thinking about going to get sushi with jack and doing that trend where you eat a piece off your partner's bicep. he's so confused at first because usually when you pull your phone out at dinner it's to take a selfie, and you just immediately tell him to get out of the frame. instead, you grab his arm, prop his elbow on the table, and tell him to flex. he gives you the most suspicious look but does it anyway because, unfortunately for him, he'd let you talk him into just about anything. that man is so whipped.
you carefully set a piece of sushi on his bicep, add the tiniest drop of soy sauce, and lean in to eat it. he's completely stunned. never in a million years did he think this would be something that got to him, but then you swipe your tongue over the little drop of soy sauce you'd missed and suddenly he's forgotten there are other people in the restaurant.
before you can even stop recording, his hand is sliding behind your neck, fingers disappearing into your hair as he tips your chin up to kiss you. you just smile into it because... yeah. the trend worked a little better than expected. and you know dinner is going to be over a lot sooner than either of you intended.
jack would absolutely keep snacks tucked away in his scrub pockets for you. he knows just how hard you're going to work, no matter what shift you're on. and he understands how easy it is to get caught up in the work. you are saving lives, after all. that doesn't change the fact that he hates it whenever you go nearly twelve hours without eating or drinking anything.
so, to combat this, he starts carrying snacks. protein bars, crackers, granola, trail mix, fruit snacks. he even starts buying uncrustables and hiding them in the work freezer after he catches you sneaking one from the nutrition room during a particularly brutal shift.
he never makes a big deal about it.
the first time he handed you food unprompted at work had been after a shift from hell. there had been a mass casualty event at a nightclub. you had already helped run three separate codes before there was even a moment to catch your breath, and jack could see the exhaustion written across your face hours before the call had ever come in.
when there was finally a lull, he quietly pulled you into the hallway. the second you were out of sight, you immediately collapsed into his arms, mentally, emotionally, and physically drained. he held you against his chest, one hand rubbing slow circles over your back while the other rested at the base of your neck. neither of you said anything.
after a moment, he pulled away just enough to reach into the pocket of his scrubs. before he could say anything, both of your pagers beeped at the same time. the tension you had just started to release found its rightful place back between your shoulder blades.
you sighed and turned to head back toward the trauma bays. jack grabbed your wrist before you could take more than a step. he pressed a protein bar into your hand.
"eat."
you looked down at the wrapper before looking back up at him, "i don't have time. there's another—"
he gently shushed you, "you haven't had time for the past nine hours," he said. "and you won't make time for the next three."
he nudged the protein bar toward you.
"eat."
you rolled your eyes, but peeled back the wrapper anyway. after your first bite, your eyebrows lifted.
"...okay,” a bite, "this is actually really good."
the corner of jack's mouth tugged upward.
"i know."
you glanced between him and the protein bar.
"you carry emergency granola bars?"
he shrugged, "for you? yeah."
you dropped your jaw in mock offense.
"it's not that bad."
he just looked at you completely unimpressed. and to be fair, this wasn’t the first time you guys had argued about your inability to take a break during work. you always pointed out that jack was the same way.
"...baby," he said, "you forgot to eat yesterday, too."
he laughed quietly before leaning down to kiss the top of your head. then he intertwined your fingers with his.
"c'mon."
still chewing your protein bar, you let him lead you back toward the trauma bays, ready to tackle whatever the rest of the shift had waiting for you.
you have a habit of tracing jack’s veins. it started out innocent, just an absentminded brush of your thumb across his hand. but when you transferred over to work in the CT department, you had to learn more about venipuncture and starting IVs. jack, of course, was willing to help you by being your very own personal pincushion. you would spend hours tracing his veins, confirming you had the tourniquet on correctly, understanding which veins felt strong and which ones you should try and avoid.
even after you gained your confidence in placing IVs, you still had the habit of tracing jack’s veins when you were together. you’d check in the bend of his arm for his median cubital vein, follow the veins along his forearm, across his wrist, and even on the back of his hand. jack didn’t notice your little habit at first, but once he did it melted him.
so, he started looking for any excuse to curl up beside you, resting his arm across your lap or slipping his hand into yours, just so he could feel your fingertips absentmindedly tracing the familiar paths beneath his skin. jack liked knowing your hands had long since stopped studying him, and had simply learned him.
Summary: A new med student documents a series of differential diagnoses to your and Jack's relationship as she tries to figure out what exactly the dynamic is.
Warnings: Fluff, Miscommunication
Notes: This was just a fun, silly little fic to write. I hope you enjoy! As always, tysm for reading! :P
It was the first day that interns were able to do rotations through the Pitt during the night shift. In the short time that Amara had been there, she was able to observe a lot of things. So many cases were ones that she had spent years learning about from different textbooks. There was one case that she couldn’t quite figure out though: what was going on with you and Dr. Abbot.
Amara had many different differential diagnoses:
Divorced
Situationship
Enemies
Telepathically Connected
Siblings
Unfortunately, all of the evidence she had gathered supported each of the options equally, which made every moment more confusing than the last.
Hour One
Dr. Abbot seemed nice. His whole “Nightcrawlers” speech was a little weird, but overall endearing; especially for the new interns. Amara walked up to him directly after he was done speaking to everyone and most people had shuffled away.
“Hi Dr. Abbot, it’s my first rotation here tonight, I was just wondering who I should stick with?” She asked.
Dr. Abbot opened his mouth to respond, before you interrupted him.
“I can’t believe you, you know that?!” You almost yelled, shoving your finger in Dr. Abbot’s chest.
Amara jumped at the sudden intrusion with wide eyes, watching the scene before her play out.
He smirked looking down at you as he crossed his arms, “Oh, really?”
“Yeah! Really!” You say, “You ate my fucking leftovers!”
“They were in the staff fridge.”
“You knew they were mine! I put them there!”
“Seems like a design flaw, princess.”
You looked one second away from committing an unethical war crime against Dr. Abbot. He seemed entirely unbothered.
Amara schooled her face as quickly as possible when Dr. Abbot turned back to her to respond as you stormed away with a huff.
Differential Diagnosis:
Enemies
Hour Two
Amara tried to stay out of your way after the first interaction she saw you have with Dr. Abbot. But, the ER was a small place, and it wouldn’t do well to try and avoid you for too long. When a trauma came in from a MVC, she stuck by your side to watch as you ran the entire show.
Dr. Abbot was there too. Amara was in awe. She had studied for years how different kinds of resuscitations worked. The communication each code required from everyone. She had never seen anything like this.
When things started to go badly, the room almost went silent. She watched as you and Dr. Abbot both worked on the patient like one cohesive unit. Neither of you needed words to let the other know what you needed, or where you needed them. It was a fluid procedure, flawless.
Differential Diagnosis:
Telepathically Linked
Hour Three
A nurse had asked if Amara could go grab something from one of the supply closets. It took her a while to find the right one because she was still finding all of the different ins and outs of the Pitt.
Finally, she came across the supply room in question. Before her hand could even turn the handle, the door swung open.
You were there. Cheeks flush, breath heavy, hair tousled. Dr. Abbot was behind you, she saw his neck was pink, and he was in the process of tying his scrub pants.
