Hi! I'm Tallinn, I'm 25, and I currently write for Jack Abbot, Baelor Targaryen, and Dean Winchester. I used to write for Bucky Barnes but am taking a break; we'll see how I feel after Doomsday.
At this time, I don't write smut as I'm asexual and don't really feel comfortable, nor confident in my abilities to do so. There may be some mild sexual content in my series, however, and because I am an adult writing for adults, this blog is still going to be 18+ so minors DNI!
You are responsible for your own content consumption!
Summary: Jack Abbot’s wife has tequila, a grievance, and the full support of the worst possible group of coworkers. Jack has one arm around her waist, a glass of water, and absolutely no intention of letting her get into a bar fight.
Warnings: established relationship, married Jack and reader, drunk/tipsy reader, bar confrontation, jealousy/possessiveness in a funny married way, body insecurity, brief rude comment from another woman, Jack being very husbandly, emotional reassurance, lots of teasing, language, no use of Y/N
Author’s Note: This was the fic leading the poll, which apparently means we are all deeply committed to a drunk feral wife reader and Jack Abbot performing husband-level crisis management in a bar. Honestly? Excellent choice. This one is chaotic, ridiculous, deeply married, and then softer than expected because Jack Abbot remains a menace to my emotional stability. Hydrated justice is still justice.
Xoxo, Del
The thing about Jack Abbot was that he never seemed to understand the effect he had on people.
Or maybe he did understand and simply chose to ignore it, which was honestly worse.
He stood at the bar between Robby and Shen, one elbow resting against the worn wood, his dark shirt rolled at the forearms, his wedding ring catching every now and then in the low amber light when he lifted his glass. He looked unfairly good. Relaxed in that very Jack way, which meant not actually relaxed to anyone who did not know him, but relaxed enough that his shoulders were not squared for battle and his mouth had softened around the edges.
You knew that mouth. You liked that mouth. You were trying very hard not to stare at it from across the room.
“You’re up,” Santos said.
You blinked and looked at the dart she was holding out to you. “I know.”
Santos’s brow furrowed. “You were not looking at the board.”
“I was assessing the room,” you corrected her.
“You were assessing your husband,” Santos shot back.
Mel leaned against the small high-top beside the dartboard, her drink untouched in her hand and her face carefully neutral in a way that meant she was absolutely entertained.
Ellis grinned. “To be fair, her husband is assessing her back.”
You glanced toward the bar. Jack was looking at you. Caught, he did not even bother pretending he had not been. He simply lifted his glass slightly, the corner of his mouth moving into something small and private and yours. Your stomach did something ridiculous.
“Disgusting,” Santos said. “He’s obsessed with you.”
You rolled your eyes. “He is not.”
“He is,” Mel said.
You looked at her. “You’re supposed to be the reasonable one.”
Mel shrugged. “I am being reasonable.”
Ellis nodded toward Jack. “Reasonably obsessed.”
You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling when you turned back toward the dartboard. The bar was warm and loud around you, all low music and clinking glasses and off-shift laughter. You had tequila in your bloodstream, your favorite boots on, and your husband looking at you like he was still pleased to find you in every room.
It was a good night. You should have known better than to trust that. You threw your dart. It hit the board. Not where you had aimed, exactly, but on the board, which you felt deserved recognition.
Santos squinted. “Bold strategy.”
You shrugged. “It landed.”
“Barely,” Santos replied.
You reached for your drink, laughing, and that was when you saw her. She approached Jack from his left, all loose hair and sharp smile, sliding into the empty space near the bar as if she belonged there. At first, nothing in you moved. People talked to Jack. People looked at Jack. You were not new to being married to a man who drew attention without trying.
Then she touched his arm. Not a brush. Not an accident. Her fingers landed on his forearm, right below the rolled sleeve of his shirt, and she laughed up at him like she had said something clever enough to deserve contact.
Your smile died.
Santos followed your gaze. “Uh-oh.”
Mel turned. “What?”
Ellis straightened. “Oh. She saw something.”
At the bar, Jack shifted away immediately. It was subtle. A half step back, his arm moving out from under her touch, his glass switching hands so his left came into view. The ring flashed under the bar lights.
Good man.
The woman leaned closer.
You inhaled sharply.
Santos grinned. “Oh, I know that face.”
Mel looked between you and the bar. “Maybe we just let Jack handle it.”
You set your drink on the high-top without looking away from the bar. “I am letting Jack handle it.”
Santos looked down at the glass, then back at your face. “You put your drink down like you were preparing for combat.”
“I’m just observing,” you said.
Ellis took a slow sip of his beer. “That is the least reassuring thing you could have said.”
Across the room, Jack’s expression had gone polite in the way that meant the conversation was already over for him. Robby, beside him, had noticed too. Shen had turned his head, brows raised slightly, watching with the same calm interest he usually brought to terrible triage decisions.
The woman said something you could not hear. Jack shook his head once.
Then he lifted his left hand slightly, not waving it around, not making a production of it, just enough to show the ring. Your ring. Well. His ring. The ring you had put on his finger.
The woman glanced at it. You expected her to back off. She did not. Instead, she smiled wider.
Oh, absolutely not. You started walking.
“Here we go,” Santos said, immediately falling into step behind you.
Mel sighed. “Santos.”
Santos lifted both hands. “What? I’m supervising.”
Ellis followed too, because apparently nobody in your group had ever met a bad decision they didn't want a front-row seat to.
Jack saw you coming before you got halfway across the bar. His face changed. Not much. But enough. His eyes went from the woman to you, and something in his expression softened for half a second before sharpening again with warning. ‘Baby, do not,’ that look said.
Unfortunately, tequila had made you immune to silent husband warnings. You slid in beside him and put a hand against his chest, smiling brightly enough to hurt your own face. “Hi.”
Jack’s hand came automatically to your waist. “Hi.” His voice was low. Careful.
You ignored that, too.
The woman looked you over. Actually looked you over, from your hair to your shoes and back again, slow enough that you felt every inch of it.
Jack’s fingers tightened once at your waist. “This is my wife,” he said.
There was no hesitation in it. No apology. No reluctance. My wife. Usually, that did something lovely to you. Right then, it mostly made you want to bare your teeth.
The woman’s smile went thin. “Oh.”
You smiled back. “Yeah. Oh.”
Jack’s thumb pressed lightly into your side. Warning number two.
The woman glanced at Jack, then back at you. “You’re his wife?”
Santos made a tiny sound behind you.
Jack’s jaw shifted. “Yes.”
The woman gave a little laugh, airy and mean around the edges. “Huh. I wouldn’t have guessed you were his type.”
For one second, everything went very still. The bar noise blurred. Your smile stayed exactly where it was. Jack’s hand went tense at your waist.
Robby muttered, “Oh, shit.”
You tilted your head. “Oh, sweetie.”
Jack moved immediately. His arm came around your waist before you made it one full step forward. “Nope,” he said.
You kept your smile fixed on the woman. “Jack.”
Jack’s hold stayed firm. “No.”
You did not look away from the woman. “I just want to talk to her.”
Jack tightened his hold and took one step back, bringing you with him. “You absolutely do not.”
You tried to plant your feet. “I do.”
Jack shifted his body between you and the woman. “You do not.”
You finally looked up at him. “She said something rude.”
Jack looked down at you. “I heard her.”
You pointed past his shoulder. “Then let me respond.”
Jack caught your wrist and lowered your hand. “No.”
You blinked at him. “Jack.”
Jack’s face stayed calm. “Baby.”
You narrowed your eyes. “I can be civil.”
Jack glanced toward the woman, then back at you. “You said ‘oh, sweetie.’”
You lifted your chin. “That was civil.”
Jack started backing you away from the bar. “That was a warning shot.”
The woman’s mouth twitched like she thought this was funny. That was her mistake.
You tried to step around Jack. Jack stepped with you, broad shoulders cutting off your path like an exceptionally attractive barricade.
“Jack,” you said, still sweetly. “Move.”
Jack did not move. “No.”
You tried to look around his shoulder. “I can take her.”
Jack’s arm tightened around your waist. “That is exactly why we’re leaving.”
You looked up at him. “I didn’t say I was going to hit her.”
Jack started walking you backward from the bar. “You said you could take her.”
You planted one hand against his chest, trying to slow him down. “I was making an observation.”
Jack looked down at you. “You were making a threat.”
You pointed past him toward the woman. “I was making a promise.”
Jack caught your hand and lowered it. “That is worse.”
His arm tightened around your middle. Not hard. Not rough. Just firm enough to turn you away from the woman and start guiding you back across the bar. Your feet were still very much on the floor, but forward motion had become nonnegotiable in the way it did when Jack decided someone was leaving a situation.
Unfortunately for him, you were not done with the situation.
“Jack Abbot,” you said, twisting in his hold.
Jack kept his arm firm around your waist. “No.”
You tried to pull against him. “Let me go.”
Jack guided you another step away. “No.”
You glared at the woman over his shoulder. “She started it.”
Jack said, “I know.”
That stopped you for half a second. Jack glanced down at you, jaw tight, eyes fixed ahead as he steered you away from the bar. “I know, baby. And I’m handling it by not letting my wife get thrown out of a bar.”
“I would not get thrown out,” you said, still trying to twist enough to look back at the bar.
Jack kept walking you backward toward the table. “You absolutely would.”
You huffed. “I would be elegant.”
Jack looked at you. “You are attempting to fight me in public.”
“I’m not fighting you,” you said, bracing one hand against his chest. “I’m attempting to pursue justice.”
Jack caught your hand against his shirt before you could use him for leverage. “You are attempting to pursue a misdemeanor.”
You looked up at him, offended. “That is a very cynical interpretation.”
“That is a very sober interpretation,” Jack countered.
You glared at him. “I don’t like your tone.”
Jack’s mouth twitched. “I know.”
From behind you, Santos cupped her hands around her mouth. “Kick her ass!”
Shen lifted his glass from the bar. “You could take her.”
Robby nodded solemnly. “I’ve seen her angry. My money’s on your wife.”
Jack stopped walking just long enough to turn his head. “Do not,” he said, voice flat, “encourage my wife to get into a bar fight.”
Santos pointed at you. “She has passion.”
Jack looked back at Santos. “She has tequila.”
“I have justice,” you snapped.
Jack looked down at you. You looked up at him, furious and flushed and trying very hard to lean around his body. For one dangerous second, his mouth twitched. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered, and hauled you the last few steps toward the table.
“I heard support,” you said, pointing back toward Robby and Shen. “This encouragement means I should do it.”
“That is not what that means,” Jack said, still steering you toward the booth.
You pointed toward Robby, Shen, and Santos with great conviction. “It is when it’s unanimous.”
Jack looked down at you. “It is not unanimous.”
You twisted in his hold and looked toward Mel, who had followed at a much calmer pace and now stood near the edge of the table with one eyebrow raised.
“Mel?” you asked.
Mel took a slow breath. “I abstain.”
You gasped. “Coward.”
Mel lifted her drink. “Alive coward.”
Santos slid into the booth, delighted. “For the record, I did not abstain.”
“For the record,” Jack said, easing you down into the booth, “nobody asked.”
Santos slid into the opposite side of the booth and lifted her brows. “You should ask more often. I have good instincts.”
Jack kept one hand at your waist until you were fully seated. “You told my wife to kick someone’s ass.”
Santos leaned back against the booth, completely unbothered. “And I stand by it.”
Jack looked at her for a long second. “That is not helping your case.”
“It was never my case,” Santos said. “It was justice’s case.”
Jack exhaled through his nose and turned back to you. Apparently deciding you still looked like a flight risk, he stayed standing in front of the booth, his body blocking your view of the bar.
You craned your neck around him. “You’re in my way.”
Jack did not move. “I know.”
You leaned the other direction. “I can’t see her.”
Jack kept his body planted in front of you. “That is also on purpose.”
You looked up at him, indignant. “I need to know if she’s looking over here.”
Jack stared down at you. “You do not.”
“I do,” you said.
“You don’t,” Jack said.
You said his name like a warning. “Jack.”
Jack answered in the same tone. “Baby.”
You narrowed your eyes at him.
He stared back, calm and immovable and far too handsome for a man interfering with justice. Then Jack looked toward Mel. “Watch her.”
Mel blinked. “Me?”
Jack looked at Mel. “You’re the only one here I trust not to encourage her.”
Santos pressed a hand to her chest. “Wow.”
Ellis lifted his beer. “Accurate, though.”
You crossed your arms. “I don’t need watching.”
Jack looked down at you. “You tried to circle me like a raccoon with a grievance.”
“A wife with a grievance,” you corrected.
“That too,” Jack said. He pointed at Mel again. “Watch her.”
Mel sighed and slid into the booth beside you. “I’ll do my best.”
Jack nodded toward Santos and Ellis. “Do better than them. Low bar.”
Santos pressed a hand to her chest again. “I am being slandered.”
Jack looked at her. “You are being quoted.”
Santos smiled. “Still feels hostile.”
Jack turned back to you. “Baby, please stay here while I get you water.”
You narrowed your eyes. “That sounded bossy.”
“That was me asking nicely,” Jack said.
“No, it wasn’t,” you said.
Jack leaned down just enough for his voice to drop. “Baby, please stay here while I get you water.”
You stared at him. He stared back. “Fine,” you muttered. “But only because you said please.”
Jack’s mouth twitched. “Noted.”
He walked away before you could respond, heading back to the bar with the measured calm of a man who had removed many people from dangerous situations and was only mildly surprised one of them had turned out to be his wife.
The second he was gone, you leaned to look around Mel. Mel said your name. You froze. “What?”
“Don’t,” Mel said.
“I’m observing,” you said.
Mel angled her body slightly, blocking your line of sight. “You are rotating like a security camera.”
“I have to maintain visual,” you said.
Mel gave you a look. “No. You have to sit here and not get arrested.”
You frowned at her. “I wasn’t going to get arrested.”
Santos leaned over the table. “You were at least going to get escorted out.”
“Elegantly,” you said.
Mel’s expression did not change. “That does not make it better.”
Before you could argue, Robby and Shen reached the table, both of them looking far too entertained for men who had allegedly taken an oath to do no harm.
Robby dropped into the chair across from you. “I want to be clear. I support you.”
Mel pointed at him immediately. “No.”
Robby looked at her. “What?”
“Abbot put me in charge,” Mel said.
Shen slid into the chair beside Robby and lifted his glass. “For what it’s worth, I also think she could take her.”
Mel closed her eyes. “This is exactly why he asked me.”
You pointed across the table. “This encouragement means I should do it.”
Mel opened her eyes. “It does not.”
You looked at Robby, then Shen, then Santos. “It does when it’s unanimous.”
Mel shook her head. “It is not unanimous.”
You looked at her.
Mel lifted her drink. “I still abstain.”
You gasped. “Still cowardly.”
Mel lifted her chin. “Still alive.”
Robby leaned back in his chair, deeply pleased with the evening. “I feel like democracy is happening.”
Mel turned toward him. “Democracy is not happening.”
Santos lifted her glass. “Hydrated justice is still justice.”
You looked at your empty hands. “I don’t have water yet.”
Santos nodded solemnly. “Pre-hydrated justice.”
Mel looked at Santos. “You are not helping.”
Santos smiled. “I rarely do.”
Jack returned with a glass of water before the table could deteriorate any further. He set the water in front of you. “Drink.”
You looked at the glass, then up at him. “Is this because you think I’m drunk?”
“This is because I know you’re drunk,” Jack said.
You lifted your chin. “I’m emotionally lucid.”
Jack looked pointedly at the water. “You said you had justice.”
“I do have justice,” you said.
Jack nudged the glass closer. “Drink the water.”
You stared at him for another second. Jack did not move. Fine. You picked up the glass and took a sip with as much dignity as you could manage under the circumstances.
Jack watched until you swallowed. “Good.”
You lowered the glass slowly. “Don’t use your attending voice on me.”
Jack said, “Then stop acting like a patient elopement risk.”
Robby choked on his drink. Shen looked down, his shoulders shaking.
You turned to Jack. “I am not a patient elopement risk.”
Jack sat beside you, close enough that his thigh pressed against yours. “You tried to leave the table before I made it three steps away.”
You looked at him. “To pursue justice.”
Jack looked back at you. “To start a fight.”
You lifted your chin. “Allegedly.”
Santos raised her glass. “Hydrated justice is still justice.”
Jack pointed at her without looking away from you. “Do not help.”
Santos lowered her glass, but she did not look sorry.
You took another drink of water, mostly because your mouth was dry and not because Jack told you to. Across the bar, the woman looked over. You saw her over Jack’s shoulder. She looked away too slowly.
Jack turned away for one second. One second. That was all you needed.
You looked directly across the bar and lifted your middle finger with the solemn conviction of a woman defending sacred vows.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Jack muttered, catching your hand and lowering it.
You looked at him. “What?”
“You know what,” Jack said.
You pointed your water glass toward the bar. “She looked over here.”
Jack kept your hand in his. “And you chose diplomacy?”
“I chose communication,” you said.
Santos raised her glass again. “Clear communication.”
Jack pointed at her. “Enough.”
You picked up your water and took a deeply dignified sip. “I’m being mature now,” you said.
Jack looked at your hand, still loosely held in his. “You just flipped off a woman in a bar.”
“And now I’m drinking water,” you said. “People grow.”
For a second, Jack just stared at you. Then his mouth betrayed him. Not a full smile. Not in front of everyone. But enough that the tension in your chest loosened a little around the edges.
“There she is,” Robby said. “Growth.”
Jack gave him a look. “You’re one sentence away from walking home.”
Robby lifted both hands. “I support the institution of marriage.”
Jack looked at Robby. “You support chaos.”
Robby nodded. “I contain multitudes.”
You leaned back against the booth, still hot with tequila and humiliation and anger you refused to examine too closely. The woman’s words kept circling the back of your mind, no matter how many times you tried to shove them down. I wouldn’t have guessed you were his type.
Stupid.
It was stupid.
You knew Jack loved you. You knew he was faithful. You knew the woman at the bar was nobody.
But the way she had looked at you had gone under your skin anyway.
Like you were surprising.
Like you were funny.
Like she had seen Jack, then seen you, and found the math wrong.
You took another sip of water.
Jack’s thumb moved once over the inside of your wrist. Small. Private. Grounding.
“You okay?” Jack asked quietly.
You kept your eyes on the glass of water. “I’m mad.”
Jack’s voice stayed soft. “I know.”
Your throat tightened, which was rude and unnecessary and probably the tequila’s fault. At the other side of the table, Santos had started arguing with Ellis about dartboard rules. Robby and Shen had fallen into a side conversation about whether Jack would actually make Robby walk home. Mel’s gaze flicked briefly to you, then away again, giving you the dignity of pretending she had not noticed anything change.
Jack’s hand stayed around yours. Across the bar, the woman was no longer looking over. Good. Fine. You had won. Probably.
You leaned a little closer to Jack despite yourself, your shoulder brushing his arm. “I could’ve taken her,” you muttered.
Jack looked down at you. This time, he did smile. Small. Soft. Yours. “I know,” he said.
You frowned. “Then why’d you stop me?”
His thumb moved again, slow over your wrist. “Because I like being married to you outside of county lockup,” Jack said.
Santos lifted her glass without missing a beat. “Coward.”
Jack did not look away from you. “A married coward,” Jack said.
You wanted to stay mad at him. You really did. But his hand was warm around yours, and his ring was pressed against your skin, and he was looking at you like there was not another woman in the room. Not really. Not to him. So you took another drink of water. Under protest. Obviously.
The cold air outside the bar did not make you less mad. It did, unfortunately, make you more aware that Jack had his hand warm and steady at the small of your back, guiding you toward the car like you were precious cargo with a known history of trying to commit public disturbances.
“I could’ve taken her,” you said.
Jack unlocked the car. “I know.”
You looked at him suspiciously. “You keep saying that like you’re humoring me.”
Jack opened the passenger door and looked down at you. “I am humoring you.”
You frowned. “Rude.”
“Accurate,” Jack said.
You crossed your arms. “She was mean first.”
Jack’s expression changed. Not much. It never took much with him. His humor softened at the edges, and his hand moved from your back to your waist. “I know,” he said.
The quieter version of it made something in your chest pull tight. You looked away first. Across the parking lot, Santos whooped from somewhere behind you.
“Justice!” Santos called.
Jack closed his eyes for half a second.
Robby’s voice followed. “Hydrate and regroup!”
Shen added, “Solid effort!”
Mel said something too low for you to hear, but it sounded like a warning. Ellis laughed.
You lifted one hand in their direction without turning around. “Thank you for your service.”
Jack caught your wrist gently before you could do anything else with your fingers. “No more gestures.”
Your brow furrowed. “I was waving.”
Jack’s mouth twitched. That should not have warmed you. It did anyway. Jack helped you into the passenger seat without making a production of it. He waited until your legs were inside before he leaned across you for the seat belt.
“I can do that,” you said.
Jack paused with the belt in his hand. “Can you?”
You looked down at the seat belt. It was, admittedly, farther away than it should have been. “I was about to.”
Jack’s eyes flicked to yours. “I’m sure.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Patronizing.”
“Married,” Jack said.
“That is not a defense.”
Jack shrugged. “It is in this case.”
He drew the belt across your lap, careful not to jostle you, then clicked it into place. His hand lingered for half a second at your hip before he pulled back. You hated how much you noticed.
Jack straightened, one hand braced on the open door. “Comfortable?”
You looked at him. “I was more comfortable before justice was interrupted.”
Jack stared at you for a second. Then his mouth betrayed him again. Small. Soft. A little tired. “My mistake,” he said.
You leaned back against the seat. “It was.”
He shut the door before you could say anything else. Through the windshield, you watched him walk around the front of the car. He moved with that steady, slightly uneven gait you loved and pretended not to watch too closely in public. Even after all these years, even after marriage, even after seeing him half-asleep in your kitchen and shirtless in your bathroom and grumpy with morning coffee, the sight of him still made something in you go quiet.
The woman at the bar had looked at him and seen the obvious things.
The broad shoulders. The scarred hands. The silver-threaded hair. The wedding ring she had ignored until he made her see it. Then she had looked at you.
Huh. I wouldn’t have guessed you were his type.
You swallowed and turned your face toward the window.
Jack got into the driver’s seat. He closed the door. For a moment, neither of you moved. Then Jack started the car. The engine hummed low beneath the silence.
You watched the bar lights smear across the passenger window. “I’m not drunk.”
Jack glanced at you. “No?”
“I’m less drunk,” you amended.
Jack almost smiled. “That I’ll give you.”
You nodded once, satisfied. “Good.”
Jack pulled out of the parking lot. “You’re still not fighting anyone.”
“I didn’t say I wanted to fight her,” you grumbled.
Jack looked over at you.
You kept your eyes on the window. “Recently.”
Jack’s hand settled on the gearshift. “That’s progress.”
You sat a little straighter. “I’m growing.”
Jack kept his eyes on the road. “You did tell me people grow.”
You pressed your lips together, trying not to smile.
The silence that followed was softer. Not awkward. Just full. You watched the city pass in little pieces of light and dark. Streetlamps. Closed storefronts. Wet pavement from rain earlier in the evening. Your own reflection in the window, softened by alcohol and tiredness and the makeup you had put on because you had wanted to feel pretty tonight.
You had felt pretty tonight.
Before.
That annoyed you most. The fact that one stranger with one mean little sentence had managed to get under something you had thought was steadier than that.
Jack turned down the radio until it was barely more than a murmur. He kept his eyes on the road. “You’re quiet.”
You leaned your forehead lightly against the window. “I’m reflecting.”
Jack’s voice stayed dry. “That sounds dangerous.”
You nodded once. “It is. I’m very deep.”
Jack glanced over. “I know.”
You looked over at him. “You do?”
Jack glanced at you, then back at the road. “You told me once during a migraine that you had the soul of a Victorian ghost and the knees of a haunted rocking chair.”
You stared at him. Jack kept driving.
“I was vulnerable,” you said.
You looked back out the window. The humor helped. It did not fix the thing underneath. For a few minutes, you let the quiet sit between you. Jack did not push. He never pushed when you went quiet. He just stayed there, one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the center console, close enough that you could reach him if you wanted to. You did want to. You did not move.
Jack pulled into your driveway and put the car in park. The porch light was on. Home. Safe.
That made the ache worse somehow.
Jack turned off the engine, then looked over at you. “Ready?”
You unbuckled your seat belt. “I can walk.”
Jack’s brows lifted slightly. “Did I say you couldn’t?”
“You were thinking it,” you shot back.
Jack shrugged. “I was thinking the front step is uneven.”
You opened the door. “That is suspiciously practical.”
Jack came around the car. “That is usually what I am.”
You stepped out of the car and immediately had to catch yourself on the doorframe because the world tilted just enough to be disrespectful. Jack was there before you could pretend it had not happened. His hand settled at your waist.
You looked up at him. “Don’t.”
Jack’s face stayed calm. “Don’t what?”
You looked up at him. “Be smug.”
Jack kept a steady hand on your waist. “I’m not smug.”
“You are internally smug,” you replied.
Jack’s mouth tilted in a grin. “I’m internally relieved I didn’t let you start a bar fight.”
You pointed at him. “See? Smug.”
Jack closed the car door behind you and guided you toward the house. “Come on.”
You let him. Not because you needed the help. Not entirely. His hand at your waist was warm and familiar. His body moved close beside yours, steadying you without making it a thing. The whole night had been loud and ridiculous and humiliating, but Jack’s touch had never once made you feel foolish. That was also annoying. At the front step, your shoe caught slightly.
Jack’s hand tightened at your waist before you could stumble. You froze for half a second, then looked down at the porch.
Jack followed your gaze. “Step.”
You sighed. “I saw it.”
