I think about nurse!reader and Jack Abbot who get into it every time your shift starts because you leave exactly the time your shift ends— 6:00 am.
If it’s dire emergency you’ll stay, but other than that you’re out the door, whether day shift is ready or not, it’s not your problem. But Jack thinks you don’t care enough, about the rest of the staff who have also been busting their asses all night or the patients who do need you— it’s not like you don’t finish your rounds, god forbid a girl prioritizes themselves.
You’re used to just brushing him off, an eye roll but this time he caught you right before you slipped out of those ER sliding doors. And maybe Jack is taking his out on you because he lost a patient 2 hours ago, and the family is still grieving in the building, or there not being enough beds tonight for some reason, two interns were messing around the entire shift— a man can only take so much. He has his bad days too.
That doesn’t mean you have to take the short end of it.
“You don’t think I have my own shit goin on Abbot? My life doesn’t center around here, it’s a job!”
“A job where you help save lives, not ditch the minute you’re off the clock!”
You scuff, exasperated smile on your lips, “I don’t get paid enough t’fuckin stay! You think I don’t give a fuck about the people who come through here?”
Abbot grits his teeth, “Clearly not enough, that’s the problem with your generation—“
Another student doctor bursts through the doors of the stairwell hallways, awkwardly clearing his throat, “Dr Abbot! Uh- t-they need you in trauma one.”
Dr Abbot inhaled a deep breath, out through his nose, brushing past you to follow the young doctor out, “You keep brushing off the patients like they’re nothing, how can I trust you to be a good nurse?”
And it stings hard because Abbot has never talked to you like that— hell, he’s really never talked to anyone working on his floor like that. But it’s an irrational slip of the tongue, should’ve known better, said something that would get you to understand better. But it turned into a rabid ball of everything weighing down on the both of you very quickly. It takes everything in you to get back to your post, try to act like nothing is wrong and every negative thought about your career you’ve been so desperate to have isn’t sprouting like bamboo shoots planted in a forest they’re not supposed to be.
and you stay an extra hour, frustrated but willing to prove you were there to stay. A good nurse who knows how to do her job, man the fucked up ship you all call ‘the pitt.’ Letting your best friend know that she can just come, you’ll handle everything else later.
But it’s in real time that maybe you weren’t fit for this— when you see that small, oh-so familiar body being rushed in a gurney and into Truama two. A bloodied frog dropping to the floor as EMT are calling out orders to the nurses and doctors on stand by. Your body is buzzing, quickly picking up the item that belonged to your toddler, Nadia.
But it’s just coincidence maybe. That little baby, gushing out blood, that couldnt have been your kid, right? Not your one and only. Your precious little girl.
And you can only step back, arm shooting out to make sure the patients in the few chairs who are trying to see this- this spectacle of the aftermath of a car accident, letting the rest of the EMT come through without any issues. But then your bestfriend, Jamie, gets rolled through on a gurney, tears streaming her cheeks holding her bloodied arm, a few scrapes on her face. Her eyes lock onto yours widening when she sees you, crying even harder.
“I’m sorry [+], I’m sorry, it all happened so fast!” She chokes out, and you hand over the clipboard that was in your hand to one of the other nurses, quickly getting by her side as they take her to one of the won’t triage rooms.
“I had Nadia strapped in [+], I swear, but the car came out of no where, I tried to stop it but-“
You shake your head, “It’s okay, alright? You did the best you could, it’s not your fault.” You squeeze her hand hard so she knows, but your face can’t even contort into a fake smile, you can only feel your heart pounding, letting her go as you manage to take your heavy feet to triage 4.
It’s frantic in the room as you look through the glass, Abbot giving out orders to day shift who’s just coming in. Robby coming through the doors and slipping on a sterile gown and gloves. All you can hear is that frantic beeping from the cardiac monitor. Abbot gives you a glance, sucking in a weary breathe, he wouldn’t even know how to properly face you if he tried. Robby speaks, “Is there a reason [+], is watching from outside and not in here?”
Jack opens his mouth to say something but nothing comes out.
Doctor Mohan shrugs her shoulders, eyes flicking to you and back to him, “I’m not sure-“
“Just- we had a talk earlier. Was a too harsh on her.” Jack cuts himself short, giving out a an order to one of the doctors then to Perlah who’s passing by him, “Perlah, if you could tell Nurse [+] she can go home?”