“Oh! I- uh…” Amara started, too embarrassed to form a complete sentence.
You froze. Jack froze. Amara looked mortified.
Time stood still for one long moment.
Finally, you cleared your throat, “Did you need something?”
“Oh! Yes! Uh…the nurse, she uh…”
You followed her gaze to Jack’s hands, still working on tying his scrubs. You closed your eyes and questioned every moment that had led up to this. You took a deep breath in as you glared at him silently communicating your frustrations.
“What were you looking for?” You asked, trying to refocus Amara’s attention.
She looks at you and shakes herself out of her haze.
“Tape! The tape without the latex…”
“Third shelf back, second from the top.” Jack says coolly.
“Okay,” Amara nodded.
“Okay,” Jack said.
A pause.
“Thanks,” she whispered as she grabbed the tape and scurried away.
Differential Diagnosis:
FWB (Confidence: HIGH)
Hour Six
Six hours into her shift, Amara finally got to use the restroom. It wasn’t unusual that she would be on her feet all day, but nothing could have prepared her for the absolute chaos that was the PTMC’s emergency department. There wasn’t a moment to spare, and as an intern she kept getting pulled in every direction.
When she finally had a moment of peace in the restroom, she gathered her thoughts about the day thus far. Everyone seemed great! Crus was a phenomenal teacher, some of the other students were fun to work with, and Lena seemed to be a great heart at the center of it all.
She still couldn’t work out what the situation was with you and Dr. Abbot though. And that bugged her. She had worked her ass off to get in to med school, she’d be damned if she couldn’t read the room and figure out what the situation was with the two of you by the end of the night.
On her way back from the restroom, she saw the two of you in an empty patient room.
“You forgot to pick her up?” Jack asked.
“I thought you were going to pick her up!” You replied.
“It’s not my weekend! It’s yours!”
“It’s like every weekend is my weekend! You always pick up shifts or volunteer with the SWAT team. How do you think she feels? Huh?”
The wheels in Amara’s head turned. She tried piecing the puzzle together, but it felt like every hour brought forth new evidence that contradicted the last! Now it sounded like a custody battle was happening in room 16. First, she saw you nearly rip Dr. Abbot’s head off, then she saw how flawlessly the two of you worked together, which was promptly followed by what seemed to be a quickie in the supply closet, and now you were arguing about who’s weekend it was for some unknown kid?
Differential Diagnosis:
Divorced
Hour Eight
“Hey are you guys still recruiting?” Lena asks from across the nurse’s station.
You and Jack look up from the chart you’re working on.
“No, we stopped.” You say disappointed.
“Decided it was probably best for us to act normal.” Jack says.
You and Jack exchange a look. One that only comes from years of being bonded together.
Amara’s brows furrow in confusion. What would two doctors be recruiting for? It’s not like they’re the ones who are hiring everyone. There’s managers for that. They couldn’t possibly be part of an MLM, Amara was sure the salary of an attending could let them afford to live comfortably on their own.
As she tried harder and harder to wrack her brain for any more context about the conversation, it hits her. Recruiting. There was really only one option that explained everything she had seen earlier that morning.
The arguing. The silent communication that came from years of knowing each other. The secret supply closet meetings. The custody agreements. The recruiting.
It was so obvious, she wasn’t sure how she didn’t see it all before.
Differential Diagnosis:
Cult Leaders
Hour Eleven
The longer the shift drug on, the more Amara was determined to understand what exactly was going on with you and Dr. Abbot. She didn’t think about the fact that running on only four hours of sleep, sheer determination, and at least 300mg of caffeine was the only thing keeping her going right now. That wouldn’t impair her judgement at all. Right?
She went to grab a granola bar from the breakroom when she saw you and Dr. Abbot in two of the chairs.
“Jack. Give me my jacket.”
Jack looked down at the garment, “This isn’t your jacket.”
“Yes it is. It quite literally has my name on it.”
“It’s our jacket then”
“No.”
“Besides,” Jack starts, “You left it at my house.”
“More like you stole it from me.” You grumble.
“I borrowed it.”
“For eight months? Really?”
“Semantics…”
You huffed.
Amara could practically see the lightbulb that illuminated above her head. Of course! The only way she could possibly believe that either of you could get on each other’s nerves like this, or have access to each other’s houses, or understand each other in the unsettling way it seemed you did, would be to understand that you must be siblings!
She listened in as you continued to bicker.
“Jack.”
“Not happening.”
“Jack, I swear to god…”
“Nope.”
“You are literally fifty years old.” You deadpan.
“All the more reason I should have the Jacket and not you, you spring chicken.”
Differential Diagnosis:
Siblings (DEFINITELY)
Hour Thirteen
The shift ended more hectic than anyone expected. A massive MVC made sure that all hands were on deck until the morning crew was fully ready to take over. Amara had learned a lot in her first day. She just needed confirmation about one final case before going home.
“Uh…Lena? I have a question before I leave.”
Lena looked up from the computer where she was talking to the day shift charge nurse, Dana.
“What’s up, hun?” Dana automatically responded.
“Well I uh, I just was curious about two of the doctors.”
Both nurses' brows furrowed. It was never a good sign when someone started blatantly questioning things on their first day, even if they were ultimately right in the end.
“Go on,” Lena urged.
Amara looked down at her notes before making eye contact again, “I just wanted to know about Dr. Abbot and…” She looked over at you and nodded her head in your direction.
Both Dana and Lena’s eyes tracked toward you.
“What about them?” Dana said with a knowing smirk hiding just under the surface.
“They’re siblings right?” Amara asked.
As Lena took a sip of tea, it immediately sprayed over the keyboard as soon as she comprehended what amara was asking. Dana tried, and failed, to hide the big grin on her face.
The commotion made you look over and walk toward the nurses station.
“Everything okay? Was there something you needed, Amara?” You asked, “You should go home and get some rest. It’s been a long night.”
Dana and Lena both laugh as they look between you.
And in that moment, Amara believed that fate was real. And it had a vendetta against her. Because Jack came up and immediately wrapped his hands around your waist from behind. You instinctively leaned into his touch. He spun you around and pulled you in for a gentle, but knowing kiss.
Amara’s jaw was on the floor. Dana and Lena couldn’t stop laughing. You looked concerned for everyone.
“She thinks you guys are siblings!” Lena howled.
Your eyes widened and cheeks involuntarily turned a shade of pink.
“I didn’t mean-”
You and Jack both break out in laughter now as well.
“I was trying to get a read on you all day and I couldn’t figure it out!” She said.
“Aw, sweetie,” You said kindly, “We’re just married.”
“Yeah,” Jack interrupted, “For too damn long.”
You slapped his shoulder. He smiled down at you.
It all made sense. The fighting, the steamy closet session, the bickering, and silent communication.
No telepathy.
No cult.
No divorce.
Just…marriage. Everything that happened wasn’t pointing to some differential diagnosis Amara had believed to be true at different points in the day. They all pointed to you and Jack, two peas in a pod who apparently were good at confusing the interns.
Dangerous information for the next incoming class.
Summary: You always ask Jack to stay and forget about his SWAT shifts and quit putting himself in danger. When a code silver happens at the hospital, he finally has to confront how you feel every time he leaves. As you recover from a life altering injury, you both learn what it means to stay.
