, grumpy x sunshine bit about park the shark and the remora he can't live without..
thinking about brendon park and intern!reader who is sooo bright-eyed and unabashed by his knack to be harsh on them. they understand his almost misanthropic tendencies on a fundamental level—a man sharpened by his trade who expects the same outcome of his residents.
and he gets frustrated because his ability to hone their skills by fear-factor is now useless, and he's also pissed because no matter how much he chews them out they're always happy.
their dynamic becomes the talk of the orthopedic department, because why is this first-year so immune to the apex predator of the hospital?
the simple answer: he has no idea what to do with you. but he wouldn't admit that in a million years, so he just acts like he can tolerate the rainbows and unicorns that follow you around.
he brings them down with him on a consult in the ED, some construction worker with a severed hand that had high hopes of reattachment.
everyone puts on their best military-grade facade, even garcia's back straightens noticeably because park is just that much of a dick to everyone.
and here comes reader, practically buzzing with excitement as they trail right on brendon's heels. it really throws everyone for a loop because you're so close to him, and you're the one asking all the questions to robby—who seems so chuffed by all of this—and he answers happily.
park unwraps the hand and you're right there with him, cheek squished against his meaty bicep with eyes glimmering bright with wonder. you're grinning with delight and clapping your hands when brendon green-lights the reattachment.
and then you're both gone, park the shark being tailed by a little intern bristling with anticipation.
everyone is fucking gobsmacked because, what the fuck? since when was anyone under park's supervision happy to be there?
it wasn't uncommon to see park followed by a brood of his residents. the usual joke was that they were his shark pups, his offspring that he molded into annoyingly good surgeons.
but that doesn't apply to you. you're nothing like him, yet you learn from him all the same. your relationship is almost symbiotic, in a way, where you thrive on the challenges he throws at you and he secretly feeds off of the warmth you radiate.
and the correlation smacks garcia square in the face after crossing paths with the two about five ED consults later.
you are his remora. you clean up the mess of his apathy and he feeds you the fruit of his knowledge.
and that's what she starts calling you—that's what everyone starts calling you.
and brendon? he starts to call you the stupid name too.
but to him, it's possessive. it is a name that claims you as his own, not as offspring, but as something far more important that he doesn't want to name.
"i'll write a recommendation letter for you," he says one quiet afternoon when you're both munching on leftovers in the breakroom.
you're confused, he can tell by the apparent tilt of your head.
"when you complete your residency. i'll recommend you for an attending position here."
"... that is disgustingly generous for a guy like you."
"i won't work without my remora."
stay tuned for season 48 episode 7 when they finally kiss and hold hands🙂🙂🙂
Warning: This is my interpretation of Park’s character, considering the 30 seconds of screen time he got. No medical knowledge from the writer. slightly suggestive?
Summary: Brendon Park feels like he’s being haunted by a pretty girl in scrubs who seems to always show up when he needs her.
Chapter Summary: Brendon Park’s Sunday consisted of getting ambushed by an old lady and receiving a ghostly call at night. In that order.
Part 19 | Masterlist
——————————————-
Brendon Park was strict on his sleeping regime. He slept 7-8 hours a night, whether it be a workday or not. Anything less made him groggy and inefficient. Anything more messed with his circadian rhythm.
He slept the same way he advised you a couple of months ago. Minus the noise machine, it wasn’t necessary. His thoughts never bothered him enough to keep him awake. As soon as he closed his eyes, he wouldn’t toss or turn. He’d just sleep.
An ex of his often commented on how he slept like a log. Unbothered by his environment, on his back and lying almost completely still.
Logically, it made no sense for him to be wide awake at 3:33 am. Outside and with you. But you had defied logic and his reliance on it since he met you.
His thoughts remained on you during his drive home and while going through his nighttime routine.
You weren’t angry at him anymore. Everything seemed to have gone back to normal between you two. It was just what he wanted… plus just a little bit more than that. That was the phrase that kept repeating in Brendon’s brain since he tried dropping you off at your place, the first time.
Just a little bit more, he kept telling himself.
When he insisted you get dinner, when he parked his car so you’d eat together in the parking lot, when he turned off his phone to not be aware of the time.
Just a little bit more.
Frankly, he could’ve stayed out with you for just a little bit more if you wouldn’t have put a stop to it. He was aware of the time and he didn’t care that it was so late.
Brendon was almost upset you put a stop to it. Why? He still couldn’t fully figure it out.
All he knew was he wanted everything back to normal between you two, even if it meant doing just a little bit more to make sure he was forgiven in your eyes.
Especially considering it had been your last day working together. He felt a pressure bubbling at his chest at the thought, he clutched it unconsciously.
It must be heartburn from the stupid burger you forced him to eat.
Or
It must be the delirium from exhaustion.
Like he did every night, as soon as he turned off the light and laid his head back on the pillow, he felt the drowsiness taking over his body. Closed his eyes and fell asleep in less than a minute.
His last thought was you before he fully knocked out.
-
Brendon woke up feeling exhausted and somehow lighter all at the same time. He woke up at 11:00AM too. An unknown feat for him since his college years. Acceptable this one time due to last night’s circumstances.
He made his way through his usual morning routine: shower, coffee, breakfast. Skipped the morning gym session since he despised the 11:00AM crowd anyway. He’d go later.
His morning was going great. If only he didn’t have to go mass with his mother.
He changed into appropriate clothes and made his way to the front door, grabbing his keys and sprinted to his car.
His mother kept eyeing him suspiciously once he picked her up from her house.
“What?” He finally had enough and asked her.
“Nothing,” she tilted her head. “You look…diferent.”
He rubbed a hand over his face. “I know, I look exhausted. I just woke up and -“
“You woke up just now? Are you feeling ok?” She clutched the purse in her arms tighter.
He was feeling great actually.
Brendon nodded. “Just a long night.” Which was the truth.
His mother sighed and leaned down to put her purse on the ground. She hummed in confusion as she picked up a ball of fabric by her feet.
Your damp sweater from last night.
“Whose is this?” She frowned as she unwrapped the ball of sweater you had left.
“It’s just -,” he tried to take it from her and she held on to it tightly.
“This is a girl’s!” She gasped.
“I-“ he couldn’t provide a reasonable explanation.
“Why do you have a girl’s sweater?”
“It’s nothing,” his nose involuntarily scrunched. Because of course it did.
His mother’s eyes scanned his whole body language. From his scrunched nose to his deepening frown to his red ears.
“Is this…hers?” He knew exactly who she was hinting at. She didn’t have to say your name.
Brendon slowly nodded.
She folded the sweater properly and leaned over to place it on the floor again.
“I’m not gonna ask your business,” his mother raised her hands in feigned disinterest.
“Just say it.” He pushed her.
“Why is your coworker’s damp sweater in your car?” She asked, straight to the point.
“I drove her home because it was raining.” He answered honestly. He excluded the part where you borrowed his own and how you spent five hours together after that.
“Is that what the kids call it these days?” His mother smirked.
“Stop,” he threw his head back. “She needed a ride home and it was raining. End of story.” He tried to speak tersely. As tersely as he could speak to his mother.
“Fine. I was just curious.” She said in that voice. Like she knew something he didn’t.
He pulled up to the Church’s parking lot. For once, happy to see the church building that could distract his mother from her nosy questions.
—
Brendon wasn’t able to run away this time.
His mother had barely turned around to greet someone for two seconds, when he felt the grip on his forearm.
One of his mother’s friends, the old lady who always had a lovematch for him, was clinging on to him harshly. Pulling him away from the safety of his mother’s side.
“Brendon, I have a niece that I wanted to tell you about.”
“I need to go,” he took out his phone, pretending to get a phone call. “I need to find my mother.”