“Sure.”
It should be through after that, but your feet don’t move, they can’t move. A mumble of ‘no’ as you try to get another glimpse of your child, Perlah’s hand is trying to guide you away but something in you snaps, squeeze the frog in your hand, voice booming through the glass enough that they can hear you, “My fucking daughter is in there! I’m not fucking leaving her!”
You can feel it, the wave of eyes glancing to you to your child that’s oh so similar, curls in two braids with red and yellow bows, from the roundness of her cheeks, her lashes, and little doll face that screams, you, you, you. Only prompting everyone in the room to work faster, harder, to save your child’s life.
But who knows if it’ll be enough.
Your ears a shot, you can see them getting the defibrillator ready, Perlah finally getting you to move, letting you sit in one of the waiting rooms. Such stillness, you don’t know how much time has passed till you see multiple people from the PEDS running down the hall to the elevator. You don’t have the will to stand, back pressing to the chair behind you as you feel your shoulders tremble, heart still pounding so hard you can’t feel it in the depths of you.
Hesitant foot steps stop just before you, only closing your eyes.
What’s the point of asking ‘how is she’ when you know the answer.
Robby starts, “So she’s stable, got pierced through the abdomen with not only glass but ruptured by the impact of the car.”
“Everyone is PEDs is taking care of her, “Jack nods, “She’s in good hands, hopefully-“
“—Don’t give me that.” You hiss, bottom lip wobbling. You lick your lips, words coming out as soft as a whisper “It’s either they save or they don’t.”
It’s heavy, almost too heavy. Suffocating. All of it happening too fast. How do you go from singing your daughter to bed last night over the phone in the break room to— this. Contemplating if she’ll be able to survive all this or not. If you’ll be able to see her take breath one more time. You could almost hear her laughter as your thumbs brushed the stomach of the dirtied stuffed frog in your hands, that sweet smile she gave you one too many times you just couldn’t get enough of.
Had you not cared for her enough, prayed to whatever god enough, held her hand a little tighter, hugged her a little longer, put your eyes on her for a little longer instead of glancing away. Let your finger take through her curles as you detangled it for just a second more—
Jack sees you running circles in your mind, ryrs softening, “You have to try ‘nd stay positive-“
Your eyes squint, finally turning your head to look at him, “What for!?” You almost snarl. It’s all exploding inside you, “If- if you-“
And all you can think about is, if Jack Abbot had let you go, take your child at 6:30 from your best friends house like you always do after getting off at 6 o’clock- would your baby be fighting for her life right now?
It all hits you at once, a rush of your love for your daughter running through you that consumes every fiber inside you, a fear of that love having no place to go if your daughter, a fear of blaming Jack, of all people. The one you so deeply cared for and wanted to make proud despite what happened at work— the only things keeping you in tact- and if that were to- if Nadia were to—
Harsh sobs escaping your throat as you clutch your own scrubs for dear life. Shaking your head as your feet hit the tile floor running as far away from the situation as you can, tears dampening your face.
Your daughter’s froggy left slouched in the chair.
a/n: was supposed to write smut but sometimes you listen to Pas de duex by Tchaikovsky (very much the piccolo). Idk if anyone will read this, sometimes you have to go in with no warning in bold.
the deeper you dig, part two: the plan. masterlist
the first thing you do after seeing john price kissing his wife (the wife you didn't know he had, the wife he clearly wasn't thinking about when you were underneath him) is find simon 'ghost' riley.
the moment your tears have dried on your cheeks, you're knocking on the door to his shitty military apartment, hands clenched so tightly your fingernails carve bloody crescent moons into your palms.
as soon as he pulls the door open, you're on him.
you shove him back into the dim hallway of his flat and kick the door shut behind you.
he doesn’t resist.
he’s been watching you for months - silent, burning stares every time you stepped out of price’s office on shaky legs, or emerged from a storage cupboard seconds after the captain, his face far too relaxed, your eyes glassy.
ghost knew about you. he knew about the wife, too.
but his loyalty to price had always outweighed the quiet anger simmering in his chest. price gave him purpose. structure. a home as well as a team.
ghost was john's favourite attack dog, through and through.
then the anger finally grew heavier than the loyalty carved deep into his bones.