“I know,” Jack said.
You glanced up at him. “Don’t.”
Jack’s mouth barely moved. “I’m not.”
He did not tease you. He did not make it a thing. He just kept his hand steady at your waist while you found your keys and unlocked the door. Jack shut the door behind you, and the house went quiet around you.
The kind of quiet that came after a night out. Shoes by the door. Keys in the bowl. The soft hum of the refrigerator. Your reflection in the dark front window, a little rumpled, a little flushed, still wearing the lipstick you had thought looked good before some stranger made you feel like a punchline. You stood there for one second too long. Jack noticed. Of course he did.
He moved past you gently and turned on the lamp by the couch. Warm light filled the living room, softening the edges of everything. “Come here,” Jack said.
You looked at him. “That sounded bossy.”
Jack’s voice softened. “That was me asking you to sit down before you decide the lamp looked at you wrong.”
Despite yourself, your mouth twitched.
Jack saw it. His expression eased a little. “There she is.”
You looked away before your face could do anything worse. “I’m still mad,” you said.
Jack waited beside the couch, one hand held out, palm open. “I know.”
You looked down at his hand. He did not push. He did not reach for you. He just stood there, steady and patient and Jack, giving you the choice even though you both knew he would catch you if you stumbled.
After a second, you took his hand. Jack helped you sit on the couch, careful without making a show of it.
“I can sit by myself,” you said.
Jack’s thumb brushed once over your knuckles before he let go. “I know.”
You narrowed your eyes at him. “You’re doing that thing.”
Jack moved toward the kitchen. “What thing?”
“The thing where you agree with me and still act like I need supervision,” you said.
Jack disappeared around the corner. “You flipped off a woman in a bar.”
You leaned back against the couch. “That was communication.”
From the kitchen, Jack’s voice stayed dry. “That was evidence.”
You crossed your arms. “I was very clear.”
The cabinet opened. The sink turned on. Jack came back a moment later with a glass of water in one hand.
He set it on the coffee table in front of you. “Drink.”
You looked at the glass, then up at him. “Again?”
Jack lowered himself onto the coffee table across from you. “Again.”
You reached for the water. “You are very committed to hydration.”
Jack watched you take a sip. “You are very committed to being difficult.”
You swallowed and lowered the glass. “Marriage is about balance.”
Jack’s mouth twitched. “Apparently.”
You leaned forward and started working on the zipper of your boot.
It did not cooperate. You frowned at it. The zipper remained unmoved. “Traitor,” you muttered.
Jack’s gaze dropped to the boot. “Need help?”
You sat back immediately. “No.”
Jack lifted both hands slightly. “Okay.”
You tried the zipper again. It stuck. Jack said nothing.
You glared at the boot. “This is not about you.”
Jack looked up at you. “I didn’t say it was.”
“You were thinking it,” you said.
Jack’s eyes moved briefly to the stuck zipper. “I was thinking you’re arguing with your boot.”
You looked up at him. “You are not emotionally supportive.”
Jack held out his hand. “Give me your foot.”
You hesitated for one second too long. Jack’s voice softened. “Baby.”
The fight went out of you in a way you hated. You lifted your foot. Jack took your ankle carefully, his thumb resting against the inside bone like he had done this a hundred times. He worked the zipper down without fuss, then eased the boot off and set it beside the couch.
He looked back at you. “Other one.”
You gave him the other foot. This zipper cooperated because apparently everyone respected Jack more than they respected you.
Jack set the second boot beside the first. “There.”
You looked down at your socked feet. “I had it.”
Jack’s hands rested lightly around your ankle for one more second before he let go. “I know.”
You looked at him.
Jack’s gaze stayed steady. “I know.”
That did it. Not dramatically. Not all at once.
But something in your chest cracked open just enough for the hurt to breathe. You looked away from him and reached for the water. Jack stayed where he was, sitting on the coffee table in front of you, close but not crowding.
You took a sip. Then another.
Jack waited. That was worse than him asking.
Finally, you lowered the glass. “I know it was stupid,” you said.
Jack’s gaze stayed on your face. “What was?”
You rubbed at your cheek, and your thumb came away with a faint smudge of mascara. “Getting mad.”
Jack’s answer came immediately. “I don’t think it was stupid.”
You huffed once. “Jack.”
Jack leaned forward slightly, his forearms resting on his knees. “I think you were drunk.”
You gave him a look. “Helpful.”
Jack’s mouth barely moved. “And mad.”
“Also helpful,” you said.
Jack’s expression softened, but his eyes stayed serious. “And I think she hit something she meant to hit.”
You looked down at the water glass in your hands. That was the worst part. He knew. Of course he knew.
You swallowed. The room felt too quiet now. The bar had been easier. The noise had given you somewhere to hide. The tequila had given you a costume to wear. Feral wife. Angry wife. Wife with justice. Wife who could take her.
Here, you were just yourself. Socked feet. Smudged makeup. Too sober to be funny and not sober enough to pretend. You traced your thumb along the side of the glass. “She looked like someone people expect you to be with.”
Jack went very still.
You hated saying it.
You hated how small it made you feel after all that noise and swagger and fury.
You kept your eyes on the glass. “And then she looked at me like…”
Jack did not interrupt.
You pressed your lips together, then tried again. “Like I was the punchline.”
Jack’s face changed. The humor was gone now. All of it.
“Baby,” Jack said.
You shook your head. “I know you love me.”
Jack’s answer came without hesitation. “I do.”
“I know,” you said quickly.
Jack stayed still in front of you.
You gripped the glass a little tighter. “I know that.”
Jack nodded once. “Okay.”
You looked down at your lap. “I’m not saying I don’t know.”
Jack’s voice stayed gentle. “I know.”
You blinked hard. “But for one second, I just—”
Your voice broke off.
A small, humorless laugh slipped out before you could stop it.
Jack’s hand moved to your knee, warm and steady. “For one second, what?”
You stared at your lap. “I saw what she saw.”
Jack’s jaw tightened.
Not at you.
Never at you.
But something cold moved through his face, and for one second you saw the version of him that had looked back at the woman in the bar. The version who had not let you turn around because he knew exactly how badly you wanted to.
Then his hand softened on your knee. “Look at me,” Jack said.
You shook your head. “Jack.”
Jack’s voice lowered. “Baby, look at me.”
You did. Reluctantly.
His face was serious now. No teasing. No dry amusement. Just Jack, steady and devastating and yours.
“She doesn’t know what I see,” Jack said.
Your throat tightened. “Jack—”
“No,” Jack said, gentle but firm.
His hand found yours, and his thumb moved over your wedding ring. “She doesn’t know my type,” Jack said.
You looked down at his thumb on your ring.
Jack’s voice stayed steady. “She doesn’t know my wife.”
Your eyes burned.
Jack held your hand carefully. “She doesn’t know the first fucking thing about what I want.”
You swallowed. “And what do you want?”
Jack’s answer came immediately. “You.”
You breathed in shakily.
Jack did not look away. “Not because you’re my wife.”
Your fingers tightened around his.
Jack’s thumb moved once over your ring. “Not because I’m supposed to say it.”
You blinked hard.
“You,” Jack said. “In every room. At every bar. In front of every woman stupid enough to think she has a chance because she caught me before I said the word wife.”
A tear slipped down your cheek.
Jack caught it with his thumb, his expression softening in a way that made it worse.
“There is not a single version of my life where I look past you,” Jack said.
You tried to breathe around that.
It came out uneven.
Jack shifted closer, moving from the coffee table to the couch beside you. He did not pull you into him right away. He waited until you leaned first.
So you leaned.
Jack wrapped his arm around you and tucked you against his chest.
You let yourself go there.
Because it was Jack.
Because it was home.
Because the anger had done its job and left you with the soft thing underneath.
His hand moved slowly over your back.
You pressed your face into his shirt. “I still could’ve taken her.”
Jack’s chest moved under your cheek. A laugh. Small and helpless.
Jack said, “I know.”
You sniffed. “You stopped me because you hate feminism.”
Jack pressed his mouth to your hair. “I stopped you because I like not bailing my wife out of jail.”
You closed your eyes. “Coward.”
Jack said, “Your coward.”
You smiled against his shirt despite yourself. Then you pulled back enough to look at him.
Jack’s hand moved to your face, thumb brushing beneath your eye where the mascara had smudged.
“You good?” Jack asked.
You nodded. Then you shook your head. Then you made a vague noise that meant absolutely nothing.
Jack’s mouth softened. “That clear, huh?”
You leaned your cheek into his palm. “I’m getting there.”
Jack reached for the water glass on the coffee table. “Drink more water.”
You looked at him. “Was that attending voice again?”
Jack handed you the glass. “That was husband voice.”
You considered that. Then you took the water. “Fine.”
Jack watched you lift the glass.
You took a sip, then lowered it. “But only because husband voice is hot.”
Jack stared at you. Then he laughed, low and warm, and pulled you closer again.
You drank the water. Under protest. Less than before.
Later, upstairs, the fight had gone out of you completely. The tequila. The anger. The justice.
All of it had softened into exhaustion by the time you stood at the bathroom sink in your pajamas, brushing your teeth with your hair pulled back from your face and the last traces of makeup washed clean from your skin. You leaned over the sink and rinsed your mouth.
When you straightened, Jack appeared in the doorway with his clothes from the night held loosely in one hand. He stopped.
You saw it happen in the mirror. The pause. The way his eyes moved over you, not quickly, not carelessly, but like he was taking in something he had no intention of looking away from.
You wiped the corner of your mouth with the towel. “What?”
Jack stepped into the bathroom and dropped his clothes into the hamper. “Nothing,” he said.
You turned from the sink and gave him a look.
He came closer and stopped in front of you. For a second, he almost smiled. Then his hands lifted to your face. Jack cupped your cheeks in both palms, warm and steady, his thumbs resting lightly beneath your eyes. He looked at you like the whole night had narrowed to this bathroom, this light, this version of you with no lipstick, no armor, no righteous fury left to hide behind.
“Jack,” you said softly.
His gaze held yours. “You are so fucking beautiful,” Jack said.
Your throat tightened at once.
He did not say it like a line.
He did not say it like reassurance he thought he owed you.
He said it like fact.
Plain. Certain. Almost rough with how much he meant it.
You tried to look away, but his hands held your face gently in place.
“Like this,” Jack said. “Right now.”
Your eyes burned.
Jack’s thumb moved once along your cheek. “Every room. Every bar. Every morning in this bathroom when you think I’m not looking.”
A shaky breath left you.
His voice dropped lower. “Especially then.”
You closed your eyes for half a second. When you opened them again, Jack was still looking at you. Not past you. Not around you. At you.
The ache in your chest loosened so suddenly it almost hurt.
You stepped forward, let your forehead drop against his chest, and slid your arms around his waist. “I love you,” you said.
Jack’s arms came around you immediately. “I love you too,” he said into your hair.
You pressed closer to him, eyes closed, your cheek against the soft, worn cotton of his shirt.
For a while, neither of you moved.
There was no music now.
No bar noise.
No woman across the room.
No tequila making you brave.
Just Jack’s hands slow over your back, his mouth pressed to the top of your head, his ring cool against your spine.
After a minute, you mumbled into his chest, “I still could’ve taken her.”
Jack’s laugh moved through him before you heard it.
Small. Warm. Helpless.
Jack said, “I know.”
You smiled against him.
Jack kissed your hair. “Water?”
You groaned. “Jack.”
Jack smiled faintly. “Husband voice.”
You lifted your head just enough to glare at him.
Jack looked down at you, eyes warm.
You sighed. “Fine.”
He reached for the water glass on the counter and handed it to you.
You took it from him with great dignity. “Under protest.”
Jack’s mouth softened. “Less than before?”
You took a sip. Then you leaned back into him. “Less than before,” you admitted.
Jack’s arms closed around you again. And this time, when he held you, there was nothing left in you trying to fight.
Hi hi im obsessed with your writing and just binged read the jack abbott cabin story. Had me in a chock hold!!!
Not sure if you have the time, with all the series you have, but I was wondering if you'd consider writing a jack abbott x reader (established relationship)fiction where reader brings the period simulator into work and has Jack try it out? You can make it day or night shift, totally up to you. But would be cool to see since I've seen the trend resurfacing and knowing personally what awful period cramps feel like.
I hope you have a great day!!
Doctor Recommended
Pairing: Jack Abbot x Fem!Reader
Word Count: 7.6k
Summary: You bring a period cramp simulator into the emergency department with one goal: to make Jack Abbot try it. He goes in convinced that, as a physician, he already understands periods perfectly well. He comes out with a newfound respect for what his girlfriend deals with every month—and a few very serious opinions about pain management.
Warnings: established relationship, period/menstruation talk, period cramps, nausea/vomiting mentioned, TENS-style cramp simulator, suggestive dialogue, implied sex, kissing/making out, Jack using his medical degree as foreplay, boyfriend Jack being incredibly smug, Shen refusing to participate because he already respects women, general PTMC night shift nonsense
Author's Note: Thank you so much to the lovely @djdre92 who requested this! The second I read about the idea of Jack trying a period simulator, I knew it was going to be ridiculously fun. Naturally, Dr. Abbot starts out convinced that as an educated, progressive physician he already understands periods perfectly well and ends up personally offended that his girlfriend deals with this every month. And, of course, he finds a way to turn his medical education into foreplay because he is still Jack. I hope you enjoy!
Xoxo, Del
You came through the emergency department doors looking entirely too pleased with yourself.
Jack noticed before he noticed what you were carrying.
He was standing at the central workstation with one hand braced against the counter, scrolling through a chart while Shen finished giving him an update from the other side. Crus was nearby, half-listening while digging through a drawer for something that had apparently ceased to exist since the last shift. Mateo had just come around the corner with a cup of coffee in hand.
Then Jack looked up.
His eyes narrowed immediately.
You smiled wider.
Jack leaned back slightly from the computer. “What did you do?”
You stopped on the other side of the workstation and put one hand dramatically over your chest. “Why do you always assume I did something?”
Jack’s gaze moved from your face to the small black case tucked beneath your arm, then back to your face. “Because you’re smiling like that.”
You set the case down on the counter. “Like what?”
Jack gestured vaguely toward you. “That.”
Shen looked between the two of you. “Very specific.”
Jack ignored him and kept his attention on you. “You have a trouble face.”
You gasped and pressed a hand harder against your chest. “My face is beautiful.”
Jack’s mouth twitched. “It can be two things.”
Mateo stepped closer and eyed the case. “What’s in there?”
You immediately brightened again. “I’m so glad you asked.”
Jack let out a long sigh. “Here we go.”
Crus found whatever he had been searching for and straightened. “I don’t like how happy she is.”
Jack nodded toward you. “You shouldn’t.”
You shot him a look. “You’re supposed to support my interests.”
Jack folded his arms across his chest. “I support plenty of your interests.”
You lifted your brows. “Name three.”
Jack’s eyes flicked over you before settling back on your face. “Not at work.”
Mateo coughed into his coffee.
Crus grimaced. “Jesus.”
Shen turned away and shook his head. “And yet somehow I’m the problem on this shift.”
You pointed at Jack. “Behave.”
Jack gave you an innocent look. “I didn’t say anything.”
You narrowed your eyes at him. “You were about to.”
Jack tipped his head. “I was answering the question.”
You pointed at him. “You looked me up and down before you answered.”
Jack’s expression stayed perfectly calm. “That sounds like your interpretation.”
You stared at him. “My interpretation?”
His mouth twitched. “Your mind went there. Not mine.”
Shen glanced between the two of you. “For the record, his mind absolutely went there.”
Jack looked at him. “No one asked you.”
You stared at Jack for another second before deciding he was not worth the detour.
Yet.
You turned back to the case with a grin. “Gentlemen, I have brought you an educational opportunity.”
Shen immediately took one step backward. “No.”
You looked up at him. “I haven’t even shown you what it is.”
Shen shook his head without hesitation. “Doesn’t matter.”
Crus glanced at him and scoffed. “Coward.”
Shen pointed at the case. “She called it an educational opportunity while smiling like a supervillain.”
You looked offended. “That is incredibly hurtful.”
Shen nodded toward Jack. “He called it a trouble face.”
You waved a hand toward Jack. “He’s my boyfriend. He’s biased.”
Jack’s eyebrows rose. “In your favor, usually.”
You opened the case fully and pulled out the small TENS-style unit with its wires and adhesive pads.
Mateo leaned in closer. “Oh, shit.”
Crus immediately grinned. “Is that one of those period simulator things?”
You held it up proudly. “Yes.”
Jack spoke from behind you. “No.”
You slowly turned your head toward him. “No what?”
Jack nodded toward the machine. “That is not a period simulator.”
Mateo glanced at him. “You haven’t even tried it.”
Jack looked at Mateo like the objection offended him personally. “I don’t need to try it to know what it is.”
You leaned one hip against the workstation. “Okay, doctor. What is it?”
Jack gave you a look that said he knew perfectly well what you were doing. “A TENS unit.”
You lifted your brows encouragingly. “Good.”
Jack gestured toward the wires. “It provides transcutaneous electrical stimulation.”
You nodded. “Also good.”
Jack continued, already slipping into lecture mode. “It can cause abdominal muscle contraction and discomfort.”
You smiled at him. “Look at you.”
Jack’s jaw shifted. “It does not recreate menstruation.”
You smiled sweetly. “I never said it perfectly recreated menstruation.”
Jack pointed toward the device. “You called it a period simulator.”
You shrugged. “Loose definition.”
Shen covered his mouth, visibly trying not to laugh.
Jack looked over at him. “Don’t.”
Shen lowered his hand. “I didn’t say anything.”
Mateo picked up one of the unused pads. “How high does it go?”
You checked the controls. “Ten.”
Crus answered immediately. “I’ll do ten.”
You snapped your head toward him. “Absolutely not.”
Crus frowned. “Why?”
You stared at him. “Because I’m trying to prove a point, not induce a religious experience.”
Mateo laughed into his coffee.
Jack shook his head. “This is ridiculous.”
You turned toward him. “You seem nervous.”
Jack’s entire face changed.
Shen quietly muttered under his breath, “There it is.”
Jack glanced toward him. “What?”
Shen raised both hands. “Nothing.”
You smiled at Jack. “It’s okay, honey. You don’t have to do it.”
Jack stared at you.
Mateo leaned toward Crus and lowered his voice. “She’s evil.”
Crus nodded without taking his eyes off the two of you. “Oh, yeah.”
Jack uncrossed his arms. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t do it.”
You widened your eyes. “Really? Because you’ve been standing over there giving a lecture about methodology.”
Jack pointed toward the machine. “I was correcting terminology.”
You tilted your head. “You’re a physician.”
Jack’s expression turned almost offended. “I am.”
You nodded solemnly. “You understand periods.”
Jack stared at you. “Yes.”
You spread your hands. “Then this should be easy.”
Shen stepped farther away from the workstation.
Jack noticed the movement. “Where are you going?”
Shen pointed toward the unit. “Away from whatever happens next.”
You turned toward him. “You’re really not trying it?”
Shen shook his head immediately. “Absolutely not.”
Crus scoffed. “Coward.”
Shen looked at him. “I respect the hell out of women. I don’t need to experience cramps personally to believe they hurt.”
You pointed at Shen approvingly. “See? This is growth.”
Shen put a hand over his heart. “Thank you.”
Jack rolled his eyes. “That’s not growth. That’s self-preservation.”
Shen nodded. “Those things can coexist.”
Mateo set his coffee down. “I’ll do it.”
You spun toward him. “Really?”
Mateo shrugged. “Yeah. I’m curious.”
Crus immediately stepped forward. “Then I’m doing it too.”
You looked between them. “Why did that become competitive?”
Crus answered without hesitation. “Because he said yes first.”
Mateo frowned at him. “That doesn’t make sense.”
Crus shrugged. “Doesn’t have to.”
You grinned and started separating the wires. “Perfect.”
Jack watched your hands. “You planned this.”
You glanced over your shoulder. “I hoped.”
Jack nodded toward the extra supplies in the case. “You brought enough pads for multiple people.”
You smiled brightly. “I’m an optimist.”
Jack’s mouth flattened. “You’re a menace.”
You smiled at him. “And yet you love me.”
Jack didn’t even hesitate. “Unfortunately.”
Your smile softened for half a second before you held up the first set of pads. “Mateo, shirt.”
Mateo blinked at you. “You could at least buy me dinner first.”
You pointed toward Jack. “Careful. He gets jealous.”
Jack looked back at the chart. “No, I don’t.”
Crus snorted.
Shen shook his head. “Sure.”
Jack lifted his head and looked around the workstation. “Do any of you have patients?”
No one moved.
Jack stared at all of you. “Unbelievable.”
You laughed and motioned Mateo closer. “Come on. We’ll start low.”
Mateo lifted the hem of his shirt while you positioned the adhesive pads across his lower abdomen.
Crus watched closely. “Where do they go?”
You pressed the second pad into place. “Lower abdomen, roughly where the cramping would hit.”
Jack spoke from behind you. “Again, not actually where—”
You turned your head sharply. “Jack.”
Jack stopped mid-sentence.
You gave him a warning look.
Jack raised both hands. “I’m done.”
Shen glanced at him. “That was quick.”
Jack muttered, “I’m choosing peace.”
You connected the wires and stepped back.
Mateo looked down at himself. “This feels medically questionable.”
Jack answered immediately. “It isn’t.”
You looked over at Jack.
Jack sighed. “The device itself is fine.”
You smiled. “Thank you, doctor.”
Jack narrowed his eyes. “Don’t start.”
You turned the machine on. “Level one.”
Mateo’s brows lifted slightly before he shrugged. “Nothing.”
Crus leaned against the counter. “Weak.”
You increased the setting. “Two.”
Mateo’s stomach twitched faintly.
He looked down at the pads. “Okay. I feel that.”
You smiled and increased it again. “Three.”
Mateo sucked in a breath.
Crus’s grin widened.
Shen watched from several feet away with the relaxed posture of a man who had made an excellent decision.
Mateo laughed once, a little nervously. “That’s weird.”
You glanced at him. “Bad?”
Mateo shook his head. “No. Just weird.”
You turned it up again. “Four.”
Mateo’s hand went immediately to the edge of the workstation.
Crus pointed at him. “Oh.”
Mateo glared across the counter. “Shut up.”
Crus laughed. “You grabbed the counter.”
Mateo straightened defensively. “I adjusted my stance.”
Shen nodded solemnly. “Sure.”
You bit back a smile. “Five?”
Mateo hesitated.
Crus immediately gestured toward the machine. “Do it.”
Mateo looked at him. “You’re next.”
Crus spread his hands. “Fine.”
Mateo turned back to you and nodded. “Five.”
You increased it.
Mateo went completely silent.
His eyes widened.
Then he stared down at the pads.
Mateo gestured helplessly at his stomach. “Oh, what the fuck is that?”
You burst out laughing.
Jack’s mouth twitched despite himself.
You shrugged. “Welcome to the general neighborhood.”
Jack immediately lifted one finger. “Very general.”
You turned toward him. “Would you like to demonstrate how much more informed you are?”
Jack looked at you without answering.
You smiled.
Shen made a quiet sound somewhere between a laugh and a warning.
Jack pointed at you. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”
You nodded happily. “Immensely.”
Mateo reached for the machine. “Okay. I’m good.”
You switched it off immediately.
Mateo exhaled and peeled one of the pads away.
Crus was already moving forward. “My turn.”
You looked at him. “Still feeling confident?”
Crus lifted his shirt. “Very.”
Mateo stepped aside. “I hope you suffer.”
Crus smiled at him. “You made it to five.”
Mateo nodded. “Yeah.”
Crus tapped his stomach. “I’ll do six.”
Shen shook his head. “Men are fascinating.”
Jack nodded once. “Idiots.”
You glanced at him. “You are also a man.”
Jack gave you a flat look. “I’m aware.”
You pointed toward the machine. “And you’re doing it after Crus.”
Jack’s brows rose. “I am?”
You gave him the sweetest smile you could manage.
Jack stared at you for a long moment.
Then he looked at the machine.
Then at Mateo, who was still rubbing his stomach.
Then at Crus, already volunteering his abdomen to science.
Finally, Jack looked back at you.
His eyes narrowed.
Jack pointed at you. “You set me up.”
You beamed at him. “Obviously.”
Crus snorted as you started fixing the pads to his lower abdomen. “You really walked right into that one.”
Jack looked at him. “You’re currently volunteering to be electrocuted for entertainment.”
Crus glanced down at the wires hanging from his stomach. “Still feels like I’m making better choices than you.”
Shen leaned against the far side of the workstation. “Objectively, yes.”
Jack gave him a flat look. “You’re very comfortable for someone who refused to participate.”
Shen folded his arms. “I made peace with my limitations.”
You finished pressing the last pad into place and stepped back. “Ready?”
Crus nodded once. “Do it.”
Mateo moved closer again, apparently recovered enough to enjoy someone else’s suffering. “Start him at five.”
You shook your head. “Absolutely not.”
Crus frowned. “Why not?”
You reached for the controls. “Because unlike all of you, I have common sense.”
Jack made a quiet sound of disbelief.
You glanced over at him. “Would you like to say something?”
Jack lifted his brows. “Not if you’re claiming common sense.”
You pointed the control unit at him. “You’re getting extra levels for that.”
Jack’s mouth twitched. “That’s not how informed consent works.”
Shen nodded toward Jack. “He’s right about that one.”
You looked at Shen. “Whose side are you on?”
Shen gestured toward himself. “Mine.”
You turned back to Crus and adjusted the machine. “Level one.”
Crus barely reacted. “Nothing.”
You increased it. “Two.”
Crus looked down at his stomach. “Yeah, okay.”