Warnings: Depictions of Gun Violence, Active Shooter, Injury, Hurt Comfort, PTSD, Chronic Pain, Violence, Character Death
Notes: Hi!! Please be sure to look at the warnings and make sure this is a fic you’re up to. There are depictions of gun violence and rehabilitation after an injury. Thank you so much for reading and take care of yourselves! ♡
╭──────────.★..─╮
You could feel your pulse in your ears as you bit your tongue. Jack was going out again for another SWAT shift. Every time he picked up, an argument ensued. He always came up with excuses. The team needed him. He had years of combat medic experience. He was rarely in the thick of it. The job wasn’t even that dangerous.
You always rebutted. The team did just fine without him every other day. His previous experience didn’t mean he was required to continue working in that environment now. If he wasn’t in danger, why did he have to have full combat protective gear on? And of course, the job was dangerous—that’s what drew him in!
You thought after your engagement that maybe Jack could be convinced. Not to settle down necessarily, just to re-evaluate the undue stress he caused every time he locked the door behind him and walked into the flames of chaos.
“Whatever, I’m going to be late. Don’t bother staying up for me, I have a shift tonight, so I won’t be coming back home.” He snaps.
“Jack! You can’t keep doing this! What are you avoiding by just jumping headfirst into a pit of lions every week? Why can’t you just spend the holiday with your fiancée before working tonight?” You counter.
You hate it when you and Jack fight. You hate that he has the ability to get you so riled up. And you hate even more that he seems to be so obtuse to the fact that watching him leave eats you alive. Every. Single. Time.
“I’m done having this conversation! We argue every single time! I’m going!” He yells.
You stiffen and swallow, refusing to let yourself cry in front of him. You stay quiet, knowing that your voice will betray you.
Jack huffs and shakes his head, grabbing his backpack and closing the door with careful precision. Even in moments of anger, you’re always amazed at how immense his restraint can be.
You immediately head for the shower, needing a physical reset from the fight. And like always, you end up feeling better. There’s something like a remedy hidden in the tendrils of steam that encase you. And along with feeling better, you start to feel guilty. You understand where Jack is coming from, and that’s almost worse than full-heartedly being blinded by your own thoughts and opinions. Understanding him means there’s always an opportunity for forgiveness and compromise, despite wanting absolutely no compromise in this situation.
You change into your pajamas and decide to take a nap. You picked up a call shift this evening, even though it wasn’t your holiday to work. Nothing beats call, holiday, and shift differential all lining up like the perfect eclipse. Your sleep is restless; however, you can’t stop worrying about Jack. Wondering if he’s alright, worrying that if something bad did happen, the last memory you would have of each other is a stupid fight about stupid anxieties.
At first, you aren’t sure of how long you’ve slept, but your pager starts to alarm. You sit up and grab the small device from the bedside table, and look at it with bleary eyes.
INCOMING TRAUMA: LEVEL 1, UNIDENTIFIED 48Y/O MALE, MVC HEAD ON COLLISION, GCS 7, HYPOTENSIVE, TACHYCARDIC, INTUBATED ON SCENE, ARRIVAL BY AMBULANCE, ETA 15 MINUTES
Immediately, you’re rolling out of bed to pull scrubs on and rush to the hospital. It’s already 10 PM, which means Jack should be at work and done with his SWAT shift. But with your luck, there will be no time to see him before prepping the OR and starting to work on the incoming trauma patient. You sigh and grab your keys, making your way toward the chaos.
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.
You are currently trying to work with the doctor on call tonight to repair the trauma patient’s liver. The laceration is substantial, but you know it’s treatable. You’ve assisted on cases like these a hundred times before since you graduated from PA school, and you know you’ll get to do a hundred more like it in years to come.
“So, how’s wedding planning coming along?” Dr. Murphy asks as she works.
You hum with a small smile, “You know, things get pushed to the back burner when you both work the strangest shifts. I feel like Jack and I have barely any time together, and usually he ends up picking up a shift to help with the SWAT unit when he’s free anyway.”
Dr. Murphy laughs. You’ve always loved to witness just how much she loves her job; it reminds you of yourself, it reminds you of Jack. The sheer passion to excel at saving people.
“Oh, trust me, everything will settle into place. You both need to take each other’s advice sometimes. Slow down. Breathe.”
A chuckle escapes your lips as the door to the OR opens. Maybe it’s because the skeleton crew are the only staff here at this hour. Or perhaps it’s because everyone on this side of the wing wears the light blue surgical scrubs. Or maybe it’s just instinct that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand, but you turn around and see him.
He’s middle-aged, handsome, with green eyes that are bloodshot, and dark hair that curls at the nape of his neck. For a moment, all he does is stare at your patient. The nurse anesthetist looks up with confusion. She stands up and starts walking toward him.
“Sir, this is a sterile-“
A shot rings out and silences everyone. The only noise is from the monitors that are keeping track of the patient’s vitals, and the ventilator that is helping him breathe. You falter for a moment, but you know that stopping the procedure now would result in your patient dying, so you continue operating.
You can’t see the nurse, Janie. The equipment she uses typically blocks her from view anyway, but you start to see the pool of blood on the floor near the suction cart. There’s a lump in your throat that can’t seem to be swallowed.
You glance up at the scrub tech. She’s new, it’s her first week. You think her name is Lorelei, but you’re having trouble remembering right now. She looks terrified. You see her hands shake as she preps the table with all of the tools needed for the procedure, stealing glances at the man with the gun. You try to do a head count of everyone who would’ve been in the OR. All you can come up with are you, Dr. Murphy, Janie, and Lorelei. Everyone else helped to get the patient stable and left to help elsewhere. Just the four of you.
“This is him?” The man grunts, “The drunk driver?”
Dr. Murphy is cool as she responds, “Sir, what do you want?”
The man lets out a guttural wail, “I want my daughter! He killed my daughter!”
Your heart skips a beat, and despite the rules and codes of ethics you’ve spent years studying and following, you understand and empathize with the father. You see the hopelessness in his face and hear the grief in his voice. And you know that you disagree entirely with his actions, but you still understand how he got here.
“Sir, my name is Dr. Abigail Murphy. I am a trauma surgeon at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center. My patient is currently being operated on. Hurting our staff or our patients will do nothing to bring your daughter back. We can call for someone who can come in and help you; you just have to drop the gun.”
His quiet sobs are silenced, and he looks straight at Dr. Murphy, “You just want them to take me? You want them to take me as I die while that…that monster lives?”
You don’t realize what’s happening even after Dr. Murphy disappears from your line of sight. The tinnitus swells, and all you can hear aside from the ringing in your ears is the blood that’s rushing through your veins. And finally, your hands begin to shake when you notice you’re the only one keeping your patient above ground.
Lorelei crouches on the ground, covering her head with her hands, and guiltily, you wish you didn’t have the responsibility, so you could do the same.
“Hey!” The father yells, and his voice finally breaks through your stupor, “I said stop saving him!”
You look up with tears in your eyes and hope it doesn’t show on your face when you see the campus police looking in the window of the door behind the father, assessing the situation, and wondering when they’ll enter.
