❀ thinking about how jack abbot would talk to you while helping you be more vocal in the bedroom... ❀
! mdni !
ughhh he’d be teasing you. rubbing his fat fingers through your wetness, gliding across nothing in particular that would give you any relief. he'd be all gruff, not taunting but teaching, “cmon honey, use your words. gotta tell me what you want, yeah? know you can do it."
you're squirming beneath him, legs spread wider then you're comfortable with due to being pinned beneath his heavy thighs. but you'd need him sooo badly that you'd forgo the insecurity and whine, “please jack! touch me- please!”
he'd hum, circling two fingers on the sensitive spot that had you gasping and clawing at his shoulders. and you thought that was it, that your older boyfriend was done instructing. but then you needed more. needed to be filled. when you tried to push his fingers inside you wordlessly with a grip on his muscular forearm, jack would chide, "want em inside you sweetheart? yeah? i know you do. tell me how many."
you'd whimper at his ridiculous yet dirty command. but cowering under his intense stare only had him pausing his movements. you'd panic at the loss, mustering enough courage to raise your voice barely above a whisper, "need- need two please…"
much too satisfied with himself, jack would slide his thick fingers into you easily due to how worked up he got you, “gooood job. such a good girl. that wasn't so hard, was it munchkin?” you'd shake your head as you grow warm with pleasure. all the embarrassment washing away as jack works his fingers how he knows you like before making you beg him to let you come <3
the first time Jack shows you pictures of him when he was younger after months of you begging to see it. he’d always shake his head, claiming you’d get one look at how handsome he used to be and realize you no longer want the old, washed up version of him. as if you would ever think that with his sexy salt and pepper and the crinkles around his eyes that you’ve mastered bringing out of him.
you recognize the gift you’re getting once he finally pulls a box out that he’d kept hidden deep in his closet, taking out old pictures of him from med school, his soldier days. you coo as you lean over his shoulder, and then you go quiet, nearly yanking one from his hand to bring it to your face and get a closer look.
he glances at you, apprehensive as he tries to understand why you’ve suddenly gone so quiet. but then:
“red hair???” you exclaim, your eyes widening comically as your face absolutely lights up with glee.
he lets out a chuckle that’s laced with relief. “yeah, baby, you didn’t know?”
“NO I didn’t know! you’ve never let me see!!” you say, almost offended if it weren’t for your excitement. you rifle through more pictures, gawking at the deep red curls on the freckled boy in all of them.
you don’t shut up about it for a long time after, much to jack’s dismay. you’d pull up pictures that are now saved onto your phone, staring at them with a giddy smile. you’d go up to him with a smirk, and he’d roll his eyes.
“hey baby, does the carpet match the drapes?” you’d drawl, wiggling your eyebrows at him while he laughs and pushes playfully at your shoulder.
“you’ve seen the drapes. they do match - it’s all grey.”
he knew he never should have shown you those damn pictures.
SUMMARY: Pizzas, karaoke, movies and a sleepover. All at Phoebe’s request, of course, for Jack to spend Saturday night with them. And when Sunday morning rolls around, she’s got some things that she needs to get off her chest.
WARNINGS: swearing, phoebe borderline disowning her dad, mentions of toxic men and weaponized incompetence. smut; kissing, teasing, swearing, dirty talk, slight praise kink, masturbation, oral (both receiving), face sitting.
A/N: okay i'll be so real, i've struggled with writing this series atm as we're so close to the end. after lots of back and forth and debating, i have decided to keep part 10 as the finale of this story and i am very upset by it :(( thank u for being patient with waiting for an update, life has been super busy but it is here!
PAIRING: Jack Abbot x Single Mom!Reader
WORD COUNT: 7.1k
PREV. PART — SERIES MASTERLIST
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆
If there’s one thing in life that makes you angry, it’s deadbeat fathers and weaponized incompetence. Naturally, you received your share of a lifetime of such with Phoebe’s father, as did Bella with Florence’s.
However, you learnt your lesson from past mistakes. Listened to the Universe when it silently told you it was time to walk away and break a cycle before it began.
Bella, unfortunately, has not taken the same approach.
“I just don’t get it! Why is that you manage to find someone as wonderful and sexy as Jack, and I’m stuck here settling for barely average dick and men with the personality of a fucking sponge? Which is ironic because they don’t absorb anything other than my fucking happiness and spark.”
Your lips roll between your teeth to hide both your amusement and annoyance on the matter.
“Because I wasn’t looking for anything when I met Jack. I love you, Bella, but you’re on Tinder like, all the time. You settle too easily.”
Her footsteps pause abruptly, forcing yours to do the same. And when you slowly turn to sneak a glance at her, she’s glaring at you through squinted eyes.
“Would it hurt you to lie to me, just once in your life?”
You snort, reaching to loop your arm around hers and effectively drag her across the concrete playground of the girls preschool.
“Yes, actually, it would. Because I love you and I want only what’s best for you. And unfortunately, you do not share the same sentiment about yourself.
Bella leans her arm over to pinch your bicep. “I do want what’s best for me.”
“Then maybe you should stop settling.” You muse.
She rolls her eyes, throwing her head back and the jewellery that decorates her wrists jingles when she throws an arm in the air, the other still hooked around yours.
“It’s not my fault I seem to only attract douchebags.” Her argument is half fair. She does seem to attract the incompetent men who ask her on a date but can’t afford to pay. Or the ones that still live with their mom at thirty and can’t hold down a job for longer than six weeks.
But, Bella also entertains those types of men. Gives them the time of day even after they let her down. Not to psychoanalyze your best friend, but you’re almost certain it stems from her father leaving when she was a child.
The thought has an idea occurring.
“What about dating someone…older?”
She turns her head to lazily grin at you as you both stop just a few feet outside the doors to the girls classroom.
“Older like Jack?” She lowers her voice as other parents begin to drift across the playground, searching for their children’s respective classes. “What, you looking for a third?”
You slap her shoulder at the tease, gnaw down on your bottom lip to hide the inappropriate amusement. Her head rolls back in a laugh, hooks her arm around yours tighter.
“I’m not opposed to someone older. But I haven’t been lucky enough to stumble across someone hot and old like you have.”
You don’t bother hiding your grin this time, or the flush in your cheeks. “He is pretty hot, isn’t he.”
She rolls her eyes fondly. “He’s obviously doing something right. I’ve never seen you this…glowy over a guy before.”
You shrug, bashfulness overtaking you just briefly. Because Jack is doing more than just something right. He’s considerate, compassionate, patient and kind. He’s funny—so fucking funny—and flirty and cheeky and intelligent in the sexiest way you’ve ever seen.
More than that, he’s competent, capable. And he listens to learn, not to reply. He problem solves instead of festering in a negative situation. He’s masculine in every healthy way; like your personal repair man who comes over to fix leaky faucets and helps paint new furniture on your balcony that you’ve haggled from Marketplace.
And the sex…Jesus fucking Christ.
It’s always so intimate and sensual. Never rushed, no. It’s explorative and exciting. He takes his time to learn your body, notices what you like and what you love.
And he’s vocal. Talks you through it with praise and encouragement, something you’ve never experienced before him.
“I’m not glowy.”
Bella scoffs. “Yes, you are. I mean you’ve always been carefree but since meeting him—what, four months ago?—you’re…I don’t know, it’s like your soul has been let free or something.”
A laugh tumbles out of you. “Okay, Shakespeare.”
The doors to the girls’ class swing open before Bella can offer a defensive retort, and Phoebe and Florence come bolting toward you in quick skips and fits of giggles.
You try not to focus on Bella’s words and observation; try not to admit that she’s right. Because in the four months of dating Jack, you’ve never felt so alive. Not when you were a teenager and sneaking out to smoke joints in the field with your friends, not when you finally left Tom.
You felt alive when you gave birth to Phoebe, when you heard her cries for the first time and felt her body against yours. But it’s a different feeling of liveliness. It’s when a new part of you awakens, when your life shifts from living for yourself to living for another.
But, Jack…yeah, he makes you feel alive. Not just in the dates he takes you on, or the ones he works harder to plan so Phoebe can join, but in the way that he’s never once tried to snuff out your light, never once complained or grimaced at your weird and wacky personality.
Maybe Bella is right. He does make your soul feel free.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆
“Mom, Jack’s eating the cheese again!”
Your head whips round to the island where both Jack and Phoebe huddle close together, decorating their pizzas to their liking. The former holds an expression of dramatic betrayal while the latter bursts into the dirtiest laugh you think you’ve ever heard from her.
“You ate some first!” Jack argues, feigning offence and crossing broad, freckled arms across his toned chest.
Phoebe’s head rolls back in laughter and you watch when Jack quickly untangles his arms to place a hand at her back, steadying her from falling off the stool with the force of her giggles.
You watch the scene in amusement, a warmth in your chest that you’re finally starting to grow accustomed to when it comes to the devilish duo.
“Yeah, but I’m just a kid, so I’m allowed.”
Jack turns to you with raised brows, struggling to hide his amusement when he jabs a thumb in Pheebs’ direction as if to say get a load of this.
It was, of course, Jack’s idea to have pizza night. You didn’t put up much of a fight when he suggested it to you after a rough week of drafting, planning and heavy deadlines.
And when you then proposed it to Phoebe, she had agreed the second you’d mentioned Jack's name; before you even had the chance to tell her what the plans were.
From the moment Jack walked in an hour ago, she hasn't left his side. Encouraged him to take off his prosthetic by shoving the crutches against his good leg, tucked it away neatly beside the couch when he did as she requested.
Then she dragged him to the kitchen island where they’ve been for the last forty-five minutes; kneading dough and cutting pieces of meat and vegetables for their pizzas.
And you’ve watched from across the island, with something both heavy and freeing in your chest. Felt your eyes prickle with tears at every synchronized laugh that fell out of them.
