I'm Always Here for You
Jack Abbot x fem!reader (little bit of Robby x reader)—in which, Robby doesn't want anything to do with you and his child, but Jack is always here for you, for your kid. He steps up for you.
TW: Robby's an asshole, pregnancy, slow-burn . Jack is a great partner. ANGST
A/N: Credit for the idea belongs to @lunarayletters, my mutual, actually!!!!!
The results of the test stare up at you, the 35 mIU/mL swimming before your eyes, the meaning making your head spin with the implications. You had suspected that you were pregnant, but it’s one thing to suspect it and another to see the results staring you in the face, unmistakable in black and white fresh from the lab.
“Fuck,” you whisper, the paper crumpling just slightly in your hand as the tears well up. You’re both happy and distraught because yes, you want to be a mother, but there are so many conflicting variables and things to consider and things to plan.
And it doesn’t help that this has been the actual shift from Hell, crash carts being called left and right, two Code Hulu-Hoops, three peds traumas and a computer crash that set everything back for two hours.
You know that you’re overwhelmed and tired and that it’s not helping the reveal of this news, of this fact, but your stomach still dropped when you saw the results, when you saw that what you’d been afraid of for the past two days was true.
You’d started to wonder when you began to get sick in the mornings, when the smell of baking cookies made you sick to your stomach when normally it made you relaxed and when the taste of strawberries made you nauseous too.
You’d just hoped you were wrong.
“Hey, hey,” calls out Robby, the main reason you feel sick looking at the results. “Been missing my favourite nurse out here.” His words are light, but his tone is pointed, angry. You know he wants you back out on the floor, smiling and treating patients, being that beaming ray of moonlight, soft and steady and not blinding like Jack called you back when you started here.
“Yeah, sorry,” you whisper, swallowing once, the movement difficult, throat thick, a spiked ball resting in your lungs, pricking you with every breath you draw in. “Just got side-tracked, I’ll be right out.” You lick your lips once, teeth sinking into the flesh of your bottom lip as you crumple the test results in your hand, pulling your locker open and setting it inside, hoping to delay the inevitable.
Telling Robby.
“You okay?” he asks and you can hear the subtle change in his tone, the change from anger to irritated concern. Sometimes, you wonder why you’re with him at all when he’s like this, when everything is wrong with the world, but nothing with him. Where the failings are everyone else and never him. But then you see him on good days, you see him with the peds cases and the babies that get delivered and you see the good. You see the man who asked you out, a bashful, boyish smile on his face.
“Fine,” you say, turning from your locker to him, taking in the deeply etched lines of stress on his brow, the new grey hairs in his beard, the exhaustion in his mahogany eyes. “Just got…just got a little distracted. All good now.” You force a smile, one that feels fake and tired and a little like a plastic, Barbie doll smile, one that isn’t you at all.
And you walk towards him, slipping by him, your shoulder brushing against his belly in the door, your body positioning itself closer to him automatically, without your conscious awareness and you can feel his hand close around your wrist, his hand broad and warm, calloused fingers just gently scraping against your skin.
“We on for tonight?” he whispers, his breath skating along your neck, gentle and heated, awareness of his closeness heating you even as the number 35 spins behind your eyes.
“Yeah,” you whisper, glancing over at him, unable to suppress the feeling of happiness you have over the results. Yes, it’s a lot. It’s stressful and it’s a big change and this has been a shit shift, but you’re happy knowing that you’ll get to be a mother. That you’ll get to hold a child of your own, protect them and give them everything you never had—that unconditional love and acceptance and guidance and support. “We have to talk.”
And then you push past him, heading over to the station where Dana stands, iPad resting on her lower stomach, eyebrows arched and lips downturned just slightly in her worried frown.
“You okay, hon?” she asks you when you’re close enough that she doesn’t have to yell and you nod once, a fast, jerky motion because you feel like a walking paradox. You’re happy and you’re sad, you’re calm and you’re anxious, you’re crying and yet you’re fucking smiling.