He unlatched himself from the old lady. Swiveling his head around, looking for his mother. Where the hell did that woman go?
“I told your mother about it. She said she would mention it to you. I think you’ll like my niece. She’s just like you.”
“No,” he tried to snap at her. Not this again.
Sadly, old ladies like her never feared him like most of the staff at the hospital.
“Here, just take her number.” She took out a piece of paper and tried to hand it to him.
“That won’t be necessary,” his mother slid in from his side, pushing the paper back.
Brendon raised his eyebrows in surprise. His mother never interfered in these interactions. Always stood quietly to the side and enjoyed the entertainment of his suffering in these situations.
She was using her stern voice. The one he learned from throughout the years that led to his own “shark” tone.
It rarely came out nowadays but when it did…
“I just told you he’s not interested,” his mother told off the old lady. “He has a girlfriend.”
Brendon gulped and stared at his mother.
“Oh,” the lady jerked her head back in offense. “You do?” She questioned him suspiciously.
“He does,” his mother spoke up before he could. “They work together at the hospital,” she elbowed him.
He hummed in agreement. His jaw clenched at what she was implying. Who she was implying.
“Now if you excuse us,” his mother pulled on his elbow gently. “We have to go.” His mother waved goodbye and they sped walk to the parking lot.
“That should keep them off your back for a while,” she said as she looked over her shoulder.
Brendon wasn’t sure what to say as they got in the car and drove off. But, sure, he could pretend just to keep those ladies away.
“So…” his mother interrupted the silence. “You drove her home, you shared your lunch and now she left her sweater in your car?”
Brendon groaned in annoyance as he threw his head back.
“That’s quite domestic, Brenny.”
He side-eyed her with flattened lips.
“Are you returning her sweater?”
“Yes.”
“I hope you return it soon ‘cause it’s going to stink of humidity.” She grimaced.
He huffed in amusement at their similar way of thinking. He was gonna wash it before he returned it to you anyway.
“I’ll return it whenever I see her again.” He shrugged. If he ever saw you again. The same feeling from last night returned to his chest.
His mother whipped her head towards him.
“I forgot she was only there for a while. Linda’s coming back, right?”
He nodded thoughtfully.
“So when do you see her again?”
“I don’t know.”
He really didn’t.
“And how does that make you feel?”
“Oh my God,” Brendon rolled his eyes. He never talked about “his feelings” and he wasn't going to start now.
“I gotta ask. You look upset, honey.” His mother’s voice was laced with concern.
How did he feel? Was he upset? Even he didn’t know.
“Mm fine,” he mumbled as he rubbed his nose.
He didn’t want to lose you, his nurse. But he couldn’t do anything about it. You’d made up your mind already.
Brendon pushed the thoughts away and gripped the steering wheel tighter.
“Did you talk to the gardener about your peonies?” He changed the subject.
His mother patted his arm and talked about her garden all the way home. He didn’t interrupt her.
He needed the distraction anyway.
——-
Brendon couldn’t sleep.
This was all his mother’s fault, for putting these thoughts in his head.
He took the magnesium tablet, had the perfect Air Conditioner temperature, shut his curtains close. He even turned on the damn sound machine to silence his thoughts.
His fucking thoughts that kept drifting back to you.
He had decided once you got in the car last night that he was going to talk about it with you at one point. He was going to send you the link of the application and walk you through it all. Tell you to really consider what you were doing. The pros and cons of it all. Just how he had planned it a few days ago.
When he was pulling up the application on his phone, you just had to pull at the heartstrings of his cold heart. The passion for your job was evident in your body and your words. Your eyes even fucking sparkled, for fuck’s sake. He couldn't help but put his phone away, pushing aside his original plan.
You were doing it again. You were influencing his decisions and he was letting you.
He even let you keep his sweater, because it suited you. What the fuck was wrong with him?
But things would be different tomorrow.
Tomorrow you would be physically gone from his OR, so he would stop. He would stop thinking about you and worrying about you.
Just a little more. It’s what he told himself last night.
Just a little more distance, actually. That way you and your wellbeing would stop tormenting his thoughts.
His mother called his actions domestic. He scoffed at the thought.
In fact, starting right now, he’d bury the memory of you in his mind, so he could finally sleep soundly like he was supposed to.
His phone rang loudly on the table. It was probably the hospital since he was on-call. He picked up his phone. Answered without looking, putting it up to his ear.
“Park.” He answered clinically by instinct.
“Hey…” your voice spoke on the other line.
Brendon checked his phone to make sure he wasn’t dreaming already. Your name flashed on the screen as his current call. Why the hell were you calling him?
“It’s um...” You said your name softly, as if he needed any indication to who you were. He could recognize your voice anywhere.
“Are you busy right now?” Your voice sounded uncertain.
“No,” he sat up from his bed. “What’s going on?” He was in full alert mode now.
“I have a strange request. You’re free to say no.”
“Shoot.”
“I’m walking through an area I don’t feel… the best in. Can I keep you on the phone just for a minute?” Your voice sounded a little shaky.
He immediately removed the bed sheets off his body. Placed his phone between his shoulder blade and his ear, to put on a pair of sweatpants.
“Are you ok?” He felt tense.
“Yeah, yeah,” your voice sounded distant for a second, like you were looking over your shoulder. “Just walking…how was your day?”
His head snapped at your question and the casualness of it.
“My day?” He made his way to his kitchen.
“Yeah…” your footsteps sounded quicker than usual.
“Fine,” he reached for his car keys and wallet, shoving the latter in his pocket.
“What’d you do?” You asked.
“Breakfast, groceries, gym” he listed without thinking. “You need me to pick you up?” He asked getting straight to the point as he pulled his sneakers on.
“No, not at all.” You huffed. “I just- I’m almost in the car and I- Sorry for bugging you.”
“You’re not bugging me. I’m offering. You need me to pick you up?” He walked to his front door, his hand hovering over the doorknob.
“No,” you laughed softly. “Thank you, but I made it to the car. I’m fine.” He heard a door squeak open and close shut.
He heard a voice ask your name and you confirming it.
“Are you in an uber?” Brendon could hear the confusion in his own voice.
“Yeah I’m good.” You sighed in relief. “Thanks, Shark!”
“Are you ok?” Are you safe, he wanted to ask.
“Yeah, definitely. I’m like five minutes away from my place. Sorry if I interrupted anything…”
“You didn’t,” he put his keys down slowly on the counter. Still hesitating.
“Ok, I’ll leave you alone now…” you sounded like you were about to hang up.
Just a little bit more.
“I’ll stay on the phone. Just until you get to your place,” he muttered quickly.
“No,” you snorted. “You’ve done more than enough for me. I owe you one.”
“You don’t. I owed you,” he spoke without thinking.
“You did?” You softly laughed on the other end.
“Don’t remember?” He asked. “You almost cursed me for stealing your chips.”
Haunted him, actually.
You hummed in recognition. “Right. How many was it?“
“Three,” he recalled as he leaned against his kitchen counter.
“Really? I could’ve sworn I said 10,” you joked.
“No, three,” he corrected you.
“I guess I got one left then.”
He smirked. “Do you?”
“I gotta use my last one wisely,” you were smiling and he swore he could hear it. “I just saw your name in recent calls and I don’t know…Thanks for answering.”
“Of course,” he scratched his ear, it felt warm to the touch. “You’re home already then?”
“No,” you sighed. “Pretty close by. But thanks-“
“Just -“ he cut you off.
Just a little bit more… distance.
“Text me when you get home,” he settled on.
“Oh, sure,” you sounded surprised. “Thanks again. Good night.”
“Night.” He hung up and cursed himself out. He took off his shoes and placed his wallet back on the counter. Making his way back to his bedroom.