Phoebe forces Jack to cut peppers into shapes of flower stems and petals, uses little pieces of corn to centre them and cheese scattered only on the bottom half, because according to Phoebe, grass doesn’t have to just be green.
You decorate your pizza in a similar fashion, using meat as the petals and veggies for the stems and leaves, while Jack creates a bullseye effect with rings of each topping—much to Pheebs’ disgust.
“Mommy, can we play SingStar while the pizza’s cooking?” She asks, tone sickly sweet as she dries her hands and Jack cleans down the surfaces.
Like usual, she seems to get what she wants.
At first, Jack manages to escape the song delegations, entirely evading his turn to duet or sing at all by finding anything else that momentarily needs his attention.
“I need to check on the pizzas.”
“I’m just going to grab us all a drink.”
“But it’s so much fun listening to you and Mommy!”
Until you’ve finally had enough.
“Jack, it’s your turn to sing with Pheebs. I need to finish dinner.”
Before he can offer to do it instead, you’re shoving the wired microphone into his chest with a feline grin as he glares playfully down at you.
“Give it your all or she’ll be pissed. Phoebe doesn’t do half-hearted things. It’s a full performance or your head on a stick.”
Jack's already well aware of the fact. He’s watched you both prance around the living room for the past fifteen minutes, screaming lyrics at the top of your lungs while completing a fully-fledged dance choreography.
He’s tried his best to put it off—not because he doesn’t want to join in, but because watching his two girls laugh and dance and sing and scream… he doesn’t want to intrude on something that is yours.
But Phoebe screeches excitedly when she reaches for Jack’s hand and drags him into the middle of the rug as soon as his prosthetic is clipped back on, the coffee table shoved across the room to make space.
If he’s going to do karaoke, he’s going to do it properly. Phoebe has standards, and Jack’s not the type of man to disappoint.
The TV screen blinks briefly as Phoebe presses play and a rhythm of drums and something higher begins to sound through the speakers, the words “Ain’t It Fun by Paramore” flashing across the screen.
While Jack misses the first verse, sings too fast or too slow, unable to catch the tempo and rhythm of lyrics he’s never heard before, Phoebe kills it. Hips jutting with enough sass of a sixteen-year-old, not missing a single word or beat.
You can’t help but watch through tears of laughter, a sharp ache forming in your sides from the force of it. And by the time it gets to the final round of the chorus, Jack finds himself jumping around the living room with Pheebs—still singing off key and out of tempo, but he copies her dancing the best way he can.
Her infectious laughter bounces off the walls, and when Jack imitates Phoebe by wiggling his hips, the sound of yours is joining hers. He catches your gaze through a wide grin and sparkling eyes, shoots you a wink that does something to your insides.
The whole thing feels normal, right. Like the sound of Jack’s laughter and the stability of his presence is exactly what’s been missing in your home and hearts.
He’s tapping out at the end of the duet, saved by you declaring dinner is ready when Pheebs tries to pester him for just one more song.
Dinner goes down a similar way; giggles and jokes, talking about Phoebe’s week at school and some crazy (but child friendly) stories from Jack’s shifts recently. Your apartment has never felt so full of life and love.
You’re briefly taken back to when you were a teenager. Riddled with anger and upset and resentment for the world, but sitting at the table and eating with your mom and dad… talking about your day, laughing at stupid things.
They always had a way of taking that pain away, even if just for a few moments. Because they made you feel loved, feel wanted.
This feels a bit like that. Family time. Something Phoebe has only ever experienced with you and her grandparents at their house.
By the time you’ve finished your pizzas, Jack insists on cleaning up while you bathe Phoebe. She splashes and plays for twenty minutes, uses her bath crayons to draw pictures on the porcelain tub before scrubbing them away and getting into some pyjamas.
When you return to the living room, the lights are off and the sun is setting from outside the balcony windows. The kitchen is spotless where Jack stands, opening a box of microwave popcorn and The Little Vampire already ready on the TV.
Two steaming mugs of tea sit on the coffee table alongside a smaller mug filled with warm milk and a little plate of cookies. You’re too busy smiling to yourself at the little set up that you almost miss Phoebe scolding and judging Jack.
“That’s not how my grandpa makes it. His popcorn is crazy.”
You blink over to the kitchen as you sit on the couch, watching Jack’s brows raise as he slides the popcorn into the microwave. He doesn’t question it, he’s learnt not to question some of the things that Phoebe says.
But despite her disapproval, she watches through the glass as the paper bag expands and rotates, giggles when she’s startled by the popping until Jack’s pinching the pouch with two fingers and pouring the snack into a bowl.
Phoebe nestles herself between you and Jack when they join you on the couch, squished between your right thigh and Jack’s left; a thin blanket draped over the three of you while the bowl of popcorn rests in her lap.
Her eyes dart to the balcony doors and back to the television, like she’s noticing something but too worried to speak up. It causes a frown to pull between your brows as you follow her line of sight.
But there’s nothing but darkness out on the balcony; the golden light of the lamp and flickers of the TV reflecting on the glass.
“You okay, Diva? You keep looking outside.” You probe softly.
You feel her stiffen, just enough for it to feed the concern rushing through you and to grab Jack’s attention. He looks down at her, then at you, his own brows furrowing at her change in body language.
“It’s night time.” She mutters, but there’s a disappointed lull in her voice.
You blink, that concern morphing into gentle amusement and lean down at your side to kiss the top of her head. “That’s okay, baby. It’s movie night, you can stay up later.”
Your confirmation doesn’t do much to shake her tenseness. “But night time means Jack has to go home soon.”
Jack’s eyes snap to meet yours, his lips parted and a softness overtakes him at the realization. She’s sad because she doesn’t want him to go. He leans a hand down to playfully pinch at her purple painted toenails that peek out from the blanket.
“S’okay. I’ll stay for the movie.” Jack coos her, but it still doesn’t seem to be enough.
Even ten minutes later, when The Little Vampire plays on the screen, she’s still tense.
“Mommy?”
You hum, eyes falling from the TV back to the side of her face.
“Can Jack have a sleepover tonight?”
Her request makes you pause, has Jack slowly turning his head to look at you with apprehension. Of all the things Phoebe could have asked, this is not one you could have anticipated.
Jack…a sleepover.
Your lips part as you stare at him, trying to silently read what he thinks of it. But before you can consider the question—consider what it would mean for Jack to spend the night while Phoebe is here, he’s talking.
“But Sally would be all on her own.” He tries gently, looking back down at your daughter as he speaks in a gentle tone.
His quick answer shouldn’t disappoint you, but it does. Because you’re not sure if you really have an issue with him spending the night; with Phoebe waking up to him in the apartment.
You’ve slowly been allowing them to spend more time together over the last month, their bond only blossoming into something unbreakable.
And it’s not like Jack doesn’t already have spare clothes here. On the odd nights that Phoebe is at your moms or at Tom’s and it’s Jack’s night off, he’ll stay here or you’ll stay at his.
Worry begins to worm its way into your mind. Is that why he doesn’t want to this time? Because it’s not just you he’ll be waking up to, but Phoebe as well?
Jack's been nothing but reassuring, allowing you to run this relationship at your pace… is this where it becomes too much for him?
“But Sally is all alone when you work at night time.” Phoebe’s counter is one that Jack absolutely cannot argue.
You have to purse your lips to stifle a laugh when Jack peeks at you. “Alright, that’s fair. But it’s up to Mommy.”
There’s that silent question in his eye when you meet his gaze. Asking if you’re okay with him staying, promising that he understands if you’re not. It’s absolutely ridiculous how quickly you can worry and then become so reassured with him.
You swallow the lump in your throat and move your head just a fraction—but it’s enough for Jack to see that as permission. Not exactly hesitant, but slow and subtle enough for him to understand the weight of the decision.
As if he didn’t already.
“Guess I’m having a sleepover then, kid.”
Probably not the best thing to tell a four-year-old when it’s already well past her bedtime, but the joy on her face… it’s worth it. Jack seems to think so, too. Lets her lay across his lap with her head on his thighs and her calves dangling off yours.
In Phoebe’s defense, she spends the rest of the movie relatively silent. She stopped reaching for the popcorn about thirty minutes ago, around the time when you relented to the anxious thoughts in your head and curled into Jack's side with your head resting on his shoulder.
The whole evening feels far too domestic. Too natural, too comfortable. With Jack’s fingers sunken into Phoebe’s hair, scratching gently and soothingly at her scalp.
You’re only briefly disturbed from your thoughts when Jack shifts subtly, when a soft huff of quiet laughter falls from him.
“Baby,” he whispers, and you hum, shifting your head enough to look up at him.
“She’s asleep. Can you get me my leg?”
It takes you a moment before you move, to comprehend that the reason he’s asking for his leg is because he wants to put her to bed. You nod, humming again, heart warm and fuzzy. You reach for Jack’s leg down the side of the couch, slip from your seat as slowly as you can to not startle Pheebs.
And Jack stares at you with both shock and reverence when you sit on your heels on the carpet before him, and slowly ease the blanket up to expose his thigh and attach his prosthetic. Something he has never considered or allowed anyone else to do before.
But he doesn’t argue, doesn’t stop you. He finds himself basking in your soft and caring touch, allowing himself to be vulnerable in this moment with you, with Phoebe. With the girls that feel far too much like family these days.
He shoves down the overwhelming adoration and very meticulously scoops Phoebe into his arms, coddling her head into her chest as she continues to snore quietly. It takes more effort than he’d like to admit to be able to stand without aid of his hands, and though you can see that brief struggle, you don’t offer to help.
You won’t offend him like that.
Instead, you gently reach out to brush the hair from Phoebe’s face and bend just enough to plant a tender kiss to her cheek.
“Night, Diva. I love you,” you whisper.
When you straighten, Jack beams at you, leaning his head slightly over Phoebe’s frame to meet your lips in a ghost of a kiss. You watch him carry Phoebe down the hall after he pulls away until he disappears into her bedroom.
