𝗮𝗯𝘀𝗼𝗹𝘂𝘁𝗲𝗹𝘆 𝘀𝗺𝗶𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗻 I chapter one
(dr. jack abbot x nurse!reader)
⤿ chapter summary: you help steady the hospital’s chaos with quiet rituals and small acts of kindness. order and routine make each shift feel almost predictable. yet, tomorrow may demand more than the calm you rely on.
⤿ warning(s): medical-talk + inaccuracies, blood
⟡ story masterlist ; next
You used to have dreamsーbright ones, hungry ones.
But somewhere between the double shifts and the endless hum of fluorescent lighting, those dreams had quieted. They hadn’t disappeared, not entirely, but now they came in the form of small things: the smell of tea steeping before sunrise, the clean snap of hospital sheets, the stillness of your apartment before the day began.
You lived alone, but that was never a tragedy to you.
Your apartment was modest. Cozy. Lived-in, with warm wooden floors and cream curtains that kissed the edges of your windows. One plant thrived stubbornly in the corner by the radiator, some gifted thing you’d kept alive out of sheer spite. Photos of nieces, nephews, and long-lost vacations sat on the sideboard. The kitchen was small, but clean. You kept your things tidy, because life was messy enough at the hospital.
It was your control. Your calm.
Your mornings began the same way they had for years. Wake up before the sun, curl your toes into your slippers, and shuffle toward the kettle. Black tea, strong. You didn’t bother with cream or sugar. Just heat and caffeine and the comfort of routine. You drank it while checking your phoneーusually a few texts from Dana, the charge nurse over in Emergency, and an update or two from your sister about her youngest’s science project.
Then, a hot shower. Soft music playing in the backgroundーtoday it was old blues, something mellow. You dressed in your gray scrubs, slipped on your comfortable shoes, and made your way to the kitchen.
You didn’t believe in skipping mealsーnot after years of surviving on vending machine food and sheer willpower.
The contents of your first lunch bag were already waiting in the fridge: slices of roasted chicken you’d basted the night before, still fragrant with lemon and thyme, and a generous scoop of rice pilaf with caramelized onion and roasted carrots tucked beside it. A small container of green beans sautéed with garlic. Warm cornbread, wrapped in foil, so it stayed soft. A boiled egg. Warm food. The kind that could keep your feet under you even in the middle of a 12-hour shift.
Then you opened the second lunch bag that you pulled out whenever you had an especially high volume of left-overs, and began to fill it. A thermos of hearty lentil stew, a few cheese and spinach empanadas you’d made and frozen last week, a stack of soft tortillas wrapped in cloth to keep warm, and a small container of fresh-cut fruit. You added a tin of shortbread cookies, too. People liked those.
You never asked who needed it. You didn’t have to. You just left it in the staff fridge every morning, labeled simply: Up for Grabs. Eat.
By noon, it was always empty.
You paused before sealing the bags, then reached into the top drawer by the stove and pulled out a handful of black tea packets. Not just a fewーseven or eight. You slid them into the side pocket with care, the familiar crinkle of foil against fabric oddly soothing.
Then came the last step: a glance around the apartment, a check of the stovetop knobs, and the soft click of the door behind you.
Everything was where it needed to be. Just like always.
Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Hospital never slept, not really.
You arrived with the sun cresting over the river, a pale smear of gold across the skyline. Even in the early morning, the hospital was alive: stretchers rolling in from Emergency, clipped voices paging overhead, janitors finishing their night rounds, and a group of med students already looking overwhelmed before they even got inside.
You swiped your badge at the side entrance and were immediately hit with the smell of antiseptic and burnt coffee.
For you, the surgical wing was your kingdom.
Bright lights. Cold air. Soft beeps and controlled chaos. You’d been here longer than most. A senior surgical nurse, day shift. You weren’t in it for praiseーyou weren’t even in it for thanks. You were in it for the discipline, for the order that existed even amid blood and panic. In a world that never stopped breaking, you were one of the ones putting it back together.
