POV: You text your Attending boyfriend (Dr. Jack Abbot) whilst he’s on night shift about the “pickle” you’re in
‼️MDNI‼️
A/N: I love these text imagines, reminds me of being on 5SOS Wattpad in 2014 😭 send me requests for them. I’m working on some other works please bare with me I am behind I fear
Sat on the toilet seat lid, your head rested on the toilet paper roll as hot tears poured down your cheeks.
You were exhausted. And you did it to yourself, in a way.
You didn’t have to work weekends, work overtime, cover for every staff member who called in or booked vacation. But you did.
You had a choice, but your nervous system remembers what it was like to lack one, and so, it approaches life in that same way; preferring pain over peace because it’s familiar.
Weekends were particularly hard; that’s when people go out with friends, or spend time with their families, go on dates, or better yet, spend time with their partner.
And while you weren’t opposed to dating, and you yearned for a partner to share your life with, it just wasn’t something you were prioritizing.
Because you’d ideally want to be able to withstand your inner world yourself before inviting someone else to be a part of it, but you couldn’t. Escaping was all you know.
And so, working was one such escape. You don’t have time to mope and feel sorry for yourself when every waking moment outside of work is spent preparing for work.
You get to avoid your trauma, help others, and make money to fund your pasta, caffeine, and weed addictions. Everyone won.
But your baseline being flight was going to wear down your system eventually, and today, it all came crashing down.
You inadvertently became skilled at crying silently, inhaling shakily and with hyperventilated breath.
It was difficult to keep up with nose blowing, tear wiping, and being on the lookout - or rather, ear out - for any unsuspecting visitors.
“Hey, kid, you in there?” Light knocks echoed off of the stall door.
Fuck.
You stood up at the speed of light, shoving the snotty napkins in your pocket and flushed the toilet, pretending that you were in there for the right reasons.
“Hey, Dana. Yep, all good” you unlatched the key to the stall and poked your head out with a small.
Shimmying between Dana and the Stall, you beelined it for the sink.
“Kid, maybe we got two different definitions of good, ‘cuz ya ain’t look it.” Folding her arms, she gave you a disapproving yet concerned expression.
You ripped brown paper towel off of the manual dispenser with haste, not wanting to create speculation that you were in fact, suffering on a day to day basis, but operating as if you were not.
“I’ll meet ya out there” you pointed in the direction of the ED with your head as you twirled out the bathroom.
From across the department, Jack Abbot, unbeknownst to you, eyed you as you walked with a haste towards your station.
His eyes trailed back to the washroom as Dana exited while she solemnly nod, so as to communicate ‘she wouldn’t budge.’
Jack could read you like a book. As a traumatized person himself, he knew what pretending to be okay looked like. He knew what choosing not to accept the help from the people who you actually knew loved you felt like; how counterproductive it may seem to those around you.
But he couldn’t blame you. Because slowing down meant the risk of losing the little sense of control that was left, and he knows no survivor of trauma would make that gamble.
Being one of your superiors, he was made aware of scheduling changes, and he had noticed you working yourself like a dog; a lot of people did.
Various weeks ago, he had witnessed the very quickness with which you shouted “I’ll take it” when a shift was being offered up, or the paid opportunity to continue postponing sitting alone with your thoughts.
And while you had returned to work that day, suffocating all of your emotions, it took one case that hit too close to home to shut it all down.
You couldn’t do it anymore. Seeing what you had was haunting. You had had shifts like this before: a certain case, a certain child, a certain horror that hit you in the chest and reverberated off your ribs.
And what you knew about these moments was that their original pain would always be felt with often the same strength that was present when the memory of the trauma initially formed. And while so many of these flashbacks occurred, you couldn’t possibly gain another memory, or so you’d think.
But it was uncontrollable. Everyone has their weak spots. And situations like these, well, they were yours.
Your stomach churned into nausea that pooled up to your chest as your cheeks became drenched with salty water.