Jack can’t help but feel a bit shaky as he lowers Phoebe into her bed, as he tugs the duvet over her little frame, as she reaches instinctively for his arm when he tries to pull away.
Because to be trusted so wholly by you both, to be so accepted and wanted and cherished… Jack never thought this life would ever be possible for him. And yet, here he is, falling for a family that already has each other, and being treated as if he always belonged with them.
“Jack?” Phoebe’s sleep-laced voice rasps for him.
He lowers with a quiet grunt to sit on the edge of her little bed, reaches for her even smaller hand that she’s reaching to hold.
“I’m here kid. Go back to sleep.” He coos.
Phoebe shifts to lay on her side, tugs her stuffed crocodile to her chest. “Can you sing to me?”
His brow quirks in the darkness of her room, only the faint golden glow of her space-themed night-light illuminating the space.
“Sure. What do you want me to sing?” He whispers.
“The Smiths.” She whispers back.
Jack smiles, hums. “Any specific request?”
Phoebe doesn’t even think about it, like she knew the song she wanted before she even awoke. “Please, Please, Please song.”
“Let Me Get What I Want?” Jack finishes for her and even in sleep, she manages to beam at him.
“Yeah, it’s Mommy’s favorite.”
Jack’s heart thunders in his chest at the thought of it, of how soul-crushing the song is if you really listen. So he doesn’t argue, doesn’t offer something else.
Jack softly begins to sing, reaches out to brush the hair from her face. She watches him with sleep-ridden eyes as he softly sings to her; verse after verse.
And when her eyes start to flutter, Jack’s thumb reaches to slowly trace the path from between her brows down the slope of her nose—over and over until her breathing evens out and her body relaxes.
“So for once in my life, let me get what I want… Lord knows it would be the first time.” His low voice whispers, gently guiding her down a path of gentle dreams and peaceful rest.
The song, the words… the fact that she wanted him to sing that one only…
Jack can feel himself choking up at the weight of it. At how heavy and vulnerable it feels for him. Because it doesn’t feel like singing a lullaby. It feels like a loud admittance whispered into a safe and treasured moment.
He schools himself before his emotions can get the better of him, and gently brushes the last bits of hair from Phoebe’s face before standing with a groan concealed behind gritted teeth.
Before he can get two steps away from the bed, he’s met the onslaught of toys that are scattered across her bedroom floor. Something he missed when he carried her to bed initially.
It’s with quiet and somewhat practised ease that Jack very silently begins to tidy up so she doesn’t trip in the night if she awakes. Books are slid back on the case, clothes are thrown into the hamper, Lego blocks are placed beside the tub that usually carries them.
And the action figures, he begins to line them up back beside her dresser when he notices. Not just one doll that’s not quite right, but three. His hands are trembling when he picks them up, when he clutches them in an unsteady hold.
It’s with blurry vision when he carries them with him out into the hall, toward where you’re folding the blankets on the couch, refluffing the cushions.
You hear the soft pads of his footsteps approach and freeze when you see the disbelieving, broken look on his face. You don’t even notice what he’s carrying in his hands when you move quickly to reach for him; your worry begins to spiral.
He speaks before you can.
“Did you know she’s been amputating her dolls?”
Jack’s voice is thick with emotion, breaking slightly when he utters a truth you’re only just learning for yourself.
“What?” Your voice comes out as a whisper when you finally look down to Jack’s hands.
Three dolls—Superman, Spiderman, and The Hulk—all missing a leg from the knee down. Just like Jack.
It feels like you’ve been punched in your chest, like you can’t quite swallow a breath big enough to fill your lungs. Your eyes burn, vision begins to distort as you blink at the dolls and then back at Jack.
It’s all over his face when he looks at you; the longing, the vulnerability, the thought that he is not deserving of this. Of her.
“She really does love you, you know.”
He nods, sniffling until a smile begins to pull on the corners of his mouth. “I know,” he rasps. “I love her, too.”
The heaviness of the fact sits thick between you. The truth hidden between the lines—what he’s saying includes what he isn’t.
But he doesn’t have to, you don’t have to.
It makes your heart swell and ache, nonetheless. Makes Jack’s try to burst against his ribcage. He doesn’t show it, tries not to, anyway. He gently drops the action figures onto the coffee table and uses his empty hands to reach for your waist.
You step closer, your palms resting on the hardness of his chest beneath the cotton t-shirt. He leans in close enough to kiss you, but lets the tip of his nose brush yours instead, allowing himself this moment to recenter.
You give it to him, don’t ask for more, don’t push him away.
“I’m gonna run back to the apartment quickly to check on Sally. Why don’t you have a bubble bath, hm?”
You know he’s changing the subject, that whatever just happened with him and Phoebe hit too close for him to be comfortable to talk about it right now.
So you hum, reach up to press a kiss to his mouth—his short stubble scratching at your soft skin.
“M’kay. Take my key.”
It’s twenty minutes later when you hear him returning. Soft footsteps padding down the hall—stopping briefly outside Phoebe’s door before continuing into your bedroom.
You’re lounging in a hot bubble bath when he slowly eases into the bathroom, leaning against the doorway. His hair is damp, clothes changed into checkered pyjama pants and a gray t-shirt. Arms fold across a broad chest and he grins at the sight of you soaped up.
You quirk a brow at him, ignore the flame that burns beneath the skin of your cheeks.
“You showered when you checked on Sally?”
He hums, moving closer to sit on the lid of the toilet.
“Yeah, you don’t have a chair.” He explains in a low voice, hand reaching down to dip his fingers into the hot water, finding your knee and gently tracing patterns on the warm skin.
You don’t comment on the lack of a shower-chair in your apartment, but you do make a mental note to get one ordered in the morning.
“You know, you can always bring her here, and I’m more than happy to Sally-sit when you’re working.” It’s not the first time you’ve offered and you doubt it’ll be the last. But Jack always argues the same thing—
“I don’t think you or Pheebs would appreciate her pissing everywhere to mark her territory.”
And as always, it gets a bark of laughter from you.
“I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, there was once a time when Phoebe pissed everywhere.”
Jack grins, leans down to press a kiss to your mouth. “But Diva is infinitely cuter than Sally.”
You roll yourself with fond adoration and reach up to press another kiss to him. The angle causes the water to slosh in the tub and the bubbles to disperse—momentarily exposing your chest to the cool air of the bathroom.
The change in temperature causes your nipples to pebble at the same time Jack pulls back to look at you. His expression shifts, something darker passing across his eyes as the corner of his mouth curls in the form of a smirk.
You flush under his gaze, despite how often he’s seen you bare in the past month. It doesn’t matter that his hands have touched your skin more times than you can count now, that he’s already mapped out your body with his hands and mouth—that he’s committed it to memory, along with what makes you squirm and writhe and moan.
“Are you getting out or staying in?” Jack’s voice is low and deep when he speaks, a tone that sends shivers down your spine despite the heat of the water.
Because you’ve grown to learn what that tone usually means.
“I’m getting out,” you reply a bit too breathlessly than you mean to.
With his eyes still on yours, Jack’s hand skims from your knee and down your shin, skipping your foot to reach for the plug where he pushes it down and it pops back up.
Water swirls at the base of the drain, the tub slowly emptying. Jack reaches to his right for a fluffy cotton towel that hangs on the rail, unfolds it with skilled hands and holds it open wide—a silent invitation for you to step out of the porcelain and into his arms.
Water sloshes when you stand, drips down the expanse of your body and suds of soap still cling to your skin. He wraps the cotton around you the moment you step out, tucks it over your chest, and guides you through the threshold of your en-suite and into your bedroom.
The lights are dim, only the small lamp on your nightstand barely able to illuminate the space. It sets a golden hue over your skin and his, blankets the room in familiar intimacy.
“Do you want pyjamas?”
You shake your head, eyes remaining on him through it all. The towel was pointless, really, because the moment Jack is sitting on the edge of the bed, you’re unravelling it from your body and letting it drop to the ground with a quiet thud.
Jack’s gaze roves over your body in hungry appreciation, his muscles tensing as he shifts and admires you silently. And you let him. The nerves of allowing him to see you so bare dwindled away some time three weeks ago, after he’d spent hours and hours cherishing you, admiring you, reassuring you and proving to you how utterly, devastatingly beautiful you are.
You don’t cower, don’t curl your body into itself. You don’t try to hide your cesarean scar, nor the stretchmarks that adore the podgier skin of your lower stomach. You don’t shy away when his gaze slides over the dips in your hips, the slightly uneven swell of your breasts where the left is just a pinch bigger than the right.
You let Jack admire, because you’ve never felt safer or more adored than when you’re under his gaze like this.
“You’re so fucking beautiful.” His words are whispered to you like a prayer.
Maybe that’s what gives you the confidence to move a step closer between his thighs, to slowly sink down to your knees. Jack exhales shakily when you do, when your palms slide up his clothed thighs.
It’s silent when he relents and lifts his hips to lower his pyjama pants down to his thighs, silent when you hook your fingers into the waistband to pull them off his legs completely.
For a moment, you don’t allow yourself to look at him, keep your gaze focused on his prosthetic. You press a gentle kiss just above his knee when your fingers reach the clips to unfasten the metal. Another shaky exhale falls from him when you remove it, gently placing it against the foot of the bed.
Only then, when you know he’s comfortable, do you return your attention to where it’s needed.
Long and hard, thick and eager. Jack’s cock stands excitedly as he leans back on his hands to watch, already fisting the sheets in anticipation.
It’s not like you haven’t done this for him before, because you have; a few times. But Jack usually argues that he needs to get you off first, that your pleasure is more important than his. You’re overwhelmingly pleased that he’s not arguing with you on it tonight.
But overall, tonight is different. He can’t coax orgasm after orgasm from you when Phoebe is only down the hall. He can’t make you cry and moan as loudly as he likes. So he settles for this—clenching his jaw and fisting the sheets.
