this is ourselves under pressure
jack abbot x reader
dr jack abbot x veteran!resident!fem!reader
warnings : decently heavy angst, mentions of a lot of violence and very clear ptsd, mentions of death and mutilation, anxiety attack rep which may not be how everyone is but it’s self indulgent, mentions of jacks late wife, kinda inaccurate military operations talk, some comfort, their both heavily damaged tbh, english is not my first language!!
summary : too many reminders of a harsh past left you shaking on a roof in a way that was awfully familiar to jack. somehow, it just fit together that he knew how to help you.
word count : 4,116 (new record ! )
notes : eek !! this has been in the process for like. a fat minute. again, english is not my first language so please be gracious with any mistakes, i initially wrote this in third person then decided i hated it ! i actually proofread and edited this though, unlike my other fics.
6:48 AM. it wasn’t busy, but god, it was a rush in the ED. or maybe you just felt that way. was it just you?
it had been all too familiar, a cross of far too much in your mind before your eye. the best memories that were quick to become warped by the worst.
sweaty. shaky. unstable. you felt like your own body, your own brain, were becoming unreliable. unsafe, even. even if you couldn’t help it, everything about it felt wrong. it still felt like the blood dripping down your cheek and the ringing in your ears after both shots reverberated through the air.
a tragic, yet unfortunately common case — a 14 year old boy with a GSW to the throat — that had rendered one of the best residents frozen. you didn’t just freeze, no, that wasn’t like you.
jack, ever the saint, recognized this — he recognized the anxious nature in which you clawed at your collarbone, how your eye widened, how your left knee jerked back and forth.
“go. sit down. you will not work this one, kid.” he said it softly from across the room, no hostility in his voice. he understood. more than anything. and once he saw shen had it under control, he moved to follow you.
it was a blur, sprinting out into the hall and up the stairs. eventually, you found the solace of the roof. fresh air. slinking to the concrete ground on the — thankfully — safe side of the railing, your nails violently scratched at your collarbone as though it would calm the episode. an anxious tic you’d had for many years. grazing over the ball chain that carried your tags didn’t help.
memories intertwined with one another, but one stood out in particular. the one that ruined your life, the one that kept you up for days at a time, that rendered you useless to PTSD on the bad days. the pitt seemed so far away as you sunk into the worst voids of your brain.
you were twenty. slowly climbing the navy’s hierarchy alongside your twin brother. enlisted together at seventeen—it was supposed to be smart. you didn’t know it would destroy you.
your third true deployment, out on the coast of the UAE. it had started safely, plenty of backup and views, but suddenly it had trickled down to just the twins. a dark room — a basement, maybe? — with a flickering light and something dripping. your hands were bound and your head throbbed and the burn in your face made it clear what the dripping was. your blood pouring out of your nose and mouth. what happened??
the question was discarded as you finally opened your eyes, blinking at the fuzzy image of your brother next to you. ”mikey? are— what happened?”
it felt like a fever dream, but there wasn’t time for answers when the door slammed open, the sound bouncing off the crumbling walls. four men barged in, harsh orders barked in a language you didn’t speak and didn’t recognize. both of you were grabbed, guns pulled hastily as they questioned her in the foreign dialect.
“please, just- let us go, we ha-“
your voice was cut off by the harsh whip of a pistol against your brothers cheekbone.
were you still on the roof of the hospital? it felt like you were crammed into that basement again.
more threats or orders spat at you, though not understood. twenty minutes of brutal beatings and questions without answers. then it was the final yell before the ringing sound after the trigger was pulled.
firing into the throat of your counterpart. your twin brother. your other half.
he stared at you, his sister, for a second, choking as blood gushed from his throat and out his mouth. eyes wide.
realizing he wouldn’t see the sun rise again.
as you sat on the roof in front of the sunrise.
a scream left your throat.
“wait- wait, wai- MIKE ! please, no, no-“
a second shot, moving across your right eye, most of it exiting, notable wounds marking the right half of your face.
it went black, and it was four days before you woke up again.
your breathing quickened, nails collecting blood under them as it began to seep into the collar of your scrub top. the vision you retained was blurry and the skin-coloured stick-on eyepatch felt like it was compensating for a lie that went too far.
rocking where you sat in a ball on the ground, it felt like the cool air had turned into four walls, closing in. like your lungs were too big for your ribcage and the pounding in your head was the same as it was in that basement. the rational side of your brain couldn’t make sense of the fact that it wasn’t.
you hadn’t heard the door
opening nor jack running to your side, but he was quick to do so. abbot was far more experienced with PTSD episodes, but he knew you already had underlying anxiety, apparently since you were a child is what he’d figured out. that never made it easier. “hey— hey, can you look at me, kid?” the man spoke softly, gentle enough to ease your winding brain into the words.
