackie. He’s just removed you from it completely, already slipping into the role you’ve been craving to have him in all day.
Well, the role you’ve both been craving.
“Now stand up.”
You do, swaying slightly as his warm, large hands guide yours to the hem of your scrub top.
“Lift your arms.”
You do, and your tits spill free, nipples already pebbling when he peels your scrub top and undershirt over your head. Jack sighs low.
“I knew you weren’t wearing a fucking bra.” He hooks his fingers into the waistband of your scrub bottoms. “Panties next. Or are you not wearing those either?”
Jack’s stripping you for him, but he’s also stripping you out of the day you thought you could handle. He steers you back to the bed as he slides your scrub bottoms and underwear down your legs and pulls them off. You’re on your back with the pillows propping your head.
“Arms above your head. Stay like that.”
The instructions pool between your thighs. Jack strips off his own shirt, and you want to paint the pale, thick, freckled planes of his chest. But you know he’d never sit still for that.
He sheds his jeans, his tight boxer briefs, and you could whimper at how his cock’s already half-hard.
You do when you swear that you watch his shaft thicken as he climbs onto the bed.
“Spread your legs for me.”
The gravel of Jack’s voice drops lower, and you have no complaint in parting your thighs and exposing your cunt.
Your breath hitches when he grips your knees to hold you open.
“Don’t move unless I say so.”
He leans in, pressing his beautiful, stubbled mouth to your inner thigh, kissing upward slowly with his breath hot against your skin. Your breath hitches again as his lips brush your folds.
Oh God, Dr. Abbot.
Jack, Dr. Abbot, Jackie, Daddy—he pauses pretty cruelly, you think. Only to look up with unblinking eyes.
“Tell me you’re mine tonight.”
…Well. You can’t. Not even as your walls clench around nothing.
“I’m yours every night, Jack.”
Jack blinks. What might be even more cruel is that he takes that as his cue.
“Jack!”
His tongue flicks, flicks, flicks, licking your clit in harsh stroking before he dives into your slit.
He sucks gently, the pink of him lapping up, his fingers digging into your thighs to keep you pinned. There’s already a slickness gushing out of you.
When you squirm, he pulls back.
“Hands stay up. Good girl. Just needed to taste the result of your hard work tonight. But I know what you need.”
Jack rises to bring you on his lap. He guides your hands to his now fully erect cock, and makes you stroke it once before lining it up with your cunt.
“Beg for it, baby.”
Your voice is breathless.
“Please, Jackie. Fuck me—”
He pushes in slowly at first, inch by inch, as you feel your wetted walls clench around him. It’s a beautiful burn as he’s swallowed by your cunt, and once he’s buried deep with your grip, he groans low in his throat and thrusts.
Always steady at first, then harder, hips snapping up.
“Fuck, you’re so good.”
Jack’s grunt is rough and barely above a rumble, his words tumbling out between breaths and clenches. “Such a good nurse, handling all that shit today...taking care of everyone.”
He pounds into you as you can only cry out. The break creaks, and his cock stretches you with each drive.
Take me over and never let me go, Jack.
“So fucking good at this, too. Taking my cock like you were made for it.”
His praises come in low grunts, but if you were completely out of it, they’d be lost in the slap of skin on skin.
“Feels so damn good inside you, Sleepy. Tight little pussy gripping me. You’re perfect. You’re the only thing to kill me.”
“Jack, keep...harder—”
You’re surprised he allows that demand when you’re supposed to be listening to him, but he does rut deeper, faster. His fat, low-hanging balls slap against your ass.
You arch over him, chasing the high in the pathetic roll of your hips. Jack takes one hand to curl on your back, the other to smack where you’re already being smacked. Your ass jiggles even more than it already does.
Sweat beads on his lightly wrinkled forehead. His muscles flex with every thrust.
“Such a mess after bossing everyone around all day.” His words are now spilling out relentlessly between heavy breaths, and your pebbled nipples smashing against his pecs as he pulls you into him—like he could hide you inside his stomach…it’s a perfect sting.
“Taking charge like you own the place…but look at you now, Sleepy—dripping for my cock. Think you're so tough, handling all that chaos, but you're just a needy fucking whore when I get my hands on you.”
And why would kiddo ever let me near her?
Your moans spur Jack on, so does the way you’re about to cum on him. He fucks fast. Shorter bucks. He buries his face in your neck the way he buries his cock in your staining cunt.
“You’re the best nurse we have. You know that? Saving lives and shit…but—”
His words are firing off in low, pathetic grunts.
“You’re even better at this—”
You arch even more, body trembling as you cum first, a high of nerves washing over you as your cunt pulses wildly around him. That might be what sets him off, because he merely drives in you one last time after a few impossibly quick thrusts.
Jack buries himself to the hilt of you, all his yapping praises and grunts disappearing into his soft chokes, and with a shuddering groan…
He bursts with his ropes of hot, milky-white cum deep inside you.
Jack collapses backwards, pulling you down with him. His mouth finds yours in a desperate kiss, and your tongues tangle as they lap each other up.
This is what happens every other time he empties himself enough you.
“You gotta take it easy, kid.”
“On me…or on you?”
…You’ve milked the shit out of Jack. He’ll let that one slide.
Surprisingly, one of Jack's favorite moments while you ride him is when you get tired, and he can hear your sleepy squeaks under the smacking of your wet, gripping cunt that sounds out with every bounce.
Well, the noises differ. It's less smacking and more squelching when you decide to roll your hips instead.
Sleepy always keeps him on his toes.
"Getting tired, kid. Want Daddy to take over?"
"No."
He almost laughs. You're devoted. He'll give you that.
"Okay, well—just don't knock yourself out before you cum."
If he's truly concerned for you and your fatigue, Jack won't give you the choice. He’ll pull you off his cock as you whine despite your low-lidded eyes and limply limbs. But if he’s curious, he’ll see how you can last.
That is if you don’t milk the shit out of him before you give out.
“You…you look so beautiful from up here, Jackie.”
…Yeah, kiddo’s dog-tired.
Being under your writhing, rhythmic body, he can’t be fucked under a flattering angle, especially with all the grunt and bucking up, and the sweat beads on his face that drip as much as your walls probably don’t help.
Jack smiles.
“Here comes Daddy’s favorite part.”
“What…”
You huff, slowing down in your already uneven bounces before coming to a complete stop. Not having the fat of your ass come down on him as he gropes and grips is some sort of sorrow, but what you do next in your fatigue is makes up for you.
“I got you.”
You collapse right into him, your tits smashing his chest, and he swallows a grown when your nipple brushes his as they do.
You manage to keep his cock inside your pulsing, needy walls as you try to snake his legs under his. Just to lock yourself in place.
Your cheek and mouth rubs, rubs, rubs along his face and jaw.
“Jackie…”
He pulls in you tight, arms wrapping your back and hands finding your neck. A loving suffocation that he would’ve hated himself for a long time ago.
“There you go, Sleepy.”
Yeah. There’s a reason why Jack tries to end up having you ride him after a long ass shift. A mess like this is bound to happen, and God, does he love cleaning it up.