He had to cut it short this time. Brendon could’ve continued the conversation for just a little more… again.
Texting was better. He would read it and ignore it.
He turned his phone’s ringer off and on just in case.
He slipped back under the covers of his bed and laid his head on the pillow. Admittedly, he was feeling sleepless.
If you called him, he wouldn’t pick up. He needed to distance himself from you. His brain was playing tricks on him from spending so much time with you.
Brendon didn’t need just a little bit more.
He needed to stop worrying about you and stop thinking about you. Exactly how he said it earlier.
His phone dinged and he reached for it swiftly.
“Made it home! Thanks again :)”
He tried to ignore the relief he felt. He texted back, just as a polite acknowledgment.
“Good to hear.”
He put his phone back on the stand. There. That was it.
He felt his body slowly succumbing to sleep.
Starting tomorrow, everything would go back to how it was supposed to be.
—————————————————
A/N: 2.7k words?? Who am I? What have I turned into? Is Park on the precipice of realizing his feelings? Who knows?
Saw someone say they think the person in the foreground of this shot is Steve and if it is it makes the poses and expressions on Sam + Bucky's faces so much funnier.
cw: pregnant!reader, f!reader, protective!Santos, medical inaccuracies
There were very few things that threw the physicians of the ED off. After getting some of the worst cases on a regular basis, their perception of “normal” was quite skewed.
So it didn’t take more than a second for the hairs on the back of Santos’ neck to stick up the second the elevator doors slid open to reveal the infamous Dr. Park. Her fingers stilled over the keyboard, having found a few minutes in the unusual calm of the late afternoon to get some charting done.
Her eyes narrow as The Shark strides his way over in a direction everyone has unspokenly deemed as a ‘do not disturb’ zone. He was making his way right toward you, one of the newest, but best, additions to the day shift.
It’s not that you’d been an unfamiliar face, you were a regular on the night shift, having worked side by side with Abbot for years. He’d grumpily helped introduce you to the day shift one morning when he had worked a few extra hours, branding you with his seal of approval. “She’s one of the best nurses this place has ever seen. Take good care of her for us until she’s back where she belongs,” he’d stated with a straight face, though the swift squeeze on your shoulder told everyone that he genuinely meant what he said.
It hadn’t take long for them to really see what he meant. You were effectively given the perfect opportunity to prove yourself on your first shift, handling back to back MVCs after a pileup without breaking a sweat. You were just as competent if not more competent than even some of the residents, quick on your feet, adaptable in a crisis, and an efficient nurse. Everyone who worked in the department was good, but you were one of the best. And you did it all with ease, always smiling brightly afterward like the cases never phased you.
It took even less time for them to learn why the night shift had been so forlorn about losing you. You were a genuine voice of encouragement when they needed it, a calm voice of reason in stressful moments, a reassuring face when the mood was down, and a sense of tranquility when it got rough. And it also helped that you were always prepared with a granola bar when they got hangry and homemade treats every Friday to boost morale. There was nothing you couldn’t do.
Except now.
You’d joined the day shift a few months back and over the weeks it became apparent why you’d switched. Your excuse had been a light and nonchalant, “my husband and I agreed night shift wouldn’t work for a while.” More directly, you were pregnant. Through the weeks, your bump had steadily grown. Now, you were into your final trimester and more protected than any royal on the face of the planet.
You’d been demoted put in charge of taking calls and filling out charts from the comfort of a fancy lumbar support chair and straightforward triage cases when you got antsy. And that was only because you refused to take your leave until you were ready to give birth. They’d all but begged you to take your time off and enjoy the calmness of being home, but you refused with a nonchalant wave of your hand and a playful roll of your eyes.
Which is exactly why Santos was quick to attempt an interception with the orthopedic surgeon with a cold, “we didn’t call for an ortho consult.”
Dr. Park didn’t even spare her a glance, “I’m not here for any of you.”
Her jaw tightened, watching as he stopped in front of you and braced his arms on the counter above you. She was on the defense, pretending not to listen while now pretending to chart. She needed to be ready to jump to your protection, she wasn’t going to leave you vulnerable to Park’s attacks. She’d only worked with him a couple times, but even those few times were enough to learn that you didn’t deserve any of his usual wrath.
She wracked her brain to try to recall if you’d been on any cases that required any contact with Dr. Park. She couldn’t think of any. For weeks now, you’d been either behind a desk or out in triage handling nothing but the easy cases to keep you away from any heavy lifting or potentially aggressive patients. What could you, the very definition of angel on earth, have possibly have done from your lumbar supportive throne?
“Hey, gorgeous,” Park greeted you in a low voice, drawing your attention away from the screen with the straw of your tumbler between your lips.
“Well, well, well, how nice of you to grace us plebes with your presence, Dr. Park,” you teased, an amused smile spreading across your lips.
Santos huffed under her breath, annoyed that her position meant she could hardly hear you. How was she meant to come to your rescue if she didn’t even know what was being said? She signed off quickly and moved over to the rack that held all the tablets under the pretense of organizing them.
“What are your plans for dinner tonight?” Trinity hears the surgeon ask you, causing the resident to bite her lip and draw in a sharp breath. This interaction is the last thing she was expecting. Not only are you obviously pregnant, you’re also obviously married. That boulder on your finger is hardly subtle and hey, she might not know anything about your husband, but she at least knows he exists. This guy is… shameless!
“I don’t have anything confirmed just yet,” you reply with a sweet smile before you reach out to hand a clipboard to a passing Perlah, “I think my husband is finally going to order the Italian I’ve been craving for weeks now.”
Trinity fist pumps in her mind. Hell yeah, way to make it clear that you’re taken, happily married, and duh, not interested in Dr. Park anyway. She holds back a scoff at the obvious display of male bravado. What, he thinks just because he’s some hot shot ortho that women will drop whatever they’re doing for him? Cheat on their husbands? Ruin their marriages? For him? Gross.
The corners of his lips imperceptibly twitch upward, “how about I make us a well-balanced dinner instead? Fresh salad with lots of iron, nice grilled protein, roasted veggies, and that fancy lemonade I know you like.”
“My idea sounds better,” you smile sarcastically in response, eyes sparkling with delight.
Park exhales with a shake of his head, “you know what your playing hard to get does to me.”
Trinity bites back a gag, deciding it’s time to step in. Not only is he clearly incapable of reading social cues, he’s violating definitely violating a handful of HR policies, and just killing the vibe of the ED. She steps forward, voice steady, “she’s saying no.”
Yet again, she’s not even graced with eye contact as he replies, “not talking to you, R2.”
“You don’t have to be talking to me. I’m sure you’re in violation of plenty hospital HR policies right now and Angel is just tying to be nice. Just run along to your OR and leave us be,” Trinity reiterates as she steps closer with her arms crossed, Ahmed’s name on the tip of her tongue if Park decides to give her a tough time.
Your giggle throws her off for just a second as Park rolls his shoulders with a breathy groan, “HR doesn't need to get involved when the woman I’m flirting with is my wife.”
Her eyes widen as her breath catches in her throat, “your wife?”
“Six years in October,” you confirm gently.
Both of them are quick to rush to your side as you stand from the chair to reach for a tablet, though you’re quick to swat them away in favor of giving Trinity a warm squeeze on the arm, “I promise he’s not bothering me and I’m sorry for making you think you had to protect me. He thinks the flirting still works on me.”
“It does,” Brendon grunts, lifting your tumbler in your direction the second you begin to reach for it.
You roll your eyes, “I’ll find you sexy again when you buy me my damn pizza and pasta or when I’m completely healed from birthing your giant baby.”