“Just surprised,” you tell her, looking around at the centre of the Pitt, at the way everyone moves around like worker bees, centred around the hive of the station. “Didn’t expect it. Kinda scared me…but…I’m happy. I’m excited.”
“That’s how it should be, sweetie,” Dana says, her hand coming to rest on your bicep, moving in a circular motion, her touch soothing. “You tell Robby, yet?” You sigh and shake your head, looking down at your hands, the two of them interlaced, white-knuckling the other.
“I’m gonna talk to him tonight…be bad to talk about it now, today of all days,” you tell her, that small sardonic smile curling on your lips as you catch a glimpse of him, black scrubs and green sweater sleeves, heading into a trauma room, face drawn tight and pinched.
“He’ll be happy, I’m sure,” Dana says, but as you get pulled away, back into the hustle, into the chaos of the ED, all you can think about, the thought lingering in the back of your mind is that Dana didn’t sound sure of it.
She sounded like she was trying to convince you.
Convince herself.
“God,” Robby groans as he settles his body onto your sofa, his eyes closing as his hands come up to his face, scrubbing down as he leans his head back against the headrest, feet propping up on the footstool. “That shift was hell.”
“Yeah, it really was,” you reply, sliding on your socked feet across the linoleum floor of your house to the kitchen, the fridge where you know you still have pizza left over from the takeout you had with Trinity and Dennis last night. You’re too tired to cook, to do anything other than eat cold pizza, your mind not on proper nutrition, not yet.
Not today.
Not when you have to tell Robby that you’re pregnant with his kid and suffer through the coin flip of his emotions—50% chance that he’ll be happy and a 50% that he’ll be angry and react in a way you don’t want to see.
Maybe more 70% on that one.
“You know what would make us feel better?” you hear Robby say, his voice not that far from you, meaning he’s gotten up from the couch, come closer to you. Meaning if you turn around now, you’ll see him. You’ll see those eyes of his, the ones that are a tempest, that can be beautiful and happy and full of warmth, full of love in one moment and then full of irritation and anger and hate in the next.
You realized throughout your shift, that it’s never been your child that’s scared you but rather the fear of seeing the way Robby looks at you change. And not in the good way.
“Robby—” you start, but he cuts you off as you turn around, his eyebrows rising, lips curling up into a smile, one suggestive and yet sweet.
“A nice long shower, together,” he says and you can feel the thickness once again in your throat when you look up at him and see the way he’s looking at you, with such warmth and desire.
“Michael,” you say and already you can see the change in him, the stiffening of his body, the questioning look in his eyes. “We have to talk.”
“About what?” he asks you, taking a step closer, his eyes narrowing in worry, not anger or irritation or suspicion. Not yet at least. Not ever, you hope.
“About this,” you tell him, drawing the test results, the crumpled ball of printer paper from your pocket, smoothing it out as you hand it to him, the paper riddled with creases and wrinkles but the result of 35 still clear. Still bright and black, stark against the white grain of the paper, the meaning obvious.
“You’re…” he pauses, his hand stilling, forearm muscles tensing as he takes the paper from your grip, his fingers curling around it exactly as yours had, the paper changing from his grip. “You’re pregnant?” he asks, his voice high-pitched, slightly strangled and breathy on the last word as if the entire idea has robbed him of the ability to breathe.
“Yeah,” you whisper, tears beginning to line your eyes, hopeful tears. Happy tears. “I’m pregnant.”
He looks up at you then, his expression having dropped, closed off, become unreadable, stoic in a way, his warm eyes now gone cold. “Is it mine?”
“Is it…is it…” you pause, drawing in a breath, chest constricting, body tensing, your veins on fire as if you’ve been shot with epi, which in a way you have. “Is it yours?! What the fuck are you saying, Michael?! Are you accusing me of cheating on you?! I fucking love you and I would never fucking cheat! You know this, you asshole! You fucking asshole!” You can feel the tears falling down your cheeks now, the salt water born of your body searing your skin, sucking moisture out and drying it.
But he is unmoved, simply sighing and running a hand through his hair as he looks down at the paper in his hand. Your hands are curling into fists, the urge to hit something, hit him welling in you because you can’t understand how he can stand there and accuse you of cheating. Something he knows you would never do, something he knows tore apart your family.