You wrap your hand around him slowly, the movement almost making him jolt. With your bottom lip caught between your teeth, you slowly begin to pump him in your palm, leaning close enough to press hot open-mouthed kisses to his ruddy tip.
“Fuck, baby,” Jack whimpers breathlessly.
His eyes are on you when you look up at him through your lashes, dark and blown with lust and arousal. You hum, swirling your tongue around his head before suckling him into your mouth.
Your lips stretch around him as he fills you, only able to take barely half of his length as you fist the rest of him. Your cheeks hollow and you can feel your cunt fluttering at the taste of him.
With your eyes still on him, you sneak your spare hand between your thighs—a motion that Jack clocks immediately—and begin to glide your middle finger through your soaked slit.
“Jesus Christ… you’re so fucking sexy.” The praise has you oozing onto your finger, has you whimpering around his cock. It sends shocks of vibrations through his body, forcing him to fist the sheets harder when you take him deeper.
Jack watches with hooded eyes as you begin to bob your head on his cock, as he feels his tip prod at the back of your tight throat. Your eyes sting with tears at the intrusion but you don’t stop, keep your gaze locked on him even as your brows begin to furrow.
“Good girl, baby. Doing so good.”
The praise makes you work faster, has you rubbing tight motions on your clit as you choke on his cock. Jack’s guttural groan and breathless whimper has your eyes rolling to the back of your head, salty drops of pre-cum coating your tongue.
His hips begin to move, respectful of what you can handle but enough to encourage you to take more. His chest is heaving with every breath, knuckles white around the handfuls of your sheets.
And when your hand abandons his cock to tenderly massage his balls, when your mouth opens around him and your tongue strokes the underside of his length as he hits the back of your throat, Jack loses it.
“Fuck. Ah, shit…so good, baby. Oh, fuck me…yeah, just like that.” His voice is wrecked, whimpering in that higher octave that you’ve associated with a brewing release.
The sound of it spurs you on as you slip two fingers into your dripping cunt, curling as quick as Jack’s usually do in an attempt to get you to his level. You choke around the thickness of him, moans and whimpers suffocated by his cock.
It’s enough to spur him over the edge, to have him spluttering out, “I can’t—honey, I’m gonna cum. Oh fuck, oh fuck,” and with a choked cry of your own, you’re suctioning your lips again—just around his head—and he’s spilling onto your tongue.
Your own orgasm crashes into you at the same time, cunt convulsing around your fingers and body shuddering in the same way Jack’s does. His hands give out from holding him up, his back crashing into the mattress as you slowly slide him out of your mouth and swallow down his release.
Jack can’t catch his breath. With an arm thrown over his eyes and his hard cock glistening and resting against his thigh, you finally manage to heave a breath of your own.
Tears stain your cheeks as you stand, as you crawl beside him on the bed. Before you can say a word, Jack’s blindly reaching for you. A strong hand wrapping around your arm and dragging you over to straddle his chest.
You’re still trying to catch your breath when Jack moves his arm from his face to hold your hips, when he looks at you like he’s only just getting started.
He squeezes your hips once, dragging you up his chest until your sopping cunt hovers over his face. “C’mon, baby. Let me clean you up.”
Neither of you question how natural it is. To have fooled around like usual, with Pheebs sleeping down the hall. Because it feels too normal. Like you’re two parents stealing moments of intimacy when you can.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆
Laughter is the first thing you hear when you stir from your slumber.
Two sets of it. One young and high pitched, the other older and deeper. Your arm reaches across the bed in search of Jack who’s no longer there. His side of the bed is cold, sheets still rumpled.
You blink at the light that filters in through the curtains in your bedroom, eyes catching the alarm clock on your nightstand.
10 a.m.
Music greets your ears next as you slowly sit up, Michael Jackson blaring from the kitchen. A grin stretches across your sleepy face and you stretch beneath the sheets—still bare, but your body feels lighter after two orgasms and a good night's sleep.
Dressing in the first pair of pyjamas in the drawer, you follow the sound of happiness down the hall and find the source of the noise in the kitchen, where you’re momentarily stunned.
Phoebe sits on the island, a bowl between her legs as she mixes pancake batter within an inch of her life. Jack stands in front of her, gently easing flour into the mix and playfully flicking some at Phoebe’s face just to hear her laugh again.
You can’t hide your grin and clear your throat to make your presence known. They both turn to you, rosy cheeked and still slightly sleep ridden.
“Morning, Mommy.” Their greeting is synchronized, like this is a normal, every day occurrence.
The kitchen is a mess, the music is too loud, there’s flour and batter in Phoebe’s hair but you can’t bring yourself to care when Jack approaches you with a steaming mug of coffee.
You take it from him with a bashful grin, and he almost closes the distance between you when he catches himself, realizes that he’s in front of Phoebe and unsure of the boundaries in place when it comes to this—the morning after.
But you soothe that concern when you reach across the coffee to gently press your lips against his, eyes fluttering closed as he reaches an arm around your waist.
“Morning,” he whispers against your lips as you whisper it back, pulling away to return to Phoebe and the pancake batter.
Your eyes skim over the island; pencils and paper litter half of the counter, drawings and practised writing.
Phoebe leans over to kiss your cheek and reaches for a piece of paper she’s particularly proud of and shoves it in your face.
“Look! Jack was helping me practice writing.” She beams at you in excitement and pride and when you look down at the paper, your eyes sting with tears.
M O M in big bulky letters, uneven where jack has dotted the outline for the letters and Pheebs has joined them with shaky lines. You’re too busy staring at the masterpiece that is definitely going to be framed to notice Jack watching you with a fervent softness.
“This is beautiful, Diva. You are so clever.”
She ignores the praise when she turns back to Jack, noticing the way he’s watching you.
“Did you sleep in my mom’s bed last night?”
The question has you choking on your coffee and Jack almost dropping the bowl of pancake batter. You splutter out a string of coughs, steadying the mug on the counter for a moment so you can smack at your chest for come relief.
“Um, yeah. Jack did.” You answer through another cough, casting a cautious glance over her head at him.
The confirmation has the girl grinning something dangerous when she looks from you to Jack again. Like she’s purposely posing the questions to him instead of you.
“So you really are boyfriend and girlfriend.” It’s not a question, she words it like a statement. As if she’s been working hard to get you both to this point.
You suppose she has, really. If it wasn’t for your meddling child, you’re unsure if you and Jack would be here now.
“Yeah, Diva,” Jack laughs. “You okay with that?”
She seems to appreciate the thought of him checking, but doesn’t need to consider it before she nods with resoluteness and sprinkles chocolate chips into the mix in Jack’s hand.
“Jack is nice and funny,” she says out loud. It causes him to grin wide, to meet your gaze briefly again over the top of her head.
“Thanks, kid. You’re nice and funny, too.”
She hums. “But Tom is an ass.”
The room falls silent as the music continues to play. You and Jack still, eyes wide and staring at each other. He has to look away, to turn his back to you both and busy himself at the sink to hide both his shock and amusement.
You blink at your daughter, moving around the island to face her. “Pheebs—what? One, ass is a bad word, we don’t say that. And two…Tom? You don’t call him that, he’s your dad.”
Phoebe huffs, her shoulders dropping at the scolding and she places the half empty bag of chocolate chips back on the counter.
“I don’t want to call him Dad,” she mutters, keeping her gaze down at her fingers. “I like Jack better. Jack’s nice, and he plays with me. And he makes you happy. Tom is mean to you. He says mean things about Jack, Mommy. It makes me sad and angry.”
Jack feels his heart ache and crack at the watery tone of Phoebe’s voice, of the truth she’s admitting that should never have reached her ears. He can feel bile rise up his throat, his hands scrubbing the dishes a bit too forcefully.
All you can do is stare at Phoebe in shock, feel your heart ache at how brazen Tom has been to belittle you and Jack in front of her.
You swallow down the lump in your throat and reach for her hand. “Well, I will talk to your dad about that, okay?” You try to keep your voice calm and smooth, but you’re bubbling with anger beneath the skin.
“Tom.” Phoebe corrects you, and it’s clear that she’s not going to drop this.
You purse your lips, heart twisting and breaking at the thought of what’s unfolding in her clever little mind.
“Tom.” You agree.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆
SERIES MASTERLIST — NEXT PART
Tag list for this series has grown way too big for me to keep up with so it’s unfortunately CLOSED. You can however follow the #apt.17 tag instead for updates on the series!
ahhh ok so what did we think of jack's cheeky blowjob and the fact that phoebe is now calling her dad TOM :((( there is a lot to happen in the next two chapters so buckle tf up!! again, thank you SO much for your guys' continuous and unwavering support on this series, sending you all big fat smooches!!
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Dennis Whitaker disappears after his first shift at PTMC, and a few nights later, Robby tells Jack that the kid has been involved in an accident, and his left leg has been amputated.
---
Jack only met Dennis Whitaker once, and he only feels a little bad in saying that with everything happening in the aftermath of Pittfest, he didn't really remember the kid that well. He had a vague memory of big, fearful eyes, a competence fitting of an MS3, and nothing particularly loud or remarkable about the kid.
He didn't think too much of it, beyond a vague and academic concern, when Robby greeted him with a frown a couple of nights later at handoff.
"Are you gonna tell me or do I need to guess?"
"Whitaker hasn't shown up for his shifts the last few days."
Jack blinks, taking a moment.
"The med student? Brother, maybe the MCI got to him. That shit was trial by fire, and the reality of what we do isn't for everyone. Maybe he's just taking some time, thinking about his options."
Robby nods, but Jack can tell he's not convinced.
Turns out, he's right not to be.
Jack has never seen Robby's face look as fucking haggard as it does when he takes Jack aside a few nights later, and breaks the news with as much gentleness as he's still got left in him.