“Pizza and pasta are not a balanced—” he starts.
You lower yourself back into your chair, welcoming Trinity’s help while smacking away the hands of your husband. “You’ve never been less sexy to me, Brendon. Get the hell out of here before I find you case to work on,” you threaten with a hand splayed over the apex of your bump.
He’s quick to glance at the board, “there’s nothing for me down here.”
“Goodbye, Brendon!” You bid as you lean back in your chair with a raise of your brows.
“Fine, I’ll get you your Italian tonight,” he grunts, “I also came down to give you your vitamins that you forgot on the counter and your favorite trail mix. I love you.”
You gratefully accept the snack, swallowing your vitamins quickly to prevent him from nagging you any further. “Thank you, my love. I love you too, now go before you scare anymore of my residents. Whitaker’s been hiding out in peds with a colicky baby since you got down here,” you wave off.
Park’s spine straightens, reverting to his usual macho persona, though you recognize the warmth in his eyes as he steps away from the nurse’s station. “I’ll come down for you when our shifts are done. Don’t even think about leaving this building alone,” he warns before turning on his heel to make his way back to the elevator.
“Don’t let her leave alone,” he instructs Santos with a cold glare, before nodding once at you, a silent ‘I love you,’ before the elevator doors slide shut.
“Don’t listen to him,” you reassure Trinity with a light smile, “I’m a big girl. I can handle making my way to the car just fine. He won’t do anything to you. Especially because he knows you’re one of my favorites and he knows better than to piss me off this far into carrying his big-headed spawn.”
Trinity nods with a pleased smile, "I like this sassy side of you, Angel."
You let out a bright laugh, "what can I say? My husband brings it out of me."
Tags | smut, controlling behavior, unethical work romance, blatant favoritism, toxic workplace, swearing, fauxcest , park is almost paternal to reader, calls her 'kid', sugardaddy park if u squint, age gap
“Good morning, Dr. Park.”
A chorus of greetings and pleasantries gets murmured in the room as he steps into the office. Ignoring the young residents under his wing – more than half of them lost causes if it had been up to him. He runs his eyes across his domain.
Brendon Park has always believed that the path of medicine could – and should – only be taken up by the cream of the crop. Life was not something you put in the hands of those who were ‘good enough’. What use does he have of overeager students who can’t differentiate a vein from an artery or the top student who buckles at the smallest hint of criticism?
Only those who are the best deserve to be doctors. And only those who beat the best deserve to become a surgeon.
“Where’s the kid?”
The newbies look at each other, confused. Clearly, not being given a heads-up of the culture and hierarchy in the Orthopedics Department.
His assistant speaks, “She is finishing up a consult in the ER. She should be here any –”
“… next time one of Frank’s idiots calls, tell them they better make sure it is compartment syndrome or I will shave off their senior resident's pretty hair.”
There she is. The crème de la crème.
She composes herself once she finally catches her attendings’ steely eyes and the suffocating tension he likes to maintain in his surroundings.
“Good morning, Dr. Park.”
“Good morning, doctor. Rough shift?” He cocks his head as the two of you ignore the gawking, trembling residents who are here to observe the surgery and continue your conversation next to each other in the sink. “Robby told me to let you sit this one out.”
The reminder of Robby’s cautious text about ‘giving you a break’ as if he knew you better than him makes his blood simmer once more. He lets his senses focus on the cold water running through his palms instead.
“Fuck, no,” you groan, scrubbing your hands aggressively, still frustrated. “I’m fine. It’s just – I fucking hate newbies.”
He actually chuckles at that, letting your shoulders bump as he walks in first, hands raised.
“You’re distracted,” he lets his words hit you where it matters. Your pride. “Fix it before you get in my OR.”
He sees it. The side of you that mirrors him. The way the irritation sloughs off of you like a false skin, the intensity in your eyes that held the same focus he does, the deep breath you take as your chest expands like a well-oiled machine revving up to do its purpose.
Robby doesn’t know what the fuck he is talking about.
“Yes, Dr. Park.”
Everyone knew who you were.
Shark’s favorite – his little prodigy. One he snatched from the ER Department, right under Robby’s nose, to hone into his successor.
The bias wasn’t for show.
You were brilliant, skilled, and had the most potential. You graduated top of your class, beat out your peers in your first rotation as a med student, and got offered a residency program by all departments in the PTMC.
It was almost a little too familiar with his experience when he was an upcoming resident.
And now, after thrashing the other attendings, he gets to have his own perfect protégé.
A student he considers as one of the great successes in his career.
Even now, he can’t help but marvel at you as you skillfully ride his cock.
A true overachiever, through and through.
“That’s it, baby. You’re doing so well," he pats the flesh of your ass almost paternally. The small irritating voice of Jack Abbot reminds him that positive reinforcement is quite effective when done sparingly.
They say surgeons are narcissistic to a fault. That they’d fuck themselves if they could. Maybe that’s why he loved fucking you so much – his mini me.
You’re the perfect specimen. The perfect woman.
“Does it feel good, Dr. Park?”
After all, surgeons would fuck themselves if they could.
And his little me wasn’t any different.
He tried to stay away. Swore to himself that he would not derail your career in any way. Women have it hard enough to get into male-dominated fields as it is, much less if you were to become a pariah because of him.
It would be unfair and cruel to be a bump in your career – and your belly, god forbid – when he swore to himself you would be the one to soar alongside him.
Instead, he focuses on more wholesome approaches. Or as wholesome as he could manage.
If he couldn’t have you, he had to monopolize you.
Controlled your schedule, made sure any and every surgery that comes your way went through him first because no one gets to overwork his student but him.
"Cancel all her consultations this Friday. We're doing the spinal fusion."
His assistant visibly stiffens, rapidly scrolling through his schedule. "Doctor Abbot requested her assistance for --"
He glances at him in bored disapproval. "Abbot isn't her attending isn't he?"
The young man nods. Capable but expendable, and he is smart enough to know it. "No, Dr. Park."
"Good. And tell him he can find his own senior resident to torture," he swivels his chair, done with the conversation. "This one's mine."
He had you moved into a condominium near his – lied through his teeth about the hospital paying for it too. Some bullshit about wanting their star resident to focus on her work.
"It should be for move-in next week," the realtor eagerly rattles as Park signs the lease, making sure to verify that it was his other bank account in the contract lest you be smart enough to check it and figure out your nice new condo didn't come from the good graces of the hospital.
"Quite an investment, doctor. Should be worth double by next year. Are you planning to flip it?"
Park signs on the last line.
"'s for my kid."
It eventually escalated to gym sessions together, then the same tailored diet plan because he refuses to let his successor survive on questionable food, and eventually syncing your health apps so he could oversee your fitness and sleep schedule.
'Bedtime.'
You actually stare at your phone like an unruly child.
'Can't sleep. I'll just study for the case tomorrow.'
Before you could flip another page laid in front of your table a call was already blaring through your phone. The shark emoji gave no doubts as to who was calling.
To his hypocrisy, he was also in front of his study table.
"I need you on peak performance tomorrow. Bed, now."
He crosses his arms and your eyes actually drop at how his shirt constricts across his biceps. Fuck.
Whatever, you can just remove your watch so he can stop tracking your bedtime like a fucking --
"Prop your phone up on the bedside table," you press your lips together, caught. "I know your tricks, kid."
In under five minutes, you were tucked in your comforter, staring at your screen as he uses the reading glasses he refuses to let anyone else see him wear.
He doesn't look at his phone again but you knew better than to try and test him. And even though it kills you to admit it, the soft sounds of the flips of the paper was lulling you to sleep.
"Goodnight, Dr. Park."
His reply, if any, slipped past unheard. Only his gentle eyes lingered in your memory as the last thing you saw.