“You’re obviously early on…” he muses, one hand rubbing at his beard incessantly as he sets the paper down on your kitchen island, gaze flicking up to you once before looking away. “The medication would be safe in this case. We can get Abbot to sign off on the or—”
“You expect me to get rid of it?” you whisper, your voice cracking, heart slamming against your chest in a way that hurts so much, in a way that tells you it isn’t your physical heart at all. It’s just you.
You hurt this bad.
“You want it?” he asks you, looking up again, his face twisting and shifting and changing into the expression he has in the ED when people annoy him, when the world is wrong and he’s the only thing right.
“Yes, Robby, I want to have my baby. Our baby. I love you and…yeah, I’ve always wanted to be a mother. I toldyou that,” you cry, hands uncurling, slamming down on the island, the noise echoing through the room, skin against granite, the sting reverberating through you.
“Did you stop taking your pill? Did you do this on purpose?” he asks you and it hurts more because of the carefully neutral tone he has, the clinical voice. The doctor voice.
“What the fuck?! What the fuck is wrong with you, Michael?!” you yell, the sound of pulsing and pounding echoing through your head, your blood the sound as it rushes to your head, body feeling weak, but anger too high to ignore. “You think I’m fucking baby-trapping you?!”
“I don’t fucking know!” he yells, his face twisting in anger, in hate, something you never wanted to see on his face. “All I know is that we practice safe sex. So, how the hell did you get knocked-up?!”
“Safe sex, my ass! You’re the one who said ‘oh you’re on the pill. It’s fine if I don’t pull out. It’s 99 percent effective’ Guess we found the other one percent, Michael!” You watch as his hands fly up to his head, fingers digging into the short strands of his dark and greying hair, pulling just a little.
“Fuuck!” he cries, ripping his hands through his hair, letting the hover behind his head, biceps flexing as he closes his eyes, shaking his head. “I can’t fucking do this! I want nothing to do with this! You…”
“Me what?! You have words, Michael. Fucking use them!”
“YOU DO THIS ON YOU’RE ON YOUR OWN!” he yells, his words echoing around the room with the force of a gunshot, like a bomb, the shrapnel from the explosion targeted at you, at your heart. You can feel his words in every inch of your body, each part seemingly erupting with pain, but you don’t even think of yourself.
You think of your baby.
Of how the stress isn’t good for them. For you, for their growth.
“Fine,” you whisper, teeth sinking into your bottom lip, tears continuing to fall down your cheeks, but they feel like nothing, like you’ve just always existed in this state of silent crying, of wet necklines on your scrubs. “Then get the fuck out.”
“What?” He looks at you now, properly but he still doesn’t change, doesn’t move, instead his face locking back down into the neutral, into the carefully bland Dr. Robby everyone knows.
“I do this and I’m on my own, right?” you ask and he nods and you look up at the ceiling, at the white plaster, hand done in the sixties and look back down at him. “Then get the fuck out of my house, Michael. You want nothing to do with this? Then you’ll have nothing to do with this Micheal. Now get the fuck out of my house.”
And even though it’s what you wanted, when he leaves, closing the door behind him, it still hurts. It hurts even when you wish it didn’t. It hurts because you wish he had stayed and asked to talk about it, that he would change his mind when faced with the prospect of losing you.
It hurts because you wanted to be wanted. You wanted to be something he couldn’t actually lose. You wanted to be someone he would fight for.
You wanted to be someone he thought was worth fighting for.
And you sink to your knees, the cold pizza still in the fridge now forgotten, your back against the cool metal of your fridge door. You sink to the ground, shifting until your ass is on the ground, your head in between your knees and you let out every swear word, every curse word, everything you have inside. You let it all out, your breath hitching and voice cracking and giving and heart breaking, mind tearing.
You let it all out because you have to figure out how to move on. How to shove past being alone, being without him.
You let it all out for you. Because you can’t carry this pain with you when you move on.