“What’s your name?” You blurt out, not knowing what to say that will stall him.
He falters, “W-what?”
“Your name, I want to know your name.” You say before telling him your own.
“Jacob Haas,” He says.
“Hi Jacob,” You whimper, “I went to school for six years to get here. Got my master’s and everything. And one of the first things you learn is the Hippocratic Oath. It’s about like…confidentiality and non-maleficence and shit. Basically just: do no harm. So I understand where you’re coming from, and I am really, really sorry about your daughter. I’m sure she was…I’m sure she was amazing. But how is hurting hospital staff going to help her? We can’t judge our patients by their acts or their morals. We’re not God. But we do have a code, and I promised to do no harm, but you’re asking me to go against that, and I’m sorry, but I can’t.”
You know you’ve lost his attention before you feel the pain. You can see the moment he decides as you glance up from your patient to look at him. It’s something you learned in a de-escalation class once; humanize them, empathy is your friend. It always seemed silly in books or movies when a traumatic moment would happen in slow motion. You realize now just how silly it is because the pain is instantaneous. Everything is loud and overwhelming, and you may not know what is happening, but you know the police are involved now because there’s yelling. There’s so much yelling.
For a moment, you think you can close your eyes to escape from this frame of time, but that is rudely interrupted when someone puts pressure on your shoulder, where you now realize you’ve been shot. You don’t know if it’s you who screams or someone else.
Lots of people come into view, most of them look like they’re saying something. You know you should recognize them. These are your coworkers, but nothing seems to stick. You see someone draw medication in a syringe, is there a prick when it enters? All of the pain you’ve ever felt has been bottled up just so you could relive it in this moment. And then, just as suddenly as the chaos began, it fades away as you fall asleep.
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.
Jack had just finished stabilizing a patient with an anastomotic leak and sent him up to the OR when he heard it. He knew immediately that it wasn’t just something that had fallen or crashed. He remembered the sound of gunfire like a song you always know the words to, even years after not hearing it. Then there were three more shots.
It was an agonizing six minutes until the intercom confirmed what he already knew, “Code Silver OR 4, Code Silver OR 4, Code Silver OR 4.”
He felt the flood of hormones rush through his system like a tsunami. It’s the same feeling he gets whenever someone on his SWAT team gets critically injured, or any time there’s a code blue in the Pitt. The same feeling he gets every time he leaves you after a fight, he always ends up starting before he realizes it.
His shoulders drop once he realizes the threat isn’t anywhere in the vicinity of the ER. Instinctively, he turns to see where you are and realizes you’re not supposed to be at work tonight. Then, Jack stiffens when he remembers the conversation you had a week ago. You told him you were going to pick up a call shift for the OR since he was already on schedule.
His hands move before he has the time to tell them what to do. Jack pulls out his phone and opens the app to see the locations you shared. For a moment, his brain tries to convince itself that you’re at home. Home, where you should be, fast asleep, or at least relaxing with a book or a movie. But his vision tunnels when he sees the icon with the photo of you, you’re at the hospital.
Jack’s mind goes into overdrive. He recalls the MVC that came in earlier, how the trauma team had called in OR staff to prep for surgery. He curses himself for not immediately remembering that you were on call tonight.
It’s procedural the way he begins moving. Telling Shen to hold down the fort while he checks in with the campus police to see if they need help. His steps up the stairs are calculated. They’ve always had to be since he lost his leg. He sees a sheet draped over someone in the hallway near the entrance to the operating wing. There’s commotion happening deeper in the hallway as he makes his way toward OR 4.
Campus PD has a man in custody. He is sitting on the floor with his head in his hands. Someone yells for supplies deeper in the room, something about needing to stop the bleeding. He hears a monitor start to flatline.
Jack doesn’t care. He runs.
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.
Your shoulder doesn’t feel right. The pain you felt earlier lingers. And there’s an incessant beeping noise that threatens to drive you crazy. But then you feel it, the weight. The warmth. Someone’s hand tethered to your own.
You whimper and try to shift in the bed to get comfortable, and the hand is suddenly gone. Replaced by the sound of someone calling your name. The voice is familiar, and through the sedation, it takes a minute to catch up with what your heart has already discovered. Jack.
“Jack?” You whisper, squinting.
You watch him sigh. His shoulders drop, and with it, the tightness in your chest eases. Even if you’re still dazed and confused, your body knows that if Jack feels safe, so do you.
“Oh, baby,” He whispers, bringing a hand to your jaw.
You cough, suddenly acutely aware of the dryness in your throat. Instantly, straw is at your lips, ready to deliver the remedy of water. You take a few small sips and lick your lips, head falling back on the pillow. Exhausted.
“Is he okay?” You ask, each moment feels more aware than the one before it.
The room is silent, aside from the monitors keeping track of your vitals. Jack glances down at the floor and gently takes your hand again.
“There was a code silver.” He starts, clearing his throat.
You interrupt, “I know there was. I was there. Did my patient die?”
You see him swallow and look at you. Jack was never one to shy away from the truth. He was always there to tell families the worst news they had to receive, with empathy and a deeper understanding. But for some reason, when it comes to you, he’s stuck. It’s different seeing you in pain. It was his job to try to mitigate that every single time. And here, there was no avoiding it. The damage has already been done.
“Yes,” He says hoarsely, “He died. But you were- “
“What about Janie? Dr. Murphy? Lorelei?” You urge.
A pained look takes over. You’ve seen Jack cry before. Despite everything he’s been through and all of the things he might need to work on, overall, he’s more emotionally regulated than one might expect. He runs a hand down his face, “Janie didn’t make it, Dr. Murphy…has a long road of recovery ahead of her, Lorelei’s just shaken up, but- “
“Fuck.” You whisper, pulling your hand away. You look down at both of them and are acutely aware of the brace that your right arm is in. It completely immobilizes your entire upper arm, but doesn’t stop the throbbing that threatens to overstimulate you.
“You had to have surgery,” Jack starts, “The bullet completely shattered your humeral head, they couldn’t save it. They decided to do a reverse arthroplasty. There was a lot of vascular and nerve damage. It’ll take a lot of rehab...”
You look away from him and bite your lip, trying to will yourself not to cry. Jack’s hand reaches out again, and as much as you want to pull away, you let him.
“Honey, you’re gonna get through this. We’re gonna get through this.” He whispers. And you almost believe it.
A knock at the door draws your attention. You see a doctor at the door. He’s not in scrubs, though, which tells you he must not be so clinical that he deals with patients who are physically ill. It finally clicks that he must be a psychologist or psychiatrist.
Jack sits a little straighter in his chair, but his hand doesn’t leave yours, and you don’t try to pull away again. The doctor introduces himself, and sure enough, he is from the psychiatric department and came to offer support and condolences.
“The hospital is going to require that you complete six weeks of therapy before returning to work. I know your rehab will take longer than that, and I urge you to continue after the minimum, but I wanted to introduce myself so you could start. Whenever you’re ready.” He says kindly.