It satisfied the desire, for a while.
When it no longer worked, he tried for the opposite.
He put some space, gave you cases separate from his, called you ‘kid’ to remind himself that he was decades ahead of you.
This time, you saw right through him.
Smart girl, that you were. Ballsy, too.
Chasing him down to his office and demanding an explanation for his abrupt indifference after indulging you with his warped attention.
Try as she might, Gloria couldn't find anyone who would talk about what actually happened that day. All she knows is that it was not pretty. A vicious argument between two top predators of the PTMC.
One that nobody knew ended in you spread out in what was his pristine desk, a quick plan B trip to the pharmacy, and a meeting in HR where the two of you had to declare your relationship once and for all.
It was a scandal and a headache for the higher-ups. They even had half the mind to transfer you to another hospital but he had assured them that he too would quit if that ever happened – making them lose not only an esteemed student but also an irreplaceable attending. Thus, a compromise was reached and the relationship was to be hidden until you officially finished your residency.
Not that he fucking cared. He could be the picture of restraint provided they keep their filthy little paws off of what was his.
What was now finally his.
“Getting tired, kid? Hmm? Need some help? I told you, you needed more leg work in the gym,” he grins maniacally at your whine, your little claws burying into his chest in defiance.
“I can do it. I can –”
You shriek as he slapped your ass, now meeting your thrusts as he bounces you on his cock, punishing your weak efforts with brutality. Grabbing both of your wrists with one hand as he pulls you down meanly to meet his pace.
“This all my little genius can amount to, hm? Can’t even ride her attending’s cock properly?”
You whined, shaking your head. “No – Please, Dr. Park. I can do it! I swear!”
“So polite,” he smirks, settling back down and letting you gyrate weakly in his lap.
He pinches your clit cruelly, heart pounding in glee at your cry. A notification pops on his phone as well as the smartwatch he had bought for you – ten minutes till 10.
Should be enough time.
“Get on with it, kid. It’s almost bedtime for you.”
Tags | hint of unhealthy relationship, but he is in love with you so it is okay, codependency, spoiled!reader, park is lowkey psychotic, controlling behaviour, SMUT, bondage, dacryphilia, punishments, jealousy, ditzy!reader if u squint, readers hair can be pulled, ooc!park kinda but idc, mentions of pregnancy and kids
… intense. In the way all highly successful surgeons are. The few actual relationships he has tried to have that fizzled out the moment they learn the depth of his passion are a testament to that.
“Did you put a tracker on the new car you bought me?”
Park actually freezes mid sip of his morning coffee where you caught him after your early morning pilates that was conveniently held in the gym of his building, a sneaky way to make sure you stayed over.
Like a shark flipped upside down.
This might be it. He’s had this conversation before with numerous girlfriends and he’s steeled himself for the argument that is for sure going to follow.
“Yes, it’s for your –”
“Oh, thank God.”
Park tried not to show his confusion when you just sighed in relief, dropped your gym bag on the couch, and walked over to the island to give him a sweet kiss where he still tensely stood, ready for a fight that ... seems to not be coming. “I had it checked just for maintenance and the mechanic found the tracker. I thought some creep was stalking me.”
You say that as if the intensely dedicated man who tracks your every move clearly needs competition.
“Sorry, baby,” he mumbled into another kiss. Confused but pleasantly surprised at this development.
“No, it’s alright,” you answer calmly, feeding him one of the chopped fruits you had prepared for him last night. “It makes me feel safe that you’re watching me.”
He blinks, staring into your eyes. Trying to look for any inkling of the familiar aversion but found nothing but adoration instead.
“Yeah?”
“This saves me the trouble of texting you where I am all the time.” You nod, smiling. Leaning into another series of small kisses he was more than happy to shower your face. “Guess, I should thank you for that, hm?”
He grins, almost boyish except he's all man. “You got something in mind?”
You hum, biting your lips as you drag him in the direction of the couch. “A few.”
… jealous. Always has been. When he was a child, his bedroom was a sacred haven where everything in it was his and only his. Top it off with being the sole child of two affluent parents and he grew up with little to no reason to learn generosity.
As he grew older it naturally translated into relationships.
Park does try to keep a check on it, especially when it comes to you. Having already learned his lesson the hard way with his past relationships and using it as leverage to make sure he doesn't mess it up this time around.
He didn’t want to ruin your relationship by not getting a hold of his … temperament.
And he knew none of those young men after your affection could equal him in any level.
That is until he saw you talking so sweetly with Jack Abbot outside of the PTMC.
Jack Abbot wasn’t just some unaccomplished, bushy-tailed boy that couldn’t back his own words. He was skilled, rich, and a fucking hero who jumped from one warzone to another to save lives.
So, forgive him if he decides he’s had enough of playing nice and reestablish just who you're in a relationship with.
Now, here you were – covered only by the ropes he wrapped around your body, arms securely tied at your back, kneeling by his feet as he sits fuming on the expensive couch you insisted fit perfectly in his pad.
(It didn’t. But he thought if he was ever going to convince you to break your lease and live with him, he better start small.)
“What do you say, baby?”
He flicks the gag off your mouth, adjusting himself brazenly as the spit creates strings connected to the ball.
“I-I’m sorry, Bren. Jack was just – uuhm!”
He grits his teeth as he watches you squirm, letting the bullet he trapped in your folds and in each nipple by taping it into your skin vibrate to the highest intensity at the sound of another man’s name.
“I’m sorry! I’m sorry, Bren!”
He let out a breath, meticulously running his eyes from every indentation the hemp rope pressed on your skin to the river your tears created on your face as you shuddered and wiggled on the floor in overstimulation.
Only when the telltale signs of your upcoming orgasm let itself be known did he quickly turn off the toy. Grinning maniacally at your cry of protest. The soft hiccups of his name almost made him pity you.
Almost.
“Come here.”
That perked you up almost instantly. Weakly pushing yourself up on your knees and looking at him expectantly. When he made no move to stand or at least ease up the rope that restricted your feet you knew exactly what he wanted from you.
You slowly shuffled on your knees, making sure you maintained eye contact lest he uses it as another reason to torture you even longer.
But as you reached his spread out limbs, your eyes couldn’t help but fall to the chub of his boxers. A comically loud gulp came out of your throat. Before you could feel embarrassed about it, a curled up finger pushed your chin up to his eyes.
“What do you say?”
Your mouth quivers. He’s being so mean.
“I-I’m sorry ,” you whisper, neck hurting at the angle he held your head in. “I just – he was just asking me for gift ideas. Since – since your birthday is next month. There was nothing else! I promise!”
When his face didn’t soften at your admission, despite betraying your pledge of secrecy with Abbot, you got desperate.
Large globs of tears now free-falling off the side of your face. “Please. I promise. There is nothing else. N-No one else. I love you. I love you, Bren. Only you. I’m yours. I’m – I’m … I’m sorry.”
He hums, seemingly satisfied and letting go of your chin to lean back casually on the chair.
“Say it again.”
You wavered in confusion. “W-What?”
He just cocks his head impatiently. Your heart jumps as you stammer, desperate not to disappoint him again. “There’s nothing else. No one else.”
You wrack your brain on the things you said not ten seconds ago but his heavy gaze sets your body alight and your brain off. Testing the waters you slowly moved closer and closer to him. Hopeful, when it didn’t meet any punishment and that more proximity could soften his frozen heart.
“I love you,” You press the soft declaration on the muscle of his thigh. “I love only you. No one else.”
You hesitate once your chin was resting comfortably on the top of his bulge, not so subtly running the tip of your nose on the length of it. Yet, his intense, unreadable gaze never faltered. You could only imagine this is how those poor souls who had the misfortune of working with your boyfriend feel every day.