But most of all, you let it out for your child. Because they need you, all of you, not a shell still holding onto the pain of losing and being lost.
They need you and you have to give them that.
But for right now, it’s okay to just cry.
And you do.
Hi Dana, Sorry for letting you know this way, but I’ve been promoted up to Charge Nurse in Orthopedics. I sent in for a transfer and they promoted me instead. I start on Monday and as such, my shifts in the Pitt for the rest of this week will be covered by Matteo. He agreed, you’ll find it on the schedule. It’s best if I focus on getting ready for the changeover. I’m sorry, Dana. I can’t continue to work in the environment of the Pitt, especially not when I’m expecting. I wish things could have been different. I wish he could have been different. Thanks for everything.
Your chest feels hollow, scraped clean and made concave, as if your heart has been carved from your chest, only a little seed left behind. Only a little bit still there still beating, held together by hope.
That small little bit of hope that you carry inside of you. The hope that this will get better, that you’ll stop hurting after a while, that eventually it will be okay.
Because you have to hurt to heal.
Or at least that’s what you tell yourself as you cry into your pillow, missing the feeling of his body beside yours, his arms around you.
That’s what you tell yourself, you have to hurt to heal. If it hurts that means it was real. That’s what you tell yourself because otherwise what’s the point of the hurting? What’s the point in this hollow existence if it won’t get better.
You know it will. You know it will get better because it has to. You have too. But not for you, you have a child to worry about, one to raise and care for and love in a way that is unconditional. You have to be ready.
And you will.
You have to hurt to heal and you are hurting so you’re healing.
The world seems brighter again, like the colour is back and the sounds are sounds and light is light. You no longer feel like you’re living in a vacuum, the one thing nature abhors.
You no longer feel hollow, you just feel incomplete. Just a little cracked.
Work helps. The showing up day after day, organizing everyone else, shifting things and fixing problems, there for patients and doctors.
New people help. The new drama and issues and stories help distract you, pull you into a new world, new universe.
One where it’s like Robby never existed at all except for the child growing within you.
So, what can you say about today? The world seems brighter and you don’t feel hollow.
It’s a start.
Jack loved you first, by all accounts in the ED, you should have been with Jack—except that it was Robby who asked you out, who took that step. You said yes because he asked and Jack never did.
Jack loved you first and loves you still. He loves the way you laugh, just a tad too loud, just a tad too long, just a tad too hard. He loves the way you smile at everyone as if smiles take no effort to give out, as if it isn’t giving away a piece of yourself to others.
He loves the way you don’t put up with other people’s bullshit, the way you put them in their place in the most respectful way until respectful doesn’t work.
He loves the way you talk, the way you sigh and the way you roll your eyes. He loves the way you get excited about the things you love, lighting up and going on long tangents, only returning to the world when you realize that you’ve gotten carried away.
He loves you. Everything about you, everything you think is good about yourself and everything you think is bad because to him, everything about you is good and perfect.
He loves you and he loved you first, but he had to watch as Robby swooped in, winning you over and now he’s watching his friend, the man who a little part of him hates for winning your heart, fuck it all up.
“What the fuck is up with you, brother?” he asks Robby now, leaning on the nurse’s station with one elbow, his body facing Robby who’s looking down at the iPad in his hand, glasses sitting low on his nose.
“I don’t know what you’re referring to,” Robby replies, tone distracted as he taps on the screen, doing something and pretending that he doesn’t know. Pretending that he doesn’t realize that everyone in the entire ED knows something happened between you and him. Because you, the ED’s Moonlight, aren’t here anymore.
“Where’s Moonlight?” Jack doesn’t leave any room in his tone for interpretation, there is nothing leading or suggesting, it’s straight and clear and to the point—where the fuck is the woman who loves you? What the fuck did you do to her? Because Jack is under no illusions that you did anything; he knows Robby.
He knows he runs when things get real.
“She, uh…she got promoted. Charge nurse up on Ortho last I heard,” Robby says, looking up, peering at Jack over the top of his black-frame glasses, the glasses you picked out for him, saying they would bring his youth back.