“Hey, boss,” said Fin, a junior nurse in his second year. He looked like a wiry greyhound who’d grown up on steel mills and pick‑up games; he had the reflexes of a cat and the attention span of a bee. He fell into step beside you with a bounce in his sneakers. “Just got a fresh post-op in Five. Dr. Garcia was already yelling about the chart.”
You gave him a look. “Did you forget to mark the drains again?”
“I swear I didn’t, okay, maybe I did one, butー”
“You get one more maybe today, or I’m taping a checklist to your forehead.”
He saluted dramatically, then broke off in a little jog ahead of you. But before he turned the corner, he spun around, shadow-boxing in the air like some scrappy middleweight on caffeine. “I’ve been working out, by the way.” He flexed one arm, rolling up his sleeve to reveal a modest bicep. “You’re gonna have to start calling me Big Fin.”
You arched a brow. “I’ll consider it. Right after I get my hearing checked.”
“Brutal,” he called back, grinning as he disappeared into Recovery.
You passed Jules, the surgical scrub nurse, reviewing trays with the precision of a jeweler. “We’re short on curved hemostats,” she muttered without looking up. “Already paged Central Supply twice.”
“I’ll give them a call,” you said, adjusting your clipboard. “They listen when I growl.”
“That’s because they think you could shank them with a suture needle.”
And then, as always, Margot appeared like clockwork.
She was the charge nurse for the surgical wing, older than you by a few years, and about twice as loud. Silver-streaked curls piled into a bun, sleeves rolled up, clipboard in hand, Margot ran the board like a general and swore like a sailor with a grudge.
“Someone better have coffee for me or blood will be spilled,” she barked as she stepped into the unit, already scanning the whiteboard.
“Isn’t that what we’re here for?” you quipped, handing her a small to-go cup you’d filled back in the break room.
She paused. Narrowed her eyes at you. Then smiled, really smiled. “You always take care of me, you old softie.”
“I’m just trying to prevent a homicide before noon.”
The two of you had worked side by side for almost a decade now. Margot was the only one who knew when your laugh wasn’t real, when your tiredness was more than just a long shift, and when something was bothering you even if you hadn’t said a word. She kept the unit on its feet and your spine straight on the rough days.
And you did the same for her.
“You see the supply tray?” she asked, flipping through her pages.
“Yeah. Jules is about ready to fight someone. I’ll call Central again.”
“Tell ‘em we’re not slicing open anyone with Fisher-Price tweezers,” Margot muttered.
Then there was Tasha, one of the newer float nurses, still finding her rhythm. You made a point to check in on her mid-morning, offering her a granola bar and a steadying word after a rough debridement assist.
Then the surgeons: Dr. Miller and Dr. Garcia.
The day moved with precision. Rounds. Preps. Walk-throughs. Checklists. Blood draws, verifying scripts, comforting scared patients with a hand on the shoulder and a warm, quiet voice.
You were good at your job. You didn’t miss much.
So later, when you came back from a break and found your clipboard slightly askew on the nurse’s station, you paused long enough for a single pulse to drum behind your ear. Nobody touched your clipboardーeveryone in the surgical wing knew that rule as surely as they knew where the crash cart lived.
Maybe someone had needed a room number. Maybe it had slipped? You inhaled, nudged the board flush with the counter until the metal lip kissed the laminate, and forced the unease to flatten into habit.
You’d barely slipped your pen back into your chest pocket when the hallway exploded with noise. Fin came tearing around the corner, long legs pumping, one gloved hand slicing the air.
“Teen male, abdominal stab, BP tanking,” he barked, breathless but ready. “Ortho tried Versed, he blew right through it. They’re wheeling him to OR Three.”
You asked, checking the boy's vitals. He couldn’t have been more than seventeen. “Jules on instruments?”
“She’s setting upーmissing a couple clamps, but she’ll find ’em.”