You were speed walking to the closest staff room, feeling as though the room around you was spinning. It was then, when your body and mind had finally aligned for the worse, that you realized you couldn’t remember the last time you fuelled yourself, properly took care of yourself.
Entering the small room, you placed both of your palms on the table, trying, but failing, to regulate your breathing. Your chest was heaving, and you felt like you were going to be sick.
“Fuck me,” you whispered, tears continuing to spill involuntarily as you tried to regulate yourself. Despite no one being around, you didn’t want to create a scene.
You had no idea Jack was on your heels, and when he opened the door, he was met with your back and the rise and fall of your shoulders.
“Kid. Hey. What’s going on?” He muttered sternly yet quietly, a supportive hand immediately resting on your lower back.
You hadn’t exchanged any more than the accidental brushes that occurred when you were working alongside one another, and he wanted to be mindful of physical boundaries.
You had imagined what it would be like for Jack to touch you, but you didn’t quite envision it like this.
It had taken you some time to come to terms with the fact that you were attracted to Jack.
Not only was he considerably older than you, but you did not want to risk being exposed to unnecessary pain. To you, love was difficult. Love was ugly. Love was fought for. Love was rare.
And from the second you met Jack, you knew he had the capacity to love with his entire heart, despite his rough-around-the-edges exterior. The gag was, you could read him just as skillfully as he could read you.
And because you knew he was someone who could actually offer love amid the navigation of his broken parts, it encouraged you to stay away; if he offered up his love to you, you wouldn’t know how to accept it, despite wanting to.
“I, I can’t, I just, I can’t, Jack.” You were quivering like a leaf, disassociated and staring off into space, but somehow crying; it was as if your body was not communicating with your brain.
Seeing you in this state made Jack tempted to dedicate the duration of his life to ensuring that you never felt this extent of pain again.
“I’m going to guide you through some breathing, m’kay? You don’t have to do anything but listen. That’s your only job right now.”
You closed your eyelids in agreement, causing there to be more surface area on your cheeks covered in tears than in dryness.
He could see how depleted you were. And a part of him wishes he had intervened sooner, being a part of your senior management.
He’d metaphorically kick himself for this later. Right now, you were his focus. In fact, you were often his focus.
With Jack’s military training, he knew box breathing could physiologically bring someone’s nervous system into a parasympathetic state.
He motioned for you to sit down so you could continue to breathe and encouraged you to put your feet flat on the ground, to center yourself.
His eyes didn’t break from you for a second. His tunnel vision was enacted, and you and your well-being were the only things that mattered to him in that moment.
“I can’t do it, Jack. I’m so tired,” unsure of what came over you, you come clean. Fuck it. You were too emotionally exhausted to care that you were crying into the arms of your superior after your diligent efforts to prevent others from seeing through your tough exterior.
Jack was often a man of few words; he knew when to speak and when to prioritize silence depending on the person or patient in front of him. And this was one of those moments.
You appreciated this. It was as if you had subconsciously communicated to him that you didn’t need words. His mere presence was comforting.
He seemed to know what you needed before you knew yourself. Years of pushing your needs to the side to either appease others or to ensure no one would leave you does that to a person.
You had given yourself a lot of shit for relating to a veteran in his 50s the most out of your entire staff team, as opposed to people your age or who shared your similarities.
You were closest with Trinity, but sometimes, your personalities and previous life experiences would clash. You both held a pain that was similar and contradicting, at times. So you had to work diligently to prevent them from interfering with your relationship inside and outside of work.
But the majority of those you knew that were close to your age, whether at work or outside of it, were continuously celebrating milestones while you fought to make it to the next day.
“Do you ever just wonder what the fuck we’re even doing here?” You look over at him, your eyes glossy and bloodshot.
“And by here, I mean both, at this hospital, and on this hellscape planet. Every day it’s something new. I can’t keep up. But what other choice do I have? I-“
“Can’t slow down,” he finished for you. You looked over at him, and while you were surprised that he knew what you were going to say, you hadn’t doubted that he’d wound up relating to you at some point, given his life experience.