“i’m here. you’re okay,” he consoled you, one arm looping around your back as he fell seated to the ground, resting his prosthetic on the ground with a sigh. his hand gently gripped your wrist and pulled it away from where you had scratched your collarbone raw.
in some ways, the touch was grounding, comforting. maybe it was what you needed. but that didn’t suppress the choked sobs that tore through your throat. “i- i don’t.. jack, please-“ you hiccuped out, breathing uneven as you shook next to him.
jack knew better. he didn’t stop you from feeling it, he didn’t try to fix it. he knew you needed someone to support the emotional toll that weighed down on you. and he wanted it to be him. “it’s alright, honey. you’re gonna be okay. you gotta breathe for me.”
his head rested against the railing, eyeing his watch as the end of your shift quickly approached. thank fucking god, he would feel horrible if you had to continue working directly after this. your body shook harshly and he had to pinch his eyes shut, hating how someone so young, so kind, could deal with the burden that nobody should have to face. but jack let you feel it there, and he decided he would help you talk through it later.
tears slowed, heartbeats got gentler and the choking feeling of guilt began to subside a little, or become less apparent to you. “ah.. ‘m sorry, i jus- i dunno what happened..” you murmured into his chest where your tears had been caught. you knew, though. the truth had never left you.
it was such a stark contrast to jack, seeing this side of you. you were always so calm, funny, always knew just what to say. patients and staff loved you. this wasn’t the resident he’d learned to love. this was the raw, bloody insides of the person who depended on him. but somehow, he already knew how to love you properly like this.
“ ‘s jus’- that kid, he.. he looked so much like..” you paused to swallow harshly. “he looks so much like mikey did when we were kids.”
jack knew the bare minimum about your past, as you did his, but he knew enough to figure out why seeing that child threw you off.
“it’s alright.” a beat passed as jack thought. “what was he like?” he quietly asked, hoping the prompting of remembrance could pose as some semblance of comfort.
with a small sniffle, you rubbed at the patch covering a bit of the scar on your eye. “mikey was my twin. 7 minutes older than me, so he kinda always thought he was in charge,” you dryly laughed out. “we ar- we were pretty different, but he was my best friend.”
memories flooded, taking in every detail as they had happened. “we both did really good in sports, but i was uhm.. more academically gifted than he was, i guess.” you almost smiled at the thought of going to school everyday with your other half. “when we graduated, i got scholarships for pre-med, but he couldn’t get his grades up enough to fully qualify. so he enlisted in the navy,” you took a fair amount of time explaining to jack, something he understood. “i wouldn’t let him do it alone, so i did too.” a pause left the air thick with emotion. your head fell a little lower now.
“i guess it didn’t matter, though, not if he died anyway.”
the years of college, psychiatrists, and physical therapy were torture. but you made it through med school, ended up in Pittsburgh, more than 4,000 kilometres from home. you had jack. dana. robby (whom you refused to call michael). cassie. samira. they made it worth it some days. you had a life now, one that had people who didn’t all know what had happened. it was the start of moving on and some part of you still hated that.
“of course it mattered.” jacks voice was finally present after a few moments of silence, his strong arm curling around the gently shaking form of your body. “it mattered because you cared. it mattered because he mattered to you,” the older man comforted.
“i think you’ve obviously noticed my… face, eye.. you know,” you began, letting out a nerve-filled breathy laugh. “i didn’t get the full reconstructive surgery by choice. it just- i don’t know, it didn’t feel right. it didn’t feel right having them patch me up like it never happened.”
a breath. coming to terms with it as you spoke everything into existence for the first time.
“because i think when everything, i guess, went to shit, i didn’t want to get rid of that piece of him. it would’ve been like by trying to cover up that part of me, i was trying to cover him up.”
there was a soft click from dr. abbott’s watch as the end of their shift arrived like a breath of air after being underwater. “uh- I don’t think you should be alone right now, kid,” he clarified, clearing his throat, “in case you have another episode. would you be okay coming home with me?”
of course, you’d been to jacks home before, but this was different. walls down. emotions raw. scars present. but you knew that he knew well enough of what to do.
“..yeah, i think.. i think that’d be okay.”
a soft smile of relief hit his face at your response.
it helped, having that sort of unspoken, unnamed connection — made it safer, more reliable. of course, reliability was never an issue with either of you. especially not with jack.
it wasn’t a particularly long drive to his house, just under 10 minutes — but the silence of the ride was beyond pleasant. jack had texted robby before they left, about shift change and the handover — how shen would inform him on anything he needed to know.
there wasn’t words spoken, the soft hum of the music on the radio — something system of a down, it was too quiet to hear — played in the background. and for once, the quiet didn’t leave a pang in your chest. because after all the nights spent alone, dark and quiet in your home, the company was everything to you. night shift hadn’t exactly made you feel any less alone, not when you knew how much it screwed up connections, but it held some sort of solace for you. getting to see the sunrise again each day at the end of your shift.
your thoughts were interrupted by jack opening the passenger side door, giving you a moment to get out before closing it and locking the car. “oh, thank you,” you mumbled, standing just past the sidewalk on the front walk. you trailed after jack inside, taking in the way the dim blues of the waking sun slowly started to light up the porch.
his house was nice, you’d realized, though large for just one person. the door shut behind you and his keys dropped on the glass table by the door. it was clean, a little dust collected here and there, but it was a home. that much was clear. the throw blankets on the couch made sure of that, at least if the pictures on the mantle and walls didn’t.