“Down in pharmacy, checking meds.”
The doors to OR Three burst open just as you reached them. Fluorescent lights bleached the boy’s skin to paper.
Dr. Miller was already scrubbing, calling for suction. Across from him stood Dr. Garcia, eyes snapping behind her shield. She glanced at the vitals and muttered, “Whoever dosed him with sedatives barely touched the pain.” Miller shot her a look. “Less commentary, Garcia. Let’s save him first.” She fired back, “Then cut faster, sirーthe vein’s not going to tie itself.”
Sanitized and ready, you slid into place opposite her, tilting the overhead lamp. Fin fitted an oxygen mask; Manny rushed in with the first bag of blood; Jules appeared at your elbow, tray shining, somehow already stocked with the clamps she’d been missing. Tasha sprinted in last, waving a sheet. “No allergies, no meds except a pain shot!”
Dr. Miller opened the wound and a sheet of bright red flooded the field. Dr. Garcia’s tone dropped to steel. “Big vesselーclamp.” She stretched out her hand. You slapped the clamp into her palm, then lifted the suction hose to clear the view.
Suddenly, the boy’s pressure plummeted; alarms wailed. “More blood." You called. Manny twisted the valve; Fin squeezed the bag. The heart monitor flatlined. Dr. Garcia snapped, “Paddles, now.” Before anyone moved, you had already grabbed the paddles and passed them to Fin. One jolt, and the screen flickered, steadied, beeped. Dr. Garcia’s stitches flew; Dr. Miller tied off the last thread, shoulders sagging as the bleeding finally slowed.
What followed was practiced choreography: gauze when asked, retractors nudged, light shifted a hair. When Dr. Miller clipped the final knot he let out a long breath that was half a laugh. “Daylight shifts are never dull,” he sighed.
Dr. Garcia peeled off her gloves with a snap, fogged goggles hiding everything but the warmth in her eyes. “Couldn’t have done it without our guardian angel,” she said, tilting her head toward you. It was half tease, half something softer, and it landed heavier than you expected.
You counted spongesーperfect, as alwaysーthen wiped a smear of blood from the boy’s cheek, smoothing a cool cloth across his brow. He’d live and that was enough.
The team rolled him toward recovery; Jules rattled off instructions so crisp the transport nurse only nodded, wide‑eyed. Behind them, the OR lights dimmed, and the sudden hush felt almost holy.
The rest of the shift unwound in a gentler rhythm.
You rounded on post‑ops, double‑checked Fin’s drainage labels, helped Tasha master a tricky IV start, and caught Manny slipping in a whole-ass Subway when he thought you weren’t looking. Every time you passed Dr. Garcia, she either offered a nod or a salute with her pen, the gesture equal parts respect and camaraderie.
Evening sunlight slanted gold through the clerestory windows by the time the last chart closed. You ducked into the staff fridge, retrieved your two lunch bagsーyours scraped clean but for a few strays crumbs.
Margot was at the whiteboard, bun unraveling yet posture unbowed. She glanced up as you approached, empty Tupperware clacking in your tote. “Board’s balanced, rooms stocked, staff fed,” she said. “You leaving us to the wolves?”
“Night crew can handle a few cubs,” you replied, shrugging into your jacket.
She eyed the way you fastened the zipper to your chin. “Stopping at your perch first?”
“Ten minutes. Clear the head.”
Margot clicked her pen, lips twitching. “Wind’s vicious tonight. Button that collar or you’ll fly off the roof like Mary Poppins.”
“A spoonful of heparin helps the blood flow,” you dead‑panned.
Margot’s raspy laugh chased you down the hall while you zipped your jacket to the chin and patted the bulging side pocket that held your small contraband: half a dozen foil envelopes of strong black tea.
Two flights up you eased the rooftop door open. The evening air rolled across the tar. The skyline glimmered; the last blush of sunset clung to the horizon like a fading bruise.