Mateo grinned. “Just wait.”
You tapped the control again. “Three.”
Crus’s abdomen tightened visibly. His brows drew together.
You watched his face. “Still good?”
Crus nodded. “Fine.”
Mateo folded his arms. “You look less fine than you sound.”
Crus glanced at him. “You tapped out at five.”
Mateo pointed at the machine. “And I learned something.”
Shen nodded approvingly. “Growth.”
Mateo looked at him. “Thank you.”
You increased the setting. “Four.”
Crus sucked in a breath through his nose.
Jack noticed immediately. His gaze flicked from Crus’s face to the machine.
Crus rolled one shoulder like he could physically shake off the sensation. “That’s annoying.”
You smiled. “Annoying?”
Crus nodded. “Yeah.”
Mateo laughed. “Give it a minute.”
You raised it again. “Five.”
Crus’s hand landed on the edge of the workstation.
Mateo pointed immediately. “There it is.”
Crus shot him a look. “Shut up.”
You bit back a smile. “Still feeling cocky?”
Crus straightened slightly. “Six.”
Mateo’s eyebrows went up. “Oh, he’s stupid.”
Shen nodded. “Very.”
Jack glanced toward Crus. “You don’t have to prove anything.”
Crus looked at him. “You scared for me, Doc?”
Jack’s expression went blank. “No.”
You looked at Jack and smiled sweetly. “That almost sounded caring.”
Jack pointed toward Crus. “If he passes out, I’m making you explain why.”
Crus scoffed. “I’m not gonna pass out.”
You looked back at the controls. “Famous last words.”
Crus exhaled slowly. “Six.”
You increased it.
His entire body went rigid.
Mateo’s face lit up.
Shen pushed off the workstation slightly.
Jack’s attention sharpened.
Crus stared straight ahead, jaw tight.
You waited a beat. “Well?”
Crus swallowed. “That sucks.”
Mateo burst out laughing. “That sucks?”
Crus looked at him. “I’m trying to maintain dignity.”
Shen gestured toward the pads on Crus’s stomach. “I think we left dignity behind several minutes ago.”
You reached for the controls. “Want me to turn it off?”
Crus nodded immediately. “Yep.”
You switched the unit off.
Crus exhaled hard and peeled one of the pads away. “Nope. Hate that.”
Mateo clapped him once on the shoulder. “Welcome back.”
Crus shoved his hand away. “Don’t touch me.”
You took the pads from him and turned toward Jack.
He was already watching you.
You smiled.
Jack shook his head once. “No.”
You held up the fresh pads. “You said you’d do it.”
Jack gestured toward Crus. “I said I didn’t say I wouldn’t.”
You blinked. “That sentence is embarrassing.”
Shen nodded thoughtfully. “She’s got you there.”
Jack looked at him. “I’m going to remember how much you’ve enjoyed this.”
Shen smiled. “I’ll live with the consequences.”
You stepped closer to Jack. “Come on.”
Jack looked down at the pads in your hand.
Then back at you.
You softened your voice just enough to be obnoxious. “Scared, Jack?”
Jack’s eyes narrowed.
Mateo muttered, “Oh, she did it again.”
Crus nodded. “He has to now.”
Jack looked around at all three of them. “You understand none of you are helping.”
Shen shrugged. “We’re helping her.”
Jack looked back at you. “Fine.”
Your smile widened.
Jack pointed at you before you could celebrate. “But if you turn that thing straight to ten, I’m leaving you.”
You placed a hand over your heart. “You think so little of me.”
Jack stared at you.
You sighed. “Fine. I won’t.”
Jack’s expression suggested that promise had not reassured him at all.
You stepped closer with the fresh pads as Jack lifted the hem of his scrub top, exposing his stomach.
You stopped.
Jack looked down at you. “Are we gonna do this?”
Your eyes drifted over the exposed line of his abdomen. “Give me a minute.”
Jack’s brows lifted. “A minute?”
You smiled up at him. “I’m enjoying the view.”
Mateo made a quiet choking sound behind you.
Jack’s mouth curved, pleased despite himself. “Take your time.”
You peeled the backing from the first pad. “Oh, I plan to.”
Jack shook his head, but the smile stayed.
You pressed the first pad low against his abdomen, then reached for the second.
As you positioned it, you let one finger trail briefly along the skin just above the waistband of his scrub pants.
Jack’s stomach tightened beneath your touch.
His eyes dropped to yours.
You gave him an innocent smile. “What?”
Jack’s voice lowered. “You know what.”
You smoothed the pad into place. “I’m just making sure it sticks.”
Jack glanced toward your hand. “With your finger in my waistband?”
You pulled your hand away. “Adjacent to your waistband.”
Shen sighed from the other side of the workstation. “I regret staying for this.”
Jack kept his eyes on you. “You started this.”
You connected the wires with a grin. “And now I’m finishing it.”
Crus groaned. “Can we please electrocute him already?”
Mateo laughed. “This is gonna end well.”
You stepped back with the control unit. “Ready?”
Jack lowered his shirt just enough to leave the leads accessible. “Go.”
You turned the machine on. “Level one.”
Jack didn’t react.
You watched him. “Anything?”
Jack shook his head. “Barely.”
You increased it. “Two.”
Jack’s expression stayed neutral. “Fine.”
Crus folded his arms. “He’s gonna be insufferable.”
Shen nodded. “He already is.”
Jack looked at both of them. “I can hear you.”
You turned it up again. “Three.”
Jack glanced down at his abdomen. “Mild contraction.”
Mateo snorted. “Of course he’s narrating it.”
Jack looked at him. “Would you prefer screaming?”
Mateo shrugged. “Eventually.”
You smiled and raised the setting. “Four.”
Jack’s jaw tightened slightly.
Very slightly.
But you saw it.
So did Mateo.
Mateo immediately pointed. “There.”
Jack looked at him. “There what?”
Mateo grinned. “You felt that.”
Jack’s expression flattened. “Obviously I felt it. That’s the purpose of the device.”
Crus laughed. “He’s getting defensive.”
Jack looked at you. “Five.”
You blinked. “You sure?”
Jack nodded once. “Yeah.”
You increased it.
The change was immediate.
Jack went still.
Not dramatically.
Just enough that his shoulders tightened and one hand settled against the workstation.
You watched him closely. “Okay?”
Jack nodded after a beat. “Yeah.”
Shen glanced at his hand. “You’re bracing.”
Jack looked at him. “I’m standing.”
Shen nodded. “With emotional support from the counter.”
You bit your lip to keep from laughing.
Jack looked at you. “Don’t.”
You failed immediately.
Jack shook his head. “Very supportive girlfriend.”
You smiled. “I’m doing my best.”
Jack glanced down at the machine. “What level did Mateo stop at?”
Mateo raised a hand. “Five.”
Jack nodded once. “Makes sense.”
Mateo stared at him. “You’re literally holding onto the desk.”
Jack’s grip loosened immediately. “I’m not.”
Crus laughed. “Oh, this is great.”
You looked at Jack. “Six?”
Jack’s eyes met yours.
You could see the calculation happening.
Pride.
Curiosity.
And the deeply unfortunate fact that everyone was watching him.
Jack nodded. “Six.”
You raised the setting.
His entire abdomen tightened.
Jack sucked in a sharp breath.
His hand came back down onto the counter.
Harder this time.
Mateo made a delighted noise. “There it is.”
Jack closed his eyes briefly. “Shut up.”
Crus grinned. “That one got you.”
Jack opened his eyes and looked at you.
You were still smiling, but not quite as smugly now.
Jack’s brow furrowed. “This is six?”
You nodded. “Yeah.”
Jack glanced down at the pads, then back at you. “You get cramps like this?”
You shrugged. “Pretty regularly.”
Something in Jack’s face changed.
The teasing drained out of it.
He looked at you more carefully. “Regularly?”
You nodded. “First day can be around there.”
Jack stared at you. “You work like this?”
You gave him a small smile. “Sometimes.”
Jack’s brow furrowed deeper. “You’ve worked a twelve-hour shift feeling like this?”
You nodded again. “More than once.”
Crus rubbed his stomach and muttered, “That’s fucked.”
You pointed toward him. “Thank you.”
Jack barely seemed to hear either of you.
His eyes stayed on your face.
Jack’s voice dropped. “You’ve run traumas like this?”
You shrugged. “Yeah.”
Jack looked genuinely appalled. “And you just keep working?”
You laughed softly. “What else am I supposed to do?”
Jack stared at you for another second.
Then he looked down at the machine.
His jaw set.
Jack nodded once. “Seven.”
Your eyebrows shot up. “Jack.”
He looked at you. “You said it gets worse.”
You folded your arms. “That does not mean you need to prove anything.”
Jack shook his head. “I’m not proving anything.”
Mateo leaned toward Shen. “He is absolutely proving something.”
Shen nodded. “Mostly to himself.”
Jack pointed at both of them. “You're still within throwing distance.”
You looked back at Jack. “You really want seven?”
Jack nodded. “Yeah.”
You sighed and reached for the controls. “Fine.”
Jack braced himself.
You smiled sweetly. “Ready, doctor?”
Jack narrowed his eyes. “Just do it.”
You raised the setting to seven.
The reaction was immediate.
Jack’s entire body locked.
His shoulders went rigid, his jaw clenched, and the hand already braced against the workstation tightened hard enough that his knuckles went pale.
Mateo leaned forward. “Oh, shit.”
Jack squeezed his eyes shut for half a second. “Don’t.”
Crus pointed at him. “That one hurt.”
Jack opened his eyes and glared at him. “Thank you for the clinical assessment.”
Shen watched Jack from the safety of the workstation’s opposite side. “I continue to feel excellent about my decision.”
You kept one hand on the control unit and studied Jack’s face. “Want me to turn it down?”
Jack shook his head once. “No.”
You lifted your brows. “You sure?”
Jack exhaled slowly through his nose. “Yeah.”
Another contraction hit.
His stomach visibly tightened beneath the pads.
Jack’s mouth flattened.
You winced sympathetically. “That one looked rough.”
Jack looked at you.
His expression had lost almost all of its earlier amusement.
Jack’s brow furrowed. “And you’ve had worse than this.”
You gave a small shrug. “Yeah.”
His eyes narrowed slightly. “How much worse?”
You hesitated.
That caught his attention immediately.
Jack studied your face. “Why did you hesitate?”
You shifted your weight against the workstation. “Because I knew you were going to make that face.”
Jack gestured at himself. “What face?”
You pointed at him. “That one.”
Mateo looked between you. “Now I want to know.”
You sighed. “I’ve had cramps bad enough that I’ve thrown up.”
Jack went completely still.
Crus’s grin disappeared. “Seriously?”
You nodded. “Not every month.”
Jack stared at you. “You’ve vomited from period pain?”
You gave him a look. “You’re a physician. You know that happens.”
Jack’s jaw tightened. “I know it happens.”
You softened slightly. “Okay.”
Jack shook his head. “This is different.”
Shen glanced at him. “How?”
Jack looked at you instead of answering. “Because she’s my girlfriend.”
Your expression softened.
Mateo made a quiet sound behind his coffee cup.
Jack immediately looked toward him. “Don’t.”
Mateo raised one hand. “Didn’t say anything.”
You smiled despite yourself. “That was very sweet.”
Jack pointed at the machine. “I’m currently being tortured. Don’t make this about me.”
You laughed. “You literally just made it about you.”
Another contraction hit.
Jack bent slightly at the waist before catching himself.
Crus winced. “Damn.”
Jack straightened again. “How long does this level last?”
You glanced at the timer. “As long as I leave it there.”
Jack’s eyes snapped to yours. “That was not the answer I wanted.”
You grinned. “You asked.”
Shen folded his arms. “For someone who claims to understand periods, you seem surprised by the lack of an off switch.”
Jack looked at him. “There is literally an off switch.”
Shen nodded toward you. “Not biologically.”
Jack opened his mouth.
Then stopped.
His face changed again.
He looked at you. “You don’t get to turn it off.”
Your smile faded into something gentler. “Nope.”
For the first time since you brought the machine in, nobody immediately made a joke.
Jack looked down at the pads across his abdomen.
Another pulse rolled through him.
His fingers flexed against the workstation.
Then he looked back at you.
Jack’s voice was quieter. “And you still come to work.”
You shrugged. “Usually.”
His brow pulled together. “Usually?”
You nodded. “Sometimes I take a sick day if it’s really bad.”
Jack looked genuinely offended by the concept. “Sometimes?”
You laughed softly. “Jack, I can’t call out every month.”
His eyes stayed on yours. “Why not?”
You blinked. “Because I have a job?”
Jack gestured toward the machine. “This is a legitimate reason.”
Crus nodded slowly. “I’m with him now.”
Mateo rubbed his own stomach. “Same.”
Shen smiled faintly. “Look at all this growth happening without me suffering.”
Jack pointed at him without looking away from you. “You’re still annoying.”
Shen nodded. “I can live with that.”
You glanced down at the control unit. “You want eight?”
Jack looked at you like you had suggested amputation.
Then his pride visibly kicked back in.
You saw it happen.
Your eyes narrowed. “Don’t.”
Jack frowned. “Don’t what?”
You pointed at his face. “Whatever stupid thing you’re about to decide.”
Jack lifted his chin slightly. “Turn it up.”
You stared at him. “Jack.”
He held your gaze. “You said you’ve had worse.”
You shook your head. “That does not mean you need to experience worse.”
Jack shook his head. “I want to know.”
The answer took some of the teasing out of you.
You studied him for a second.
He was still braced against the workstation, still visibly uncomfortable, but there was no bravado in his face now.
Just curiosity.
And something softer.
You nodded once. “Okay.”
Mateo immediately leaned back. “Oh, no.”
Crus looked delighted again. “Eight.”
Shen shook his head. “This is where curiosity becomes poor judgment.”
Jack looked over at him. “You can leave.”
Shen smiled. “Absolutely not.”
You rested your thumb over the button. “Ready?”
Jack took a breath. “Yeah.”
You increased the setting.
Jack folded.
Not all the way.
But enough.
Both hands hit the workstation as his head dropped between his shoulders.
Mateo’s eyes widened. “Jesus.”
Crus winced in sympathy. “Okay, that looks awful.”
Jack stayed silent.
You immediately reached for the control. “I’m turning it down.”
Jack lifted one hand. “Wait.”
You froze. “Jack.”
He breathed through another contraction.
Then another.
His eyes closed.
You stepped closer. “Jack.”
Jack opened his eyes at the word.
You looked at him carefully. “Enough?”
He nodded immediately. “Yeah.”
You switched the machine off.
Jack sagged against the counter.
The entire workstation went silent for approximately two seconds.
Then Shen nodded thoughtfully. “I learned a lot.”
Jack slowly turned his head toward him. “You did nothing.”
Shen smiled. “I observed.”
Crus laughed.
Mateo clapped Jack lightly on the shoulder. “Proud of you, Doc.”
You disconnected the wires and started peeling the pads from his abdomen.
Jack looked down at you. “That’s miserable.”
You smiled. “Yeah.”
He watched you remove the last pad. “And that wasn’t even the whole thing.”
You shook your head. “Nope.”
Jack looked at you, still rubbing one hand over his abdomen. “So this, plus the lower-back pain.”
You nodded. “Yep.”
His brow furrowed deeper. “And the nausea.”
You shrugged a shoulder. “Sometimes.”
Jack continued ticking the symptoms off. “And the headaches.”
You gave him a small shrug. “Sometimes.”
Jack’s expression shifted as he mentally stacked everything together. “The fatigue. The bloating. The cramps waking you up.”
You nodded.
Jack glanced back at the machine. “So you feel like this, your back hurts, you’re exhausted, sometimes you’re nauseous, and you still come in here and work twelve hours.”
You lifted one shoulder. “Pretty much.”
Jack stared at you for a beat. “That’s insane.”
You laughed. “Welcome to menstruation.”
Crus leaned against the counter. “This keeps getting worse.”
You pointed at him. “And we haven’t even discussed the gastrointestinal symptoms.”
Mateo grimaced. “I don’t want to.”
Shen immediately nodded. “Wise.”
Crus shook his head. “This is horrifying.”
You folded your arms. “And yet somehow women have been managing.”
Jack looked at you again.
Really looked.
His expression softened.
Jack’s voice dropped. “You’re kind of a badass.”
You blinked.
Then smiled. “Kind of?”
His mouth twitched.
Jack reached out and hooked two fingers through one of your belt loops, tugging you closer. “Don’t push it.”
You stepped between his knees where he leaned against the workstation. “I thought you understood periods.”
Jack gave you a long look. “I did.”
You lifted your brows. “Did?”
Jack nodded once. “Intellectually.”
Your smile widened.
Jack slid one hand around your waist. “Experientially, I was apparently underinformed.”
Shen made an approving sound. “That’s very mature.”
Jack looked past your shoulder. “Go away.”
Shen pushed off the workstation. “Gladly.”
Mateo grabbed his coffee. “Yeah, I think the experiment’s over.”
Crus started after them. “Unless she brought another machine.”
You called after him. “Don’t tempt me.”
Crus raised one hand without turning around. “I’m out.”
You laughed and looked back at Jack.
His hand was still resting against your waist.
You brushed your thumb lightly over his cheek. “You okay?”
Jack nodded. “Yeah.”
You smiled. “Traumatized?”
He looked toward the machine.
Then back at you.
Jack’s expression softened. “If it gets that bad, tell me.”
You smiled. “I do.”
Jack shook his head. “No. You tell me you’re fine.”
You lifted one shoulder. “Usually am.”
Jack glanced toward the abandoned machine. “Your definition of fine needs work.”
By the time you both finally got home and slept off the rest of the shift, the room had gone warm and gold around the edges.
Late-afternoon light slipped through the blinds and stretched across the bed in narrow stripes. Somewhere outside, a car passed. The apartment was otherwise quiet.
Jack was awake beside you.
Barely.
He lay on his side facing you, hair flattened messily from sleep, one hand already resting low on your waist beneath the blanket.
You smiled before your eyes were fully open.
Jack’s thumb moved once against your side. “There she is.”
You shifted closer and tucked one leg between his. “How long have you been awake?”
Jack leaned in and pressed a slow kiss to your forehead. “Not long.”
You hummed and let your hand settle against his chest. “How are you doing?”
His mouth brushed your temple. “Fine.”
You opened one eye.
You lifted your head slightly. “Recovering?”
Jack’s hand slid around to the small of your back. “I said I’m fine.”
You smiled. “Traumatized?”
His eyes narrowed.
You laughed softly and moved closer before he could answer, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Poor baby.”
Jack caught your hip and pulled you flush against him. “You’re enjoying this too much.”
You kissed him again, slower this time. “Maybe a little.”
Jack’s mouth followed yours when you started to pull away. “A little.”
You smiled against his lips. “A lot.”
His hand moved lazily up your back beneath your shirt.
You relaxed into him as his fingers traced along your spine.
Jack kissed you once more, then let his mouth drift toward your jaw.
You tipped your head back automatically.
His lips found the side of your neck.
You sighed. “You know, for a man who was fighting for his life twelve hours ago, you seem remarkably resilient.”
Jack’s mouth curved against your skin. “I was not fighting for my life.”
You threaded your fingers into his hair. “You folded.”
Jack lifted his head just enough to look at you. “I adjusted my posture.”
You stared at him.
His expression remained perfectly serious.
You started laughing. “Of course you did.”
Jack kissed you before you could say anything else.
His hand slid from your back to your waist, thumb brushing beneath the hem of your shirt as the kiss deepened.
You shifted closer.
Jack made a quiet sound against your mouth and pulled you in tighter.
For a minute, the conversation disappeared entirely.
His lips moved back to your neck.
Your fingers curled at the nape of his neck.
Jack kissed slowly beneath your ear, then lower, his hand wandering over your side in an absent, familiar path.
You closed your eyes. “Still fine?”
Jack murmured against your skin, “Very.”
You smiled. “No lasting psychological damage?”
His hand tightened lightly at your waist. “Keep talking.”
You laughed softly and turned your face toward his.
Jack kissed you again.
When he pulled back, his expression had softened.
His thumb brushed slowly over your hip.
Jack looked at you for a moment. “I have been thinking about it, though.”
You studied his face. “The simulator?”
He nodded once. “Yeah.”
Your teasing eased.
You ran your fingertips lightly along his jaw. “What about it?”
Jack’s hand moved in a slow circle against your lower back. “I knew your cramps were bad.”
You nodded. “I know.”
His brow furrowed slightly. “I knew about the back pain. The nausea when it gets bad. The headaches. How tired you get.”
You smiled faintly. “You do pay attention.”
Jack gave you a look. “Of course I pay attention.”
You leaned in and kissed him softly.
His hand stayed at your back.
Jack continued after you pulled away. “I just didn’t really understand what all of that felt like together.”
You watched him quietly.
His thumb pressed once into the muscle beside your spine.
Jack shook his head. “You’ve gone to work feeling like that.”
You lifted one shoulder. “Yeah.”
His expression tightened. “You’ve worked twelve hours feeling like that.”
You nodded. “More than once.”
Jack stared at you. “And you just keep going.”
You smiled slightly. “Usually.”
His brows drew together. “That’s insane.”
You laughed under your breath. “It’s a period, Jack.”
He shook his head. “That doesn’t make it less insane.”
You brushed your thumb over his cheek. “Millions of women do it every month.”
Jack’s eyes stayed on yours. “I’m not dating millions of women.”
Your smile softened.
His hand slid back around your waist.
Jack glanced down between you before looking at your face again. “You’re a badass.”
You lifted your brows. “Yeah?”
His mouth twitched. “Yeah.”
You smiled and kissed him.
Jack kissed you back immediately, one hand moving beneath your shirt again.
The tenderness only lasted a few seconds before the kiss deepened.
You shifted partly over him.
Jack’s palm moved along your side.
His mouth left yours and found your neck again.
You breathed out softly as his lips brushed the spot beneath your ear.
Your fingers tightened in his hair. “You’re getting distracted.”
Jack kissed the same spot again. “Am I?”
You smiled. “We were having a conversation.”
His hand slipped over your hip. “Still are.”
You tilted your head farther to the side. “This is how you conduct serious conversations?”
Jack’s mouth curved against your neck. “Sometimes.”
You laughed and tugged lightly at his hair.
His lips moved back toward your jaw.
Then Jack paused.
You felt it immediately.
You pulled back just enough to look at him. “What?”
Jack slid his hand along your hip. “As a physician—”
You immediately groaned.
His eyes narrowed. “I haven’t even finished.”
You smiled. “Nothing good has ever followed ‘as a physician’ while you have your hand under my shirt.”
Jack looked down at where his hand rested against your waist.
Then he looked back at you.
His mouth curved. “I don’t see the conflict.”
You laughed. “Of course you don’t.”
Jack leaned in and kissed the corner of your mouth. “As a physician, I feel ethically obligated to make sure you’re aware of all available treatment options.”
You pulled back slightly. “Treatment options.”
He nodded solemnly. “For menstrual cramps.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Go on.”
Jack’s hand moved lazily over your side. “Heat.”
You nodded. “Groundbreaking.”
His expression remained calm. “Anti-inflammatories.”
You smiled. “Never heard of them.”
Jack ignored you. “Lower-back massage.”
You relaxed instinctively when his hand shifted there. “Big fan.”
His thumb pressed gently into your back.
Your eyes fluttered closed for half a second.
Jack noticed.
His mouth curved. “There’s another one.”
You reopened your eyes.
Jack’s expression stayed perfectly innocent.
You stared at him. “Jack.”
He leaned closer.
His mouth brushed your jaw before he answered. “Orgasms can help.”
You went still.
Then you slowly turned your face toward him.
Jack looked entirely too pleased with himself.
You smiled. “Oh, Jack.”
His brows pulled together. “What?”
You slid your fingers through his hair. “You think I don’t know that?”
Jack paused.
You watched his expression shift.
His hand stayed still at your waist.
You smiled wider. “Tried and true.”
Jack’s brows lifted.
He studied you for a beat.
Then his eyes narrowed slightly. “You’ve done your own research?”
You nodded solemnly. “Very thorough.”
His hand stopped moving altogether.
A beat passed.
Jack looked almost offended. "Without me?”
You broke instantly.
You buried your face against his shoulder and laughed.
Jack stared down at you. “I don’t know why that’s funny.”
You lifted your head, still laughing. “Jack.”
His expression remained deeply unimpressed.
You grinned. “You’re jealous of my research methods.”
Jack shook his head. “I’m not jealous.”
You lifted your brows. “Would you prefer peer review?”
His hand tightened at your waist.
Jack gave you a warning look. “Careful.”
You laughed again. “Oh my God.”
Jack pulled you a little closer. “You’re enjoying this.”
You nodded. “Immensely.”
His eyes narrowed. “How thorough was the research?”
You stared at him.
Jack waited.
Your smile slowly widened. “You do not get a sample size.”
He frowned. “I’m asking academically.”
You laughed. “You are absolutely not.”
Jack’s mouth twitched. “I care about reliable data.”
You slid your hand over his chest. “The data is excellent.”
His jaw shifted. “Interesting.”
You smiled sweetly. “Very consistent results.”
Jack stared at you.
You could see the exact moment he realized you were deliberately making it worse.
He pointed at you. “Now you’re antagonizing me.”
You pressed a kiss to his fingertip. “Maybe.”
Jack caught your hand and pulled you closer until your bodies were pressed together again.
His voice dropped. “I’m simply saying you have additional resources now.”
You laughed softly. “Resources?”
Jack’s mouth moved toward your jaw. “Highly trained.”
You tilted your head as his lips brushed your skin. “Jack.”
His hand slid along your waist. “Experienced.”
You smiled. “You’re really committing to this.”
Jack kissed beneath your ear. “Available.”