“I’m yours," you press the promise on his navel.
A whisper. A reassurance. A vow.
It’s shameful how relieved you were when he patted your head. Eyes immediately tearing up in joy at the hint of affection.
You actually gasp in excitement when he pulls his cock out – hulking and even more angry from your perspective.
“Again.”
You nod, like an eager resident getting the surgical opportunity of a lifetime.
The musk of his skin goes straight to your head, pulling you into a space only he ever could as you run your mouth gently on the base of his cock. “There is no one else.”
It becomes more difficult the more of him you taste.
“I love you. Only you.” This time you risk it by licking from the base, preening at the precum you’ve been eyeing only to gasp when he pulls you just an inch away by your hair when you were about to reach the prize.
You can’t help at the desperate way your lips wobbled downward. Terrified that your eagerness had undone all your progress.
“And?” he demands, shaking your head gently as if jogging whatever brain cells were left in it.
“I’m sorry, Brendon," you practically sob out, eyes dewy and wide as you pleaded.
He lets your apology fester, eyes blown at the sight of your desperation.
It was sick – just how beautiful he finds you so desperate for him.
Him.
Not a little boy. Not even Jack Abbot.
You gasp in surprise when he finally lets you press your mouth on his tip. Throwing his head back as you eagerly suck his length.
“I forgive you, baby.”
… controlling. Not that he means to. Well, he does.
But it was his second nature.
He has never, in his life, been a follower. Always the group leader in all school projects, the captain of his football team, the president of his frat, and now he is the top Orthopedic Surgeon of the PTMC and formally being groomed to become the new Chief of Surgery.
So, it wasn’t exactly his lack of trust in your self-preservation that he decides to just … do everything for you. It was just who he is. How he shows he cares.
And you, love of his life, get to take the brunt of his affection.
“The surgery should be done by 7 at the latest and I’ll be picking you up at 8. I’ve booked you a full body massage and a facial at the spa you liked in Highland Park. Would you like to drive today?”
“Wuh?” you try to pull yourself awake as Brendon pulled on his scrubs, turning to you, still laying naked and boneless in his bed. How he managed to look presentable an hour after pounding you through his mattress and start making plans for the day, you could not comprehend.
“Would you like to drive to the Spa or should I arrange Ben to come pick you up?”
“I’ll drive. I should probably use that car you gave me,” you mutter, crawling to where he was sitting at the edge of the bed to put his shoes on so you can lay your head in his lap, burying your face in his fresh scrubs.
“Are you sure?” he hums, hands already petting your hair.
You nod, smiling cheekily. “I was planning to get a wax after, anyways.”
He chuckles softly at that. “Get your nails done too. Something blue to match your dress.”
You frown, “Which dress?”
He flicks his eyes and hanging off your side of the wardrobe is a beautifully soft dress in different shades of blue that was definitely not there last night.
“Oh my God.”
He doesn’t linger on it, doesn’t gloat. Simply carries you back to your side of the bed, tucking you back in.
“Text me when you go out for the day.”
“Okay.”
“I’ll reply when I can.”
“Okay.”
“I love you.”
“Oka – stoop!” you shriek when he presses a cold finger on your neck where you were the most ticklish. “I love you! I love you too!”
He smiles, the rare kind that softens his eyes. And with one last kiss goodbye he is closing the bedroom door.
“You look … well,” Garcia observes as he stands beside her on the sink. “Excited for the surgery? It’s not every day we get a case like this. The team wants to celebrate aft –”
Park takes his phone off of his pocket one last time to open the app for his cameras. “Can’t. Date night with the Mrs.”
Garcia falters at that. She knew Park wasn't single but never thought it was getting this serious. Still, she supposes Park wasn't the type of man to do anything halfway -- much less a relationship.
“Look at you. Never thought I’d see the Shark so domesticated.”
Live footage of his quiet penthouse pops up on his screen. The only light came from a dim lamp in the living room where you sat by the floor-to-ceiling windows, drinking your coffee and watching the city wake up.
On cue, a message comes through his phone along with a selfie of you.
‘The princess has risen’
He smiles at your compliance. ‘See you tonight.’
Locking his phone he gives Garcia a brief look of acknowledgement, as he sheds out of the softness he reserves only for you.
“You know, you don’t actually get to call your girlfriend ‘The Mrs’.”
He chuckles, meticulously washing his hand as the rest of the team arrives to start the day.
“I can when I’ve already bought the ring.”
His secondary gawks, almost looking proud but also disbelieving. “You don’t even live together yet. That's quite a jump, don't you think?”
“Not really much point on moving in my bachelor’s pad,” he shrugs. The space never quite suited you anyway – not for his future wife and his future family.
He has it all planned out.
“It’s going to be a short engagement.”
… in love.
He tried to deny it – always thought himself too rational of a man to be capable of such deep, magnanimous, emotions. He’s a surgeon not a goddamn poet.
At first, you were just this energetic, eager, exquisite little thing that fell into his path. A reward whatever deity up above gave him for his dedication to excellence and his noble career. A beautiful woman he wouldn’t mind spending the rest of his life with.
He tried to play the part – only showed you good sides of him. Took care of you till you needed and wanted for nothing. But as he fell deeper and deeper his mask slipped further and further.
Before he knew it, despite the great lengths he went to, you were the first person in his life who truly saw him for who he is.
Then, he was suddenly no longer defined by his accolades – the golden son of the Park’s, the pride of his alma mater, or the Shark of PTMC. It was both terrifying and freeing.
“Bren,” you whimper, frowning in your deep sleep when you can’t find him. He cracked a small smile when he saw you settle for burying your face in his pillow. The shiny diamond ring he had customized and fitted to your dainty fingers danced as it caught the moonlight from the window.
He could still hear your scream when he kneeled and presented to you the question that had been stuck in his throat for the past three months. Jumping and kissing him in happiness, exclaiming how beautiful the ring – your ring – was.
The perfect ring for his perfect girl.
Because when he thought you would run, you pulled the rug from under him and loved him instead.
And he plans to spend the rest of his life deserving your love.
“Breeen,” you’re whining now. Clearly, finding his pillow lacking as you blindly reached for him.
Before you get pulled from your sleep any further, he stands from the seat he had dragged so he could stare at you. Finding the adrenaline of tonight’s engagement still hadn’t been washed off of his blood causing sleep to evade him.
“I’m here, sweetheart,” he crawls back into your bed and presses his words in your temple. “Back to sleep.”
But it seems he was already too late as you fully opened your eyes and fluttered it woozily at him.
“What are you doing up?”
In acquiescence, he lets you drag him into the bed, caging your head inbetween his arms, as he lays his weight on top to ground you.
“Just … looking at you.” Not a creepy answer at all.
“That’s sweet, baby,” you take his strange but honest answer as a compliment. A demonstration to how perfect you were for him. “Not having second thoughts, are you? Cause I’m not giving it back.”
He couldn’t help but bark out a laugh, nudging your jaw with his nose so he could pepper your neck with kisses. “Would marry you tomorrow if I could.”
You hummed at that, playing with the hair on his nape.
“Are you?” he asks, an unpleasant feeling of vulnerability threatening to turn into a void in his chest.
“Nope,” you shook your head firmly. The quiet moment you are sharing forcing you to vomit out the words that were too intimate to say in the daylight. “I don’t think I can live without you anymore, Bren.”
He smiles, “Guess I did a good job, then.”
“Guess so.”
Your gentle gaze hypnotizes him, the kiss you spare on his lips a nectar that pulls out the God’s honest truth he has pushed into the most tender part of his heart. And for all his bravado and accolades he could never string the right words to just how much the trajectory of his life depends on you loving him for the rest of it.