And there he was, exactly where you’d hoped: Dr. Jack Abbot, fresh from the locker room and on his way into the night shift. He wore his usual charcoal‑black scrubsーpockets already stuffed with trauma shears and a folded set of glovesーplus a worn bomber jacket. Short curls, dark but mostly silver, were still damp from a quick sink‑splash. A dusting of stubble shadowed his jaw, the kind that looked deliberate until you noticed the faint razor burn along his throat.
Jack never quite smoothed out the edges; he just learned to carry them.
He was screwing the lid onto an empty steel thermos when he spotted you. A crooked, lopsided smile tugged one corner of his mouth, as if he were never entirely sure you’d show up and was always pleasantly surprised when you did.
“Hi,” he said, voice a notch too loud over the wind before he caught himself and dropped it. “Shift treat?”
“Only if you call boiled bean water a treat,” you answered, nodding at the thermos. “Lucky for you, I brought an intervention.”
You pulled four packets of Earl Gray from your jacket pocket and offered them to him. Up close you saw how the overhead flood‑light silvered the gray in his curls and picked out the faint hollows under his eyes.
“What’s this now?” he said, accepting the packets and turning them between roughened fingers.
“Operation Convert the Coffee Addict,” you confirmed. “Side effects include better sleep and a 50 percent reduction in eye‑twitch.”
He huffed a laugh, half embarrassed. “You sure you’re not secretly cardiology? Because you’re going after my heart.”
You arched a brow. “That a complaint?”
“No,” he said quickly, then scrubbed a hand over his stubbleーawkward tic when he realized he’d spoken faster than he could think. “I mean, no complaint at all.”
He cleared his throat and stepped back to the parapet, gaze flicking to the river lights.
“Heard about your stab victim,” Jack said, voice pitched just low enough to keep the compliment private. “Your wing turned him around in record time.”
“Dr. Garcia turned him around,” you corrected. “I just kept the stage lights on.”
His smile widened, steadier than before. “Modest again. The residents swear you’re the northern starーnobody gets lost on your watch.”
“Only because I feed them,” you said, lifting the tote. “Nothing inspires devotion like carbohydrates.”
He chuckled, a warm sound that rumbled more than it cracked. “Well, you’ve got my devotion for the tea.” He tucked the foil packets into his breast pocket, giving them a single decisive pat as if confirming an IV line.
“For the record,” you added, “nice work stabilizing the kid before he came up.”
Jack shook his head, curls stirring in the wind. “That was Robby. I’m just here to steal the credit and the glory hours later.”
You smirked. “At least you’re honest.”
“Path of least paperwork,” he said, a faint twinkle in his eyes.
A hush settled, broken only by the distant wail of a siren and the hum of rooftop fans. He rocked once on his heelsーnot fidgeting, just feeling the windーthen fixed you with a look equal parts grateful and teasing.
“So, tonight I try the tea,” he said. “If the caffeine drop puts me in a coma, you’ll swing by Resus and shock me back.”
“I’ll set the paddles to extra smug,” you promised.
His laugh came easy and full. “Deal.”
The hospital PA crackled below: “Trauma team to bay one, ETA two minutes.” Jack’s shoulders straightened; night‑shift instincts sliding into place.
“That’s my cue.” He lifted the empty thermos in salute. “See you tomorrow, tea in hand.”
“Four‑minute steep,” you reminded, backing toward the door. “Boil it and I’ll know.”
He gave a quick, confident nodーless scout’s honor, more a promise between friendsーthen turned for the stairs, jacket snapping in the wind. You watched until the door clanged shut behind him, the faint crinkle of tea packets trailing off into the night.
Somewhere below, monitors beeped, lives tilted, and the clipboard sat perfectly square on the counter where you’d left it, but up here there was only wind and the faint scent of river water. You breathed in, held the air until your heartbeat matched the city’s distant pulse, then turned for the stairs, ready to go home, ready to return tomorrow and do it all again.