“That’s not what I meant, Robby,” he replies, lifting himself off of the nurse’s station, arms crossing, biceps flexing but not in a display of his toughness, rather because his leg hurts, the time on his feet, on the prosthetic wears at his skin, never enough time for it to really heal in-between shifts. “What happened?”
“None of your business, Jack,” Robby says, but Jack isn’t giving up that easily. He can’t. Not when this about you, about your heart.
“It is my fucking business, Robby, cause I love her too,” Jack hisses, reaching for Robby’s sleeve and pulling him into an empty patient room, closing the door behind them and standing in front of it, preventing Robby from leaving. “What the fuck did you do?”
“Me?! I didn’t do anything,” Robby says but all Jack does is raise his eyebrows, waiting. And it works. “She’s pregnant and I told her I couldn’t deal with it, suggested we could take care of it, she said no. I told her I wanted nothing to do with it and she told me to get the fuck out.”
“She’s pregnant and you left her?!” Jack cries, the feeling inside of him so foreign and so strange that he doesn’t entirely understand it, only that he doesn’t like it, doesn’t like the man before him, wants to put him through a fucking wall actually.
“I cannot deal with a kid right now, Jack,” Robby yells, his hand flying out to hit the wall, the bang in the room echoing and strong but Jack doesn’t fucking care, simply walks up to Robby and jabs his finger into his chest.
“Listen here, Robby,” he whispers, finger frozen dug into Robby’s chest, “you’re a piece of shit. You grew up without a mother and now you want your child to grow up without a father. That’s not gonna happen. I’m not gonna make you do anything, but I will be there and you and me,” he pulls his finger back, using it to gesture between them, “are done.” And he turns to go, to walk away and leave Robby behind, leave him to deal with his shit alone and simply find you.
Find you and hold you and let you cry, scream and hit him. Anything to make you feel better.
Anything to make you okay.
“Our friendship is over because of her?” Robby cries and Jack can hear the incredulity in his tone, can hear the disbelief and in response, all he does is hold up the middle finger, saying, “all of this is because you’re incapable of being a man worthy of someone else.”
And he leaves, but not to work, not to care for his patients. No, he leaves for you.
He leaves so that you know you don’t have to go it alone.
He’s here. He’s always here for you.
“Camille,” you call out, spinning around, looking for the new nurse, the one just finished her undergrad, eager and peppy and getting totally slaughtered by Park.
“Yeah?” she calls out and you can hear the worry in her tone, the worry that she’s doing yet another thing wrong—although you did tear into Park for disciplining one of your staff, not his.
“Can you check on the patient in Room 5, please?” you ask her, watching as her face brightens, the girl young and kind, good with the patients simply nervous around the doctor who isn’t nicknamed the Shark for nothing.
“Nice to see you running things,” calls a voice that makes you stop, the world freezing for a moment as you turn around, the sight of Jack strange to you, but not unwelcome.
“Hey, Jack,” you say, stepping out from behind the desk to lean your hip against it, crossing your arms over your chest, a layer of defence, of separation between you and him. “What’s up?”
“I know,” he says and you want to ask him what he knows but you can see in his face that he knows about your child, about your baby, about Robby’s baby. And the break-up. Robby’s side of the story.
“Well, what do you want to say? You here to defend him? Or are you here to encourage me to get rid of them?” You clench your teeth together, grinding them as you raise your eyebrows at him, waiting. Challenging.
And he does what you don’t expect. He steps towards you, his hands coming to rest on your biceps, a steady grip, a soothing grip.
“I’m here to say that he’s an asshole and as the shared friend, in the break-up someone has to get me and I chose you,” he says and the simplicity, the matter-of-factness of his tone takes you by surprise while also not because this is Jack. Jack Abbot, the doctor who on your first shift nicknamed you Moonlight and has refused to call you anything else since then.
Jack Abbot who chose you.
“You just want your cool uncle title, right?” you ask him, unable to prevent the fond smile that curls across your lips as he smirks at you, shrugging before growing serious.