A laugh escaped you.
You turned your face toward him. “You are using your medical education to get laid.”
Jack pulled back just enough to look at you.
His eyes dropped to your mouth.
His hand remained warm against your hip.
Jack’s mouth curved. “It’s working.”
You stared at him for half a second.
Then you kissed him.
Jack smiled against your mouth and rolled you gently beneath him.
Your arms slid around his neck.
His lips moved from yours to your jaw again.
You laughed softly as his hand slipped beneath your shirt.
Jack murmured against your skin, “For the record, I take pain management very seriously.”
You tightened your fingers in his hair. “You are so full of shit.”
Jack kissed your neck.
His mouth curved against your skin. “Still working.”
A few weeks later, Jack found you facedown across the bed with the heating pad tucked beneath your lower stomach and your face buried in his pillow.
He stopped in the bedroom doorway.
You didn’t move.
Jack set his keys on the dresser. “Bad?”
You lifted one hand from beside your head and wobbled it back and forth. “Six.”
Jack’s expression changed immediately.
He crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed. “Don’t say that like it’s nothing.”
You turned your face enough to look at him. “I just gave you a number.”
Jack rested one hand on your lower back. “You gave me a six like you were telling me it was mildly inconvenient.”
You smiled faintly. “Someone has simulator trauma.”
Jack gave you a flat look. “Someone has perspective.”
You laughed softly and let your cheek drop back onto the pillow.
Jack’s palm moved slowly over your back. “Take anything?”
You nodded into the pillow. “Ibuprofen about twenty minutes ago.”
His hand continued its slow path over your back. “Eat?”
You turned your head again. “Yes, Dad.”
Jack’s hand stopped.
You immediately smiled.
He narrowed his eyes. “Do you want the massage?”
Your attitude disappeared instantly. “Yes.”
Jack’s mouth twitched. “That’s what I thought.”
You shifted the heating pad slightly while Jack moved farther onto the bed.
His hands settled against your lower back.
The first slow press of his thumbs into the aching muscles near your hips made your entire body loosen.
You groaned into the pillow.
Jack paused immediately. “Too much?”
You shook your head against the pillow. “No. Never stop.”
His mouth twitched again.
Jack worked his thumbs slowly upward, then back down, using enough pressure to make the tension ease without crossing into pain.
You exhaled long and slow.
Jack glanced down at you. “There?”
You nodded against the pillow. “Right there.”
He kept working the same spot.
Your shoulders gradually relaxed.
After another minute, you sighed. “God, you’re good at that.”
Jack’s hands continued their slow rhythm. “I know.”
You opened one eye. “Could’ve pretended to be humble.”
Jack pressed his thumb into another tight muscle. “Would’ve been dishonest.”
You groaned again and closed your eye.
Jack smiled.
For several minutes, the room stayed quiet except for your occasional directions and the soft sound of Jack shifting behind you.
Eventually, you melted so completely into the mattress that Jack’s hands slowed.
He rubbed one broad palm over your lower back. “Better?”
You considered it. “A little.”
Jack nodded thoughtfully. “A little.”
You recognized the tone.
Your eyes opened.
Jack’s hand moved once more over your back.
You turned your head toward him. “What?”
His expression was perfectly innocent. “Nothing.”
You narrowed your eyes. “You have a face.”
Jack’s brows lifted. “I have one face.”
You shifted enough to look at him properly. “You have a very specific face right now.”
His hand slid slowly over your hip.
Understanding hit you.
You started laughing. “No.”
Jack’s mouth curved. “I haven’t said anything.”
You pointed at him from the pillow. “You don’t have to.”
He leaned down and pressed a kiss between your shoulder blades.
You smiled into the pillow. “You have been waiting for this, haven’t you?”
Jack kissed your shoulder. “Waiting for what?”
You glanced back at him. “Your big moment.”
His mouth twitched.
You laughed again. “Oh my God.”
Jack shifted closer, one hand still resting warmly against your lower back.
Then he leaned down until his lips brushed your ear.
Jack lowered his voice. “Here I am, sweetheart.”
You already knew.
Jack’s mouth curved against your skin. “The cure.”
You laughed so hard your stomach protested.
Jack immediately pulled back. “Careful.”
You pressed one hand against your abdomen. “You cannot call yourself the cure.”
His brows rose. “Why not?”
You turned onto your side so you could face him. “Cure is ambitious.”
Jack considered that for a beat.
Then his hand settled at your waist.
His mouth curved. “Then let me prove it.”
You stared at him.
Jack held your gaze.
You smiled despite yourself. “Confident.”
His thumb brushed slowly over your side. “You seemed pretty confident in your research.”
Your eyes narrowed. “Are we still upset about my independent study?”
Jack leaned closer. “Not upset.”
You pointed at him. “You asked me for a sample size.”
His mouth twitched. “I care about good methodology.”
You laughed. “You’re ridiculous.”
Jack kissed the corner of your mouth. “You challenged the claim.”
You pulled back just enough to look at him. “This isn’t peer review.”
His eyebrow lifted.
Jack’s hand slid around your waist and pulled you closer. “No.”
His mouth brushed yours.
Jack smiled against your lips. “Much better.”
You kissed him before he could say anything else.
Jack returned it immediately.
And somewhere between his hand settling carefully at your lower back and your fingers disappearing into his hair, you decided his methodology deserved further investigation.
Later, you were curled against Jack’s chest beneath the blankets, his fingertips moving lazily along your back.
The heating pad had been abandoned near your feet.
Jack pressed a kiss to the top of your head. “Well?”
You knew exactly what he was asking.
You kept your eyes closed. “Don’t.”
His chest shifted beneath your cheek with a quiet laugh. “I didn’t say anything.”
You poked him lightly in the ribs. “You’re thinking very loudly.”
Jack’s hand rubbed slowly over your back. “Pain?”
You sighed. “Maybe a three.”
His hand stopped.
You immediately opened your eyes.
Jack looked unbearably pleased with himself.
You pointed at him. “Absolutely not.”
His brows lifted. “What?”
You pushed yourself up slightly on his chest. “You do not get to look smug.”
Jack’s mouth curved. “Six to three.”
You groaned. “The ibuprofen also kicked in.”
Jack nodded solemnly. “Sure.”
You lifted a finger. “And the heating pad.”
His smile widened. “Of course.”
You added, “And the massage.”
Jack nodded once. “Which I also provided.”
You stared at him.
His smile widened further.
You shoved your face back against his chest. “I’ve created a monster.”
Jack wrapped both arms around you and pulled you closer.
His lips pressed against your hair.
“Doctor recommended,” Jack murmured.
You groaned into his chest.
Jack laughed softly and returned one warm hand to your lower back.
A moment later, his voice softened. “Seriously. Need anything else?”
You tucked yourself closer against him. “No.”
Jack kissed the top of your head again.
You smiled against his chest.
For all the shit you gave him, Jack had taken his newly appointed position very seriously.
And unfortunately for you, the results were difficult to argue with.
Condal and Hess better be so grateful to the people in charge of the dragons because my emotional dependency on those sky puppies is the only reason I’m going to finish this show
Realizing that probably part of the reason I can't get over my crush is because I want romance and a relationship so badly and he's a wonderful person that I think would be a good partner but ultimately I don't KNOW that, I'm imagining it. And I saw a YouTube comment that said, "Keep the dream, replace the person." So, like a normal person, I'm going to write fics centered in all my daydreams about my crush but I'm going to replace him with men who aren't real :) maybe that will help me get over it.
Daemon: Rhaenyra listen to me I saw a blond girl with dragons. A blond girl with dragons Rhaenyra. Now that may not seem at all unusual or miraculous to you or me probably because all our dragons are still alive and we have no reason to think anything is going to happen to them but would this woman who roofied me 58 times in a one week span have lied? Do you think she’d show me a tree man without cause? Do you think people are just blonde for no reason? Exactly. Now put your shoes on, we’ll avenge Jeremy
summary: in the middle of the worst e.r. shift of your whole career, you catch your not-quite boyfriend, shirtless, in an empty room with another resident. (6.4k)
contents: established relationship/friends with benefits, jealousy (mohabbot take five real quick), angst, hurt/comfort, kinda canon divergent 'cause i wrote this when the spoilers dropped a few weeks ago cw for s2 spoilers, physical assault (a la dana in s1), panic attacks, mentions of blood and medical procedures, mentions of patient death, brief mentions of grief, brief mentions of not eating due to stress n sadness, allusions to smut 18+ (MDNI)
The lamplit room is filled with Jack’s exclusion from it.
You writhe beneath the mussed blankets, still buzzing from the remnants of your orgasm, and watch his shadow move beneath the crack of the bathroom door. You’re still filled by him, still leaking a mixture of him onto the stained sheets below, and yet you find yourself missing him, anyway.
He does not seem as grieved by the distance as you are. He sobered almost instantly from his own orgasm and promptly slid off your body, without another word or a kiss of reassurance shared between you. He’d slipped his prosthetic back on and made a beeline for the adjoining bathroom — where he has been for some minutes now, just pacing, and leaving you to stew in the worry of what you had obviously done so wrong.
“Do you wanna order food?” you call into the quiet, reaching for your phone on the nightstand beside you. You miss once, then twice, with hands still tingling from a soul-ascending pleasure. The screen fills the dim room with a blue-white light that makes you squint until your tired eyes adjust.
“What?!” Jack shouts back, muffled from behind the door. The hissing faucet shuts off to a slow drip.
“I said, do you—” You cut off your yelling when the bathroom door squeaks open. Jack appears in the doorway, now dressed in the t-shirt and jeans he’d arrived in. He’s shadowed momentarily by the light behind him until he switches it off again — then he’s painted a dim golden color as he walks back into the bedroom for his shoe.
You hold the thin sheet to your bare chest and shift further up the headboard, bending your knees to accommodate his body when he sits on the edge of the mattress to tie his laces. Your eyes soften, waiting for him to look back at you.
He never does.
More quietly, you tell him, “I asked if you wanted to order food. ‘Cause I don’t really feel like cooking right now and, depending on what you want, we should probably wait to order ‘cause Love Island doesn’t come on for another hour, and—”
Jack’s scruffy chin brushes the thin fabric of his shirt as he turns his head slowly to look at you. There’s a distance in his eyes that cuts you off, like you’re a quick fuck that doesn’t know when to stop talking, like he’s waiting for you to stop so he can get away.
“I think I’m gonna head out now, actually,” he tells you, then returns to knot his laces.
“Oh…” you hum, half-breathless, and pretend his foreign dismissiveness doesn’t tear your chest in two. “Are you… Are you okay—?”
“Yeah,” he shrugs and rises from the mattress. “I’m fine. I just— Need to get home.”
You follow him with wet eyes as he rounds the bed for the opposite side, where his phone and wallet sit on the nightstand and his branded rucksack rests on the floor. “Well, do you want me to wait to watch it with you? ‘Cause then I have to text Princes and tell her not to spoil it for me in the morning—”
“Go ahead,” Jack shrugs, with a faint smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, as he slides the camo strap over his broad shoulder. “I think I’ll survive a week without it.”
Your frown deepens at his joke.
“Did I do something?” you wonder in a meek voice that makes his chest ache.
“No,” he scoffs. “Of course not. Why would you ask that?”
“I don’t know…” you murmur shyly, shifting on the mattress and grimacing slightly when the sticky sheets cling to your thighs. “You never leave right after we have sex, so I— I didn’t know if, maybe… It wasn’t good for your something, or if I said something—”
“No, it was great—” Jack interjects, but cuts himself off quickly thereafter, like he was about to say something he shouldn’t.
The word ‘honey’ was about to roll off his tongue the way it always does when he’s talking to you, but it feels wrong to say it now, for a reason he still can’t name that threatens to strangle him all the same.
“I just gotta go now. Okay?”
At a loss for what else to do, or what else to say that might make him stay, you just nod with a sad smile. “Sure…”
Jack leaves with a polite nod — like the sex was some sort of mindless transaction he’s thanking you for and not something you’ve done quite regularly for the past several months. He doesn’t speak another word to you when he walks out, and doesn’t look back at you once when he shuts the door behind him.
You stew in his absence and forget to eat.
Your tired body functions the following day on nothing but heartache and half a granola bar.
You drown in the bustling emergency department, and in the void of the white screen ahead of you, where you try and fail to do your charting. You can’t quite garner the strength to use your hands, much less use your brain to put letters on the screen that’ll just look like alphabet soup to you anyway. You’re stuck idling in the emptiness inside of you, where your heart withers along with your stomach.
Robby watches from afar, studying you as he flits between patients and residents requiring his attention. He has, self-admittedly, quite the soft spot for you — because you’re the smartest person on this floor and the most sensitive, too, which makes for a great doctor but very often the saddest person you’ll ever meet. He waits for you to correct yourself before he has to step in, and potentially make your day worse than it’s obviously already going.
You don’t move for six minutes straight.
He timed it.
“What is going on over here?” Robby wonders slowly, leaning over the top of the desk and peering down at you with a pair of stern brown eyes.
You blink rapidly to clear the haze of rumination from your vision and shrink into your cushioned seat like a scolded child. “Charting…” you answer with an unconvincing waver in your voice.
“Looks like it,” Robby scoffs with a hint of a smile that gets lost in his greying beard. He taps the desk with his palm and stands to full height again, nodding his head and urging you to follow him. “C’mon. Walk with me.”
He saunters off in the opposite direction of the work station, taking a tablet that Dana hands to him as he goes. It takes a long moment for his words to compute, and you scramble to your feet when he throws you an expectant look over his shoulder. You fall into step with the older man as he drags his glasses from the shirt pocket of his black scrubs.
Robby sets the black frames on the bridge of his nose and wonders aloud with his gaze turned to the screen in his hand, “What’s going on with you today, kid?”
“It’s nothing,” you shrug dismissively, sticking close to the man’s side as you weave within the crowded hall.
He flashes you an unenthusiastic glare in return. His eyes dart between your furrowed brows, to your anxiety-bitten lips (where your teeth dig into the delicate skin even now), to where you wrench the hem of your long-sleeved undershirt into trembling fists. Whatever it is, it’s very clearly not nothing.
“I’m not asking to be polite, kid,” the older man tells you, firm but not entirely unkind. “I can tell something’s wrong, and it’s affecting your work, so— Just tell me.”
You swallow hard and struggle to find the courage to speak, or to meet the man’s gaze as your eyes dart everywhere but back at him.
“It’s about your friend…” you confess in a sheepish murmur that gets lost in the droning of the bustling E.R.
It takes Robby a moment or more to catch your meaning.
“Jack?” he presses, because he knew the two of you were seeing each other, but not that it was quite so serious to warrant the off-day you’re having now. He makes a mental note to ream Abbot out for it the next time he sees him — ‘cause he can’t have any of his residents upset, least of all you.
You nod with an averted gaze. “He’s just… been off—”
“He’s always off,” Robby scoffs.
“Well, not with me,” you tell him, foreignly firm in your quiet argument. “And now he’s not talking to me, and I have no idea what I did…”
“Well, knowing Jack, you probably didn’t do a damn thing,” Robby concedes with a heavy sigh and flashes you a sympathetic look as you turn the corner. “Just give him some time, alright? He’ll come around. He always does. For now, you’ve got a patient in 8 that’s asking for you—”
Before you can make a guess on who it is — though you think you already know the answer — a strong hand wrenches suddenly around your wrist.
The man’s fingers are warm, calloused, and unwavering against your delicate skin. Your heart lurches into your throat at the sudden panic as your chin snaps towards the man towering over you. He’s tall, bearded, rugged, and so angry he’s red in the face.
“I have been waiting out there…” the man starts, taut voice wavering with a withheld fire. “…For four hours. When the hell am I gonna see somebody?”
“How did you get back here?” is the first thing you think to squeak out, because you vaguely recall McKay sending him back to Chairs after taking his vitals some time ago.
Robby steps in then, cutting between you and the stranger to urge him backward and away from you. You rub at your tender wrist when the man’s brutal touch is gone.
“We’re seeing the sickest patients first, sir. So count yourself lucky you aren’t back here,” Robby explains in an even voice, sounding much calmer than he really feels. “But touch anybody in here like that again, and you won’t be seen at all. Got it?”
The man caves with a heavy breath and with his weathered palms splayed in surrender. “I was just asking a question, man…”
“I’ll handle it, boss,” Ahmad cuts in, rushing towards the three of you after catching sight of the altercation from down the hall. He steps between the two of you and the angry patient and ushers him back toward the waiting room.
“Don’t touch me,” you hear the man spit, but complying anyway.
“Trust me, man,” Ahmad quips. “I don’t want to.”
It takes you a long moment thereafter to catch your breath.
It was certainly not the first time you’ve been grabbed by an unhappy patient, and it would certainly not be the last, but you can never quite get used to the fear. The panic is slow to ebb from your veins, even as the man is escorted back to Chairs. You find him sneering silently at you when you catch his eyes, moments before the door shuts behind him.
Robby steps into your tunnel vision, ducking down to meet your gaze with dark eyes glimmering with worry. “You alright, kid? Did he get you?”
“I’m fine,” you answer on muscle memory and muster a smile that doesn’t quite meet your eyes. “I’ve seen my fair share of assholes, Robby. Today, even.”
“Well, yeah,” the man scoffs playfully. “You’re with Abbot— I’m sure you’re an expert at dealing with assholes by now…”
By all accounts, you were not supposed to have favorites at the PTMC. And you didn’t really; everyone who stepped foot into the E.R. got the same level of medical care from you — even the assholes. But Louie Cloverfield was different, special. He was the first patient you ever saw as an R1, and when he kept coming in, and you kept picking up his cases, he became your patient.
If Louie was in, and you were on shift, you were the one tending to him. Always.
So, you stay by his side when he loses his pulse, even when the rest of the E.R. reduces to the inevitable chaos of the afternoon rush — even when you know the rest of your co-workers could probably use your help out there now — even when you know there’s nothing more you can do for Louie to keep him alive.
Sweat beads on your forehead as you kneel at his bedside, pounding firmly at the man’s chest in a feeble attempt to keep his heart beating. You’ve lost feeling in your arms now — they’ve gone from aching, to burning, to utterly numb — but your attempt at resuscitation never stops, not even as dark crimson blood spits from his breathing tube; the clearest sign of blood in his lungs.
Robby watches from the back of the room, keeping a close eye on you and the bodies donned in camo outside the window — as the TEMS unit treats a trauma patient across the way, with Jack Abbot among them. He catches the man glancing around the crowded E.R. for a moment, peering over passing heads for a glimpse of you, before the work inevitably drags him away.
Robby knows you have not yet noticed Jack’s presence.
You’ve got the sort of tunnel vision you always get in a crisis, when you refuse to move on until you’ve helped the person in front of you first — which has undoubtedly made you the very backbone of the PTMC patient satisfaction score, though at a detriment to yourself perhaps. Because you never know when to stop; and then, when you inevitably have to, you’ll always find a way to blame yourself for it.
“Three minutes since the epi,” you hear Perlah say, over the sound of your pounding heartbeat in your ears.
“Hold compressions,” Robby commands.
You stop on instinct, and feel the ache done into your bones. You exhale heavy breaths as you wipe sweat from your brow with the back of your gloved hand, careful to avoid the drops of blood spotted there. You feel like your chest is tearing in two when that same, menacing beeping sound fills the air.
“Aystotle,” Robby sighs. “Resume compressions.”
“Give me another amp of epi— and more suction,” you say through panted breaths, situating your palms back over the older man’s sternum. You look past the rogue flyaways falling over your eyes and the nurses crowded around you, peering at Robby with a determined but no less pleading gaze. “What do we do? Should we— Should we give PCC?”
Robby shakes his head with his arms crossed over his chest. “No, it’s too late for that…” he hums sympathetically. “And he’s not an ECMO candidate, so—”
“Well, can you tell me something that we can do?” you snap, harsher than you mean to.
Robby only softens further, dark eyes going tender around the edges as he tells you, “There’s nothing else we can do for him, kid…”
“Robby,” you whimper, flinching like he’s hurt you, but never once stopping your compressions. “C’mon. Please, we can— We can think of something— We still have two more rounds of epi, maybe it’ll—”
You exhale a punched-out breath, like not being able to save Louie hits you like a fist to the stomach. Your aching arms tingle with numbness when you part from the unconscious man. That wretched beeping fills the air once more, ringing through your ears and pounding skull.
“12:07,” you hear Robby announce the time of death, as Perlah’s soft hands grasp gently at your shoulders.
“C’mon. I’ll clean up,” the woman tells you, sniffling. “You take a second.”
“I’m fine,” you shrug, half-strangled, as you slip the bloodied gloves from your half-numb hands. You blink back burning tears as you walk them to the trash.
“You’re not,” Robby murmurs, head bowed to meet your averted gaze. “And that’s okay. Just take a second.”
You remind yourself to breathe — in for seven beats and out for eight — as the muffled exam room breaks away into the chaotic E.R. The rest of it becomes a blur in your tunnel vision, and the calls for concern turn to inaudible slurs in your ears.
“Whoa… you okay?” you only vaguely hear Trinity ask as you storm past the work station.
“Fine,” you squeak on instinct, despite the obvious.
“Oh, yeah, he totally croaked in there,” Ogilvie murmurs, as though to gossip with her, but forgetting to be subtle about it.
“Do you ever think before you speak?” Santos quips. “Or is the stupidity genetic?”
Your heavy eyes search for an empty room to duck into, to at least muffle your screams before you cry in front of everyone. There is no patient in the bed in Central 15, so you burst into that one, still struggling to catch your breath.
Your much-needed inhale gets caught in your chest at the sight you find in the corner of the room — Jack Abbot, stripped off his shirt and wiping blood from his stomach, with Samira standing just behind him, tending carefully to the scrape on his back.
Your sneaker scuffs the tile as you still suddenly in place.
The sound of your sudden presence makes them freeze, too. Their heads dart in your direction, gaping with wide eyes and parted mouths as if you’d just caught them doing something terrible. In a way, it feels like you have.
It feels like you’ve stumbled upon some achingly tender moment between them, of which you had been deprived for some time now — because even when Jack was with you, he was a thousand miles away. You wonder if, maybe, a part of him wanted to be here — with Samira, perhaps — and if that’s why he had left you so abruptly last night, as if it had only occurred to him then that you were no longer what he wanted.
You wouldn’t have blamed him for it, if that were the case. You just wish he would’ve told you before now, so it would feel like less of a white-hot knife lodged into the center of your sternum to find him this way.
“Sorry,” you just barely manage to choke out, though it gets lost in a whimper as you fight back the urge to cry.
Jack’s scruffy chest pinches with worry at the crack in your fragile voice and the visibly frazzled sight of you, all wild-haired and glassy-eyed. It hurts him far worse than the wounds burning red-hot on his pale skin now.
“What happened?” he asks, greying brows lowered in concern.
Samira stills with her soft fingers on Jack’s broad, freckled shoulder, touching him with a tenderness he hasn’t let you give him in some time.
“Are you okay?” she wonders, soft with a worry that is always sincere coming from here, but finds you more like a slap in the face just now.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” you answer on muscle memory, then sniffle as you shake your head at yourself. “I’m not, actually— I don’t know why I said that— Louie just died. Pulmonary hemorrhage. And I was just looking for an empty room to cry in, I didn’t mean to… to interrupt…”
“You didn’t,” Jack assures you, parting from Samira to take a step closer to you.
It takes quite a lot of strength from you to turn away from him, instead of leering at his shirtless form or cowering at the gentle look in his light eyes. “I-I’ll see myself out,” you stammer hopelessly. “Sorry…”
You just barely hear Jack calling your name before the heavy glass door shuts behind you.
With nowhere else to go, and not willing to face the embarrassment of walking back the way you came, you make a beeline for the ambulance bay. The automatic doors part for you, and the cool air outside takes your breath away a second later.
Your chest hitches as you inhale a sniveling breath, trying and failing to regulate your breathing. You stand at the edge of the curb with one hand balled into a fist and one hand clutching your aching chest. Your heart’s telling you that you’re having an embolism and you’re about to keel over at this very moment; your brain’s telling you that you’re just having a panic attack and you need to suck it the hell up.
“Hey,” a man calls from further down the sidewalk.
Your head snaps in the direction of the familiar voice. You tense at the sight of the man who had grabbed you earlier, and your aching heart forgets to beat when you see him storming over to you. You find he’s wearing a smile on his bearded face when he’s close enough, but it looks more cynical than kind.
“You’re the nurse who got me kicked out earlier, aren’t you?” he asks.
You don’t have the breath or the bravery to correct him now.
“I’m sorry, sir…” you sniffle, wet-eyed, and turn away. “It’s just… It’s been a long day, okay? I didn’t mean for you to get escorted out. You just scared me, that’s all. I’m—”
You turn to face him again when he’s standing ahead of you. But before the words of an apology can spill from your mouth, his weathered fist collides with your nose.
You hear a sharp crack, a wet whoosh, and then the dull slap of your body hitting the pavement. You grimace when the back of your skull meets the concrete, and struggle to blink away the black spots from your vision.
The very first face you see is Langdon’s, though you’re not quite sure how long it’s been since your eyes have closed — a few seconds, maybe, or several minutes. You’re still lying on the rough pavement when you come to, with Frank’s gentle fingers brushing the hair out of your eyes with one hand and shining his penlight into your eyes with the other.
“There you are…” the man coos. “What happened to you out here?”
You hardly hear him, like he’s speaking to you from underwater. You answer him with a question of your own, lifting your trembling fingers to the dull throbbing sensation in your nose.