You agree, hesitantly, and Jack helps you set up an initial appointment. The rest of the day goes similarly. Jack helps you try to piece together everything that happened. Different people from your care team come in to introduce themselves and set up a plan of care for you once you’re discharged. By lunch, you’re practically unwilling to talk to anyone else but Jack.
“I want to go home,” You say finally.
Jack’s brow furrows in concern and quiet recognition, “Baby, they just wanna stay on top of your pain and make sure everything is healing properly.”
“I know that,” You whine, “Can’t they make an exception? I’m a PA. I know how to take care of myself. I even have my own doctor to check in on me at home.”
He chuckles and brushes a strand of hair away from your face, “Get through tonight, and we’ll see about going home in the morning? Okay?”
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.
Jack was right. You do get to go home in the morning, and it was good to stay overnight to keep on top of your pain. You hate that he’s right.
The drive back to your house is filled with jazz music and soft morning light. It’s the playlist Jack likes to put on whenever you’re stressed or overstimulated. You can tell he’s nervous because he keeps trying to subtly steal glances at you the entire fifteen minutes.
“Can I take a shower? Please?” You ask once you get parked.
He gives you a knowing smile, “That’s why I made them put on the waterproof bandage before we left.”
You make your way in and go straight to the bathroom. Jack helps you undress and remove your brace. You’re always shocked when you visit the ER and hear the way people talk about him. They rarely say anything bad, but it’s always about the cold, clinical precision he carries. You never feel that at home. It’s all warm and tender.
The water feels like relief as it rolls down your back. You gently try to wash yourself, and Jack lets you. He understands how important reclaiming your independence is after such a traumatic experience. But he’s never far, always ready to step in when you need it.
And you hate to admit that you do. But he sees it, the small huff of frustration as you try to open the bottle of shampoo you’re holding between your knees with your left hand. The accessible shower is something you’re grateful for now. You silently thank the accessibility it provides you to do more than you otherwise could right now. But when Jack sees the look of helplessness on your face as you try to process how to wash your hair single-handedly, he quietly steps in.
“What do you want me to do, baby?” He asks, still leaving the ball in your court.
You huff, “I can’t open this stupid bottle, and even if I could, I don’t know how I am supposed to wash my hair like this.”
“Okay,” He says, thinking, “I could open the bottle and put the shampoo on your hair, if you still want to try to wash it yourself, or I can do it all for you, baby. You did so good with everything else.”
You let out a restrained sob, “Can you please do it?”
He had gotten prepared as you were washing the rest of your body, removing his prosthetic, and getting his crutches nearby. He got towels ready for both of you, made sure the no-slip mat was secure, and grabbed a change of clothes for when you were done. He opens the shower door more than it had been and turns the showerhead so the water is spraying away from you both.
Once he steps in, leaving his crutches at the door, and taking a seat next to you on the bench, he grabs the showerhead and hands it to you.
“Here, hold on to this,” He mumbles, grabbing the shampoo, balancing between your knees. His hands work the shampoo into your scalp like they have hundreds of times before in moments of a different sort of intimacy. You sigh in relief. The feeling is almost better than the pain medication they discharged you with. Medication can’t bring the closeness you feel with Jack.
Once you are both clean, Jack turns the water off and grabs a towel for you. You start to pat yourself dry as he dries himself off and starts getting your clothes. You see his exhaustion too, the way he leans into his crutches more than usual.
“Jack, baby,” You interrupt.
He pauses, looking at you with worry, “Everything okay? What’s wrong?”
“Sit down.” You say.
He looks confused, “You’re in pain, and tired. Sit down. I can hand you your clothes. I’ll need help with my shirt and brace, but we can do that sitting.”
There’s something unreadable in his expression, but he gives in, sitting back down on the bench with his towel around his waist. You stand up, slowly, still feeling a little weak. You fully open the shower doors and grab Jack’s boxers and shorts and hand them to him. You see, he’s laid out a pair of underwear and one of his sweats for you with a button-up pajama top. Always thoughtful, like he knew a regular shirt would be more trouble than it’s worth, trying to manipulate your arm through a sleeve.
Once Jack has his pants on, he turns to you, helping you get each foot through your underwear, and then the pants’ legs. You’re happy to forget about the option to wear a bra right now. You whimper when Jack helps you extend your arm through the sleeve of your shirt, but he quietly shushes you and places a kiss on your temple when you’re finished. You both sit and breathe for a moment. Taking in the feeling of being clean. The exhaustion it cost to get there.
He takes in a deep breath and blows it out through his mouth, grounding, “Ready for your brace?” He asks.
You nod your head and grab it from the toilet seat, turning your torso so he can help you put it back on. It feels unnatural, the position your arm has to be in, but you know wearing the brace will help you recover with the best possible outcome, so you tolerate it.
When you’re both finished, you get set up in the living room. Jack told HR he needed to take FMLA while you were home recovering. Gloria tried to put up a fight, arguing that leaving Shen to fend for himself would leave the night shift in shambles. He told her to find another attending to cover for him.
Even though PT won’t start for another week or so, you were given instructions for small movements that would help to preserve your range of motion. Jack talks you through them, even when you yell at him to shut up or leave you alone. He stays. He knows how important it was to have someone push him after his amputation. So, even though his heart breaks every time he sees you so hopeless, he pushes you farther.
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.
Recovery is far from linear. There are weeks you are proud of your improvements, and others where everything seems insurmountable. Jack is there every step of the way. A steady assurance that you’re here. You’re trying.
“Ugh! I can’t keep fucking doing this!” You yell after your sixth time trying to hold a spoon.
Jack looks up from across the room. He sees you stand up from your chair by the occupational therapist and start to walk out the door as they call after you. He’s immediately up and following you outside.
“Hey, hey, hey,” He says, carefully placing a hand on your waist to stop you, “Where are you at? What do you need?”
You can feel the tears in your eyes, and you wipe them away as they fall, but it’s no use.
“I can’t do this, Jack! This is impossible! I’m never going to be able to do my job again, that’s like the one thing that matters to me.” You cry.
Jack stays calm. And you hate it. After months of healing and crying and helplessness, he still stays supportive and understanding, and part of you just wishes he could show an ounce of anger because maybe that would give you a wake up call to just move forward.
But if there’s one thing Jack is, it’s honest. Not once throughout this process has he pitied you or lied to you. He’s never given you false promises about your recovery or the future.
“You might not be able to go to surgery.” He admits, “But that doesn’t mean you’re worthless or not competent! At least you’re alive!” He finally raises his voice.
You inhale sharply and purse your lips to keep them from wobbling. And you let yourself grieve. You grieve the person you were before all of this, and the person you’ll never become because of it. You grieve your career, and a life without pain, and a life without anxiety at every sudden sound.
You sob and hide into Jacks chest. He wraps his arms around you as you hang onto him like a lifeline.
“I’m so tired of feeling like I can’t do anything, and like I’m burdening you, Jack I don’t know how you learned to adapt; this is so hard.” You cry.
He puts hand at the nape of your neck and shushes you. You stay like that until you feel like air is something real again. It’s not until Jack feels you physically calm down that he speaks again.
With both hands on either side of your face he makes sure you’re looking at him fully before continuing, “Baby, you have never been a burden. Ever.”