While it felt good to be cared for, you were embarrassed; you felt like a little kid.
You were used to taking care of yourself and being the one others went to for support.
You also thought that the last thing a 50-something-year-old man needs is to take care of a lonely 20-something-year-old workaholic who dates men who are awful for her.
You hated this about your trauma. Why were you so inclined to want people in your life who didn’t know how to treat you properly?
“Life exists outside of this hospital, kid.”
“Yeah, for other people, Jack. My purpose begins and ends at those automatic ER doors.” You motioned towards the entrance of the ER with the tilt of your head.
Your nervous system operated better when it was subjected to intense stress. The absence of distractions when you were off was all-encompassing and suffocating. You didn’t know what to do with yourself on off days; you just felt frozen.
One part of you has so many goals, aspirations, dreams, whilst the other is horrified by the uncertainty, the potential rejection, the loss of more people.
Slowing down meant being aware, which meant being haunted by the past and future, all whilst being in the present.
Jack scanned your face, as if to figure you out. How could someone so young and kind hold so much grief and pain, be able to connect with someone like Jack, with his life experience and past?
“You in therapy for the trauma?” He asked, his eyes still locked on you as he waited intensely yet casually for your answer, freckled arms folded over his chest.
This time, your facial expression probably did convey shock. Your trauma didn’t result from a single incident or circumstance, like Jack’s. Because of this, you felt as though your pain and suffering weren’t as valid, or that it was self-inflicted; self-perpetuated.
“I was. I stopped going. I wasn’t too good at the ‘self-care’ and ‘exposing yourself to corrective experiences’ parts.” You murmured, picking at the skin around your nails.
“We have to have a life outside of this place, kid, or it’ll eat us alive.”
You enjoyed talking to Jack because he didn’t aimlessly throw solutions around or demand you take his suggestions. He was calm and empathic, and his mere presence co-regulated you.
You wondered what he did outside of work, outside of getting shot at for fun. And you wondered how it would look, becoming integrated into his life, and he in yours.
“I feel better when I’m here.” You shared, looking at him cautiously, knowing you didn’t provide him with a great example of ‘better’ just now.
Having high-functioning depression, being a workaholic came second nature to you. It felt good to be productive. To work alongside other like-minded, competent individuals towards a shared goal of saving or sustaining life. You felt wanted and a part of something important, whether you received direct appreciation or not.
At home, you were alone. Any chances of experiencing inspiration or motivation were slim. Dating and making friends both seemed an impossible feat, so why not stay busy working?
“That’s what Robby says, and look how he’s doing,” Jack said, raising an eyebrow. Jack was being 1% playful and 99% serious to convey his concern for his best friend, and the woman who was way too young for him that he had pined for since he met her.
You understood where he was coming from. Unlike the men you surrounded yourself with, you knew Jack was as bright as they came. And his emotional intelligence, paired with his strong intuition, was able to decipher you instantaneously.
Standing up, you tossed your plentiful snot rags into the garbage.
You knew it was his job to ensure you were okay in the workplace, but you felt guilty about taking up his time.
“I appreciate your time, Dr. Abbott. Truly. I’m okay now. I’m gonna head back out.”
Jack noted how you addressed him by his title, whereas you had called him by his first name prior.
Swinging open the door, he called after you.
“Hey, kid. You need someone, you call. Got that.” He stated, as opposed to asking, because he wasn’t waiting for you to oblige. He was telling you that he was there. He wasn’t going to push it, but he needed to make sure you knew he was available to you.
You gave him a sly smile and nod in response, communicating your understanding of his statement, your flushed cheeks becoming even brighter with colour.
Jack’s jaw clenched with annoyance; he wanted to do more, and just did not know how. He opened up iMessage, sending a quick text to the mother hen: “Keep an eye on her, and update me.”
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My very first Jack Abbot fanfic- I promise I will include more dialogue/ Jack related content in the next one. This is more of a slow burn and that’s personally not my favourite type of trope. But I hope this satisfies the masses🙂↔️