“I chose you because I don’t want you doing this alone. I’m always here for you, Moonlight. You just gotta tell me and I’ll be there. Day or night, hell or high water, okay?” And all you can do is nod, your throat thick.
But he knows, he understands and then he salutes you, disappearing back to the Pitt, to his job and his patients, leaving you sitting with the knowledge that you don’t have to be alone.
You don’t have to do everything yourself.
It’s a few weeks later when you call Jack for the first time, a part of you still hesitant to believe him and his words, sweet as they may be. A part of you that still fears he really chose Robby; he just didn’t want you grieving them both. A part of you that thinks it was a symbolic offer only.
“Jack,” you say when he picks up, “I need your help.”
“What’s wrong, Moonlight? What is it? What do you need? Where are you?” You can feel the smile rising and you can’t help but roll your eyes. “And I can hear that eye roll, Moonie.”
“I need your help with the nursery. It’s kind of hard to paint when you have a baby bump.”
“Two minutes, Moonie,” he says, his words sending a strange feeling coursing through your veins. “I’ll be there in two minutes.”
Jack didn’t lie. He was there in two minutes, arriving as fast as he could, bursting into your apartment, using his spare key that you gave him from your vacation when you needed him to take care for your orchid, carrying a bag of painting supplies.
“Just tell me what to do,” he said and so you did. And he listened to what you wanted, helping you paint, the day filled with laughter and joking and flicking paint at one another, the creation exactly as you always thought it would be one day.
Happy.
You just didn’t imagine it would be Jack.
“I should head out,” he had said at the end of the day, the sky dark and the room painted, a mural of the moon on one wall that he insisted you add because you’re Moonlight, after all.
“You know,” you had replied, “the guest room’s yours if you want it.” He had frozen in his movements for a moment before turning to you, a question in those blue eyes of his.
“You sure?” You had nodded, shrugging, your hands settling on your bump, the baby finally old enough to start showing, your favourite thing to do being rubbing it as if you’re holding and soothing them already.
“Yeah. I still have stuff for you in there from when you took care of my orchid and I did buy more of that cream for your prosthetic. Just in case…so, uh, yeah…it’s yours if you want to stay.”
“Do you want me to stay?”
“Would I have offered if I didn’t? After all, I’m eating for two and I’m a horrible cook and I mean, guess who isn’t?” you had said, the words so normal and so you that Jack had started to laugh and then he’d nodded.
“Guess I’ll stay then,” he’d said. “Anything you and the little star want in the morning?” You had scrunched your face, thinking hard about it, glancing down at your bump, rubbing it as you thought.
“Nothing specific,” you had said, a grin stretching across your face, “but nothing with chocolate. The little star, here, isn’t craving it, surprisingly.”
“Alright then,” he’d said. “Nothing with chocolate.”
And that’s how it began. It wasn’t loud, it wasn’t flashy or showy—it was just there. Steady and calm.
Present in a way that Robby never was.
“Jack,” you whisper, the words carrying across the living room to where he’s dozing in the recliner, The Proposalplaying on your TV. “Jack!” you hiss a little louder, watching as he jolts fast, hands white-knuckling the armrests of his chair, looking over at you and relaxing when he sees that you’re fine.
“What’s wrong, Moonlight?” he asks you and you push past that feeling that spreads through at the nickname, at the tender way he says it, the care.
The love.
“You know you can take your leg off, right?” you ask him and you watch as he freezes again, seeming to do that a lot around you. “I’m under no illusion that you have two full legs, nor do I think less of you.”
“It’s okay,” he says and you shrug, nodding beside his chair where a set of crutches and a knee scooter sit beside it.
“Okay,” you say, voice soft. “But I have supports for you if you want to take it off.” And you say nothing else, simply standing as carefully as you can, the five-month bump no small thing now, heavy and awkward but precious all the same. Your baby has fun pressing on your bladder and you make your way to the bathroom to relieve the pressure and when you come back, you find Jack sitting in the recliner, the leg rest up, his prosthetic leaning against the side of the couch.
And that gives you a better feeling than any of the nicknames in the world.