“Is… Is it bad?” you wonder aloud, half-slurring. You grimace first at the wet feeling on your cupid’s bow, then at the bright scarlet blood staining your fingertips. You whisper, voice breaking. “Ow…”
“Whoa, careful there…” Mel wavers, rushing from behind Langdon to help you when you try to sit up on your own. She crouches down beside him and takes you by the elbows in a pair of gentle hands. She squints behind her glasses when your inhale rattles in your chest. “Did you fall on your back?”
“Did somebody hit you?” Langdon presses from her other side, bushy brows lowered in worry.
“Wow…” you mumble, blinking hard, and wincing when you taste blood in your mouth. “So many questions…”
Mel and Langdon share a panicked look you don’t see.
“Yeah, c’mon. Let’s go,” the older man sighs, urging you up by the elbows and steadying you when you sway softly in place. “Come with me…”
“I can walk,” you protest through your ragged breaths, and through the blood dripping from your cupid’s bow and into your mouth. You pull your arm out of his grasp when the strength to do so returns to you, and stagger the rest of the way to the entrance until you regain your footing. “Just… Be normal, alright?”
“Right…” Langdon scoffs and fights back the urge to laugh — because you obviously have no idea how you look right now, with the lower half of your face all covered in blood, as if you’ve just been rescued from a bar fight. There’s hardly anything normal about that.
You try to be, anyway, as you stroll through the crowded E.R., hoping to be blanketed by the chaos inside. Everyone’s too busy charting or rushing to patients to notice your being there. You’re five or more steps away from making it to the bathroom when Robby’s eagle-eyed stare locks in on you from behind his computer.
“Jesus fucking Christ…” the older man blurts, sliding off his glasses and rising from his chair. He abandons his work without a second thought and rounds the workstation to rush to your side.
“I’m okay,” you tell him with a dismissive wave of your hand, pressing onward even when you hear his footsteps nearing you. He stops you with a gentle hand on your shoulder and steps in front of you to block your path.
“What the hell happened to you?” he wonders aloud, looking past you to Langdon and Mel as he drags a pair of gloves from his scrub pockets.
“We found her like this,” Frank shrugs.
“I told you to take a break, not get into a bar fight.”
“Ha-ha,” you monotone, then flinch when it hurts to smile. “Ow…”
“Who did this, huh?” Robby asks, cupping your bloodied face in his gloved hands. He runs his fingers over the back of your head first, to make sure you have no wounds there, before pressing his thumbs gently to the apples of your cheeks. “It wasn’t that asshole from before, was it?”
“I didn’t see him,” you lie through your teeth.
“Any trouble seeing? Any double vision?”
You shake your head against his hands, then inhale another rattling breath.
“Did you fall on your back?” he asks you then.
You nod once.
“What about a headache?”
“I always have a headache,” you answer. “I’m fine, Robby. I just need to get cleaned up—”
“Look at you— You’re not fine,” the man snaps. “Now, c’mon. You’re coming with me.”
You have no choice but to follow him when he wraps a firm, gentle hand around your arm, ushering you to walk ahead of him. You ignore the looks and calls of concern from the coworkers around you, except for Mel’s voice, which comes from behind you.
“Should I find Dr. Abbot?” she wonders aloud.
Your head snaps over your shoulder to look at her, and it makes your vision swim.
“Absolutely do not do that,” you answer, a little harsher than you mean to.
“O-kay…” she stammers and trails off.
“In here,” Robby urges, swinging open the door to the nearest empty room. He keeps a steady hand on your back to keep you stable and turns back to Mel before he follows you inside. “Find Abbot,” he tells her.
You lie on your back on the hospital bed while Robby does an impromptu exam. He presses the cold chestpiece of his stethoscope to your skin and listens to your breathing until it evens out again, from where the air had rushed out of your lungs after the fall. He finds your pupils both equal and reactive, and your nose free from swelling or cracking — “Nothing that mother nature can’t fix,” he says, and takes to cleaning you up instead.
“These beds are so hard,” you murmur, shifting uncomfortably with an icepack pressed to your nose, which Princess had brought by some minutes ago. “We should really get new ones in here. How are patients supposed to be comfortable in these?”
“Yeah, I’ll go tell Gloria,” Robby scoffs, dabbing at your nose with a wet wipe. “I’m sure she’ll get right on that…”
He parts from you to chuck the red-tinted napkin into the bin at his side and waits for you to laugh at his stupid joke. You stay silent. You don’t even give him a pity giggle, and you always, at the very least, give him a goddamn pity giggle. His brows furrow in a mixture of confusion and concern.
“Can I ask you a stupid question?”
“Better than anyone I know, Dr. Robby…”
“Ha-ha,” he deadpans, reaching for another wipe with a gloved hand. It’s freezing against the burning skin of your neck as it dabs it gently there. “Why didn’t you want me telling Abbot about this, huh?”
“Because he doesn’t care…” you mumble cynically, almost inaudibly so.
“Oh, c’mon,” Robby scoffs. “Even you don’t believe that.”
You don’t. Not really. You know Jack cares, if only because it’s in his blood to do so. His basic human empathy is what made him such a good doctor. You just aren’t sure that he cares about you in the way you thought he did — in the way you wanted him to — and you’re not quite sure how to voice that to Robby now.
“He’s busy right now,” you answer instead, still half-hidden behind the icepack. “Too busy for me, and I don’t wanna bother him, so… Just drop it.”
Robby flashes you a sympathetic smile that you don’t see as he swipes at the last bit of blood from your skin. “I know he may not act like it, kid, but he does care about you.”
“You’re right,” you mumble. “He doesn’t act like it—”
Jack Abbot bursts into the room like a red-hot flame through a burning house. His broad chest heaves with panted breaths beneath the thin navy shirt he wears in place of his tactical gear, though his camo pants still sit heavy on his waist.
His wild eyes scan your form. “What the hell’s going on in here?” he blurts.
You glare at Robby from behind the icepack. “I hate you.”
“Yeah, I know…” the man sighs, dropping the crumpled wipe into the trash beside him.
“What happened?” Jack presses, more firmly this time.
“Nothing,” you murmur shyly, unable to meet his gaze when he towers at your bedside with his hands on his hips. “It’s not the first time someone’s swung at me—”
“Yeah, but it’s the first time it’s been this bad. Bad enough that someone had to come get me,” Jack argues, made a bit harsher with the concern pinching at his chest. His head whips over his shoulder. “Who the hell did this?”
“Some guy from Chairs, I think,” Robby shrugs. “Name’s Driscoll. Ahmad’s already handling it. He’ll deal with the police.”
“Good,” Jack nods, firm in a way you’ve always adored about him. He was inherently resolute where you were perpetually indecisive. It mostly came in handy when you struggled to figure out what to eat for dinner, not usually in situations like this. “‘Cause we’re pressing charges on this asshole, alright?”
“Honestly, Jack, I don’t care what you do…” you sigh. “But my head is really starting to hurt, and I really don’t feel like handling this right now.”
“On it,” Robby nods, taking the hint and stalking out of the room. He shuts the curtains after him and dims the light as he goes. The noise of the Pitt muffles again when the door closes behind him, leaving you and Jack alone in the not-quite-silence and the not-quite-dark.
“Here. C’mon,” the man urges suddenly, motioning with his chin. “Make room for me.”
“What?” you ask, eyes squinted in confusion as the man turns to sit on the edge of the twin-sized bed, adjusting his prosthetic to swing it over the side.
He gives you an expectant look over his shoulder. “Scooch,” is all he says, in a strangely strong voice despite the very silly command.
You shift on the thin mattress despite your better judgment to make room for him. Jack urges his right leg up first, then his left one second. He settles in beside you and urges the railings up to keep him from falling off the side. You try to do the same, though you possess a lot less strength with only one hand than the man beside you.
Your breath catches when he reaches over you with a strong hand, helping you lift the barrier the rest of the way.
“Thanks…” you mumble, half-shy.
“Don’t mention it,” he huffs politely, with one arm on his stomach and the other curled around your shoulders, keeping you close to accommodate both your bodies on the twin-sized bed. He smells of sweat and musky cologne and antiseptic. It takes everything in you not to melt into his warmth. You remain tense beside him, feeling slightly strange in his hold in a way you never have before.
“I’m sorry about, Louie—”
“You don’t have to do this—” you blurt simultaneously.
His head snaps over to you. He has to jerk his scruffy chin back to look at you properly from the dwindling proximity between you. His eyes dart between your averted gaze and the slowly melting icepack you fidget with like a stress ball.
“Do what?” he asks.
“I didn’t mean to walk in on you and Samira, okay?” you confess quietly, ‘cause any octave higher, and your voice will start to shake. “I wasn’t… I didn’t mean to make it a whole thing, you know? So you don’t have to come in and pretend to be all nice just because you think I’m upset, ‘cause I’m not.”
(Your rambling is hardly convincing in the matter, but he makes no mention of it.)
“Okay. I hear you,” Jack murmurs gently, always so patient with your rambling, even though he can only halfway comprehend it a lot of the time. “But I’m still not sure what Mohan has to do with this—”
Honey, he wants to say, but doesn’t allow himself.
“If you want to be with her, that’s okay— Or if it’s just because you don’t wanna be with me, that’s okay, too,” you explain in a strangely even voice. “But I wish you would’ve just told me, instead of bailing on me last night—”
“I didn’t bail on you—”
“—So then I wouldn’t have to catch you and Samira doing…” you trail off, face screwed. “Whatever the hell you were doing back there.”
“Catching us?” Jack echoes with a laugh you can feel rumbling against your shoulder. “That would imply we were doing something worth getting caught. She just walked in on me while looking for her patient, that’s all.”
“Yeah, well…” you hum, gaze averted to the icepack in your lap. “It seemed pretty intimate…”
“It wasn’t.”
“More intimate than you’ve been with me,” you argue sheepishly.
“Well, not to be crude here, but…” Jack trails off with an audible smile in his voice. “We literally had sex last night.”
“Yeah, and you left,” you spit, turning to look at him for the first time since he stormed in. You wear a wet look in your glassy eyes and a bruise blooming on the bridge of your nose. “And I cried myself to sleep about it. Which means I didn’t get to watch Love Island, which means I forgot to eat, which means I’m running on fumes on what has arguably been the worst shift of my whole life.”
You take a much-needed breath when the words are gone from your mouth.
Jack does not jump immediately to defend himself. He knows he doesn’t deserve it now. He just lets himself stew in your fiery words instead, so you know they’ll have a real impact on him before he responds.
“You’re right,” he sighs after a few long moments. “I’m sorry—”
“Don’t be sorry,” you shake your head at his apologetic tone. “Just don’t… Don’t be so mean, you know? If you don’t wanna be with me anymore, why can’t you just say?”
“Because I do want to be with you,” he answers, weathered features screwed in offense. “How would you ask me that?”
“Because you aren’t acting like it—”
“Because I almost told you that I loved you,” Jack blurts suddenly, in a stern tone of voice that snatches the breath from your lungs. He swallows hard and continues. “Last night, I mean, when we… I almost said it… Because I felt it, but then I… I realized I hadn’t said that to anyone since my wife passed, and it freaked me out.”
“But…” you start in a broken whisper. “Why does that have to be such a bad thing?”
“‘Cause it makes me feel guilty,” Jack answers. “The way I love you makes me feel guilty, like I’m abandoning her. And I… I don’t know what to do with all that… grief.”
You feel your heart aching, for the third or hundredth time that day. You notice Jack’s right hand hanging on your shoulder, how his fingers fidget anxiously there, and how his left hand scratches at the rough fabric of his camo pants — made overwrought by his confession, and unsure what to do with it now.
“Why don’t you just give it to me?” you wonder quietly, then shrug at the confused look Jack gives you a second later. “Your grief, I mean. I can take it. You know, make it a little more bearable for you. So you don’t have to carry it all on your own.”
The softness of your words knocks the breath from Jack’s lungs.
The corner of his mouth quirks in a wavering smile as he blinks burning tears out of his eyes. “Jesus, we're a couple of goddamn sad sacks, aren’t we, honey?” he scoffs a sad laugh and runs his free hand down his scruffy face.
Your lips twitch upward, feeling giddy but fighting it. “That’s the first time you called me that in two days…” you observe distantly.
“What?”
“Honey.”
“Yeah,” he sighs. “I’m sorry for that, too…”
“Don’t be sorry,” you repeat, this time with a smile. “Just— kiss me or somethin’…”
“Gladly,” Jack says with a wider grin.
You tilt your chin up to meet him halfway when he leans down to kiss you. His nose bumps into the side of your bruised one, as your hand reaches for his wounded shoulder. You flinch against each other in tandem.
“Ow,” you whimper.
“Ouch,” Jack winces. “Shit, honey— Sorry.”
“Are you okay?” you ask with a sympathetic scrunch to your features, cupping his scruffy face in your delicate hands. “I haven’t checked in on you yet, I know you’re hurt—”
“I’m fine,” he assures with a shake of his head, leaning instinctively into your touch. “I got a little banged up, but… I’m good now.”
“Promise?” you whisper, swiping an eyelash from his cheek with your thumb.
“I promise. I'll tell you about later,” he nods once and smooths his calloused fingers across your temple, looking at you with a tenderness you’ve been craving all day. “What about you, honey— Are you okay?”
You inhale sharply through your bruised nose and nod on a slower exhale.
“I will be,” you answer honestly for the first time all day.
"All because my head is full of poison
And my heart is full of doubt
I got toxins in my bloodstream
You tried so hard to suck out
—the cure, Olivia Rodrigo
summary: you’re the ray of sunshine and overly dependable smiling intern the night shift crew has been needing. But a certain attending begins noticing you might need more help than you let on.
wc: 11.7k (a short one sorry guys)
warnings: crippling perfectionism, high-key people pleasing, reader is bright and bubbly to compensate for how awful she feels day to day, one vomiting scene, service dom jack, santos is on nightshift bc i love her and i wanted her in this fic. trinity and dennis and reader r basically siblings, jack’s characterization in this is DEF andrew pope cody-esque panic attacks, mental health struggles, reader is an intern again but i swear it’s just cause i watch a lot of greys and interns r the only stage of medical career i know enough about to write semi-well T-T
acknowledgments: once again a round of applause for @wesandresons for the lovely gif, and @uzmacchiato and @cursed-carmine for the dividers!
a/n: i’m not rlly sure i like how this turned out but oh well @leeknowpegger i hope this keeps you company
masterlist
When you first get to the PTMC, Jack can’t decide what he thinks about you.
He vaguely remembers you— you’d done a rotation here, some time ago. One of the unfortunate ones who’d drawn the short stick and been stuck on the night shift. He has a hazy recollection of your face during an MVC, your jaw hard set and a permanent smile to your face. He vaguely remembers, at the time, the only thing he’d really though was:
Jesus, this kid needs to dial it back.
The sentiment, of course, remains the same when it’s handoff time, and Robby is telling him all about what an awful fucking day it’s been, and of course now he says “Oh, remember that med student you got stuck with awhile back? Smiley-face? You must’ve done something right, because she matched into the ED for her residency. She starts today.”
Not exactly the news an attending wants to hear right after the horror show the day has been so far. Especially when intern/baby resident in question is… charismatic.
“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Ellis says, her eyes trained on you as you soothe a crying teenager who just got wheeled in. “If you ask me, we could use someone who actually smiles. Bit too dark and dreary in here for my taste.”
“You like dark and dreary.”
She gives him an unimpressed raised eyebrow. “So? We can’t all be doing it. Like, we’ve got Shen, but his is more iced-coffee induced than actual smiling charm.”
“I can be charming when I want to be.”
“No, you can be flirty or suggestive. There’s a difference.”
Jack does not justify her response with one of his own, instead choosing to look down at his tablet and pretend to chart while he listens to how you’re interacting with the patient. The teenager seems to be calmed down, and the parents don't sound frantic or worried.
Maybe Ellis is right. Unfortunately, this tends to be the case fairly often.
He sighs and focuses on the chart he’s supposed to be doing and attempts to wipe his mind of bright smiles and glittering eyes.
—
The PTMC and Emergency Medicine in general was not, actually, your first choice. It wasn’t even your second, or your third.
First was surgical. Everybody wants to be surgical. You wanted surgical. It’s flashy, it pays well, and it’s cool as fuck. Plus, unlike some of your classmates, you actually have the stomach for it (one of the many things that eventually translated well to emergency medicine.)
Second was Ortho. Because bones are cool. Ortho surgeries are fun too, when they’re not arthroscopy after arthroscopy.
Third was any kind of unit like Burn or ICU. A high stress program that wouldn’t let you think, let you run on adrenaline all day.
But then you did your rotation in general surgery and absolutely fucking hated it.
Surgeons are assholes. Surgeons are uptight nerds who like to subject anyone they consider beneath them to cruel and unusual punishment.
Even in during the short duration of your rotation through surgery, it almost killed you. You could practically feel the light in your soul dimming at every pointed comment, every sharp correction, every barked insult and something or other cruel word.
And then there was the PTMC. The stupid ED that wasn’t supposed to fun, was supposed to be grueling and exhausting (especially since you’d gotten assigned to the night shift.) But instead of awful you got amazing, which sucked.
Seems counterintuitive, but it’s true.
You wanted to like surgery enough to power though. But not a single rotation after the ED even came close to measuring up. The speed, the action, the gore, and the kind but firm guiding direction from the attending’s and residents.
Matching into the PTMC was an event actually worth celebrating. As in, you decided to un-tense minutely and splurge on actual champagne that you drank in your apartment while dancing to your favorite music.
And now, you’re here. Determined to not fuck this up. To keep moving, keep going, and be a fucking excellent ED doctor.
Except your attending, Dr. Jack Abbot, one of the reasons you joined the ED in the first place, keeps giving you funny looks when he thinks you’re not looking.
You’re not sure if he’s aware that you know that he’s staring at you. You do have a wider than normal field of peripheral vision, so maybe he doesn’t know that you can still see him out of the corner of your eye?
Regardless of if he knows or not, it’s unnerving. Because he’s your boss. And you know he’s capable of being an incredible doctor and mentor, because you see it every single day.
Just not directed at you.
He’s not really mean, or standoffish, or anything like that, he’s just… not necessarily kind. Not in the way that you see him with the other residents on his service or even with you, during your rotation as a med student.
Hell, he’s nicer to Santos than he is to you.
“Did I like, say something to offend him and I don’t know?”
Trinity makes a face at you from over the edge of the monitor. “Isn’t that more my area of expertise?”
“No. You offend people on purpose.”
“True.”
You prop your head on your hands, resting your elbows on the counter above her. Your keycard, attached to your breast pocket via a red, heart-shaped badge reel is lovingly adorned with pink rhinestones and cute stickers. The pocket itself is filled with several glitter gel pens (and regular pens, just in case.)
“I just don’t get it. I’m nice, right?”
“Disturbingly so.”
“Exactly. The only thing I can think of is that I’ve messed up or something, but it’s Dr. Abbot. He’d tell me if I did. He doesn’t exactly hold back.”
“Do you really need me for this conversation?”
You level her with a look, but she just groans.
“Why do you even care? So what, one guy doesn’t like you, boohoo.”
“He’s not just some guy. He’s my attending. And you might’ve secured your spot here, but i’m all shiny and new. I can’t exactly earn people’s respect if our boss doesn’t like me.”
Trinity doesn’t immediately respond with a scathing remark, which usually means that you’ve made a valid point.
“Should I talk to him?”
She sighs. “I think you’re overreacting. You’ve only been here for like, two weeks? Three? He’ll probably calm down the more you work together.”
“Did he stare at you all weirdly when you first started?”
“Well, no, but that’s because I don’t suck at my job.”
Now it’s your turn to glare.
“Sorry. I guess you’re not completely hopeless.”
You roll your eyes. “Thanks, Trin.”
She scrunches her nose up at the nickname like you knew she would, because she hates it, which makes it one of the only weapons you have against her.
Trinity wasn’t as helpful as you’d hoped, and night shift means no Dana to ask for advice. There’s Dr. Ellis, but she’s pretty close to Dr. Abbot, which means there’s a high chance that whatever you ask her will make it back to him. You aren’t really close enough to Dr. Shen to ask him “Hey, how come Dr. Abbot stares at me when he thinks I’m not looking and isn’t as nice to me as he is to you guys?”
The question is stupid and kind of pathetic, so really, you shouldn’t be asking anybody, but you’ve always been crippled by an intense need to be well-liked. It feels like winning, and it feels good and safe. Safe is good. Safe is great.
Wanting the guy who's essentially your boss to like you is completely rational, right?
You just wish he’d tell you what you’re doing wrong, so you can fix it.
Also, it’s just driving you crazy.
Even if he just legitimately didn’t like you, and made that apparent, it’d be something. You could work with that. You could figure out what it was he didn't like via intense pattern recognitin and fix it. Problem solved!
But he isn't obvious about it. He behaves indifferent and detatched- like you could die tomorrow and he wouldn't care.
It’s the not knowing. If you could just ask him, if he could just give you an answer, then you’d know where you stood, and everything could be fine.
What changed? You want to beg, What happened after my med student rotation? Do you even remember that? What did I do? Where did I go wrong?
It eats away at you over the course of the week. It has been since you noticed, which was pretty much on day one. You don’t show this outwardly of course, because you’re pretty sure you can get through to him and level out the wrong-footedness you feel around him through stubborn determination. Surely, at some point your unwavering nature will win out and he’ll finally see there isn’t anything he needs to hate about you. This is an incredibly healthy mindset to move through life with.
The week closes with an MCI around 5pm, which is just everyone’s favorite thing in the world. The night shift gets called in, minus Trinity, who was already there working a double, and everyone sets in for the long haul. You do your best to focus on the patients and do not at all think about the ease and camaraderie between Mohan and Abbot, because that would be a very fucked up progression of priorities.
Eventually it’s all over— patients are stabilized, some aren’t. Overtime ends with phantom blood on your hands and being strong-armed into drinks in the park afterwards.
You feel awkward, because you don’t work with the day shift people that often, so you’re not really sure how best to be yourself and not come across as weird. Neither of your “safe” people (Trinity and Dennis) are present, so there’s no way in hell you’re going to be capable of relaxing.
You take the beer that’s tossed to you, even though you think beer is gross (why does it taste like that? Why do people enjoy it?) and sip on it excruciatingly slowly, trying to hide a grimace and occasionally chiming in with mentally rehearsed and carefully crafted jokes and comments.
It’s exhausting, and not at all how you wanted to spend your night after an MCI. In a dream world, you don’t have the social backbone of a wet paper bag, and you say no, and you go home to your house and shower, then watch one, maybe two episodes of a tv show, scroll through Pinterest, and then go the fuck to bed.
But for the low low price of much needed rest, you get to drink one of the most disgusting alcoholic beverages known to man and worry if everyone thinks you’re being weird! Yay!
Also. Side note. Minor comment. Little issue.
Jack Abbot is sitting next to you. Like, right next to you on the bench. Because he came late and it was the last spot open. So he’s just right there. Posture loose and open and not at all like he didn’t just help you try to save a girl your age who had the misfortune of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Like two hours ago your elbows weren’t brushing, elbow deep in a man’s organs, saving his life.
Jack, unlike you, looks comfortable to be at the park with everyone. He doesn’t look like he’s analyzing conversation to determine the best thing to say next.
Jack isn’t looking at everyone. He’s not looking at anyone. He’s looking at you.
You turn, give him a little smile.
Again.
Maybe he doesn’t know you can still see him out of the corner of your eye. (No, he’s a vet, he’d definitely also have wide peripheral vision. But maybe he thinks that you don’t have it, because you’re not a vet.)
(You’re probably thinking too much about the peripheral vision.)
Jack doesn’t stop staring at you. Instead, he reaches over to where your barely-drunk beer is in your hands, and says:
“Here, give me that.”
And then he just. Takes your beer. Straight out of your hands.
Jesus fucking fuck he so hates you.
—
“He took your beer?”
“Yes,” You groan from the kitchen island in Trinity’s apartment, “He said ‘here, give me that’ and then just took it. He didn’t say anything else to me for the rest of the night.”
She lets out a low whistle. “Maybe he doesn’t like you. What could you have possibly done to make him not like you?”
“I don’t know!”
“Well, you better fix it. Having your attending hate your guts will like, majorly suck.”
“I don’t know how to fix it. That’s what i’m over here for. To brainstorm.”
“I thought you were here to steal the cookies Huckleberry made?”
Dennis peeks his head up from the couch. “Wait, what?”
You wave a hand. “Semantics. Focus.”
“Okay,” Trinity taps a pencil on a notepad, “Have you tried sleeping with him?”
“He’s like, probably over twenty years older than me.”
“So? I know your type.”
You roll your eyes. “As if he’d go after me, Trin. He doesn’t like me.”
“Hate sex is a thing.”
“Name one time hate sex solved the hate part.”
She purses her lips. “Touché. What about like, baking him shit, like Huckleberry does for—“
“Shut up Trinity!”
You both snicker.
“No dice,” You sigh, “I can’t bake for shit. Recipes never have enough context. They’re never specific enough.”
“Two tablespoons of sugar isn’t specific enough for you?”
“You’re not helping.”
Trinity holds up her hands in mock surrender. “To be fair, I never agreed to help. I just said we’d both be here if you wanted to come over.”
“I think you should just ask him.” Dennis pipes up.
He shuffles off the couch and slides into the second chair at the kitchen island adjacent to you. “Dr. Abbot is a straightforward guy. He appreciates honesty. Doesn’t beat around the bush. I can’t imagine him being truly upset that you tried to fix a problem.”
“I want to, but that’s like. Too straightforward. What if—“
“Oh my god,” Trinity moans, “Just ask him. Or fuck him. Do something so I don’t have to hear about it anymore.”
You frown, opening your mouth to object, then close it with a sigh.
She’s right.