“it’s, uhm.. it’s a nice house, jack.”
you smiled as best as you could with how heavy your face felt. and a small smile crossed his face with more weight behind it. “yeah, it is. thank you,” he finally replied after a moment, voice gentle and a little raspy. you didn’t pry for details, you knew better — but it was recognizable what happened.
“you hungry? i can make something, or..” he trailed off, eyebrows slightly raised as he awaited your opinion. you had taken a seat on the soft couch, cautiously sinking in as you considered the question. “uh, only if you are,” you answered. a simple nod, jack walked to his softly lit kitchen, making something presumably wonderful (he was a great cook).
eating had been something you’d struggled with for years, a symptom of ptsd you would never admit to. maybe it shouldn’t have been a shock that jack recognized that, knowing the bond between you.
“how does waffles sound? i’ve got strawberries, too.”
something that looked an awful lot like a genuine smile met your lips. “yeah, that sounds good. thank you, jack.”
a responsive hum and the sound of pans and cupboards in the kitchen was heard as you waited, curled up on the couch in a ball, shoes kicked off near the others beneath the coffee table. eventually, the greying man came over, the strain in his stride a little more prominent, lacking much of an expression. “foods almost done, did you want to go change into something a little comfier?” he offered. “you can grab something out of my dresser.”
you thought for a moment. the kindness that he emitted enveloping you sounded more than appealing. at your nodding, he rubbed your shoulder in a comforting matter as you stood slowly from the couch, before making his way back to the kitchen.
you walked the short hallway to his bedroom — pristine, hardly anything out of place — and frankly, it felt very much like Jack in there. the running blade on a short shelf and the crutches next to it. a perfectly made king bed with a soft blue duvet. opening the dark wood dresser, you found neatly folded and organized drawers full of clothes.
you cautiously reach in for a soft, worn-in t-shirt and open another drawer for shorts. ones you find to be a little too large, so you make the swap for a pair of boxers that sat towards the back.
changing in the spacious bathroom connected to his bedroom, you can’t help but use the fixation on learning about jack as a distraction from your own.. issues. jack’s cologne faintly fed into your nose, making your tense shoulders relax a little more as you slipped his shirt over your head. the same cologne you’d smelt when he guided you through procedures or brought you a water bottle and a few reprimanding words to take care of yourself. the same cologne you’d smelled every time he got down to your level to help you on a bad day.
you observed the oddly spacious bathroom for a second longer before quietly leaving, shutting the door softly. the carpet of his bedroom floor felt soft beneath your socked feet, grounding in a way that was more than being beneath you. as you walked into the kitchen once more, the sight of jack humming a song (one you recognized heavily and could almost name, you think) and arranging two plates of waffles with sliced strawberries on them was a sight you thought you could get used to.
a smile started to creep its way onto your face at that. maybe having something like that would be nice. something where you got to do mundane tasks and see the most raw, domestic moments of each other. doing laundry and taxes, cooking breakfast after a hard shift.
“hey, kid, foods ready,” jack stated with a smile, having quickly realized you’d been standing there. “thank you,” you hummed in response.
you stood for just another second, considering, before taking a breath and peeling off the eyepatch — with a light wince at the pulling of some rough tissue — and throwing it in the trash can. washing your hands, you realized that for one of the first times without it on, you didn’t feel like there was a spotlight burning through the scarred half of your face. it was a safe option here. but it was still scary, even if it was something so miniscule as removing a glorified bandaid, having something so vulnerable just.. visible.
jack knew better than to say anything, but it made him feel a little better knowing that you were comfortable enough to be your true self, no coverups. so in an attempt to aid that comfort, he silently sat down on the counter barstool and removed his prosthetic, letting it lean against the cupboard. you looked a little more sure of yourself when he did. so you took a seat next to him to eat.
and it was calm, serene, something you both needed. the presence. you needed someone to be there for you, and jack needed someone to be there for. your knees rested against each other for a moment before you stood again, taking both plates to put in the dishwasher.
something about this all felt so familiar. like you two had been silently eating dinner and just sitting next to each other for years. like maybe it was all more than a feeling of longing. like the notion of the undeniable love had been there all along.