He wipes a few tears from your cheek, “I have been trying so hard to be the person I wish I had in my life after I lost my leg. And I know even that will never be enough to make things better. You’re allowed to be angry because you’re right. You might never get enough strength or dexterity back to work in the OR again. You deserve to grieve that.”
Jack swallows hard like he’s bargaining with someone, and he’s not confident they’ll agree with him, “But that doesn’t mean you can’t transition into a different position. We could use another PA in the ER, you could go into any specialty. Hell, you could start teaching if you wanted. None of this makes you less competent or brilliant.”
He rests his forehead against yours, “I am so sorry you are experiencing this. I love you so much.”
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.
Recovery wasn’t just something you went through. Everything that happened changed Jack too. After an argument one night he decided to quit volunteering for the SWAT team.
You never realized how much guilt Jack carried over the past eight months about the argument that day. But he admitted it to you one night while you both laid in bed after a long day.
“I feel like it’s my fault,” He whispered, “You getting hurt.”
Your heart skipped a beat, “What? Why would any of that be your fault?”
“You picked up that call shift because you knew I was working with the SWAT team that day. There was no reason for you to be there. If I had just listened to you and pulled my head out of my ass….”
He exhaled shakily, “Maybe you’d still be in the OR and not cardiology.”
You turned to look at him, like what he’s said was so absurd that you couldn’t understand why he would say such a thing, “Jack. None of this was your fault. I never blamed you.”
A pause, “And I actually really like cardiology.”
Jack doesn’t smile, you see the maelstrom of emotion behind his eyes. A tear falls down the side of his face.
His resolve cracks, “I couldn’t protect you.”
You frown and curl into his side, wincing as your shoulder catches and tingles with pain, “Baby,” you start, softer this time, “You can’t keep replaying that night in your head trying to search for a different outcome.”
He clenches his jaw and stares at the ceiling, but you feel the trail of his thumb at your waistband.
“I was supposed to protect you.”
“You did,” you say instantly, “You stayed.”
He lets out a choked sound.
“I love you,” he says, voice wrecked.
Your hand twirls one of the curls at the nape of his neck and you press a kiss to his collarbone. And for the first time since that night, Jack closes his eyes. And lets himself grieve instead of feeling guilty.
Summary: When a new resident's comments about your relationship with Jack cause old anxieties to resurface. You start to wonder if your differences in education, age, or money mean you might not be enough for him. In the aftermath of a long shift and the comfort of normalcy, you reveal your fears to Jack, and he reveals some of his too.
Warnings: Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Patient Death Mentioned, Workplace Harassment (Kind of)
Notes: This was barely proofread! Sorry for any mistakes! ♡
╭──────────.★..─╮
Everybody knew Jack Abbot had a wife. The silver band on his ring finger told the whole story. Everybody also knew Jack Abbot‘s wife had died, and the ring that stayed on his finger was something that kept her memory alive.
What most people didn’t know was that Jack Abbot remarried. He met you three years ago at a conference in Pittsburgh about new innovations in cardiac intervention for patients experiencing ST-Elevation Myocardial Infarction.
You were bright, could hold your own, and scrub in to assist some of the toughest cardiologists in Pittsburgh. You also cared deeply about each patient you were helping. Each case you worked on was handled meticulously and thoughtfully.
Rarely did you get to see each other at work. The cath lab operated on scheduled procedures unless it was an emergency. Jack mostly worked nights. After the wedding, you were able to arrange an alternate schedule with your manager that allowed you to work 12-hour shifts to be on call in the evenings on certain days.
So on the occasion there was a patient in the Pitt who needed to be sent up to the cath lab, Jack always made his way up to see you. It wasn’t frequent that you had time to go down to visit him, so most people in the Pitt never knew about you.
Jack liked it that way. Fewer questions, fewer comments. You were his little escape from everything he experienced at work.
New residents always had a learning curve, and sometimes that meant learning how to be a professional. You knew Jack was handsome, and you knew that meant sometimes other people would try to make a move on him. Usually, their interest in him was quelled the minute they saw his wedding band.
That didn’t stop Rachael. She was a fresh grad, someone who apparently couldn’t read the room and understand that no means no.
Jack was charismatic; he knew that. It helped him connect with his patients and build rapport with his students. So at first, when Rachael stuck by his side, he assumed it was because she was eager to learn and thought he was one of the nicer attending physicians.
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.
You make your way down from the cath lab after a hard case. Your patient nearly coded on the table, and the images you got were shit, which meant the cardiologist wasn’t able to visualize which vessel the stent was in, which led to a delay in how quickly the occluded artery was repaired.
You stop by the nutrition room to grab a coffee for you and Jack. When you make your way around the corner to the nurses’ station, you see her. Looking up at him with stars in her eyes, nearly hanging off his arm as she laughs at something he said.
And as much as you’d love to let it bother you, you see Jack. He takes a step back and keeps a friendly smile, but nothing that would encourage her to continue throwing herself at him.
You walk up behind him and hold the coffee in front of his face.
“Thought you might need this,” You tease.
He reaches for the coffee, and you pull it away, forcing him to turn around and look at you.
“Uh uh uh, what’s the password?” You say smiling
He rolls his eyes and puts a hand along your jaw before kissing you. It isn’t passionate or shy, just deliberate.
You pull away and hand him his coffee with a grin.
“Thanks, sweetheart.” He says, hugging your side, “How’s it been up there in the cave?”
You inhale deeply, but as you’re about to answer, Rachael walks up behind him, “Dr. Abbot, I didn’t know you had a girlfriend!” She exclaims, and you can hear the fake enthusiasm in her voice.
“Rachael, this is my wife,” he says as he introduces you. You have never gotten used to the excitement you feel when your name falls off his lips.
Her breath catches only momentarily before she smiles and turns to you, “You also work at the hospital? What kind of doctor are you?”
“Oh, I’m not a doctor,” You say with a laugh, “I’m a rad tech.”
Her head tilts to the side as if she’s evaluating some complex subject. She shakes her head and chuckles, before looking at Jack, “I just didn’t think someone so educated would find a partner in someone with…what is it? An associate’s degree?”
Jack visibly bristles and takes an almost defensive stance in front of you. He opens his mouth to speak before you scoff, “Obviously, it’s not required to have a brain to get a doctorate.”
Jack purses his lips in a small line, trying not to laugh.
“My wife,” He emphasizes, “Is one of the smartest people I know. You’ll quickly learn as a doctor to respect everyone in allied health.”
“Dr….Is it Sievert? Are you planning on staying in emergency medicine? Or do you want to specialize somewhere else?” You ask.
She stammers trying to get her thoughts in order, “I- I- I’m interested in cardiology.”
It’s almost as if the stars aligned just to allow you to be present for this moment alone.
“Cardiology? I’m a tech up in the cath lab!” You say excitedly, “I’ll absolutely tell Dr. Kaur what a pleasure it’s been to speak with you today.”
Her face goes red. She tries to stammer something about not meaning her earlier comment the way it was taken, but Jack interrupts her, “My wife has scrubbed in to more cases than you’ve witnessed in your entire education. She’s one of the main reasons that the lab can operate so that patients survive after hours.”