You have to just move on. Either deal with it or deal with it by… not dealing with it. Talk to him or don’t.
Easier said than done.
—
It takes two more shifts of unrequited awkwardness for you to finally reach your limit. At a certain point, probably when you almost snapped at him for hovering (doing his job) while you were trying to intubate a patient, you realize that you cannot, actually, just get through to him via stubborn determination.
Damn.
So when you have a second, you corner him in one of the quieter hallways. The conversation has the potential to be horrifically embarrassing and mortifying, so it’s best if there’s no audience.
“Do you have a minute, Dr. Abbot?”
He glances down at his watch, then crosses his arms and leans against the opposite wall.
He doesn’t talk (unnerving, annoying) and his sharp, ever analyzing gaze makes your skin prickle as you cross your hands behind your back and mirror his position, leaning against the wall.
He’s so irritating. He won’t even give you a fucking inch. There’s nothing to go on.
“Did I do something wrong?”
For the first time since you became a resident in the ED, he makes an expression: surprise.
“Why do you think you did something wrong?”
“Because you won’t fucking talk to me!” You hiss, absolutely fed up with Dr. Jack Abbot, “Half the time you only look at me when you think I won’t notice. You don’t talk to me unless it’s required for teaching, and even then, it’s short and stilted. I’ve seen how you interact with literally every other person who works here. I know you can be nice. You’re just not nice to me, and I’d like to know why.”
You pause. “And you took my beer!”
There’s a moment of silence, and then there’s a breathy, almost wheezing sound that takes you a minute to place.
He’s laughing.
Jack fucking Abbot starts laughing.
You honest to God want to kill him.
“Sorry,” He says, eyes sparkling with mirth and shoulders loose, “I can see how all of that can be taken negatively—“
“How else was I supposed to take that.”
Jack levels you with a look, and you shut your mouth. “But it was not my intention.”
He just stops speaking there, like that’s a perfectly adequate explanation and not at all vague and almost more disconcerting.
“So…,” You drawl, “What was your intention?”
Something interesting, a little more heated than just analytical sparks in his gaze, and he tilts his head, eyes flicking up and down your body.
Under the silence and scrutiny, you resist the urge to squirm in place, hands squeezing themselves in an effort to subdue the itch.
“You hate confrontation.”
Your chest feels like a cinder block just slammed onto it. “What?”
“You,” He levels a finger at your chest, “Hate confrontation. You hate it so much that you lie about yourself to people instead of saying things they might not like.”
You laugh nervously, voice high and reedy. “A lot of people do that. I don’t think that’s a crime.”
“It’s not. But it doesn’t exactly make me want to trust you with my residents. With my team.”
“You’re worried I’ll what? Get somebody in trouble? Do something shitty?”
“I’m worried that something is going to happen to you, and you won’t tell anyone about it.”
The hallway grows silent. In this distance there’s beeping, someone shouting orders, a child crying. But not in the five feet of space you, Jack, and the conversion currently occupies.
“Why do all of this?” You gesture vaguely to the space between you two, unwilling to be more specific. He does not deserve the itemized list you assembled in your head.
“I wanted to see if you’d confront me about it or not. Confirm my suspicions.”
“That’s—“ You wrinkle your nose, “Actually kind of shitty of you.”
Jack just hums.
“So what now? Did I prove myself to you?” Your tone is mocking.
He scoffs, “God, you really hate confrontation, don’t you?”
Your skin prickles again. “No.”
“Lying again.”
“Shut up.”
He knows how uncomfortable he’s making you. He’s doing it on purpose. And right then and there, you decide you don’t care what Jack Abbot thinks, because if Jack Abbot is going to be a self-assured asshole, Jack Abbot can go fuck himself.
Your pager going off saves you from verbalizing any of this, and with one last glare, you’re gone.
—
If Jack was an obnoxious lurker before, it doesn’t hold a damn candle to how he behaves now.
He’s just. Everywhere. Around every corner. Driving you crazy.
When you bring this up to Trinity, she looks at you like you’ve finally lost it.
Which. Okay. You probably have. But that’s beside the point! The point is…
…The point is that Jack Abbot is getting on your last nerve and you really don’t have any to spare. Life has been stomping all over the other ones, so the singular nerve Jack is stabbing with his annoying pointed looks and almost lingering touches and stupid little questions (“Hey, that was a rough one, are you alright?”) is just worn out. It doesn’t have anything left to give. You don’t have anything left to give.
But, like you were brought up to do, you keep right on giving. And working. And smiling.
Because it goes a little something like this: There’s no one to pick you up if you fall. You pick yourself up when you fall, and you’ve gotten pretty fucking good at it. All of your friends (read: Trinity and Dennis and maybe Mel) are doctors, which means you all have shitty work/life balance and no one would even be available if you called and said “Hey, every morning I lie awake and stare at the ceiling and convince myself to get up while listening to Hallelujah by Jeff Buckley, after which I will inevitably cry on the bus to work. Would you mind helping me with my laundry?”
Okay. Well. Trinity would probably show up if you asked because once she decides that you’re her friend she’s really intense about it (she’s a bit like a Doberman or some other dog like that, not that you would ever tell her) and Dennis probably would too, but only because he never says no when someone asks for help so it kind of just feels like you’re taking advantage of him. Mel is far too busy juggling being an ED doctor and caring for Becca for you to even think about asking her without feeling intense, soul crushing guilt.
So yeah. You don’t really have a best friend, unless one would count the singular romance book you’ve read so much the spine is completely fucked and the pages are yellow from years of travel and rereading. Counting any book as a best friend is probably very pathetic. But hey, don’t fix what isn’t broken.
So you have a system and a method and crying before and after work every single day is totally, completely normal, healthy, and sustainable. Probably even more so in the medical field, and especially since you’re a PGY1. Interns gotta suffer and all that jazz.
Jack Abbot does not need to make the suffering worse by existing near you constantly. Things are really honestly bad enough.
“Hey,” Trinity grabs your arm as you’re going by during a mellow shift, grip not tight enough to hurt but enough to be a bit past uncomfortable, especially for a girl not used to physical contact, “You good?”
‘No,’ You want to shout, collapsing on the floor in a heap of bones and tears, ‘I haven’t done laundry in so long that I’ve started wearing my cleanest dirty socks instead of washing more. I don’t have the energy to spend my days off doing anything productive, but every time I sleep instead of doing chores the anxiety eats me alive. I can’t sleep at night because the guilt makes me so nervous sometimes I throw up. Sometimes I don’t wash myself in the shower and I just stand in the water until it gets cold. Every day I wake up with the same headache, and then I take medicine for it, but by the time it’s gone I’m going to bed and then I wake up with it all over again. I think my liver is shot from over-the-counter medication usage. Everything hurts. I’m so tired.’
Trinity needs you to be okay. Trinity is too busy and under too much stress to worry about you. She needs you to be okay. Everyone needs you be okay.
“Mhm!” You nod, lips spread wide, “Pretty good day actually, all things considered.”
It’s not a total lie. The headache relief you’ve been taking religiously is kicking in faster than it usually does today.
Trinity scans your face, looking for signs of a lie, and she must find something (not shocking, it’s very hard to pretend that everything isn’t awful when Everything Is Really Awful) because her grip tightens minutely and she does that pursed lip thing she does when she’s worried and about to express it through anger or bitchiness.
“Don’t fuck with me. I don’t want to find out you’re like, doing drugs or something stupid like that. If you’re having a hard time—“
“Trin,” You interrupt, skin prickling uncomfortably as she implies that you’re not capable of handling things on your own, “If I need help, I know I can ask for it. And look,”
You tap your unbroken collection of glitter gel pens still intact in the front pocket of your scrubs. “It’s gotta be a good day. I still got my glitter.”
She wrinkles her nose, but drops your arm. “I don’t even know why you keep those. You can’t use them on like, anything. It’s against hospital policy.”
You shrug. “Glitter is a great motivator and mood elevator. Plus, kids love ‘em.”
You manage to feign something important coming up and duck out of the conversation and then, when the coast is clear, dart into one of the lesser used bathrooms and tuck yourself in the darkest stall.
Even in a hospital, toilet seats are disgusting, but you can’t quite summon any actual disgust as you plop down on the white porcelain, only lightly cracked, and cradle your exhausted head in your hands.
You have to keep going. There is no alternative. There is no other option.
Your chest feels tight and loose at the same time, and your skin feels clammy and wrong. Everything feels wrong. The lights are too bright and the material of your scrubs is scratchy and awful, and the longer you sit in the stall the more you want to throw up.
Someone knocks on the door before you get the chance to move down to your knees and start worshipping the porcelain altar. Assuming it to be Mel, who sometimes has a habit of showing up at the wrong time, you open the stall door to reveal none other than Jack Fucking Abbot.
You stare at him blankly for a few beats, too bewildered to feel sick. “You’re not allowed to be in here.”
“In the men’s bathroom?”
“This isn’t the men’s bathroom.”
“The sign on the door would say otherwise.”
Embarrassment brings the nausea back tenfold. You hold the stall door in a white knuckle grip to keep yourself upright and from hurling onto your boss.
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry, I swear I didn’t do this on purpose—“
Jack raises an eyebrow, his hands folded behind his back. Military man, right.
“Clearly.”
You stumble forward. “I need to go—“
“Woah, down girl. I didn’t knock because I cared which toilet you use. You work here. Use whatever toilet you want. Preferably not the one in the attending’s lounge.”
“There’s an attending’s lounge?”
“No.” He grins, a devilish upturn to just the corner of his lips.
“Oh,” You pause, then catch up to the rest of what he said, “Then why’d you knock?”
“Cause it kind of sounded like you were dying in there, and I’d rather if you didn’t.”
“Why not?”
“The paperwork, for one. Two, Santos would probably shank me.”
“Ah.”
“Also,” He shrugs, “I’d miss you.”
You scoff. “No you wouldn’t.”
“I would.”
“You don’t like me. You don’t even trust me.”
Jack gets this pinched look on his face; his lips pull down, his brows furrow and he narrows his eyes, just a bit.
He opens his mouth to respond when the door bangs open.
Jack doesn’t even look up before he’s barking:
“Find another bathroom.”
“But I have to—“
“Find another bathroom or I’ll cut your dick off.”
The guy grumbles away, but Jack never takes his eyes off you. It’s unnerving— to be the sole focus of his attention.
You’re the first to break the now tense silence of the bathroom.
“That seemed a bit extreme.”
“I’m not a man who does things by halves.”
“No,” You sigh, “I suppose you’re not.”
Jack cocks his head to side, almost predatory. More methodical than anything. He looks at you— really looks at you. Shamelessly drags his eyes up your body, likely cataloguing every mystery bruise, frown line, eye bag, freckle, and all the million lines of exhaustion that seem etched on your very being, right down through the bones and marrow.
He sighs, crossing his arms before leaning back on the opposite wall of the bathroom.
“What am I going to do with you?”
His words instantly have you on edge, bristling at all the unsaid things behind his tone.
“I’m not something to be dealt with. I’m a person, not some fucking—“
“You’re like a stray cat,” He interrupts, “Always hissing. Do I need to win you over with treats? Should I start bringing canned tuna?”
“You’re an asshole.”
“And you’re drowning.”
Just like that, all the humor gets sucked from the room, replaced with the cold, sharp grip of reality. Suddenly exhausted by the weight of it all, you drop back down onto the toilet seat.
Jack gives you a few moments to respond, get angry, or defend yourself, but you don’t. He’s too good at reading you, it seems. What is there to say?
When you don’t speak, he does.
“Did you think no one would notice?”
“No one has.”
“Am I no one?”
You lean back, closing your eyes and awkwardly resting the back of your head against the wall and the back of the toilet.
“You’re nosy.”
If this were any other moment, any other scenario with any other person, you would never ever act so contrary. But you’re tired and Jack seems to bring out the worst in you.
He makes an amused huffing noise. “You’re good at what you do, I’ll give you that.”
“What, exactly, am I doing?”
“Pretending.”
You scoff. “Fuck off.”
“Come on, sweetheart. How much longer are you going to do this to yourself?”
You lift your head off the back of the toilet. “You act like I’m killing myself:”
“You are,” His inclined his head, “Just really slowly.”
You scrub a hand down your face.
“Look. I understand why you think you have to care, but you don’t. I’m just going through a rough patch. I’ll get through them like I always do. I’m not gonna crash and burn or endanger myself or do whatever it is you’re worried I’m going to do, okay? So you can leave me alone. I’m fine.”
Jack doesn’t get to respond, because the second the words are out of your mouth the nausea that’s been churning in your stomach since you made it to the bathroom rises all at once, and you barely have time to slide off the toilet and turn before you’re throwing up hard enough to almost choke.
The worst part is that you forgot to eat lunch so your stomach is woefully, painfully empty. You’re throwing up nothing but bile, throat burning and tears streaming down your face.
“Alright, come on,” A warm hand rubs soothing circles on your back, and if you weren’t busy hurling your guts out, you’d marvel at the feeling and juxtaposition between the Jack you know, who’s all cold indifference, and the Jack currently holding your hair out of your face while you vomit.
“Let it out,” He soothes, hand still rubbing, “Don’t fight it. It’ll be over soon.”
“I hate throwing up.” You choke, coughing and gasping.
“No one does. But you’ll feel better when it’s over.”
Over feels like it’s never going to come. But eventually your stomach stops clenching, you manage to stop heaving, and you’re slumped over the toilet, sucking down gulps of air, sweat beading on your forehead and the back of your neck.
“This,” You mumble in between gasps, “Means nothing.”
You can’t see Jack’s expression, but his response is so quiet you almost miss it.
“Okay.”
You can’t see his face, but you know this isn’t over.
—
Jack sends you home once you’re capable of standing on your own two feet without shaking like a newborn fawn.
(“You can’t send me home.”
“Yes I can. You’re not allowed to come back to work after throwing up in the bathroom.”
“We both know I’m not the only person to do it.”
“Yeah, but I haven’t caught the other people in the wrong bathroom and held their hair back while they vomited.”
“…”
“You only have two hours left anyway. Go home.”)
The problem lies in the fact that the buses aren’t running yet, which means that you can’t, actually, get home. Your house is an hour away on foot. An hour you’d normally be capable of walking, but your phone is almost dead, you’re exhausted, and you still feel a little weak because of the vomiting.
So after retrieving your things from your locker, you find yourself sitting on the little bench outside the PTMC, waiting for the minutes to tick by. If you didn’t bring at least one book with you everywhere you go in case of emergencies (like this one) you probably would have just walked into oncoming traffic.
It’s cold out and your jacket is cheap so you have to burrow into it, hood up to retain any semblance of warmth. It would be almost cozy —huddled in your jacket, watching the city go by, tucked into your favorite romance book— if the shift hadn’t gone the way it had and if a grueling bus ride and half mile walk didn’t await you once the buses finally start running. Waiting for you beyond that is just chores and an empty apartment.
Your fingers tighten on the edges of your book.
“Why the fuck are you still here?”
You jolt in place, cracking your neck over to the side and blinking blearily.
Jack. Again.
He makes an expectant face at you as if to say ‘Well?’ when you don’t answer immediately.
Your eyes dart back and forth nervously, even though you know you haven’t done anything wrong. “The buses aren’t running yet. It’s an hour walk to my house.”
Jack scrubs a hand down his face and curses under his breath.
“How long until your bus gets here?”
You check your phone. Shit. Only four percent left.
“And hour and a half. Maybe a little longer if it’s running behind more than usual.”
He seems put out by your answer, as if the bus’s heavily fluctuating schedule is of personal consequence and offense to him.
“Um,” You start, both uncomfortable at having been caught reading a romance book in public and at the general air of frustration Jack seems to be venting at the moment, “I’m fine. I have my book. I don’t mind waiting.”
Jack just sighs.
“Do you really think I’m just going to leave you out here, in the cold, after you threw up in the bathroom, to wait for the bus, for nearly two more hours?”
You wince. “Well, it doesn’t sound great when you put it like that.”
He works his jaw. “Have you eaten?”
“No…?”
He shakes his head.
“Come on. You’re coming with me.”
—
“I have to admit, this isn’t where I thought we were going.
Thirty minutes later finds you seated on the cracked vinyl seat of a booth in a cheap diner, staring at a menu and rationalizing spending your last $15 on what will probably be mediocre pancakes.
Jack is seated across from you, already two mugs of coffee —black, but oddly enough, decaf— and not even bothering to pretend to look at his menu. He either comes here often or doesn’t care to act like he isn’t staring at you.
Probably both.
“Where did you think we were going?”
Steam curls out of your own untouched mug of coffee —ordered for you by Jack, also unfortunately decaf— and you debate just getting up and running out of here.
Too bad you’re too exhausted to run anywhere. Jack’s probably banking on that.
“I don’t know,” You shrug, setting the menu down, “Maybe to Gloria’s office to write me up or something.”
“What would I even be writing you up for?”
“Disobeying direction? I’m sure you could come up with something.”
The waitress chooses that moment to appear, notepad in hand. “Are we ready to order?”
Jack rattles off his order, and then two sets of eyes turn to you expectantly. Before you can order the single fruit bowl you were planning on getting (the cheapest thing on the menu) Jack pipes up:
“Order whatever you actually want. Not whatever you think is cheapest or easiest.”
The waitress, a middle aged woman who has probably seen much worse than whatever the two of you have going on, just chuckles lightly under her breath.
You hesitantly list the item you’d been eyeing and thank the waitress.
It isn’t until after the menus have been taken and Jack’s coffee re-upped for the third time that you manage to courage to speak.
“You didn’t have to do this, you know.”
“I know.”
“No, I mean,” your fingers curl on the edge of the table, desperate for something to hold onto, “I can’t— It’ll be awhile until I can pay you back. I barely made rent this month.”
“Do you think I would take you to breakfast and then make you pay?”
“Yes…?”
“You’re not touching the bill, kid. I’m a gentleman.”
“Oh,” You didn’t really see that coming, “Okay.”
Jack gets a funny expression on his face, then resumes his drinking coffee and glancing out the window routine.
“So,” You say after a beat, “Was there something you wanted to talk about…?”
The silence just feels so awkward. It’s killing you.
He raises a brow. “Do you want to talk?”
“I’m asking you.”
“And I’m asking you what you want to do. What do you usually do when you come out to eat?”
“I don’t? Eating out is expensive, so. But when I do it’s usually by myself, so I end up just reading.”
Jack gestures to your bag beside you. “Don’t let me stop you.”
“What?”
“Read your book.”
“But that’s— isn’t that boring for you?”
He sets his mug down. “I didn’t bring you here because I wanted something from you. I brought you here because you had a shitty day and it seemed like you could use some cheering up. If reading makes you feel better, then do it.”
You have to look out the window to avoid his gaze. You don’t understand how your perfectly crafted facade just crumbles into fucking dust around him. How he manages to see right through you at every turn, how he manages to uncover every lie and every half truth.
“How did you even know I like diner food?”
“Because I pay attention to you.”
You finally look back over at him, arms folded across your chest; not really defensively, more like you’re trying to hold your entire body together by sheer force of will.
Jack’s lips twitch. Not really a smile, but almost. “You bring it up every time Santos wants to get food after a shift. She always says no, because she hates it, but it never stops you from suggesting it.”
It’s just one detail. One tiny, inconsequential detail that he’s apparently memorized and held onto because to him, it’s important. For some impossible to understand reason, he seems to care.
"Also," He shrugs, "I'd miss you."
You scoff. "No you wouldn't."
"I would."
“Do you hate me?”
Jack looks back at you, seemingly startled by the abrupt question.
“No.”
You take a deep, shuddering breath.
“Okay.”
—
“You did what?”
You wince from your spot lying face-down on Trinity’s couch.
“Not so loud, Trin. I have a headache.”
She ignores you, seated on the floor almost directly in front of you. “So you’ve gone from hating each other to going on a date?”
“It wasn’t a date,” You groan, “We spent almost the entire time in silence. I read my book and he stared out the window and did… whatever it is men like him do when they stare out the window.”
“Brooding,” Trinity says, “He paid. That means it’s a date.”
“No it doesn’t!”
It doesn't. It totally doesn't. Just because Jack said he doesn't hate you doesn't mean he likes you either. There are a lot of emotions in between hate and love. Like toleration, for example. Mild amusement. Exasperation. An appropriate amount of annoyance.
Trinity pokes you on the back of your head, having none of it.
"He likes you. Why else would he willingly hang out with one of us after work?"
"He goes out for drinks in the park sometimes." You mumble.
"Yeah, after an MCI."
What Trinity doesn't know is the events leading up to breakfast at the diner, because that would involve telling her about the whole throwing up from anxiety in the men's bathroom directly after a mini-panic attack because she confronted you about your unhealthy lifestyle (which all just sounds a lot worse than it is), so there isn't really a way to give her the kind of context necessary to get her off your back and dissuade her from her (insanely insane) belief that Jack likes you. Romantically.
"Trust me Trin, he was just being nice. Nothing romantic about it."
It was kind of romantic. Just eating surprisingly good food in the company of someone you don't need to pretend around, enjoying being in the company of another human being without worry or expectation.
Not that she needs to know that.
"Jack doesn't do nice. Have you seen him? What happened to the hating?"
You shrug. "You'll just have to ask him, because I don't know."
You do know. He told you. Explained it.
It doesn't make sense.
Trinity throws her hands in the air dramatically.
"Whatever. You two are impossible."
She finally withdraws, leaving you to wallow in your headache-induced misery by yourself on her couch.
Your phone vibrates on the floor next to you, and you groan, rolling further over to hide yourself in the crack of the couch, shunning the light like the reclusive vampire you are.
Your phone vibrates again.
“Dennis,” your voice is muffled by the couch cushion so it ends up sounding more like ‘denim’, “Can you please see who’s texting me and tell them to fuck off?”
Dennis, who was eating cereal at the tiny table near the kitchen when you first showed up fifteen minutes ago and has pointedly stayed silent throughout the entire exchange between you and Trinity, finally speaks.
“Your phone is two inches away from your hand.”
“I have a headache I don’t wanna look at the screen.”
You feel rather than actually see him roll his eyes, but then there’s the clink of a spoon against a bowl and the faint sound of socked —you’ve genuinely never seen him ever be barefoot under any circumstances, no matter what, he’s always wearing socks— feet as they make their way over to your temporary pit (couch) of despair.
There’s a quiet rustle as he picks up your phone off the floor.
“Oh.”
You whine, dramatic and upset. “What?”
“Um,” He grabs your shoulder, slowly rolling you over and away from the back of the couch, “It’s Jack?”
“What!?” You screech.
You throw yourself up, wincing as you immediately regret it when the pain in your head doubles, take a steadying breath to ignore it, and then grab the phone from Dennis’s outstretched hand.
You turn on the phone and— yep. Sure enough. A text from Jack, complete with the stupid picture of a dinosaur you made his profile picture. Because he’s old.
(It was funnier at the time.)
Somewhere behind you there’s a crash, and then the thump thump thump that can only mean a person running towards you at dangerous speeds for sock covered feet on cheap linoleum.
“Incoming,” Dennis mutters.
“Did I just hear that right?” Trinity gasps, nearly giving herself blunt force trauma via the back of the couch, “Did Jack just text you?”
“I don’t know!” You cry.
“How do you not know! Your phone is right in your fucking hands!”
“I’m tired! Stop yelling at me!”
“Guys!” Dennis shouts, holding up his hands, “I refuse to spend my day off listening to you two argue over the validity of romance with our attending. Give me the phone.”
He snatches the phone without waiting for a response, quickly typing in your password (if there was ever a moment you regret telling him in case of emergency…) and opening the text.
He makes an incredulous face at the phone before saying:
“He asked what you’re doing today.”
Trinity claps once. “Fucking called it!”
“Trinity!” Dennis snaps, before sighing and tapping at your keyboard, “I’m telling him that you have a headache and you’re at our place and to please not text again—“
“No!” You squeal, launching yourself off the couch, arms outstretched, but your legs tangle over each other and you fall and slam, gloriously and beautifully, face first into the coffee table.
“Oo!” Trinity winces, covering her mouth.
“Oh my god!” Dennis balks, “Are you okay?”
“Just give me the fucking phone.”
Peeling your face off, you grab the phone, squinting at the screen and ignoring the black spots in the corner of your vision.
hi, you type, I’m at Trinity and Dennis’s. Did you need something?
You hit send before you can talk yourself out of it.
“We,” You haul yourself to your feet and stagger over to the kitchen table, “Will never speak of this.”
“I definitely am. When I’m the maid of honor at your guys wedding, I’m gonna give a speech and be all ‘you guys, she gave herself a concussion the first time he texted—‘“
“There will be no wedding!”
“That’s just what you think.”
Your phone vibrates again, signaling a response.
Just wondering how you were doing. Surprised to hear you’re not holed up in your apartment reading something.
Ah, sexy old men and their correct grammar and punctuation when texting. Shouldn’t be endearing.
“What’s he saying?”
“Go away!”
You tap out a quick response.
Not today unfortunately lol I have a headache so no reading for me
Isn’t this the sixth day in a row you’ve had a headache? Should I give neuro a call?
You stomach flips.
nooo I’m fine i get them all the time
That’s not exactly reassuring.
I went to the doctor for them awhile ago apparently they’re normal
Who?
if I tell you, are you going to call him and make him send over my chart?
Yes.
Your heart is starting to pound a fluttering beat in your chest, and you hunch over your phone.
then i’m not telling you. it’s fine, really
they usually go away when i take over the counter stuff
So your plan is just to destroy your liver?
pretty much
We need to work on your planning skills.
we?
I’m not doing all the work.
Now stop looking at your phone. Drink some Gatorade and take a nap.
this is a resident apartment there’s no gatorade here just redbulls
Have either of them buy you one. I’ll pay whichever one it is later. Go to sleep. You need it.