Morning sickness was only supposed to last for the first trimester, but here you are, second trimester with the bump to prove it, still hurtling out of your bed, the taste and burn of bile welling in your throat, running for your bathroom.
You reach the sink, the only place that’s easy for you to reach, now unable to bend down and throw up into the toilet, just in time, your hands straying to your hair as you gag, eyes watering, bile rising.
“Hey,” you hear Jack whisper, his approach something you hadn’t even heard, his hands replacing yours as he holds your hair back, yours instead gripping the counter as you throw up bile, the awful taste and burn in the back of your throat, in your sinuses, your body rebelling against you.
“It’s okay,” he whispers as you hurl, the force so much that it comes out of your nose, your eyes streaming, the baby kicking against you as if they know you’re sick, in pain and they don’t like it.
“I’ve got you, sweetheart,” he assures you as you gasp, the gagging rising again. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m always here for you.”
Jack is the one who is there for every appointment, holding your hand, who answers yes when the doctors ask if he’s the father. He’s the one you find hunched over a crib one day, assembling it on the floor, squinting at instructions and cursing the tiny writing, his leg not far from him, a chair just across from him for you.
Jack is the one who is there for everything. He’s there when you’re sick in the middle of the night, in the morning. He’s there when you have cravings, when you worry, when you want to pick names.
He’s the one whose there, always.
And gradually, you begin to think of him as the father, as the one because he may not be the sperm donor, but he’s the one whose here.
He’s the one who stayed.
Jack is the one who chose your baby.
Who chose you.
And that means something to you.
“Jack,” you whisper across the living room, your voice carrying to him and he looks over at you, eyes sleepy but filled with love.
“Yeah, Moonie?” he asks you, screwing his prosthetic back on, still finding it the easiest to move around with, to help you with.
“I love you,” you whisper and swallow hard, still unsure why you said it, but really it’s been eight months of him. Of him stepping up to be the father for your child, being the partner for you.
“Thank god,” he breathes out, standing and walking to you, his hands looping under your armpits, helping guide you to your feet, your eight-month bump heavy and exhausting, but perfect all the same. “I’ve loved you since I met you.”
“Really?” you ask him, watching as he smiles in the dark, teeth glinting just lightly with the glow of the streetlamps outside your window.
“Really,” he answers and then he kisses you, one soft and sweet and gentle. One that tastes of hope and love and second chances and family chosen.
One that speaks of the love that lives between you. One that is quiet and steady and present in a way that nothing has been before.
For either of you.
When you went into labour, it scared Jack like nothing ever had before. It terrified him like nothing ever had. The call he got as you drove yourself to the hospital, having timed your contractions, assuring him that you were fine. That it was all fine.
That didn’t stop him from being scared, being terrified. He had just gotten you, only had a month of being someone you loved out loud rather than in silence and he couldn’t lose you.
He had run out of the ED so fast, up to the maternity ward, watching as you walked up, breathing hard, checking in. He had been there as you went into labour, your hand squeezing his so hard, one knuckle dislocated but he never even felt it because he was so in awe in you.
He stayed for the whole thing, cut the cord on the beautiful baby boy, the two of you had agreed to name Andrew Flynn Abbot, a ring on your finger from the night before when he asked you if you would not only be his wife, but make him a father.
He was there for everything, for the birth and the signing of the birth certificate and the travelling home, his stuff moved in a month ago, his clothes hanging in your closet, his things in your house—now his too.
He was there for everything. Every little bit because he loved you first.
And he loves you always.
“You know,” Jack says now, his fingers interlaced with yours as you lie with your head on his chest, curled up in bed, “I have to thank Robby.”
“For what?” you ask him, not judging, just happy, at peace, curled in bed beside your husband, five year old son asleep in bed.
“For giving me my son, my wife,” he whispers and in response you press a kiss to his cheek.
“He didn’t,” you whisper, “that was all you. You stepped up, Jackie and you didn’t have too.”
“Yeah, I did. You’re everything sweetheart. I’m always here for you.” And it’s true. He always is, always was.
Always will be.
For as long as he lives and even after that.