Your pager beeps, and you look down to see what the call is. “Speaking of, we’ve got a SCAD coming in from another hospital. Got to go. Love you, honey. And Dr. Sievert, I hope I get to see you in the department,” you smirk.
You kiss Jack on the cheek before turning to head up to the lab. The next few hours of your shift are chaotic. The emergency patient from the other hospital ended up being sent up to the OR for open-heart surgery, but the damage from the dissection was too severe. They didn’t make it.
Loss always hits hard, even after years of working, you made sure to keep your empathy. Which meant after shifts like these, all you wanted to do was go home and curl up to Jack and forget about work altogether.
You made your way down from the lab to meet Jack by his locker. In the hallway, you overheard Dr. Sievert talking with some of the other new doctors.
“I just can’t believe someone as smart as him would go for someone without a proper education. Also, she looks like she’s 28; I’m sure she’s only married to him for his money. He could do so much better than her…”
You bite the inside of your cheek and adjust your bag on your shoulder, sneaking past the hallway and into the staff lounge, where Jack is at his locker gathering his things.
Your arm snakes around his, and you rest your head on his shoulder. He can sense something’s off, but now is not the time or place for a moment of intimate comfort. Instead, he squeezes your hand and presses a soft kiss to your temple.
The ride home is too quiet. Normally, after a shift, you play DJ and force Jack to sing along to whatever hyper fixation you have at the time. Tonight, though, you’re resting your head on the window and looking out as the street lights blur by.
Jack’s hand finds home on your thigh, his thumb rubbing soothing circles over your scrubs. A silent anchor, letting you know he’s there.
He sees the distant look on your face and recognizes that this is more than just a bad day at work. Something else is causing the storm of emotion that rolls off you like thunder.
When you’re home, you go through the motions of your routine. Shower, pajamas, skincare, teeth, bed. Jack peppers you with gentle kisses and words of affirmation. His hand stayed glued to your waist.
When you’re finally under the covers, he probes, “Baby, what’s going on?”
You sniffle and curl into his chest, “I just can’t get out of my head.”
His thumb brushes against your shoulder, and he places a soft kiss in your hair, “You don’t have to get out, you can just let me in,” he whispers.
There’s a long pause before either of you speaks again. And you hate that. You hate that it reminds you of just how well Jack knows you, how he’s always been such an intimate and patient partner.
“Does it ever bother you?” You whisper, feeling yourself wanting to pull away. Regretting asking the question before it even passes your lips.
Jack doesn’t stiffen; he stills, “Does ‘what’ ever bother me? Sweetheart, you gotta be a little more direct than that.”
His hand squeezes your shoulder in reassurance. Before you know it, the levee breaks and every anxiety, no matter how insignificant, comes tumbling out.
“I mean, does it bother you that you’re always paying for dinner, or that your name is the one on the deed, or that I don’t have a doctorate. I mean, I never wanted your job, Jack. That’s not who I am. I love my job. But is that enough for you? I mean, am I lacking in some fundamental way? Would you be happier with someone who has the same job? Or someone who was born in the same decade? Or am I just holding you back from something that-“
Jack cradles you to his chest and tucks your head under his chin, “Shh shh shh, baby, just breathe for a sec, okay?”
You don’t realize how worked up you are until it takes a few shaky breaths before your chest finally loosens while Jack gently strokes your hair and counts each breath, “In…two…three…four. Good. Out…two…three…four, just like that.”
There’s a pause, and he pulls away so he can see your face, “You okay?” He murmurs.
“No…” You admit.
He sighs, kisses your forehead, and places a hand on your jaw, making sure that you’re looking at him before he speaks, “First, I love you. I would not have married you if that weren’t true. Second, I don’t care about paying for dinner or the house or contributing more to our bills because you help me out in so many other ways. Third, I work with doctors every day, and their title isn’t what tells me how competent or compassionate they are. Your skill and dedication to your patients and your career have always been enough…baby, you’ve always been enough. How long have you been worried about this?”
Your lower lip wobbles before you speak, and suddenly you’re not only anxious, but also embarrassed, “I mean…people talk, Jack.”
He hums, “You know I used to worry after she died that I wouldn’t find this kind of intimacy again. I definitely didn’t expect it from you. You’re right, people talk, why would an old veteran widower with a missing leg and no hobbies other than putting himself in danger have to offer for a smart, capable woman who could’ve gone for someone younger, less complicated?”
You frown, “Jack, I’ve never once felt like any of those things stopped me from wanting you…”
“I know. You show up every day and remind me. I don’t want you to let some stupid comments from someone who doesn’t even know us make you worry. And if you do worry, I want you to come to me. I’m here to remind you why I chose you. Why I’ll always choose you.” He says.
The sound of an ambulance gets muffled by the window. Birds are chirping outside. The sun is continuing to rise. Tucked away behind blackout curtains and a heavy duvet, lay you and Jack, holding each other and showing up. Again and again.
Summary: Jack teaches you how to drive stick shift. Send tweet.
Warnings: The trauma of learning how to drive manual.
Notes: I wish learning to drive were this fun. It was not. I still stall my car and have nearly ten years of experience. Will not discuss further. Thank you for reading! ♡
╭──────────.★..─╮
Jack grew up driving a stick shift. It was completely normal to him, so when he finally settled down in Pittsburgh and was able to use some of his money for fun, he decided to get a vehicle that reminded him of his youth. Something he remembered riding in with his grandmother on trips to the grocery store. Something classic, uncomplicated.
When the listing for the truck came across his feed, he didn’t have much hope, simply curiosity. The kind of listing you click on out of curiosity more than anything. But after a week, he kept thinking about it, so, he messaged the seller and set up a time to see it in person. After seeing it in person, he saw the potential. The same kind of potential he had learned to see in other things, before he even realized he was doing it.
The kind of potential he had seen in you, when you first met. Now, nearly a year and a half into your relationship, you still hadn’t had the chance to take Jack’s precious 1976 Ford F100. It was simple. A cream colored body with a forest green roof that still looked beautiful despite years of wear. Much like Jack himself.
So, this summer, during the week both of you had taken off for a little vacation to the mountains, you finally asked him to teach you.
“Jack, please,” You whined, “I know how to drive my car, how hard can it really be?”
He glances up at you from the wordsearch in the newspaper he’s currently working on, “Sweetheart, you’re gonna hate it.”
“It’s a car.” You counter.
“No.” He laughs, sipping his coffee, “It’s a truck. With a manual transmission.”
“Don’t you want your fun, sexy, youthful girlfriend to be even more attractive because she knows how to drive stick?” You tease.
But Jack hears the plea in your tone. The yearning to learn, part of it surprises him. He wasn’t aware that you actually had any desire to learn how to drive the truck. He always figured you were just along for the ride.
He sets his mug down and scoots back, patting his lap. You’re immediately sitting down, hanging your legs over his and looking down at him as he plays with your hair.
“You’re serious?” He whispers.
You smile, scrunching your nose in that way Jack has never quite figured out how you do it, because it’s so incredibly you.
“Yes I wanna learn,” You laugh.
He looks at you in the eyes for a brief moment, “Well, okay then, let’s do this.”
You squeal and put both hands on either side of his face as you pull him in for a kiss, “Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!”