You turn off your phone, shuffling back over to the couch and flopping down onto it.
“I’m taking a nap. Jack wants one of you to go buy me a Gatorade. He said he’d pay you back later.”
“He said what?”
—
You end up sleeping the entire day away, which should have screwed up your sleep schedule, but thankfully you live in a state of perpetual exhaustion and are fully capable of falling asleep anytime, anywhere, no matter how much you last sleep. It’s a gift.
Shockingly, the shift you work the next day is actually much easier to survive and your smiles aren’t nearly as forced. Go figure. Who knew that getting an appropriate amount of sleep would be so helpful?
“Somebody’s in a better mood today.” Jack mutters as you sidle up next to him under the board.
“I’m pretty sure I slept for like, fourteen straight hours. Thanks for the Gatorade, by the way. I woke up around hour three, chugged it, and then went back to sleep. No headache when I woke up!”
“Wonderful,” He drawls, “It’s almost like taking care of yourself is actually beneficial.”
“I take care of myself plenty.”
He casts you a sidelong glance, expression pinched.
“When was the last time you drank water without being prompted?”
“That’s different.”
“Okay,” He dips his head, “When was the last time you ever felt truly relaxed?”
You give him a beaming smile, so wide it hurts. “We’re not going to talk about this right now!”
“You started this conversation. I’m trying to do my job.”
You snort. “You’re waiting to see if someone else is going to take the sunburn guy.”
“Are you accusing an attending of cherry picking?”
“Of course not. Just observing, sir.”
Jack’s turned to look at you now, head tilted up, hands folded behind his back.
When you say sir, his eyes flick down to your lips, and then his jaw tightens.
The air suddenly becomes charged, the space between you two filled with something too electric to be air.
It smells like aftershave, hospital antiseptic, wanting, and something that’s distinctly masculine.
You look away first, swallowing hard past the sudden dryness of your mouth.
“You know,” You say, crossing your arms and looking up at the board, “Trinity thinks you like me. Romantically.”
“Mm.”
“I told her that was dumb,” You babble, “Obviously it’s not true, but. She won’t let it go, so if she says something, just ignore her. Or not. Whatever you want.”
“Why wouldn’t it be true?”
You whip your head around so fast you’re pretty sure something cracks. “What?”
“I mean,” Jack’s voice is gruff as he shrugs once, “Is that really so unrealistic?”
“Of course it is,” You sputter, “You don’t like me.”
“I’ve actually never said that. That was a conclusion you came to on your own. I distinctly recall telling you that I don’t hate you.”
“Just because you don’t hate me doesn’t mean that you like me, let alone— like that.”
Jack tilts his head, almost predatory, and all that sharp tension rushes straight back in.
“Like what?”
Something hot and dangerous is starting to unfurl in your chest, untethering from where it was previously lodged deep behind your ribs, out of sight, out of feeling.
“Code Blue en route, ETA two minutes.”
Jack jerks his head in the direction of the ambulance bay. “You gonna go get that?”
“Uh,” You’re pretty sure you’re stroking out, having a seizure, or something, because the only thing you’re capable of comprehending is the fact that Jack just not-so-subtly implied to actually liking you. Romantically.
“Get going then.”
You scurry away, hot all over and absolutely done with emotions in their entirety.
—
The rest of the week is hell on Earth. Perks of being in your twenties.
Things could be worse though!
Kind of.
It’s just that it’s been several days since Jack basically confirmed Trinity’s suspicions on romance and you can’t stop thinking about it. Obsessively.
It’s bad.
Bad enough that when Mel asked if there was any way you could cover her shift, you said yes.
“Okay,” Dennis stage-whispers as you’re downing your third coffee of the day, miserably charting at the nurses station, “I feel the need to ask how bad things can possibly be if you’re covering a day shift.”
“Mel asked.”
Dennis blinks incredulously. “You love Mel, but not enough to work a day shift voluntarily.”
“What exactly are you asking me here?”
“Did you and Jack hit a rough patch or something?”
“Keep your voice down!” You hiss, ducking your head as if you can hide from Princess and Perlah, “And for your information, no. We didn’t. I just wanted to do something nice for Mel.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“I don’t need you to believe me.”
Day-shift crawls on in a whirlwind of chaos and a level of dumb-fuckery that can only be achieved from the hours of 8 a.m to 8 p.m. As usual, the place is understaffed, overcrowded, and filled with a lingering sense of impending doom.
By the time night-shift starts filtering in, you’re ready to completely give up and start a new life a sheep rancher in New Zealand. It’s always been the plan if being a doctor didn’t work out.
Jack finds you in the locker room once the handoff is over, sitting on the little bench in the same position Dennis found you in earlier. Face in your hands, heels in your eyes, methodically counting breaths and wondering if that fluttering feeling in your chest is from caffeine consumption or sleep deprivation.
It’s fine. Your fine. Everything is fine.
“You don’t look too good.”
“I’m—“
“Don’t say you’re fine.”
“But I am,” You grit, “I just need a minute.”
“Okay.”
There’s the distinct sound of Jack’s slightly uneven footsteps, and then there’s a warm weight pressed against your side.
You take another shuddering breath that feels less like breathing and more like placing a single brick in a wobbly foundation.
“Shouldn’t you be out on the floor?”
“I don’t work tonight.”
You raise your head just enough to look at him. “You don’t? I thought I saw you on the schedule. Why are you here if you don’t work?”
Now that you’re looking at him and not starburst patterns on the back of your eyelids, you can see that he’s wearing casual clothes, not scrubs, and he doesn’t have his usual army-issue backpack with him.
“I got Shen to cover me. I came here for you.”
Your next breath in almost gets stuck in your chest, air struggling to move past that alive and wriggling thing that keeps moving every time Jack is around.
“What’d you do that for?”
The barest hints of a smile tugs at the corner of his lips. “Dennis called me. He said you’d need picking up after your shift.”
Shame, guilt, and embarrassment flood your veins, turning your blood into sickly-sweet poison that makes your stomach roll and twist.
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry, I have no idea why he did that. You really didn’t have to drive all the way over here, I swear I didn’t tell him to call you or something like that—“
“I know you didn’t,” Jack soothes, voice a rumbly, smooth timber that washes over your permanently-frazzled nerves like a balm, “Which is why I came.”
“I don’t understand.”
Jack stands, pulling your bag and change of clothes out of your locker.
“I’m going to ask you a question, and I need you to be honest with me, so you don’t have to answer it again. Can you do that for me?”
You nod once.
“Words.”
“Uh— yeah. Yes.”
“Good.”
Thank god the locker room is empty— everyone’s either on the floor or already left for their homes.
He closes your locker down, shoulders your bag, and hands you your clothes.
“Is it easier for you to accept help when you don’t have to ask and don’t get the chance to say no?”
It sounds so pathetic, hearing it laid out like that. The ugly guts of you; cut open, laid bare, and marked for research. Exhibit A, the inside of the girl no one ever needed to worry about.
You don’t want to agree. You want to laugh it off, maybe run away from it. Sit up straight, wipe your face, take the bag from Jack and explain that this is all a big misunderstanding and you’re perfectly fine and he can stop worrying about you now.
“Yes.”
Jack doesn’t verbally acknowledge your response besides a single dip of his head, like he knows that if he does anything more it’ll turn your response into a confession and that’s just too vulnerable for the hospital locker room.
“I’ll drive you home.”
“I don’t mean to be this way, you know.”
The passenger seat of Jack’s car isn’t somewhere you’d ever imagined yourself being. Not even late at night or on the bus when you’re pretending to be someone else who’s better at chasing what they want.
“It stopped being intentional a long time ago,” your hands are fisted into the material of your sweatpants, nails digging into the fabric, “It was just the natural progression of things. I like being liked.”
What you don’t say, what becomes an unspoken truth that lingers in the air despite not being verbalized, is the survival aspect of it. Why and how a person fuses this kind of thing to their personality; to their life. The circumstances that makes the natural progression of things end it being better for everyone if you just don’t have needs.
“I know.”
“I know you know, I just… needed to tell you. Myself.”
It’s odd seeing Jack illuminated by streetlights instead of fluorescent overheads. It’s odd being able to watch his hand flex on the steering wheel, watching his forearm tense as he shifts gears in his old stick-shift.
“You like being told what to do.”
Your face heats, but you’re determined not to lose face now. Especially after managing to survive being emotionally flayed open, willingly, by him.
“It feels safe. If I know what yo— someone wants, then I can’t mess it up, and I can relax.”
You can practically see the gears turning in Jack’s mind.
“Makes sense.”
The rest of the drive is quiet, the silence only filled by the sounds of Pittsburgh around you and the gentle crackle of something from the radio turned down too low to hear.
And for the first time in longer than you can remember, you begin feeling something that approaches calm.
Jack doesn’t have any expectations. There isn’t any one particular way he wants you to act or expects you to behave like. There’s nothing he wants you to do.
So you do what you want to do.
You relax.
—
In the weeks following Jack driving you home, there is a quantifiable shift in behavior between the two of you.
He starts pulling back.
It strikes you as odd first, and your natural inclination is to pull back too— to guard the soft, vulnerable bits you’ve showed him in case he throws them back at you.
But then you realize what he’s doing.
Instead of telling you how to proceed on a case when you come to him for advice, he asks you questions and steers you to the answer. He holds back when he’s evaluating a case with you, patiently following your lead and only interjecting when necessary.
He’s making space for you try new things and learn without fear of rejection. Building your confidence bit by bit.
It feels more intimate than sex.
After much deliberation, screaming into your pillow, and Reddit forum searching for HR violations, you decide to get him a card. Because he’s actually been really kind and helpful and he makes you feel like you can actually survive residency.
“What’s this?”
“A thank you card.”
You’re staring at your shoes, eyes flicking up and down between Jack’s face and the floor.
“What for?”
“It says it in the card.”
You scurry away, attaching yourself to the closest patient to avoid seeing Jack’s face when he does finally open it.
But when you look back, he’s just staring at it, a small smile on his face.
—
It’s the card that does him in.
Jack hasn’t made his feelings for you a secret, despite your unwillingness to see him as anything other than standoffish in the beginning.
He came on too strong at first— that was his fault. He didn’t yet understand how imbedded your need ran and how long it’d been since anyone bothered to look deeper.
He’d hoped, at least, that you were letting Whitaker and Santos help, and though you let them closer than most, it was clear you still seemed intent on holding up yourself and everyone around you on your own.
But it wasn’t just that. It was the way you oozed kindness— like it was a byproduct of your existence. He watched you get so wrapped up in being the perfect resident, perfect friend, perfect person, that no one ever stopped to let you know how good you were just by being.
He hadn’t planned on developing feelings or anything of the sort. At first, you’d just been one of his residents. Smart and capable but lacking confidence in yourself to fully commit. Then there was that MCI, and drinks in the park afterwards where he’d painfully watched you sip a beer you clearly hated, and everything just clicked right into place.
He never intends to flirt with you. It just happens. He can’t help himself. He’s a weak fucking man when it comes to you.
And then you bring him a card. A fucking card. To thank him for doing his job as an attending, a job he should’ve been doing better from the start. It has an illustration of bananas on it and says “Thanks a bunch!”.
He knows he’s completely gone, then. He was capable of being in denial before, could delude himself into thinking that what he felt was casual, but the sight of you before him, hands nervously wringing, your glitter gel pens sparkling as they caught the light was just the final nail in the coffin.
He allows himself a modicum of flirting on a day to day basis, mostly because if he couldn’t tease that real smile out of you at least once per day, he’d lose his mind.
Sometimes he takes you back to the diner, especially on longer days where none of your smiles reach your eyes and you start obsessively uncapping and capping your gel pens.
Even though you think it “looks dumb” you’ve also taken to sitting shoulder to shoulder with him in the booth, and he pretends he can’t see you sneaking fries off his plate because he knows how much effort it takes you to ask him if you can sit with him instead of on the opposite side.
Then he starts driving you home during a string of bad weather after you start sneezing from walking in the rain everyday, but even after the storm passes and the weather clears up he still finds you at the lockers, every day, car keys in hand. No matter how many times he does it, you always look so happily surprised that he’s still offering.
As if he’s not wrapped around your finger.
One day, after things have been mellow for awhile, Whitaker calls him and says that neither he nor Trinity have seen you in three days and you called out of work.
So naturally, as a calm and collected man, he showed up to your house.
You’d answered the door after the third time he knocked (which was great, because he was gearing up to force the door open) and you just looked miserable. Your hair was a mess, you head blanket wrinkles imprinted onto your face, and your eyes were puffy.
“Jack?” You’d mumbled, squinting your eyes against the not very bright light in the hallway, “Why are you at my apartment?”
“No one’s heard from you in three days.”
You wince. “I swear I meant to text Trinity. I just have a bad headache.”
His fingers twitch towards a penlight he doesn’t have. “How bad?”
“I don’t know. Like a seven on the pain scale?”
“Jesus— I’m coming in.”
“Nooo,” You cry, but shuffle back from the door and put up very little fight as he ushers you to the couch.
Your apartment is….. exactly as messy as he’d imagined a resident who lives alone would be. For someone who doesn’t drink enough water, there are an incredible amount of beverage bottles and cans littered about.
“Do you have headache relief?”
You gesture to the kitchen. “Cabinet furthest to the left.”
While rifling through your very disorganized medicine cabinet, he spies an orange prescription bottle with your name on it, dated for the previous year.
“Why do you have a prescription for a high level antihistamine?”
“Stop snooping. It’s for my migraines.”
“You’ve had a prescription this entire time and you’ve been taking all that over the counter shit?”
“Stop being mad,” You mumble into the couch cushion, “My migraine meds put me to sleep, so I can’t take them when I’m working. Plus I don’t have any refills left so I save them for when it’s really bad.”
“You called out of work and haven’t left your apartment in three days and you don’t consider this bad?”
“Could be worse. Could be throwing up.”
He sighs. Sets the bottle on the counter, breathes in once, then lets it out slowly. Imagines all the ways he could murder whoever made you think suffering alone for three days is preferable to asking for help.
“I’m going to help you back to bed,” He starts, voice low as he rounds the couch, “And then you’re going to drink some electrolytes, have a snack, and take your meds. Okay?”
The migraine has clearly taken it out of you, because you put up zero fight as he manhandles you to your feet and helps you drag yourself back to your bed.
“M’ sorry my apartment is a mess. I was supposed to clean it.”
“I’m not judging, sweetheart,” He says, tucking the blankets up around you, lips twitching as you make grabby hands for a giant triceratops plushie that looks to be the size of your upper body. “I’m gonna make you a snack, so try to stay awake until I come back. Can you do that?”
“Mhm. I’ll try.”
“Good girl.”
He manages to find a cucumber in your fridge, cuts it into slices and then adds a few pieces of lunch meat for protein. Last but not least, he snags a bottle of blue Gatorade from your pantry.
(He only knows they were there because he bought them for you a few weeks ago.)
He doesn’t make you sit up to eat, but instead scoots you a little ways away from the edge of your bed so there’s space for the plate.
You slowly nibble your way through, taking little sips of Gatorade when he nudges the bottle into your hands.
You finish the cucumbers, eat most of the lunch meat, and drink half the Gatorade before burrowing back into the blankets and declaring yourself done.
“Can I have my sleep mask please? I think it’s on the floor under my nightstand?”
“Of course you can.”
After your face mask is on and the curtains closed, he gives you the correct dose of your meds and gently shuts the door to your bedroom.
He fires off a quick text to Whitaker (he doesn’t have Santos’s number) that says you’re fine, stuck in bed with a migraine, and that he’s handling it.
And then he gets to work.
Two hours later your apartment is clean, your laundry is started, and Jack’s relaxing on your couch, aimlessly watching the news.
He hears the door creak open but knows you hate feeling on the spot, so he keeps his gaze trained on the tv even as he hears the sound of you shuffling over to the couch.
And then you pause.
“Jack.”
“Yes?”
“Did you clean my apartment?”
He finally looks over to you, and when his gaze reaches your face his stomach drops.
You’re crying.
He hauls himself off the couch (he’s thankful that he put his leg back on a few minutes prior) and stops in front of you, arms twitching at his sides with the need to fix, help, to stop whatever it is that’s making you cry.
“What’s wrong? Did I overstep?”
“No,” You warble, voice wet, “I just haven’t had the time or energy to clean in here for so long, and it’s been stressing me out so bad I avoid staying here during my off days. It’s just really, really nice of you.”
You look at him, eyebrows pinched and eyes wide with worry, “I— I’m not sure how to repay you for all of this. I know you said going to the diner was fine, but this is— a lot.”
“Sweetheart,” He starts, bracing one hand on the side of your face, thumb deftly sweeping across your cheek and wiping away the quickly drying tears, “I’m not doing any of this because I expect you to repay me. I’m doing it because I care about you and I want to see you happy.”
You sniff hard. “This is a lot of work, though.”
“I like doing it. I like taking care of you.”
Another sniff. “It doesn’t seem very fun.”
“I told you. You’re like a cat. Had to coax you over and now look at you,” he thumb rubs circles over your cheekbone, “Practically purring.”
You wrinkle your nose. “I don’t know if I like this metaphor.”
“Get used to it.”
You sigh, dramatic and long.
“I suppose I’ll allow it.”
“Oh, you’ll allow it, huh.”
You fold your hands behind your back, rocking back and forth on your heels. “Yes. I’ll allow it.”
“Well, aren’t I lucky.”
Later, when you’re lying on the couch, two movies into what Jack thinks is an unofficial early 2000s rom-com marathon (your favorite genre) you turn to look up at him from your spot tucked into his side.
“This is romantic, right?”
He presses a lazy kiss to your forehead, because he knows how much you like physical affirmations as well as verbal ones.
“Yes.”
“You’re serious about this?”
“You need confirmation?”
“I’d rather have it in writing, but this will do for now.”
He huffs a breathy laugh, tucks you closer to his chest.
“I’ll put it in writing for you later.”
You hum, pleased, and snuggle back into him, letting out a content sigh.
Summary: Maekar is trying to provide a good life for his new wife by removing himself from her company and offering alternatives. He fails. Warnings: a bit of angst because of pining, a bit of smut.
The morning light cut through the high, narrow windows of Summerhall with a pale, wintry insistence, and Maekar Targaryen, prince of the Seven Kingdoms, found himself staring at the ceiling of a room that was not his own. It was decorated with painted vines, a delicate feminine touch he had never bothered to notice before. The bed linens smelled of lavender and something else, sweet and warm. The weight on his arm was the source of the latter.
You were curled against him like a dormouse seeking warmth, both your hands wrapped around the corded muscle of his forearm as if he were a lifeline in a storm. Your cheek was pressed to his shoulder, lips slightly parted in the ease of deep, trusting sleep. A strand of your hair had escaped your night braid and lay across his tunic.
Maekar did not move.
He was a prince, a warrior, a man who had crushed rebellions beneath his mace and watched men die without flinching. But this, the soft, contented curve of your mouth, the way your breath puffed in tiny, even waves against his sleeve, paralyzed him. He cast his mind back, desperately trying to remember when exactly his careful, honorable plan had crumbled to dust. It was the previous night. It had been a fool's errand, a mission of pure and unparalleled idiocy disguised as magnanimity.
For months, he had constructed a cage for you, gilded and sprawling, and called it a marriage. After the death of his first wife, the mother of his children, the very concept of a new bride had felt like a betrayal, a picking at a wound that had barely scarred over after years. His brother, King Aerys, had insisted. The match was politically sound. You were from a fine lineage, a daughter of a loyal house, and your dowry was a collection of trade agreements and land rights that made the court accountants rub their hands with joy.
And you. You were a pretty thing: young, sweet, blinking up at him at the Sept with your big eyes, he had noted absently, and a slight pout on your mouth. He recognized that pout now, not as petulance, but as a sign of deep concentration, an unconscious expression you wore when you were trying very, very hard to be brave.
At the wedding feast, you had tried to engage him in conversation, your voice a soft, hopeful melody against the droning noise of the hall. He had grunted in response, complaining about the seasoning on the boar. You had blinked, then smiled, a small, tentative thing, and said, "Perhaps the kitchens will do better with the lemon cakes, my prince. Would you like me to ask them to bring some?" Deflecting his rudeness with a kindness so artless and sweet it had made his teeth ache.
He had taken you to Summerhall, the seat of his power and the monument to his own complicated legacy. He gave you servants who curtsied low, spacious rooms filled with sunlight and tapestries you seemed to admire, and a generous allowance that could have purchased a small fleet of ships. He had daughters, Daella and Rhae, who were delighted with you, finding in you a new playmate, a doll who could speak and laugh and teach them new embroidery stitches. His sons were a different matter. Aerion was a burning star of chaos somewhere in Essos, Aemon was at the Citadel, chaining himself to books, and Daeron…Daeron was usually never counted. The thought of his eldest, a dissipated dreamer, brought a familiar, leaden weariness to his gut. But the girls were happy, and you were occupied.
He thought he had it all handled.
Everything was provided, he had reasoned, watching you from across the courtyard one afternoon as you and Rhae chased a butterfly. You were a young maiden. His idea of a comfortable existence was good service, a sturdy roof, a well-stocked armory, and a couple of friends with whom to share a flask of strongwine. He had assumed, in his colossal, self-absorbed ignorance, that your needs were the same.
Until he started to see it. The quiet sigh you suppressed when he answered your sweet inquiry about his wellbeing with a noncommittal grunt at the dinner table. The way your eyes, those big, expressive eyes, would track a young knight in the yard as he laughed with his comrades, not with lust, but with a kind of wistful, academic curiosity. You were studying a creature you had never encountered. Daella, his sweet daughter, was already starting to enter that phase of mooning over singers and sighing at sunsets, a phase he dreaded with every fiber of his being. And you, his wife, a lively girl not much older than his own children, were saddled with a grumpy man whose range of communication with her was limited to tactical assessments of mutton and grunts about the weather. You were drowning in comfort and starved of life.
He could commission solutions. Jewelry? A cascade of sapphires appeared on your vanity. New dresses? Bolts of lace and silks in hues of deep green and amethyst filled your wardrobes. Rare books? He had a first-edition history of the Rhoynar, bound in pale leather, delivered to your solar. You had been effusive in your thanks, your pout melting into a radiant smile, but the smile never quite reached your eyes. The problem, he realized with a cold, hard jolt, was not resources.
The problem was romance. He couldn't morph himself into a handsome young knight with a carefree disposition and light humor, the kind of man who would compose a song for you, who would bring you a wildflower he’d picked on a reckless morning ride, who would whisper sweet, foolish nothings in your ear. He was Maekar Targaryen, a blunt instrument, a man of duty and gristle and a simmering, constant irritation at the world.
His poor wife. You were left to smile and giggle quietly at his dry, caustic remarks about a visiting lord’s speech. And you seemed genuinely amused by them, your laughter a soft, surprised ripple of sound that made him pause, mid-chew, in confusion. You were so deprived of pleasant company that you took what you could get from him, poor sweet thing. The realization had made him want to kick himself.
So, he had formed a plan, a scheme that, at the time, had seemed the pinnacle of rational, self-sacrificing genius. He went through his guards the next day under the guise of a brutal, unforgiving drill. He had them running siege patterns, sparring until their padded armor was dark with sweat, watching them like a hawk. He found the one he was looking for: Ser Elyas, a bastard from the Reach. He was honorable, sharp as a blade, and handsome in that sun-kissed, broad-shouldered way that maidens were supposed to swoon over. His laugh was easy, his temperament unruffled.
"Ser Elyas," Maekar had rumbled, his voice a low thunder. "You are being reassigned. You are now the personal guard to my wife, the princess. You will see to her safety at all times. You will accompany her on walks, attend her in the gardens, and ensure no harm befalls her."
He had made it clear to you on your wedding night that he had no intention of bedding you. It was a statement of fact, delivered not out of cruelty but out of a misguided sense of honesty. He had seen the flash of hurt in your eyes, quickly masked by a composed, brittle acceptance. So, naturally, he reasoned, after some time spent in the company of the charming Ser Elyas, you would come to love him. It was a natural, tragic story. A handsome knight and a neglected princess. He had practically gift-wrapped a discreet, passionate affair for you. It was the least he could give it to you, a substitute for the husband you had probably imagined, a way to satisfy that aching, youthful urge for romance that he, a man carved from stone, could never fulfill.
Yet, from what he observed over the following weeks, the plan had failed with spectacular precision. He would watch from a high balcony as Ser Elyas, in his gleaming plate, offered you his hand to help you over a damp patch of grass. You took it with polite, distant courtesy. You would exchange a few words, an occasional jest that made the knight chuckle, but your expression remained serene, unmoved. Maekar, a veteran of countless campaigns, knew the look of a soldier performing a duty. And your nights, as the quiet reports from your maids confirmed, were spent solely in your rooms. No secret knocks, no furtive shadows slipping from your door at dawn.
He was at his wits’ end. What did you want then? He had given you everything your station and age could desire. What would wipe off that pretty, unconscious pout off your face? Perhaps, he had finally conceded, if he talked to you. A novel concept for a marriage, he knew. He would go to you, and perhaps, in a moment of unguarded frustration, you would let your grievances slip.
The previous night, he had gone to your chamber. Your maid, a timid wisp of a girl, nearly dropped her mending box when she saw him at the threshold. "Leave us," he had commanded, and she fled. You had been seated by the fire, a book open on your lap, and you looked like a startled doe at his unexpected presence, your body going rigid, your eyes wide.
"My prince," you had said, your voice a breathless question.
He had felt like an intruder in his own wife's space. "I…I came to see how you were faring," he had managed, the words feeling foreign and clumsy on his tongue.