you’d felt ghost’s eyes on you - in briefings, in the back of extraction vehicles, in every place he had no right to look. you’d ignored it. poured every desperate need for human connection outside of bullets flying and comms chatter into stolen moments with your captain instead.
tonight, you finally give simon what he’s wanted.
simon. not ghost. the person not the weapon. you give him what he's wanted in the quiet moments when he's alone at night and more man than machine.
you yank his balaclava up just enough to revealhis mouth and crash your lips into his. a low growl echoes from his chest as his hands grip your ass, lifting you so your legs wrap tight around his waist. clothes hit the floor in seconds - his sweatpants shoved down just enough for him to free his cock and bully it into your cunt in one harsh thrust.
he fucks you hard against the wall, like he’s been starving for this. no words. just lips and teeth and bruising fingers and the wet slap of skin. he bites. he marks. he fucks you like he’s trying to scrub every last trace of john price from your body.
you come hard around his cock, nails raking bloody lines down his back. he follows with a guttural groan that sounds more animal than human, burying himself as deep as he can as he spills inside you.
when you finally slide down his body on trembling legs, his cum dripping down your thighs, you look up at him. his chest is heaving, those brown eyes locked on yours, waiting.
you swallow.
“how do I ruin someone’s life, simon?”
he stares at you for a long moment, something dangerous flickering behind his gaze. his hand lifts, thumb dragging roughly over your swollen bottom lip.
“careful, dove.” he murmurs, the corner of his mouth twitching. “you sure you want to open that door?”
Your favorite position is fetal. You were born like that after all. Curled up in your mother’s womb surrounded by water. You wanted to be small and take up less space, but the womb stretched to accommodate you and bled to make sure you arrive safely.
Fetal position in Price’s arms when the nights get colder and his chest feels warmer with every passing moment. Curled up trying not to take up too much space, yet his arms aren’t tight and allow you to fill the space between them.
Curled up in your designated spot at the table watching Kyle sway his hips to some tune he’s humming. The food smells good and almost as if it was already in your mouth. There’s a feeling in your stomach. It’s warm.
Curled up next to Johnny on the ride back from a mission. His voice white noise for the ruckus in your head. Hands intertwined as he uses his free one to make gesticulations for some joke he’s making. His hand is warm.
Simon often helps patch up after sparring or missions. He places each bandaid carefully, wraps each bandage with care, and kisses each injury with love. You curl away from the pain. He opens you up with care and warmth.
So as you lay in the snow, bullet in your chest. The blood pours out and it’s warm despite the temperature. What pours out isn’t just blood. It’s the gentle grip of Price’s arms during the nights that felt empty. It’s the flavors that fills your mouth and warmed your esophagus down to your stomach when your mouth ran dry that day. It’s the voice of Johnny talking that made the world quiet and listen in also. It’s Simon’s hesitant kisses on every bruise, cut, etc, afraid of making it worse but still putting in the effort to give the comfort he never received.
You wonder if the snow feels the same warmth. You always did feel sleepy when you were warm. People are shouting over your broke comms a few feet away. You pay them no mind as you sleep.
The countdown to your soul mate post from @rawme-price has my brain wheels churning. Major angst ahead.
"It always ends like this, you know?" Your voice was so thick with blood; Simon almost couldn't understand you. Your eye forces its way open to look at him, gazing lovingly at the brutal man who brought you so close to death. "The universe keeps putting us together. Like you'll love me one day." A humorless chuckle, followed by a pained whimper.
"Is that right?" He grunts, cocking the bullet into place and settling the muzzle of the gun against your temple. If he let himself imagine things, he was sure you leaned into the touch.
"You never love me more than your job." The statement pierced right through him, ripping apart his carefully constructed walls with a single sentence. "Every lifetime we could've shared together... You always kill me in the end." You explain your eye fall shut again. It was too painful to keep it open.
"This supposed to change my mind?"
"At least you touched me more, this time." Your breathing was shallow, unsteady as another glob of blood dribbles down your chin. "Can you make it last a little longer next time? Please?"
Simon's finger curls around the trigger, but it's useless. Your last breath rattles your broken ribs, tears at your raw throat, floating far away from the dingy interrogation room. He lowers the gun and turns away from you before your body can grow cold.