“We should tell our parents tomorrow.”
He lays his head on your chest, humming his quiet agreement. “I’ll pre-interview a few wedding planners and an assistant for you. Then you can take your pick from the ones I’ve approved.”
“Call your lawyer too. Make sure the prenup – I’m kidding! Stop!” You cackle as he presses his fingers on your sides.
“No prenups,” he pressed playful nips on your breast to show his displeasure.
“Good, cause I’ll rob you blind if you try to leave me.”
“The only way you are leaving me is when you die minutes ahead of me. And then, I'm telling our kids to mix our ashes and put us in the same urn."
“Romantic.”
As the silence stretches, his head runs a hundred miles per hour – receptions, catering, invites, seating arrangements, wedding gowns, two gold bands and a chain for him to hang it on during surgeries, and filing a month-long leave for your honeymoon.
Those things take time and for the first time in his life he feels reckless and impatient.
“You know,” he sits up, maneuvering the two of you together so he was leaning back on the headboard and you were straddling his lap. “Getting a marriage license in this city only takes 3 days.”
You squint your eyes at him, confused. So, he continues casually, pressing sweet kisses on your collarbone in a shameless effort to coax you. “And only two witnesses for a civil wedding. "
You raise an eyebrow, quietly asking if he is saying what you think he is saying.
"I’m pretty sure I can convince Robby to end his Sabbatical early and you can call one of your friends so we can book them a flight and hotel by tomorrow night.”
Finally, you caught his drift. “I mean, my parents will kill us but I think they’ll be too happy that I bagged a rich orthopedic surgeon who is somehow stupid enough not to want a prenup to care.”
A devious grin, one that lives up to his nickname in the hospital, stretches his face. “Mine won’t mind once they hear you’re carrying their grandkid.”
“Oh, that’s your brilliant plan, doctor?”
He couldn’t even bother looking guilty. “Have I ever told you my IQ is 145? My plans are bulletproof.”
A giggle escaped from your mouth, the two of you wrapped in each other’s embrace and laughter as a crazy, irresponsible, irrational plan slowly got pieced together in your heads.
“Alright then, get off me," pushing him away even as he grunts in protest. "I gotta get my laptop so we can apply for a marriage license.”
“Good, cause I’m scheduling you a trip to the doctors to remove your IUD," he announces smugly from the bed as you were about to reach the en-suite wardrobe where you keep your work-bag.
“Aren’t we just the most romantic people on earth?” You beam, and Park decides then that the poets have won this time.
have i not reblogged this?! y’all my mind is going i stg but anyways
i love coming back to this fic! i just can’t help but love their dynamic and the way she manages to surprise him with her reactions to his behaviour ☺️
♡ synopsis: when robby goes on sabbatical, he asks you to watch his house for him. you agree & spend the next two months looking after the space while he's away on his road trip. it's only when he returns & completely latches onto you that you become aware of the feelings he's been harboring for apparent years & find yourself reluctant to tell him no in anything—to the point of lying to protect his feelings—because he's become so unstable.
♡ content: angst, power imbalance, implied age-gap, jealousy (on robby's end), possessiveness, codependency, depression, ideation, emotional coercion, p in v sex, creampie, fingering, nipple play, he has a mommy kink if you squint, robby is a trainwreck & reader is standing on the damn tracks
♡ a/n: inspired by this amazing fic!
"I'll see you next week," Noelle replies with feigned sarcasm, which somehow irks Robby—her presuming to know precisely how he works; that he's that simple and predictable.
She's not the only one tonight, and that's what truly gets under his skin which used to be far thicker.
His eyes flit over the top of her head, and he just catches the sight of the back of yours retreating to the ambulance bay when he does. Forcing a tight-lipped smile, he brushes past her with a quiet, distracted 's'cuse me' before following along in your direction.
Carefully trailing his eyes along the gentle curve of your jaw, the generous swell of your breasts, the soft skin of your dainty hands, and long lashes that brush your cheeks each time you blink, Robby endeavors to commit your every facet to memory. He nearly winces at the thought of never setting eyes on you again, but if he considers that prospect too deeply, he'll never let go.
"Hey," he says quietly while taking a few measured steps forward.
Glancing up from your illuminated phone, you smile warmly before turning to face him. "Hey."
Robby sinks his trembling hands into his pockets. "There's, uh," he glances down to his scuffed boots and gently shrugs. "Something I was wanting to talk to you about."
When his exhausted eyes return to yours, you swiftly lock your phone and tuck it away to grant him your undivided attention.
Is he about to lay into you now as well?
Oh boy...
"I'm all ears," you assure softly. Cautiously.
"While I'm gone, I'd like to have someone housesit for me," he explains. "Just to keep an eye on things. Bring in the mail, make sure nothing stops running in my absence or shorts out. I was hoping maybe that could be you."
At least he isn't ripping into you the way he has so many others tonight. Such as Dana, Abbot, and poor Samira. You caught him glaring at Frank on more than once occasion as well, and on the poor man's first day back, no less.
You still have yet to learn the full story there of what exactly happened ten months ago which sent him on a long vacation from the ED, but maybe it's best you not know; it's none of your concern. He's back to treating patients, and that's what matters.
"Oh," you say in quiet surprise. "Are... Are you sure you wouldn't rather it be Abbot or Noelle?"
His brows furrow and he steps closer. "Noelle?" Robby asks with a slightly quirked head.
"I just thought that the two of you..." Situationship sounds inappropriate, so it's best you not use that adjective, probably. "Seem to have something—"
"Noelle and I are not together," he deadpans. "She's not the one I—" he huffs, shakes his head tiredly while gazing across the empty lot while running a nervous hand down the back of his neck, then returns his attentions to you. "There's nothing there."
You wonder if she knows that.
You'd hoped it would work out for him, in truth—that they'd make a charming couple who'd understand one another's struggles here at work. But wishes hardly ever come true, it seems.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make assumptions," you state with regret.
Robby shakes his head dismissively to intimate that it's alright; no harm done. "It's fine." Contemplating the color of your lips, he continues. "I'd just feel better knowing you're there looking after things for me. It'd help you save on rent for a few months. And if I don't come back, you've got yourself a brand new home."
Your brows knit together. "If you don't come back?" you question with worry.
He purses his lips and shrugs yet again. "Never know. Trying to keep my plans open." Rocking back on his heels, he studies the asphalt beneath his shoes, then steadies while looking at you once again from beneath his lashes. "So, we got a deal?"
He's due to leave very soon. So there's little opportunity for him to make other arrangements if you decline. It's not great that he waited until the literal last minute to begin with, because it indicates—at least to you—that he's not thinking clearly.
You want to ask him to wait until the morning before he takes off—go home, take a shower, make sure you're indeed who he wants to fill this responsibility, and tend to any other loose ends he's yet to tie up before taking such a prolonged sabbatical—but know such pleas would ultimately fall upon deaf ears.
You nod. "We do. It's no problem."
He sighs, and his shoulders loosen when the anxiety of a potential rejection alleviates. "You can follow me over there after our shift ends. I'll give you a tour, list a few rules, and..." his head bobs in an indifferent nod. "We'll talk then."
You rub nervously at your arm. "Alright."
Following along behind Robby's Bonneville, as the miles pass between work and home, a feeling of unexpected dread settles into the pit of your belly.
You know Abbot talked to him shortly before dayshift finally came to a close, and from what you could see from afar, he managed to finally chip past his stony exterior, but it obviously wasn't enough.
You want to make a genuine attempt at getting through to him yourself, but you honestly have no idea what to say to do so. What can you tell him that will convince him to stay his hand, even just a bit longer, which Jack—someone he's known far longer, and is much closer to—hasn't already?