You recovered quickly, your innate grace taking over. You poured his wine yourself, and offered him a plate of fruit and honey cake. "I am well, my prince. Truly. The book you sent is fascinating. The accounts of the Rhoynish are almost unbelievable." You were making conversation. You were making it easy for him. And so you spoke for a while. It was surprisingly pleasant.
He found himself relaxing into a chair, debating the tactical blunders of the Valyrian conquest of the Rhoyne, and you had listened with rapt attention, asking pointed, intelligent questions that surprised him. You had a mind, he realized with a start. A sharp, curious mind hidden beneath the pout and the big eyes.
But he didn’t catch any clues. No lamenting a lack of knights, no forlorn sighs about the gardens, no veiled complaints about his absence. Just you, being…pleasant. So, eventually, he rose to leave. "It is late. You should rest."
The change was instantaneous. The spark of animation in your eyes died, replaced by a stricken, hollow look, as if you were wondering what you had done wrong. Your fingers tightened imperceptibly on the spine of your book. "Of course, my prince. Thank you for your company."
He hesitated. He was a man of military precision, and the sudden, palpable drop in your mood was a tactical variable he hadn't accounted for. He was already in your bed chambers. What kind of husband left his wife's bed chamber right before going to bed himself? A churlish one. A neglectful one. The servants would talk, of that he was certain. The walls of Summerhall had ears and mouths. But he did not care what servants would see or say. Their gossip was the chaff of court life. The thought that stopped him cold, that made his feet feel nailed to the floor, was simpler. He owed you basic courtesy, did he not? He had denied you everything else. He could not deny you the simple, public dignity of a husband who shared your bed for a night.
Before he could overthink himself out of it, he gestured to the bed. "Move over, then."
Your eyes, if possible, grew even wider. "My prince?"
"I will not sleep in my boots," he said gruffly, sitting on the edge of a chaise and beginning to unlace them. "I will stay. Just to sleep." He made a promise to himself then, a sacred oath. He would lie down with you, and he would speak to you until you fell asleep, so you would not be insulted by a silent, rigid vigil. Then, he would leave. He had been insulting you for months by refusing to do his duties as a husband, and this small act of presence would at least be a temporary salve on a wound he had no intention of healing.
He lay down atop the covers, fully clothed in his tunic and breeches, a stiff, awkward pillar of a man. You slipped under the furs with a rustle of linen, lying rigidly on your back. The silence was deafening. Maekar cast about for something, anything, to say. "Tell me more about the Rhoynar," he commanded, his voice a little too loud in the quiet room.
And so you did, your voice soft and hesitant at first, then gaining strength. You spoke of the legends, the songs of the Mother Rhoyne, the giant turtles that were said to be gods. He listened, inserting a dry comment now and again that made you giggle, that beautiful, rippling sound he was growing dangerously accustomed to. He stayed, and continued speaking to you about the defensive layout of river cities, the logistical challenges of moving a legion through marshland, until your words began to slur, your breathing deepened, and your face went slack with peace. He had done it. He thought he would leave when he was sure you were deep in sleep. He would just wait one more minute. Just to be certain. The fire had burned down to embers. The room was warm. The scent of lavender was soporific. And that was the last thing he remembered.
Now, it was morning. The maid’s insistent knocking on the door was a relentless, chipper assault on his senses. He was still fully clothed, his tunic creased. And you were curled up next to him, clutching his arm as if it were the most natural, obvious thing in the world. The knocking roused you. You stirred, a small hum of contentment escaping your lips before your eyes fluttered open. Your gaze, hazy with sleep, traveled up his arm, over his chest, and settled on his face. The reaction was not one of surprise, or at least not the kind he expected. It was pleasure. A deep, luminous, bone-deep pleasure that transformed your features. You were smiling. A shy, pleased smile, as if you had just woken from a beautiful dream and found it still real.
"Good morning, my prince," you murmured, your voice thick and honeyed with sleep. There was a newfound confidence in it, a possessiveness that hadn't been there before. "Are you to have a busy day? I thought I might join you, if it were permitted. Perhaps I could assist you with your letters?"
Maekar found himself staring. The words were simple, but the meaning behind them was not. His plan, the handsome guard, the neglected lady, the grand affair, it all crashed down around his ears in a shower of broken, idiotic pottery. He realized his mistake with the force of a warhammer to the chest. You thought your husband was finally coming around. The gift, the miraculous, improbable gift you had wanted all along, was not a surrogate. It was him.
You wanted this. Him. His presence. His attention. His dry, sarcastic remarks. His tactical critiques of ancient river warfare. His grumpy, unyielding, solid self.
All this time, you had wanted him.
He felt a strange, tight sensation in his chest, a feeling he hadn't allowed himself to entertain for many, many years. It was a seed of warmth, cracking through the cold, hard stone he had meticulously built around his heart. He cleared his throat, his voice emerging as a low, rusty rumble.
"You can join me," he said, the words a surrender. "If you wish."
The pout was completely gone now. The smile that remained in its place was brilliant, a sun emerging from behind a lifetime of clouds. It was a smile just for him. And for the first time since he had been forced to take a new wife, Maekar Targaryen didn't feel saddled. He felt, with a terrifying, exhilarating certainty, that he was about to be completely, irrevocably unhorsed.
The days that followed that first, accidental night established a new rhythm in Summerhall, one Maekar found himself falling into with a disquieting ease he refused to examine too closely.
You had asked to assist him, and Maekar, a man who had never refused a direct request from a lady in his life out of sheer, blunt propriety, could find no reasonable grounds to deny you. You appeared in his solar the next morning, freshly dressed in a gown of pale yellow that made you look like a spring daffodil, and settled yourself in the chair across from his great oaken desk. He expected you to be a distraction. Instead, you proved infuriatingly useful. Your handwriting was elegant where his was a cramped, soldierly scrawl.
You sorted his correspondence into neat piles: urgent, routine, and the one you tactfully labeled "probably insincere flattery from lords who want something." He had let out a surprised bark of laughter at that, and you had beamed at him as if he'd just crowned you Queen of Love and Beauty.
This became your habit. Mornings in his solar, you with your neat piles and your quiet, intelligent questions about the running of the lands. Afternoons, you would walk with him along the battlements, your hand resting lightly on his arm as he pointed out the defensive improvements he was making to the eastern wall. You listened with genuine interest, asking about murder holes and arrow slits with a curiosity that was wholly unfeigned. Evenings, you dined together, and your sweet inquiries about his wellbeing were no longer met with grunts. He found himself actually answering you, describing the frustrations of a dispute between two minor landed knights or the irritating news from court. You would nod, your brow furrowed in thought, and offer observations that were often startlingly perceptive.
And every night, the same delicate, unspoken negotiation occurred.
The first time it happened outside of your own chambers, you had been in his rooms. It was late, the fire burning low, and you had been reading aloud to him from a treatise on dragonlore while he sharpened his dagger. Your voice had grown hoarse, and he noticed the way you rubbed at your eyes with the back of your hand. He could not, in good conscience, send you shuffling down cold corridors to your own chambers. The very idea was absurd. What kind of husband kicked his own wife out into the night like a stray cat?
"The hour is late," he had said, sheathing his dagger with a decisive click. "You will stay here."
You had looked at him with that expression again, the one that was half hope and half caution, as if you were afraid of misinterpreting his words. "Here, my prince?"
"In my bed," he clarified, the words coming out more gruffly than he intended. "I will take the chaise."
But you had looked so stricken at that suggestion, your face falling in that way he was growing to dread, that he had found himself amending the plan. "Or I will join you. The bed is large enough. It is not seemly for a prince to sleep on a chaise in his own chambers."
It was a flimsy justification, and he knew it. But the way your expression brightened, the shy, pleased smile that curved your lips, was worth the internal grumbling. He lay beside you that night, a careful distance between your bodies, and spoke to you about the properties of Valyrian steel until your breathing evened out into the soft rhythm of sleep. He awoke to find you pressed against his side, your head on his shoulder, one of your hands resting over his heart as if counting the beats.
This, too, became your habit. You clinging to him in sleep like a limpet to a rock, and Maekar waking each morning to the scent of your hair and the warm, trusting weight of your body against his. He told himself it was for your dignity. He told himself it was a small kindness, a basic courtesy. He told himself many things, and believed none of them.
Then there was the incident with the lamprey pie.
A lord from the coastal holdings had sent a gift of lampreys, and the kitchens had prepared them in a rich, heavily spiced pie. You had eaten only a small portion, politely complimenting the flavor, but within hours you were taken ill. Maekar was in the yard overseeing a drill when your maid came running, her face pale as milk.
"My prince, it is the princess. She is unwell. The maester says it is the lamprey, that it has irritated her stomach something fierce."
He did not remember crossing the castle. He only remembered the cold spike of fear that had lanced through him, the way his heart had hammered against his ribs with a violence that had nothing to do with exertion. He found you in your chambers, curled on your side in the great bed, your face waxen and beaded with sweat. The maester was there, a fussy old man who was doing far too much hand-wringing for Maekar's liking.
"She will recover, my prince. It is a mere gastric disturbance. But she must eat to keep her strength up, and she refuses. The princess will not touch the porridge."
Maekar looked at the tray on the bedside table. A bowl of plain, unappetizing porridge sat there, cooling and congealing. You were facing away from it, your eyes closed, your pout firmly in place.
"Leave us," Maekar commanded. The maester and the maids scurried out like mice before a dragon.
He sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. Your eyes fluttered open, and you looked at him with such a mix of misery and embarrassment that it made something twist painfully in his chest.
"I am sorry," you whispered, your voice thin and reedy. "I am being foolish. It will pass."
"You will eat," he said, reaching for the bowl.
"My prince, I cannot. The very thought..."
"You will eat," he repeated, and this time his voice was gentler, an unfamiliar softness creeping in despite his best efforts. He scooped a small portion of the porridge onto the spoon. "Open your mouth."
You stared at him, those big eyes glassy with discomfort, and for a moment he thought you would refuse him. But then you parted your lips, a tiny, obedient gesture, and he carefully slid the spoon into your mouth. You swallowed with visible effort, your face scrunching up, and he immediately had another spoonful ready.
"Good," he said, the praise awkward on his tongue. "Again."
He fed you the entire bowl that way, spoonful by painstaking spoonful, his large, calloused hands surprisingly steady. He did not rush you. He waited between each bite, murmuring gruff words of encouragement that felt foreign and strange, like a language he had never been taught. When the bowl was empty, he set it aside and reached for a cloth, dabbing gently at the corner of your mouth.
Your eyes were wet, but you were smiling. That smile. The one that made him feel like a hero from a song, when all he had done was feed you porridge.
"Thank you, Maekar," you breathed, using his name without his title for the first time. It hit him somewhere deep, a blow he had no armor for.
"Rest now," he ordered, his voice rougher than he intended. "I will stay."
He stayed. He lay beside you, fully clothed, and let you curl into his side. He stayed until your breathing steadied and the color slowly returned to your cheeks. He stayed even after that, watching the firelight play across the ceiling, feeling the steady rise and fall of your chest against his, and wondered what in the seven hells he was doing.
But still, still, he put off the matter of bedding you.
It was not that he did not want to. The realization had crept up on him with the slow, inevitable force of a rising tide. He wanted to. Gods help him, he wanted to. The sight of you in your thin nightdress, the way your hair spilled across the pillows, the warmth of your body pressed against his each morning, it was testing the limits of his resolve, which had never been particularly strong where matters of the heart were concerned. He had simply never had his heart involved before.
But to bed you would be to open a door he was not certain he could close again. He had built his life around duty, around the cold, hard certainties of obligation and honor. He had loved once, and loss had carved a hollow in him that he had believed was permanent. You were filling that hollow, day by day, smile by smile, and the sensation was as terrifying as it was intoxicating.
He was a coward. Maekar Targaryen, who had faced down rebel lords and laughed at the prospect of single combat, was a coward when it came to his own wife.
Then came the night of the kiss.
It was an evening like any other. You had spent the day in his solar, helping him draft responses to a particularly tedious batch of petitions. Dinner had been a quiet affair, just the two of you, and you had made him laugh, actually laugh, a deep, surprised rumble of sound, with a wicked impression of a pompous lord who had visited the previous week. You had retired to his chambers, as had become your custom, and he had told you about the Dragonknight's campaigns in Dorne until your eyes grew heavy.
"Goodnight, Maekar," you said, your voice soft and drowsy.
And then you kissed him.
It was not a forceful kiss, not a demand or an invitation. It was a brief, gentle press of your lips against his, as natural and unthinking as a breath. A goodbye. An act of simple, uncomplicated affection. You pulled back, your eyes already closing, and nestled into your pillow with a contented sigh, as if you had done nothing of any particular note.
Maekar lay frozen, staring at the canopy above him, his heart thundering in his ears.
You had kissed him.
This was his fault. The thought careened through his skull like a loose cannon on a ship's deck. This was entirely, unequivocally his fault. He had done this. He had planted this notion in your head, watered it with his attentions, and now it had bloomed into something he could no longer ignore.
A fortnight ago, you had been helping him remove his heavy outer tunic after a long day of inspections, your small fingers working deftly at the clasps. It had been such a wifely gesture, so intimate and so natural, that before he had known what he was doing, he had leaned down and pressed his lips to your brow. A brief, chaste kiss. A thank you. He had not even realized he had done it until he saw the way you had frozen, your eyes wide. He had cleared his throat and muttered something about the fire needing more wood, and the moment had passed.
But you had taken that kiss, that single, thoughtless gesture, and drawn a conclusion from it. You had decided, in your sweet, hopeful way, that your husband wanted you to initiate affection as well. That he was too reserved, too gruff, too locked within his own silences to ask for what he wanted. And so, with that gentle, trusting kiss, you had reached across the chasm he had placed between you and offered him a bridge.
Did he want you to? The question burned in his mind, insistent and demanding. Did he want you to kiss him goodnight, as if it were the most normal thing in the world? As if you were truly husband and wife in every sense?
He certainly was not complaining. The ghost of your lips still tingled on his, and his body was reacting in ways that were entirely inappropriate for a man who was supposed to be letting his wife sleep. He was not complaining at all. That was the problem.
He should be complaining. He should be panicking. Because this, this sweetness, this trust, this quiet, domestic intimacy, led inexorably to one conclusion. You would expect children now. The thought hit him like a splash of ice water. Of course you would expect children. A princess, a wife, a woman who had been raised to understand that the bearing of heirs was a fundamental part of her duty. And you would want them, he realized with a jolt. You would want his children. Not out of duty, but out of genuine desire. You would want a babe with his silver-gold hair and your eyes, a child you could hold and nurture and love.
Gods be good.
He turned his head on the pillow to look at you. You were already asleep, your face peaceful, your lips still curved in that small, contented smile. You had no idea of the earthquake you had just set off in his chest. You had kissed him and promptly fallen asleep, trusting him completely, utterly unaware of the crisis you had left in your wake.
Maekar stared at you for a long time, watching the steady rise and fall of your breath, the way your lashes cast delicate shadows on your cheeks. His mind was a whirlwind of duty and desire, fear and longing, the cold echoes of past grief and the warm, insistent pulse of something new.
He could not keep putting this off. He could not keep lying beside you, night after night, pretending that this was a mere courtesy. He could not keep telling himself that he was doing this for your dignity, when in truth, your dignity was the last thing on his mind when he felt the press of your body against his in the dark.
But not tonight. Tonight, you were asleep, and he was a coward still. Tonight, he would lie here and listen to you breathe and feel the warmth of your kiss still burning on his lips.
Tomorrow, perhaps, he would be braver.
Or perhaps, he thought grimly, you would kiss him again, and the choice would be taken out of his hands entirely. The thought was not as unwelcome as it should have been.
The kisses continued.
Every night, without fail, you would bid him goodnight with that same gentle, fleeting press of your lips against his. It was never demanding, never lingering. It was a question posed in the softest possible terms, a door left slightly ajar, an invitation he could accept or decline as he saw fit. And every night, for the first several nights, Maekar accepted it the same way: by remaining perfectly, rigidly still, a statue of a man enduring a pleasant but bewildering assault.
He felt you withdraw each time, felt the tiny, almost imperceptible slump of your shoulders as you settled back onto your pillow. You never said anything. You never complained. But he knew. He was a dull rock, an unresponsive lump of granite, and he was hurting you with his passivity. The knowledge gnawed at him, a persistent, guilty ache that followed him through his days and haunted his waking hours.
The fifth night, something in him snapped. Simply, as you leaned in to press your customary kiss to his lips, he found himself moving. His hand came up, rough and calloused, to cup the back of your head. And he kissed you back.
It was not a passionate kiss. It was not the kiss of a man swept away by desire. It was a careful response, a returning of pressure, a silent acknowledgment. He felt your startled inhale against his mouth, the way your body went taut with surprise. When he pulled back, your eyes were wide, your lips parted, and there was a look on your face that made his chest constrict.
Expectation. Hope. A question that had been waiting, patient and trembling, for an answer.
Maekar looked at you, at your big eyes shining in the firelight, at your kiss-swollen mouth, at the delicate line of your collarbone visible above the lace of your nightdress. He thought of all the nights he had lain beside you, rigid with restraint. He thought of the way you smiled at him, the way you laughed at his dry remarks, the way you clung to his arm in sleep as if he were the only safe harbor in a storm.
He resigned himself. The decision came not with a sense of defeat, but with a strange, liberating clarity. He did not want to become the object of your resentment. He could not bear the thought of those eyes looking at him with bitterness, with the slow, corrosive realization that your husband was a man who denied you not only his affection but the most basic experiences of womanhood. You were young and full of life, and he had been keeping you in a gilded cage, feeding you porridge and kissing your forehead as if you were a child rather than a wife.
"You deserve pleasure," he said, his voice low and rough, the words feeling as if they were being dragged from some deep, hidden place within him. "I have been remiss in my duties."
Your breath caught. "Maekar..."
He moved before he could lose his nerve. His hands found your waist, and he lifted you as if you weighed nothing, settling you onto his lap with a decisive, careful motion. You were warm through the thin fabric of your nightdress, your body soft and pliant against the hard planes of his chest. He could feel the rapid flutter of your heart.
"I will not take what I have no right to claim," he said, the words a rough murmur against your temple. "But I can give you this. Let me give you this."
His fingers found the hem of your nightdress, and he pushed it up slowly, giving you time to object. You did not object. You only watched him with those enormous eyes, your hands resting on his shoulders as if you did not quite know what to do with them. He touched you gently, so gently, his battle-roughened hands moving with a delicacy that surprised even himself. He explored the soft skin of your thighs, the curve of your hip, the dip of your waist. He learned the shape of you by touch alone, his gaze fixed on your face, cataloguing every flicker of expression.
When his fingers found the center of your heat, you gasped, your head falling back, your fingers digging into his shoulders. He moved with slow, patient circles, learning what made you sigh, what made you shudder, what made your hips buck involuntarily against his hand. He was methodical in his attentions, as he was in all things, and he brought you to the peak with the same focused determination he might apply to a siege.
You shattered against him with a cry that was half surprise and half relief, your body arching, your hands fisting in the fabric of his tunic. He held you through it, his free arm wrapped securely around your waist, anchoring you against the storm of sensation. When the tremors subsided, you slumped against his chest, breathing hard, your face buried in the crook of his neck.
He gave you a moment. Then, with the same gentle efficiency, he rearranged your nightdress, lifted you from his lap, and placed you back onto the bed. He drew the furs up to your chin and pressed a kiss to your forehead.
"Sleep now," he commanded, his voice a low rumble.
You blinked up at him, your expression dazed and soft and so full of something that looked terrifyingly like adoration. "But you..."
"This was for you," he said, cutting you off with a firmness that brooked no argument. "Rest."
You slept. He did not. He lay beside you in the darkness, his body aching with unfulfilled need, and told himself that this was enough. He had done his duty. He had given you pleasure without complicating matters with his own involvement. It was a tidy solution, a clean, surgical strike. You were satisfied. There was no need to get himself fully involved.
This, too, became a habit.
Every few nights, when the expectant look in your eyes grew too pronounced to ignore, he would pull you onto his lap and touch you until you came apart in his arms. He learned the rhythms of your body. He knew the spot just below your ear that made you whimper when he pressed his lips to it. He knew the pace that made you clutch at him desperately, the slower, teasing touches that made you gasp his name like a prayer. He gave you pleasure as a general might distribute supplies to a besieged city: regularly, efficiently, and with a steadfast refusal to partake himself.
He thought you accepted this. He thought you understood the unspoken terms of this arrangement. He was a fool.
It was a quiet evening, the fire burning low in the hearth, the castle settling into the deep hush of night. He had just returned from a grueling inspection of the eastern watchtowers, his muscles aching, his mood as dark as the storm clouds gathering over the mountains. You were waiting for him in his chambers, a book open on your lap, a cup of warmed wine already poured and waiting on his desk.
You were always waiting for him now. The thought should not have warmed him as it did.
The night's ritual had been completed. You were nestled against him, your body still humming with the aftermath of pleasure, your breathing slowly returning to normal. He was preparing to settle you back onto your pillow, to pull up the furs and press his customary kiss to your forehead, when you spoke.
"Maekar." Your voice was soft, hesitant, but there was a thread of steel beneath it that he had learned to recognize. "May I ask you something?"
"You may," he said, his guard instinctively rising.
You were silent for a moment, your fingers tracing idle patterns on the fabric of his tunic. Then, you lifted your head to look at him, and the expression in your eyes made his heart stutter.
"Why do you not want anything for yourself?"
The question hung in the air between them, simple and devastating. He opened his mouth to deflect, to offer some gruff platitude about duty and obligation, but you did not give him the chance.
"Every night," you continued, your voice still soft but gaining strength, "you give me such pleasure. You are so gentle, so careful, so attentive. But you never…" You hesitated, a flush creeping up your cheeks, but you pressed on with the same determined courage you had shown since the day you arrived at Summerhall. "You never let me touch you. You never seek your own release. It is as if you believe you do not deserve it, or as if you think I am not capable of giving it."
"You are capable," he said, the words escaping before he could cage them.
"Then why?" Your pout was there, that unconscious, pretty pout that he had come to know so well. But it was accompanied by a look so loving, so open and earnest and full of desperate hope, that it struck him like a blow. "I could learn. I could learn how to please you, if you are willing to teach me. I am not afraid. I want to be a true wife to you, in every sense."
He felt something cracking inside him, the carefully constructed walls he had built around his heart beginning to crumble. "It is not a matter of teaching," he said, his voice strained. "There are…consequences. You are young. You should not be burdened with..."
"Children," you finished for him, and he was stunned into silence. "You are worried about children."
It was not the only thing, but it was the easiest to admit. He nodded stiffly.
You took a deep breath, and he watched as you gathered your courage, your hands clasping together in your lap. "If you do not wish for children," you said, your voice steady despite the tremor he could see in your fingers, "I can drink moon tea. We can postpone the idea. I have spoken to the maester, and he has assured me it is safe when used sparingly."
Maekar stared at you. You had spoken to the maester. You, his sweet wife, had gone to the old man and asked about moon tea. The image was so absurd, so unexpectedly bold, that he almost laughed.
But you were not finished. "I would like to have a child someday," you continued, and now your voice grew softer, more wistful. "One child of my own. No matter a boy or a girl. And I would raise it with the best of my ability, with all the love I have to give. But…" You reached out, your small hand coming to rest on his cheek, your thumb brushing the line of his jaw. "I would like to have a life first. A marriage. A husband who does not treat me like a delicate piece of glass that might shatter at his touch."
Your eyes were wet, but you were smiling. That smile. The one that had undone him from the very beginning.
"I want you, Maekar," you whispered. "I want my husband."
The walls crumbled. The last defenses fell. Maekar Targaryen, prince of Summerhall, breaker of rebellions and terror of his enemies, looked at his young wife and realized he was only a man. A man who had been fighting a losing battle against his own heart for longer than he cared to admit. A man who loved his wife.
He loved you. The truth of it was a physical thing, a weight in his chest, a fire in his blood. He loved your laugh, your pout, your clever mind and your gentle hands and your infuriating, wonderful habit of clinging to him in sleep. He loved your courage, standing before him now and baring your soul with nothing but hope to shield you. He loved you.
"Gods be good," he breathed, and then he was moving.
His hands found your waist, and this time there was nothing careful or clinical about the touch. He pulled you against him, crushing you to his chest, and his mouth descended on yours in a kiss that was nothing like the chaste, hesitant presses of lips you had shared before. This was a surrender. A desperate, hungry admission of everything he had been too stubborn to say.
You gasped against his mouth, and then your arms were around his neck, your fingers tangling in his hair, and you were kissing him back with an enthusiasm that made his head spin. When he finally pulled back, you were both breathing hard, your faces inches apart.
"You foolish, stubborn man," you whispered, but your voice was thick with tears and joy. "I have been waiting for you to understand."
"I understand now," he said, his voice a low, wrecked rasp. "Forgive me. For all of it. For the neglect, for the distance, for the guard I foisted upon you like a fool..."
"You gave me Ser Elyas?" Your eyes widened, and then a surprised laugh bubbled up from your throat. "Oh, Maekar. I thought he was just a very attentive guard. I wondered why he kept trying to recite poetry at me."
Maekar groaned, dropping his forehead to yours. "I am an idiot."
"You are my idiot," you corrected, and the possessive warmth in your voice was his final undoing. "My husband. And I believe you owe me a proper wedding night."
He looked at you, at the mischievous glint in your eyes, at the loving curve of your smile, and he felt something he had not felt in many, many years. Hope. Joy. A future unfolding before him that was not merely duty and endurance, but something bright and warm and achingly beautiful.
"I owe you much more than that," he murmured, and he lowered his mouth to yours once more.
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