Major traffic accident, car vs pedestrians. Multiple crushing injuries. They'd taken Whitaker to Presby because it was closer to the scene.
Amputation of Whitaker's left leg. Below the knee, Jack hears Robby say, and he knows realistically that it's a good thing. Lucky.
He can't bring himself to say it out loud, and neither can Robby.
---
The decision to take Whitaker under his wing is made without much conscious effort from Jack. It happens like a simple math problem, the outcome consistent and expected.
He goes to visit the kid at Presby, doesn't get offended when he has to introduce himself and then jog the kid's memory about where they've met before.
He lets the kid be numb, then sad, then angry, then sad again. He drives him to the support groups, and lets the kid be bitterly jealous over Jack's control of a vehicle.
"You'll have this again. But in the meantime you get to be pissed about it."
He gets his care transferred over to PTMC, and promises the kid that the ortho and rehab teams won't go spreading rumours or talking about him to his colleagues.
"They're not even my colleagues anymore."
"Hate to break it to you kid, but those pricks are persistent, and most of them have made a real nice ass groove for themselves in that department. Like it or not, those fuckers will be waiting for you when you get back. Robby's practically salivating."
Jack snorts, and tries to hold back another one at the kid's angry, puffed-up kitten scowl.
Jack knows this whole process well enough to know that the uptick of the corner of Dennis' mouth is a win.
He takes the kid to hydrotherapy, and he pulls some strings so that their first session is just the two of them, gently splashing around in the pool. Jack's not a physiotherapist, but he does understand the tightness around Dennis' eyes at the thought of exposing his new body to yet another perfect stranger.
He stands in the water and holds his arms out, waiting patiently for Dennis to be ready. Lets the kid cling to his arms, huffs a quiet laugh at the small sound he makes the instant he's submerged in the warm water.
"Yeah? Takes away some of that aching, huh?"
Dennis nods, quiet in the way that someone is when they're surprised that a promise has been kept. Jack slowly inches backwards in the water, only a couple of inches, stops when Dennis makes a gutteral, unsteady sound.
"I got you, I got you." The kid's fingers are leaving livid white marks on his biceps, but that's not important. "I'm not gonna let you fall. You remember what we talked about before? About what to do if you start to overbalance?"
"I know how to swim. I lost a leg, not my memory."
"Oh yeah?" Jack grins, gently bobs them both a little in the water. "Well if you remember how to swim, and you remember your piss-poor attitude, why don't you stop doing your best bubble impression and take some baby steps for me?"
Dennis scowls, and the indignation and curiosity almost cancels out his hesitation and fear.
"Shut up. What the hell does that even mean?"
Jack is so very glad he asked.
"Your bubble impression?" He shrugs, deliberately looking away from Denns' legs making their first hesitant shuffles. "Floating there looking pretty, but not doing much else."
"Oh, fuck you."
He's there when Dennis gets his first prosthesis, ready to catch him when the inevitable frustration and disappointment set in at the realisation that the freedom of mobility doesn't come without adjustments.
"Dennis. Look at me." The kid's face is blotchy and red, and he's been studiously avoiding Jack's eyes ever since they got back.
"It's okay to be frustrated. I know it hurts. It's a completely new piece of equipment being attached to a part of your body that never expected to have this attached. There's new pressure, new sensations, and it's all happening to new, sensitive skin, and muscle and bone that are still adjusting. Give yourself some grace, kid."
"I'm - I'm lucky to have this." Dennis spits out. That word again, the tricky sticking point that even Jack never quite got to grips with. "I shouldn't be complaining. There are people far worse off than me."
Jack hums, handing Dennis the antibac wipes and offering no further guidance on cleaning.
"Sure. There are definitely people who are worse off." He sees Dennis' head jerk upwards, finally gets that eye contact he'd been chasing.
"But I'm not talking to them, I'm talking to you. Other people have it worse, and you've still been dealt a shitty hand right now. Both things can be true. You're lucky to have access to the prosthesis and the rehab teams. This -" he gently pats the prosthetic limb like it has its own nerves "-is going to be the thing that gives you your freedom and mobility back. But right now, it's new and it hurts, and it'll take adjustment. Both things can be true."
He shows Dennis his own prosthesis, his own stump, and how the two work together. He was surprised at how intimate and vulnerable it felt, letting Dennis see him remove his leg and care for his stump at the end of a long shift. He was interested by his own tenderness at the process, as he'd long thought he was over any feelings of particular vulnerability where observation was concerned.
But he shared all the small things he'd learned over the years with Dennis. All the little things that nobody without a prosthesis could possibly be expected to know, despite their qualifications, because they were the kind of things you only learnt by living it. He softened when he saw Dennis' face set in such concentration as he told him about tips for dealing with hot weather, felt something in him ache a little tenderly at the expression on the kid's face when Jack talked openly about the need for hygiene and the reality of 12-hour shifts and sweat and residual limb care.
He was there the first time he saw it in Dennis' face; the realisation that different did not negate okay. He was there when the kid met with Robby (and really, it was supposed to be a meeting with administration first, but Jack wasn't stupid) to discuss returning for the rest of his rotation.
He was definitely there when the kid started to look at him with something dangerously close to admiration and worship and - if Robby was to be believed - little tiny hearts in his eyes.
"He's too fucking young for me."
"He's twenty six."
"Too. Fucking. Young. He's all caught up with looking at me as his saviour right now."
"Pretty sure he's seen you at your least glamourous. I don't know if you think you've been some kind of perfect, Florence Nightingale figure with endless pools of patience and grace, but let me tell you that you've been cranky, difficult, downright fucking belligerent, and I've heard you tell the worst fucking jokes in your reportoire. The kid still laughs at them and gives you cow eyes."
Summary: It's just never the right time for you and Jack Abbot, not since you left the first time. Until it is. Or four times you and Jack Abbot miss your chances and the one time you don't. (5.6k)
Pairing: Jack Abbot x fem!childhood friend!reader
TW: Sunshine x grumpy trope used literally; angst; fluff; Jack calls Reader "Sunshine"; Military and war inaccuracies; Jack was injured young; mentions of surviving a car accident; reader loses her husband; jack loses his wife to CF; mentions of grief; Jack is a sap for the reader; reader and jack do end up married.
Credit: Gif by @keeryscupid
i. Before
Jack Abbot was born the same day as you, the same time and hospital, same floor and wing, in the room just beside the one you were born in. It’s the story both of you grew up with, your mother’s deciding that it meant you were bonded for life, fated. Really, you thought, they just wanted grandkids to share. To spoil together as best friends do.
But you can’t deny that the story did one thing as they wanted—it made Jack Abbot your best friend.
Your first steps were taken at the same time, your first words were names for one another rather your mothers or your fathers—as corroborated by video evidence, recorded on a VHS tape stored in your mother’s basement. You were Sunny and he was Gumpy.
When you were able to speak a little more, a little clearer, he was Grumpy and you were Sunshine. Sunshine bear and Grumpy bear being the inspiration for the names. For the first years of your life, you truly thought his name was Grumpy and he truly thought yours was Sunshine.
It wasn’t until preschool, the two of you linked together, small hands linked, tiny fingers curled around tiny fingers that you learned you each had different names. And he became Jackie, your Jackie, but you stayed Sunshine. His Sunshine.
There is not an instance in your early life that you recall where Jack Abbot was not present. Holidays were spent together, vacations and extracurriculars, classes and hobbies done together. He was always there, present in a way that you can’t recall anyone else ever being.
No, when asked what you most remember of your childhood, your answer is always Jack Abbot, your childhood best friend of the hazel eyes like sun shining through tree branches and the auburn curls which were always just a tad too long.
Jack Abbot was your best friend, the one you trusted the most, the one you went to when you were hurt, excited or anything in-between.
It was a friendship forged from birth, quenched in playground tears and jeers. Your first day of kindergarten, you never cried, never clung to your mother’s leg, rather you held onto Jackie’s hand and dragged him after you into the school, into the room which was painted a bright pink and bright blue with posters all over and toys lining shelves.
Every day after was you and Jack. Always you and Jack.
“Jackie,” you had whispered one day in the first grade, the two of you just sitting on the swings at recess, “can you promise me something?”
“What, Sunshine?” he had replied, his attention fixed on the sky as his hands twined around the rusting metal chains of the swing.
“Promise me that we’ll stay together,” you said and he looked at you, his forest solemn and serious in only the way of a little kid.
“I promise,” he told you and he reached his hand across the divide for yours, your fingers interlocking, the two of you swinging softly, gently back and forth while the rest of the children at the school, shrieked and ran about laughing.
“Sunshine,” he had said once in the third grade, the two of you seated on the bleachers at lunch recess, sharing apple slices, “what do you think growing up means?”
“I don’t know,” you’d told him, your brows knitting together as you thought, a slice held in the air, halfway to your mouth, “but I’d like to think we’re together.”
That was the way it always was, you and Jack, Jack and you, always and forever, you always said. Always and forever, though, is the kind of vow a child makes, never knowing that life can change in an instant.
Or it can change in a long span of time, change creeping up over the years until one morning you wake up in a reality that seems so different, but was really coming all along.
Like it did in high school.
Because one day it seemed like you and Jack were friends, just friends and the next, things seemed…different. The next it seemed like every graze of his skin against yours made you feel alive, even when you were alive. The next it seemed like just over night, you had developed a colony of butterflies in your stomach that only came to life around him.
But you ignored it, ignored all the signs, preferring to have him as your friend, have him as you know him. Have him the way you always have. And it worked.
You went to school, went to class with him and did your sports and clubs and waited for each other like nothing had changed even when it felt like everything had.
It wasn’t until senior year that you realized you couldn’t ignore it anymore because the dreams and the butterflies and the sweaty palms and the ache in your chest watching him kiss and date and dance around with others girls was too strong. A force that said, it didn’t want to be ignored any longer.