“it was never your fault, you know.”
jack didn’t push — he gave you the option of safety. he was a net to catch whatever you needed to get off your chest.
because not only did he care, but he understood. he understood the relief of having a scarred piece of both your body and soul on display and he understood how to not make you feel like it was all pinned on you.
because, really, empathy is one of the greatest gifts to living creatures — where’s the harm in showing it to those you love?
at some point, a tear welled in your eye. and jack couldn’t help but thumb it away when it fell to your cheek, his hand cradling your hand more gently than you’d ever been touched. so maybe it made sense when you leaned across the short gap of the stools and fell into his chest, his arms acting as a shield from everything that tried to claw you from the inside out.
it was quiet for a few moments, no heavy sobs or screaming. no more words yet, nothing breaking through. but he held you. just tear stains on his shirt and strong arms around you.
“i don’t know how to make it go away, jack,” you mumbled softly. vulnerability was laced through the words as they tumbled out.
the older man deeply inhaled, eyeing the early morning sun out the small window in the kitchen — his only window that didn’t have a blackout curtain on it. exhaling now.
“honestly, kid? i don’t know that it ever does go away. it’s a part of you, to some degree. there’s good days, there’s bad days. but there’s worse days, the ones that it feels like you’re there again. you learn to live with it, though. or it learns to live with you.”
he knew that well enough now, well enough to provide some comfort. jack had his bad days, the days that his house didn’t feel like the home it once was. the days of phantom pain and panic attacks. but he had more good days the more he learned about what happened and how to cope with it.
you shifted a little, looking up at him with a tear covered face, some stray hairs plastered to your left cheek and jaw. you opened your mouth to speak, then shut it again. the words didn’t come to you like you thought they would. but he understood nonetheless. the same way you understood the pictures on the mantle and bedside table and the value they held.
it was late (early) and despite the weight of it all, it was obvious you both needed sleep, especially after a shift like that one. that much was evident in the eye bags and voices that started to get a little groggy.
“i think maybe we should go to bed, jack.” your voice was a little gravely after the onslaught of emotions from just a few moments earlier. but neither of you moved. not yet. “yeah, probably. did you wanna crash with me?” jack asked after a few moments, voice a little more hushed.
sleeping in a bed with jack abbot — your attending (and unofficial best friend that neither of you knew about) — put you somewhere between thankful, mentally fist-pumping, and dreading it. “mhm,” you hummed in agreement, anyway. letting out that smoothie of thoughts didn’t seem like a great idea.
maybe if your brain was a little less scrambled, you would make several comments that could be deemed inappropriate by hr standards, but you could hardly stay awake without crying every five minutes right now. however, the morning is very much a different situation. that was a bridge to cross when you got there.
coherent thoughts were not something you were thriving in currently. every part of your brain had spent the past hour and a half trying to avoid the scariest memories of your life that half of the people you knew didn’t even know about. so god forbid you get a little excited and distracted at sharing a bed with a stupidly hot older man.
jack attached his prosthetic once more to walk to the bedroom — he didn’t have his crutches — and you frowned a little after realizing he did. the two of you made your way into his tidy room, your eye flicking around the area again.
when you sat down on the edge of the bed, falling back with your legs dangling to nearly touch the floor, jack just watched — only for a moment. but it brought a smile to his face. the comfort seemed like it had always been there, like maybe you two were more than what you thought you were initially.
it was the sense of peace that made it feel right. after his second of smiling like a fool at your blissfully (still suffering) face, jack snapped out of it and decided to get ready for bed. shedding his pants and shirt, he removed his prosthetic once more and the sleeves on the stump.
as soon as they were in their rightful place on top of the shorter dresser by his crutches, he sat on his side of the bed, leaned up against the headboard. you still hadn’t moved.
“hey, c’mon, kid. you’ve been through it today, time to get some sleep,” jack reminded with a couple knuckles tapping on your shoulder. you groaned playfully and flipped onto your stomach, pushing yourself up his bed to be a little more level with him — or his lap, anyway, which is where your head ended up.
your eye was shut, but you still let him run his fingers along your scalp and silently observe your scar with a smile. “mhm, i know,” you hummed in response. using your legs, you kicked the blanket onto your body and jacks legs.
it seemed perfect, almost, the dim lighting from the bedside lamp and how it hit your face. even the rough, gaping scar and bone that sat on the right side of your face held more beauty than it seemed. it was calm, unlike earlier. the switch in your attitude was clear after you got to his house and really spent the time to let jack take care of you.
“goodnight, sweetheart.”
jack flicked off the lamp and scooted down to lay in the bed, maneuvering you on top of his broad chest and one arm wrapping around your back.
“goodnight, jack.”
and you neither of you said the words, but the weight of them was still there.