Jack squeezes your thigh in response and you feel the smile on his lips as you kiss him.
You stand up and grab the keys from the table, swaying your hips as you dangle them in the air, walking toward the front door of the rental cabin.
Jack shakes his head with a grin, before standing up and following you. He keeps his distance for a moment before sneaking up behind you and putting both hands on your waist as he spins you around and pushes you against the door of the truck.
You’re breathless as you look up at him, biting your lip with excitement.
“You sure you trust me, soldier?” You smirk.
He raises his eyebrows, “Depends on if you can follow my commands.”
“Oh I think you and I both know how good I am at following your commands.”
Jack looks up, the kind of look he gets when you say something to embarrass him in front of strangers. The dear-god-please-help-me kind of look. He leans down and kisses your jaw, while his other hand reaches behind you to grab the door handle and pull it open as he pulls away from you.
“Ladies first.”
You giddily hop into the driver’s seat. The familiar scent of leather wafting through the air. It’s strange being on this side of the bench, you’re so used to it being Jack over here. You normally never hear the end of it from him when you ultimately swing your legs up onto the bench and place them in his lap. He’ll go on and on about how dangerous it is, but ultimately give in as his free hand reaches down to gently massage your feet.
You glance at the space between your assigned seats, the one that belongs to you, and the one that belongs to him. And you know, even after today, this seat will always be his.
“Alright,” Jack starts as he gets settled in the passenger seat, “There’s three main things to think about when driving a manual.”
You snort, “Okay dad.”
Jack glares at you, but it holds no real weight, “I’m serious, this isn’t like your Camry, baby.”
You smile and your shoulders soften, “Okay, okay, go on.”
“Clutch. Gear. Gas. That’s it. The rest is just timing.”
“So it’s exactly like my Camry.” You counter.
He lifts both hands in mock surrender, “If you wanna try to drive it like your Camry, be my guest. It’s not gonna work though.”
You try to turn the key to start the truck. Nothing. You frown, it didn’t even try to turn over. You turn the key again. Still nothing. You look at Jack, only to see him sitting there, arms crossed, with a satisfied smirk on his lips.
“Clutch isn’t in.” He says, it comes out gentler than you expect.
You feel the heat making its way to your cheeks. You take your right foot over to press the clutch down.
“Woah woah woah, baby use your left foot.” He says.
“My dad always taught me-”
“You gotta use both feet for a manual.” Jack explains, “Left foot works the clutch, right foot works the gas and brakes.”
You take a grounding breath and shake out the tension in your shoulders before trying again. Left foot pressing down the clutch, right foot pressing the brake like Jack instructs you. You turn the key and feel the engine roar to life. The familiar growl of the exhaust brings a smile to your face. Without thinking your left foot comes off the clutch and the entire truck jolts as the engine turns off again.
“What happened?” You whine, already frustrated, hands clutching the wheel like the truck itself has personally betrayed you.
“Truck’s in first gear, you let off the clutch without pressing on the gas.” Jack explains, cooly.
“Why does there have to be so many steps?” You grumble before trying again.
The truck successfully starts. This time you leave your feet planted to the floor, keeping the clutch and brake in place, too stubborn to mess up again.
You sigh in relief, “Ok. What next?”
He smiles, “Now, you’re gonna take your right foot and slowly press on the gas as you ease off the clutch.”
You gently press down one foot while lifting the other and feel the engine catch. The truck starts gently rolling forward.
You turn to Jack wide eyed, “Oh my gosh! I did it!”
“Good girl.” He smiles, a hint of pride making its way through.
You look up at the long driveway ahead of you, the truck is only rolling at about 5 miles an hour, but it feels like a success.
“Now,” Jack continues, “If you want to go faster, you’ll hold down the clutch again and shift gears. You’ll bring the gear shift all the way to the left and down.”
You nod your head, biting your lip in concentration. Your left foot makes its move, your right hand tries to bring the gear shift over, and you forget to press on the gas as you let off the clutch. Another lurch brings the truck to a halt. You press down on the break and groan in frustration.
“This is so hard.” You growl, “I literally work in the OR every day doing brain surgery. Brain surgery, Jack. And you’re telling me I can’t drive a stupid truck.”
Jack purses his lips for a moment before responding, “First, don’t call her stupid. Second, you’re doing everything right, baby.”
You stare at him, obviously unimpressed.
He laughs quietly, “It’s just about the timing. It’s like…”
“A dance.” You deadpan, having heard the phrase used in movies with situations much like your own.
“You’re overthinking it, hon,” He tries again, “Think of it like the OR.”
Your eyebrows raised, confused, “Okay. Keep going.”
“When you’re in the middle of a case and you’re assisting whoever else is up there, you have to anticipate their needs right?”
You nod, still listening.
“So you prepare for that. You continue doing what you need, while getting ready for what they need. And when they’re ready, the hand off is clean. Precise.”
“So your precious truck is Dr. Walsh?” You say.
Jack closes his eyes with a laugh, “You’re not just reacting to the truck,” He pushes, “You’re staying ahead of it.”
You take a deep breath. Fingers feeling the leather stitching on the steering wheel. Letting your feet feel the pressure of the pedals. Body adjusting in the seat, ready. And Jack sees it, the fire behind your eyes. The same look he’s seen a million times before you head up to scrub in on a case.
“There she is.” He murmurs.
It sends a jolt of encouragement through you, and the next attempt couldn’t be called steady or confident by any means, but it’s successful. It’s a start.
Jack doesn’t say anything until he assesses the situation and evaluates if you really need the help or not. The small drive around the campgrounds takes almost ten minutes. There are a few stalls here and there, but overall, you’re proud of the little confidence you’ve gained learning to drive an entirely new kind of transmission.
When you finally get back to the cabin, you’re sweating. Not because of the heat, but because of the tension that finally releases from your shoulders after you put the truck in park.
“Ready to drive us home tomorrow?” Jack asks, hopping out of the truck and coming over to your side, helping you down.
For a moment you think he’s being serious.
“Fuck no.” You laugh.
He smiles.
“That’s okay,” He says, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, “I don’t think I’d make a good passenger princess anyway.”
you told jack abbott you didn’t think he could make it a day without flirting with you. obviously, the man disagreed. jack was always one to take you up on a bet, especially when he was convinced he was going to prove you wrong. so, naturally, you made him put money where his mouth was. not that he would really be struggling if he lost. which he would.
because there was no way jack was making it twenty-four hours.
you even got the rest of the pitt involved. somehow, within an hour, everyone knew about the bet and everyone had picked a side. most people were on yours. which honestly wasn’t surprising. everyone had seen the way jack was with you. most mornings, he greeted you with a hug from behind and some cheesy comment about how much he appreciated you. he always found an excuse to make you laugh. he remembered the little things you mentioned in passing. he flirted with you so often that people barely even noticed anymore. it was just jack.
there were a few people who sided with him, though. robby being one of them. you assumed it was just bro code. jack probably wouldn’t forgive him if he didn’t side with his best friend. although, you were pretty sure even robby knew jack was going to lose.
because jack abbott could pretend all he wanted. but the man was incapable of not flirting with you.