You wanted to be the lips he kissed, the girl he dated, the body he danced with, twirling around with him on the dance floor. You wanted to be the one he wanted. And that want was slowly killing you.
“Prom,” you said one day, the two of seated on the swing set in your backyard, the one you spent hours on with him.
“What about it?” he replied and you looked at him, really looked, in the way you’d been denying yourself for years in effort to make that ache a little less, the butterflies less strong.
“Do you have a date?” you asked and he looked at you strangely, just a little differently like a recalibration was going on in his mind, the loading circle behind his eyes shining at you.
“No,” he said finally, words slow, kind of drawn-out as if he wasn’t entirely sure what was going on. “Do you?”
“I’ve been asked,” you told him, twisting on the swing, twisting chains around as they creaked, the cracking, aging plastic scraping against your palms as you faced him, chains wound tight around you like a barrier between you. “But not by who I want to ask me.”
“Who do you want to ask you?” he said, brows knitting together, his one hand drifting up to smooth his unruly curls back, the ones he let grow just a bit too long, just enough to drive his mother nuts.
“Jack,” you whispered, raising your eyebrows at him. “Who do you think?” He looked at you, surprised, that pleased glimmer shining in his eyes.
“Me?” he asked, his own finger drifting to his chest, his voice rising in excitement. “You want me to ask you to prom?!”
“Yeah,” you answered, squealing as he jumped out of his swing, over to yours, swinging you right, your legs locking around his waist, his hands just on top of yours on the chain, his body shadowed by the setting sun, eyes on you. Locked on you, the colony of butterflies warring in your gut, rising to your lungs.
“Well, Sunshine,” he said, a teasing smirk on his face. “Do you want to go to prom with me?”
“Of course,” you told him, your lips curving up in a matching grin, “I thought you’d never ask, Jackrabbit.”
“Don’t call me that,” he whispered, the nickname the one he earned playing basketball, his jumps well-known. “Call me what you’ve always called me, Sunshine.”
“I thought you’d never ask, Grumpy Bear.” And, in truth, that which you remember most from your youth is that smile he gave you right then, the one that is light and bright and innocent. One that you dreamt of as you fell asleep, one that you held onto over the years. The long, long years.
But you thought nothing of years and the future then, only disappearing inside your house after pressing a kiss against Jack’s cheek, one that glimmered in the light when he turned to watch you go, a lip gloss print upon the smoothness of his left cheek.
You spent the weeks leading up to prom in a daze, going shopping with your friend Elizabeth, the two of you picking out gowns and laughing. You were excited to finally be the lips that Jack Abbot, your Grumpy Bear and Jackie, kissed.
You didn’t yet realize that sometimes our plans are derailed by the most mundane of things. Like an email sent, a promotion given and a fraying marriage. Last ditch efforts where you’re never truly a consideration at all.
You came home with a dark, forest green ballgown and emerald heels, excited and happy only to walk into your parents sitting on the couch, their hands joined as they looked at you and said; “we’re moving to Seattle.”
ii. The First Missing—A week before Senior Prom
“Jack!” you call out, your bag slung on one shoulder, a notebook clutched in the crook of your arm, a red pen hooked into the circular rings. “Jack!” He’s standing at his locker, attention on one of his basketball friends, but he turns, catching sight of you, his eyes lighting up as his lips curve into a soft and satisfied smile.
“Hey, Sunshine!” he calls out, lifting one hand to you in greeting, two fingers up, signalling two minutes, the final bell having rung minutes before you saw him. You wait, feeling the sting of tears in your eyes and a clamminess in your palms. You thought, you really thought that this was it. That this was your chance.
That maybe, finally, you could have a love story, a high school love story like the ones in all the romance books you’ve read. A friends to lovers story of your own.
But, you suppose, it’s just not your time.
“What’s up, my sunshine?” Jack says, crossing to you, his steps fast and long, the distance closed in no time at all, his locker locked and his friend gone.
“I have bad news, Jack,” you whisper, looking down as your vision begins to go blurry, the tears lining your eyes so fully now that it’s just minutes before they fall, your throat thick and your hand sweaty even as he takes yours, his fingers interlacing with yours as he guides you out the front door, out towards his car.
“Whatever it is, Sunny,” he whispers, “we’ll get through it together.”
“We can’t this time, Jack,” you say, looking up from the ground where you’ve been watching your high-top covered feet as they cut across the green of the lawn, of the dusty gravel on the parking lot. “This is something we can’t fix or get through…together.”
“What do you mean?” he asks and you look at him, really looking, drinking in every detail of his face, from the faint acne on his forehead and his cheekbones, to the now trimmed curls that he must have cut last night and his knitted brow over shadowed hazel eyes.
“Let’s get in your car and just drive for a bit, okay?” you say and he nods, his expression still worried and dark, darkening more as you separate from him, climbing into his car, the one he spent a whole year fixing up, the ’67 Firebird in bright blue.
He climbs in and puts the key in the ignition, turning it and backing out of the parking lot, switching gears to first and getting on the road, the one that leads to nowhere, out to open fields, the one you used to bike on as kids, your bike rides going nowhere. The adventure of little kids.
“I’m leaving tomorrow,” you whisper, your window down, the wind rolling and ruffling the strands of your hair as your hand sticks out, fingers moving, tracing circles in the breeze.
“Leaving where?” he asks, voice soft and quiet, worried and contemplative at the same time.
“Seattle,” you answer, turning to look at him, rather than the open fields of canola and mustard. “My dad got a promotion. I’m not gonna make it to prom.”
“But you were all excited about your dress,” he says, taking his eyes off the road for a minute to look at you, the look in his eyes like yours just moments before, like he’s memorizing every inch of you.
“I’ll save it for a rainy day,” you whisper, face folding down into sadness, the tears falling in a soft and steady way, warm like a summer rainstorm.
“I thought…” he whispers, pulling over to the side of the road, putting his car in park and turning to you, eyes alight with intensity. “I thought this was our chance. Just like our mom’s said…we’re…fated.”
“I guess,” you whisper, swallowing hard around the growing lump in your throat, your hand reaching for his, lacing through his fingers, “it’s not our time yet.”
“So, we’re just gonna…gonna be left with what could have been,” he whispers, lifting your joined hands to his lips, pressing a kiss against your knuckles.
“A beautiful, brilliant…possibility,” you tell him, watching with despair as a single tear rolls down his cheek, slipping down his chin, falling onto the neck of his t-shirt, the one you got him with Grumpy Bear on it. The one he’s fearless enough to wear.
“For now,” he whispers, letting go of you and putting the car back into gear, doing a U-turn back to the town, heading somewhere from nowhere. “We’ll get our time, Sunshine,” he vows, looking back at you, a small, sad smile on his face. “I know it.”
And you want to know it too so you nod, playing along, but in your heart you wonder when?
When will it be the chance you’ve been waiting for? When will you get your love story with this boy, this boy who holds your heart, will always hold your heart?
When will he become a story rather than a dream?
When will the boy that could have been become the boy who was?
iii. The Second Missing—Early Deployment
San Diego has not been what you expected when you first showed up here, your room packed into boxes, hauled from Seattle to San Diego University. It was warm year round and it didn’t snow and the first time you stepped outside in December, you were surprised that you didn’t need a coat.
It’s picturesque and pretty and perfect and exactly what you need to outrun the ghosts of your broken home, your mother having divorced your father, moving back home just as you packed up for half-way across the country. It’s not like you didn’t know it was coming, but you don’t want to see their broken faces when you carry your own ghost, the dream of what could have been.
Letters from Jack just weren’t the same and no one can write letters forever because life gets busy and things happen and then…they just stop coming. The last thing he sent you was a letter that ended with some day, Sunshine, it will be our turn. You never did believe him.
“What med school are you applying to next year?” Paris asks you, her voice low and calm and soothing, the way it’s always been these past three years.
“Stanford, Harvard, Johns Hopkins, Yale, what about you?” you answer, glancing over at her, at the way her dark hair is braided back tightly from her face, the way her light brown eyes look shadowed in a sexy way from her smoky eye.
“The same,” she answers. “I’m hoping for Harvard, but I know you will always be hoping for Johns Hopkins.” Her voice has a teasing lilt that causes your lips to curve up with just a bit of a smile, your eyes rolling affectionately when a voice so familiar that your heart feels like it stops breaks through the din.
“Sunshine?!”
“Jackie?!” you call out, turning around, high-top sneaker laces, twisting under your feet, grinding into the cracked, expanding sidewalk. You see him standing there, but he looks so different, his hair buzzed off and hands clasped behind his back, posture stiff. “Omigod! Jackie!” you cry, running to him as he holds open his arms for you. You don’t hesitate, just launching yourself at him, your arms around his neck, legs around his waist, his arms holding tight to you.
“Hey, Sunshine,” he says, his voice a husky kind of drawl, “miss me much?”
“Shut up! What are you doing here?” you say, hopping off of him, but keeping your arms around his neck, his staying on your waist, warm and giving light to the butterflies you long since thought dormant.
“I’m a Marine,” he tells you, one corner of his lips pulling up into that crooked smile he has, the one that is delicious and perfect and everything you’ve missed. “I chose the recruitment base here in the warmth rather than old South Carolina.”
“Smart choice,” you tell him, stepping to the side, your one arm staying slung around his neck as you pull him down, your fist shaking against his buzz cut, the short hairs on his head, dragging strangely against your skin. “Damn,” you say, releasing his head, but keeping your arm around him, “not as much fun anymore to noogie you, Mr. Marine.”
“Ha!” he says, his one arm still around your waist, Paris shooting wide wtf eyes at you as she ducks into the coffee shop, taking a seat at the window. “That was my plan all along. The entire reason for signing up to serve my country.”
“Uh-huh,” you reply, your voice deadpan as you walk in step with him, stopping just outside of the coffee shop where your study group waits, the one you don’t want to go to because you don’t want to lose out on Jack. Not again.
You feel like this is the chance you’ve been waiting for. Like you can make it work now.
“How long are you here for?” you ask, your voice veering up, hopeful to the last.
“I have four months until my scheduled deployment,” he tells you, lips never once curving down from the crooked grin, that half-lipped smile. “Why? Are you hinting at something, Sunshine?”
“I don’t hint at anything, Jackrabbit,” you counter, the words just slightly venomous, but mostly teasing. Really all the way teasing. “I suggest and you’re supposed to turn my suggestions into reality.”
“Like prom?” he asks and you smile at him, reaching up, placing your hands on his shoulders.
“Exactly like prom,” you whisper and in that moment, you can feel the breath catch in your throat as you look at him, at the ghost of what could have been crosses your mind. He wrote you after prom, saying he didn’t go. That he couldn’t without his Sunshine, that it just wouldn’t work. It wouldn’t be what he wanted.
“So…” he whispers, leaning in, pressing his forehead against yours, that crooked smile still firmly on his lips, just a little tainted as if he, too, is haunted by the ghost of what could have been. “Do you want to go on a date?”
“Are you allowed, Mr. Marine?” you whisper and he smiles a full smile at you, letting out a breathy kind of chuckle as he nods, the movement echoing through you.
“Yeah, Sunshine,” he whispers. “I’m allowed.”
“Then yes,” you tell him and he pulls away, smiling that bright smile, the one that’s haunted you for years now as he turns and waves.
“Tomorrow, nine am, here, okay?” he says and you nod, biting your lip to suppress the smile that’s threatening to grow as he backs up, waving once before jogging off and you turn around, entering the coffee shop, Paris standing there, hands on her hips.
“Is that him?” she demands. “Mr. Possibility?”
“Yeah,” you whisper, your throat thick with the good kind of tears as she squeals, running to you and embracing you, the two of you jumping up and down before composing yourselves, turning to the study group, to the test.
But your mind is on Jack for the rest of the day, the taste of possibility becoming reality heady on your tongue. You should know by now though that nothing goes according to plan.
Because when you get up in the morning, dressing with care in a yellow blouse with flowy sleeves and a light green flowy skirt with sandals, you feel something off in the pit of your gut. You ignore it as you go to the coffee shop, order and sit at a table, waiting. Waiting and waiting and waiting.
Nine ticks into ten into eleven into twelve. Three coffee refills and five sugar packets later, a man walks in, an army uniform on and a letter in his hand. “Is a…Sunshine here?” he calls out and you stand, swallowing hard around a lump as you hold up a hand.
“I’m Sunshine,” you whisper as he walks to you, holding out a letter.
“Private Jack Abbot requested that I give this to you,” he says, “he was deployed this morning for active duty in the Bosnian conflict.” He turns then, leaving as you stand there, unfolding the letter, Jack’s voice jumping out at you, echoing in your ears as you scan his tight, slanting scrawl.
Sunshine,
We just can’t catch a break, can we? I’ve been deployed, leaving this morning, or…I guess when you read this, I’ll already be gone so…now I guess. God, Sunshine, I really thought this was our chance, you know.
But I’ll tell you this: you are the great star-crossed love of my life. The one I feel like I’m meant to be with, but can never quite reach. I’m ever hopeful though, Sunshine. Ever waiting. Because this I know:
One day, we will reach one another. One day, I will give you this kiss I should have given you long ago. The one I should have taken yesterday.
One day, Sunshine, we won’t be star crossed. We’ll just be real. I don’t know where, I don’t know when. I just know that someday. And that’s enough for now, Sunshine, for me at least.
Know that I love you and I’m sorry. Know that I carry you with me always and the dream of what could have been.
Love,
Your Jackie, your Grumpy Bear.
You want to scream as you read it, the letter crumpling in your fist but you can’t. Instead, you fold it up, slipping it into the pocket of your skirt and you walk out of the coffee shop, never looking back at the memory lingering in the window.
The one of you waiting, hopeful, for a chance that was never coming.
It seems like you and Jack are fated to always miss one another.
iv. The Third Missing—The Ring on His Finger
You’re against the wall, waiting for your coffee, your scrubs on your body, doctor badge pinned to your chest as you wait, glancing at your watch every few minutes, the ticking of the second hand just another tick closer to what awaits you on the surgical floor.
Orthopedic surgery is not a place that women are expected to go to, most of your professors and mentors tried to talk you out of it, but you’re set. It’s going to be what you do for the rest of your life because you like putting broken things back together. Putting them together the way you’ve never been able to put yourself together.
“It couldn’t be Sunshine, could it?” you hear a voice call out, one that is familiar and painful as you glance over your shoulder, taking in an older, more battle-worn version of Jack Abbot. The boy who could have been.
“I think it could,” you call out and he crosses the room towards you, his pace excited, lips tugging up into that crooked grin of his. “How are you, Jackie?”
“I’m okay,” he says, leaning against the counter, the one where they set the drinks when they’re finished. “How ‘bout you?”
“Been good,” you tell him, lips curving up of their own accord, “been busy. In case you can’t tell,” you say, spinning slightly, “I’m a doctor now. In my first year of residency, so…you know, woot-woot!” You pump your hands a little in the air as he lets out a small laugh, the sound deep and light at the same time, ringing through the small coffee shop.
“I’ve missed you,” he says and you can feel that twinge in your heart, the one caused by hope, the hope that maybe, finally, it’s time. Then you see the glint of silver on his finger and the hope comes crashing down, shattering again, reminding you that Jack Abbot was just a beautiful possibility when you were a child.
And that you’re not a child anymore.
“Look at you,” you sing-song, “Jack Abbot, a married man. Tell me about her, man, come on.” He just looks at you, his face kind of falling, hesitant and you sigh, rolling your eyes. “Jackie, we were friends first, before we said we were possibilities. I think…maybe, we’re just meant to be friends.”
“Right,” he says, his voice slightly broken before he smiles again, glancing down at his finger, at the ring, the smile shifting to one of softness and joy. “Her name’s Emma and she’s a teacher, elementary school. I told her she shouldn’t, but she doesn’t listen.”
“Why shouldn’t she?” you ask as the barista walks over, nodding at you, your drink set down and you step forwards, taking it and stepping back, looking at the way Jack’s smile is tinged with sadness.
“She has CF,” he says, lips pressing together sadly as he looks up at you. “Kids carry germs, but she loves them and…we can’t have any, so…”
“She sounds perfect for you, Jack,” you whisper, reaching forwards and taking his hand, giving it a brief but meaningful squeeze before you step back and nod. “I wish you well, Grumpy Bear.”
“Where are you going, Sunshine?” he calls out as you turn, heading for the door, adjusting your messenger bag strap as it rides up and cuts into your throat.
“I have my job, Jackrabbit,” you call out, saluting him once. “That waits for no man.” You place both hands on the metal bar of the café door and push out, the cool November air hitting you in the face, burning like the pain of losing out on a dream.
It always hurts when reality hits you in the face.
v. The Fourth Missing—The Ring on Your Finger
Your hand rests on your stomach, the bump protruding in a highly visible way, the six month mark just hit last week, yet you carry twins so you’ve looked six months along since month three. The classical music of the medical awards celebration spins out as people wander from table to table, whispering to one another before the awards are announced.
Your husband, Graham, stands off to the side of the stage. He’s the one responsible for tonight and he sees you looking at him, waving a bit as you wave back, your lips curving up in that smile that only he has ever seemed to bring about.
Jack Abbot was a dream, but Graham is reality. A beautiful, precious reality that you wouldn’t trade for anything.
“Sunshine?” you hear behind you and you glance over your shoulder, your breath hitching in surprise as you see that beautiful dream standing behind you, in a tuxedo.
“Well, if isn’t, Jack Abbot,” you call out, rising slowly to your feet, hand never once leaving your bump, your other stabilizing you on the table as you stand. “I forgot you clean up nice. Now, where’s Emma?”
“She…uh,” he swallows hard as you turn around, his gaze falling to the ring on his finger before back up to you, “she passed. Contracted B. cepacia before new lungs could come in. Five years ago now.”
“Oh, god!” you whisper, your hand flying to your mouth, covering it as you let out a small, choked gasp. “I’m so sorry, Jackie!”
“It’s okay,” he whispers, his expression conveying that it’s not, in fact, okay, but that there’s nothing you could do to make it better. “You know,” he muses, “when I saw you sitting there I thought, maybe…maybe it’s our time, now, but I can see…” his gaze falls to your stomach, to the rings on your finger, “that’s it not.”
“Jack,” you whisper, “I don’t know if there’s ever gonna be a time for us. I think…I think we were just a childish dream and we each have found reality. Whether good or not.”
“Yeah,” he says, shifting, adjusting his pant leg, the fabric riding up to reveal a gleam of metal and plastic. “Lost it not long after I saw you last.”
“It’s badass, man,” you tell him and the two of you laugh, a shared laugh between people with a history not entirely good, not entirely bad. “So, Emma inspired you to be a doctor, huh?”
“You always did know me, Sunshine,” he says, nodding once as Graham’s voice cuts through the room. “I’m sorry that our time never came.” He walks off and you sit back down, watching his retreating back, whispering, “me too, Jackie.”
vi. The Meeting—PTMC Roof
Your hands grip the smooth metal railing in both hands, the outside air refreshing in the way that anything not sterile becomes after a while, the lights of Pittsburgh twinkling all around you. The twins are at a friend’s place for the night and your house rings with silence when they’re gone.
“Of all the rooves, in all the world,” calls a familiar cocksure voice behind you, “you had to walk onto mine, Sunshine!”
“Heard you were in the ED, Jackie!” you call back without turning around, hearing his slightly uneven gait approach, his body appearing beside yours, his hands gripping the railing, one right beside yours, the heat of his skin radiating over to you.
“When did you get to Pittsburgh?” he asks and you lean down, your forearms on the metal as you glance over at him.
“Five years ago,” you tell him. “Moved here…after I lost my husband.” You hear him suck in a breath, his body turning, angling to face you.
“What happened?” he asks and you sigh, standing up, the cool metal no longer kissing your skin as you turn to him, lips pressed in a thin line, his face older but still the same.
“Car accident,” you whisper. “Drunk driver hit us. He was gone the second the car hit us.”
“You were in it?”
“Yeah,” you whisper, hiking up the pant leg of your purple scrubs, the one that say surgery. “Took my leg, that car. I have the matching limb for yours,” you joke, the sound of crushing metal echoing, the feeling of compression, pain and then, blissfully, nothing.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers and you shrug, looking back out at the skyline of Pittsburgh, of the city so different than New York and yet, in so many ways, identical.
“Don’t be,” you tell him, “it wasn’t your fault.”
“How are the twins?” he asks you and you can feel as your lips twist of their accord, your head turning back to him, torso aligning to him, the boy who could have been.
“They don’t know what they lost, to be honest,” you whisper. “They were five. They know they had a dad, but they don’t really remember. They have nightmares and they need me, but…they only have a lack of something, they don’t remember the man who made the shape of the absence.”
“It’s rough,” he says, his arm looping around your shoulders, “but I’m here now. I’ve always been your Jackie.”
“My Grumpy Bear, right?” you whisper, leaning your head on his shoulder, his hand squeezing yours.
“Exactly,” he whispers. “By the way, what do you do?” You loop your own arm around his waist, anchoring yourself here.
“I’m the chief attending orthopedic surgeon,” you tell him and he lets out a small laugh, squeezing you tighter before turning, his hands resting on your shoulders, yours on his waist.
“Is it…” he trails off, swallowing hard and glancing off to the side. “I mean…Emma’s been gone…a long time, like fifteen years now, but…is it…not to be insensitive, but…is it our time now?”
“You don’t mind kids?” you ask and he turns to look at you, his expression entirely serious as he shakes his head.
“No,” he whispers. “I have spent thirty years loving something that never even happened and I want it to happen, Sunshine. I’m tired of missing you every time. I want you.”
“Then I think…” you pause, nodding once, smiling despite the pain in your heart, “I think it’s, yeah, it’s our time.”
vii. After
“Everyone,” Jack says, “this is the Chief Attending Orthopedic Surgeon gracing us with her presence so don’t fuck around.”
“Thank you, Dr. Abbot,” you reply, rolling your eyes at him affectionately as you step into the trauma room, pulling on gloves as you approach the patient, the severed limb, your own prosthetic never feeling heavier than on cases like these.
“No problem, Dr. Abbot,” he says, tone teasing and you roll your eyes. Again.
“Even after ten years, you’re still not tired of saying that, are you?”
“I’ll never be tired of saying it, Dr. Abbot,” he says and you glance over at him, heart singing at the boyish smile on his face. “It’s our time, after all.”
“Shut up,” you tell him, turning to the shocked med students and residents standing, mouths agape. “Present the case, please. I’m doing this consult as a favour to my husband so don’t waste my time.”
And as a med student hurriedly explains the case, you can’t help but share a smile with Jack, your Jack.
Because after all those years of missing one another, of being just a second too late, you can’t help but love the fact that it’s finally your time.
That the boy who could have been became the man who is.
summary: while you’re already stressed at work, your daughter scrapes her knee at school and makes you 10x more stressed. thankfully, dr. abbot falls in love with her, and takes care of her until all the pain is gone. and maybe, just maybe, you’ll get a date out of it…
warnings: single mom!reader, daughter named lily, minor injuries, crying child, jack is an absolute sweetheart, reader is stressed about work and parenting, jack probably crosses professional boundaries with reader at the end but it’s all sfw and it’s fiction so who cares
a/n: i’m finally getting through my asks and drafts!! after like a month!! yayyyyy!!! sorry anon, this has been in my drafts for a while… also, lily is my cats name which is why i named her that :3 dividers by @/honeyluvsw 🤍
jack abbot masterlist
today has been… stressful, to say the least.
you have a deadline coming up at the end of the week, and the work isn’t even done yet.
you’re trying to plan your daughter’s birthday party, which has been an absolute mess because, well, she’s six and six year olds constantly change their mind about if they want princess decorations or mermaid ones.
and even then, your day gets worse when your phone starts buzzing at your desk. you don’t notice it at first, but you frown when you realize the number calling is your daughter’s school. you immediately excuse yourself, stepping out of your office and into the fresh air to answer the phone.
“hello? is everything alright?”
the nurse on the other line speaks softly, trying to ease your worries, “yes, but it seems your daughter’s taken a bit of a fall during recess. she’s very… upset, she’d like you to come pick her up.”
you sigh, “of course, i’ll leave right now. tell her i’m on my way.”
after another moment of small talk and ‘thank you’s,’ you inform your boss of the emergency and, thankfully, he understands, so you’re on your way.
it doesn’t take long to reach your daughter’s school, which is just a few minutes away from your workplace. you walk in and give your name to the attendance office, signing her out of school, and walk to the nurse’s office where she’s waiting for you.
your daughter, lily, is sitting on the bench, sobbing loudly. and when she sees you, she just cries harder. “mommy! mommy, it hurts!”
you rush over, kneeling in front of her, “oh, honey, it’s okay…” you murmur, trying to be comforting despite the immense anxiety you’re feeling. you brush a strand of hair behind her ears, wiping her tears away as gently as possible. “you’re okay, baby. we’re gonna take you to the doctor now, they’re gonna fix you right up.”
lily just sobs more, “no, no!” she thrashes a bit, “i hate doctors!”
“shh, shh, love…” your eyes widen, trying to will the tantrum away with sheer mindpower. “it’s alright, i promise. but i need you to calm down for a minute, okay?”
she sniffles a bit but nods, “mhm…”
you give her a soft, comforting smile and squeeze her little hand. “come on, we’re gonna make you all better.”
lily is surprisingly calm throughout the car ride, and she gets a little antsy in the waiting room. but by the time you get sent to a room, she’s an anxious mess.
she’s sitting on the examining chair, holding her favorite stuffed bunny as tight as she can. it’s her comfort item, her anchor while she freaks out internally about what will happen next.
it all gets better, though, when the doctor walks in. he’s tall, with soft hazel eyes that crinkle a bit at the corners, and silver curls that you may or may not find attractive.
the man kneels down in front of your daughter, getting on eye level with her. “hey there, sweetheart. what brings you in today?” he smiles at the both of you, sensing somehow that you’re just as anxious as she is.
she answers quietly, calming a little but not knowing for sure if she can trust him yet. “i hurt my knee on the playground…”
he frowns, “oh no, well that’s not very good!” he’s trying to be a bit playful, let her know she can calm down. “i’m dr. abbot, but you can call me jack if doctor sounds too scary. i need you to let me look at your knee for a second, can you do that for me?”
“okay…” she murmurs apprehensively, moving her hand away from her leg and letting him get a good look at the scrape.
“oh, that must hurt, doesn’t it?” he sympathizes with her. even though it’s just a scrape, he knows that to a six year old, it’s like a broken leg.
lily nods, “it hurts reallyyy bad… are you gonna fix it, dr. abbot?”
you smile, watching the interaction. he’s so sweet with your daughter, so caring, you can’t help but soften. “of course he’s gonna fix it, sweetheart. but you need to sit still.”
jack laughs, “yes, dr. abbot is gonna fix it. that’s my job, isn’t it? but your mom is right, you gotta be really brave for me and sit still for a few seconds while i put the antiseptic on it.”
he looks up at you for a moment, and you blush and look away. you’re not crushing on your daughter’s doctor. no. that’s not what it is, he’s just being nice to her, and you’re happy she’s just getting the care she needs… right?
he finally notices the small stuffed bunny in her arms. “ who’s your little friend, sweetheart?”
lily answers shyly, “that’s bentley bunny. he’s my friend. mom says he likes hugs, so she says i should hug him when i get scared.”
he smiles at both of you, “well, i think that’s a very good idea. your bentley bunny is a very good friend. i think you should hug him while i take care of your cut, yeah?”
she nods, and when jack starts to put the antiseptic on the scrape, she’s actually calmer than you expected. she whines a bit, but she just hugs her bunny very tight, and she actually seems comfortable with jack.
once jack is done, he pulls out two different boxes of bandaids; one pack has princesses on them, and the other one has little cartoon animals. “you’ve been so brave today, i think you deserve a nice bandaid to show how brave you’ve been.”
lily gasps, “princesses! i want the one with princesses!”
jack laughs, “alright, princesses it is. do you wanna give your little friend a bandaid too?” when she nods, he carefully places two bandaids on her knee to cover the scrape, and one on the knee of the small stuffed bunny she’s hugging.
he pats her leg gently, standing up, “all done, princess. you and mom can go home and rest now, maybe get some ice cream.” he smiles at you, “follow me, i’ll get her signed out.”
while you’re at the nurse’s station, signing her out and paying for the visit, your daughter is a few feet away, watching the fish tank nearby. you keep a close eye on her while jack leans against the desk. “so… you got a boyfriend?”
you laugh, absolutely surprised, “i… what?”
“sorry, sorry, that’s too straightforward, i just…” he chuckles and shrugs, “you’re a great mom. and it doesn’t hurt that you’re pretty.”
smiling, you shake your head, “no, i don’t have a boyfriend. why, you wanna take me out, dr. abbot?”
he grins, “i do, actually. of course, only if…”
“i get off work at five on saturday. i can hire a sitter for lily.”
his smile brightens, “great! so, i’ll see you then?”
you nod and smile back at him, “it’s a date.”
with that, you finish your paperwork and take lily’s hand, leading her out of the building, both of you waving goodbye to ‘dr. abbot.’ and, maybe, the next day at work, you’re a little happier than usual, knowing you’re going on a date with a certain handsome doctor on saturday.