You wouldn't be so worried if he didn't seem like such an utter wreck today. He doesn't even look well. His face is pale, his cheeks appear hollow in just the right light, and his eyes are so...dark and empty.
It scares you.
As you pull up next to Robby's motorcycle, you switch off the engine to your vehicle and watch as he knocks the kickstand of his ride into place before swinging a leg over the side of the stupid deathtrap before waving for you to follow him to the door of his condominium.
You'd assumed that he was a homeowner. Perhaps he still is, though, even if it's a condo that he's residing in. You're not sure how it works, exactly. Not your living situation, though, so you suppose it ultimately doesn't matter.
Popping open the driver's side door, you maneuver yourself out of the vehicle.
You're quiet as Robby leads you from room to room in his spacious abode while he shows you how to work the dishwasher, washing machine, dryer, and even the shower.
You simply nod along because you know that you'll most likely be coming by every other day at best for a handful of minutes to do a quick walkthrough before heading back to yours and Samira's shared apartment. The thought of spending enough time here to require use of a washing machine is unimaginable.
You still fail to understand why you're the chosen person for the job, but nevertheless feel flattered that he hand-picked you for it.
You humor yourself with the thought that it's because you're so very reliable and organized. Robby has always had a bit of a soft-spot for you—favoritism which seemed to increase in fervor as time went on—but you assume it's only because he sees your promising potential as a healthcare provider.
Once he's led you back toward the foyer where the front door lies, he shoves his hands into his pockets and you bristle as he lets his eyes roam freely across you.
"I'll come by at least every other day and bring your mail in for you. And I'll do a walkthrough of the—"
Robby frows and your words drift into silence.
"I want you here," he states softly, but with conviction. "It'll give me peace of mind. So just...live here while I'm away. Since I never set up any of the other rooms for guests, just sleep in my bed," he remarks while nodding behind you, toward the direction where the bedroom lies.
"Wear my clothes if you want, if...if they're more comfortable to for you to lounge around in," Robby mutters with a shrug. "Make yourself at home. Eat what's in the fridge, and contact the building manager if anything needs fixed. As for bills, everything comes out of my checking account automatically. The mortgage, electricity, sewage, trash disposal, water, wi-fi and cable... It's all taken care of."
Samira won't be happy about losing her roommate, but you'll still see each other at work. And you can always come over to visit.
You wonder if he would mind if she did the same here.
Sleeping on the same mattress as him is a surreal thought, but you've never owned a king-size bed before. Might be nice to be able to roll this way and that without fear of falling onto the floor. You'd rather not think of other things he's done in it, though, with... Well, others. Feels wrong to imagine him that way.
So you choose not to.
"Rules?" you ask, since he mentioned such a thing previously.
"No parties, pets, kids... Other men—"
You shake your head. "No worries there, about any of it. It's your home and I fully intend to respect the space you're letting me stay in temporarily."
Robby purses his lips and contemplates for a moment to ensure he's left no stone unturned before he steps out. "Do you have any questions for me?"
You think. "What if something breaks? I can contact the building manager, and I assume they'll have a repairman come, but what if they tell me it needs replaced entirely? Like...the fridge or dryer? Unlikely, I know, but—"
Robby reaches around to his back pocket and unfolds a leather wallet. "Here, take this," he says while holding out a credit card between his index and middle finger. "It's not one I ever use anymore, but if something like that happens, just charge it to it. I'll keep an eye on the account and pay off anything that pops up."
You shuffle forward and slip the thin plastic card from his grasp. "I doubt I'll need it, but I'll put it in my wallet for safekeeping just incase."
"If you need it for gas or groceries, that's fine, too."
You shake your head. "No, Robby, I can—"
"It's the least I can do," he interrupts while glancing to the right, toward a curtained window. "Since you're doing me a favor by keeping an eye on things. It'll give me peace of mind while I'm on the road: knowing you're here, living in my home; sleeping in my bed."
He seems oddly adamant about the last part...
You should analyze that, as well as him telling you to wear his clothes. Perhaps he's just trying to be a good host by ensuring you feel comfortable here, and not like you have to be conscious of so much as moving a dishtowel or salt shaker out of place?
You choose to go with that theory.
"Okay." You'll only use it to restock anything of his that you run out of and need to replenish. Wouldn't feel right to use it for something as simple as a few gallons of gas, which you can afford.
"Make sure to enjoy yourself," Robby murmurs with a forced smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes, but does make his crow's feet wrinkle.
"You too," you whisper. "Drive safe, wear your helmet, and pull into a motel or hotel if you start to get tired. Get plenty of rest. And eat—I'm sure there's lots of good diners and food trucks along the way," you say with a soft, reassuring grin. "If you need anything, call Abbot. Or...me. I'll do what I can," you finish with a nod.
You're not sure what exactly, but you figure that you'll cross that bridge if and when you come to it.
Robby's eyes flit between your own, and your heart squeezes with the thought that he's maybe changed his mind. Taking time off from the ED is essential right now, but an almost four thousand mile round trip certainly isn't, in your opinion.
Maybe he can—
Robby advances forward while his footsteps sound across hardwood floors, then suddenly cups the back of your head and presses his lips firmly to your forehead while pulling the rest of you flush against himself.
His grip is iron-tight, and you register the soft swell of his belly that melds against your abdomen, his palm that's splayed across your back, his other which twitches against the base of your skull, and his wiry beard that softly scratches against your skin.
You slide your own arms around his middle after a beat, and gradually tighten your hold after a handful of seconds so the embrace isn't quite so one-sided.
In the ED, Robby's touched you an innumerable amount of times—your shoulders, back, hands, even your cheek once or twice—but you've not deigned to think too much on it, because you always assumed it was just his way of bestowing silent reassurance or praise in way of encouragement.
You're sure that's all it ever was, and that this is just...thanks.
You don't see it, but he squeezes his eyes shut to battle away stinging tears before suddenly releasing you and turning on his heel. "Take care of yourself," he mutters before grabbing his bag and swinging the front door open.
"Y-You too," you squeak before he shuts it behind him.
A moment later, his motorcycle revs to life outside and its headlight casts itself across the living room walls before disappearing entirely.
You don't move until the sound of its purring engine has morphed into silence.
You swallow thickly and shift on your feet while sniffling.
You've never thought of Robby as anything more than a mentor, so you find yourself at a loss when you try to explain the hollow feeling in your chest that his absence has left behind.
"I'm sort of glad he's gone," Samira mumbles from where she's sitting cross-legged on your bed. "Is that bad of me?" she asks while glancing up to where you stand plucking various clothing items from your closet.
"No," you reply while folding and tossing them into your bag. "Of course not. I know he'd been riding you for awhile, and there's no excuse for it. But..." you sigh.
"If you can, try not to take it personally. It was just him lashing out, I think. Samira, you're one of the best doctors I know—not to mention people. Calling you slow? What? Because you bother taking your time, actually listen to your patients, and are diligent in your diagnoses and treatment—unlike most, who've otherwise sold themselves for and to corporate greed, whether they're aware of it or not, by double-booking or rushing through patients? Not that you plan to go into it, but if you were a PCP, I'd want you as mine. And I'm not just saying that because we're best friends and live together."
She's practically beaming by the end of your heartfelt speech.
"Don't take the crap he's said to you to heart. Collins believed in you, Al-Hashimi does, too, as well as Abbot it seems, and so do I. Robby needs to sort out his own issues before he starts harping on anyone else's."
She flops back onto your bed. "What did he say to you exactly before taking off?" she inquires while rolling her head in your direction. "Just curious, since you were the last one to see him."
You shrug. "Not much. Showed me around, laid some ground rules, told me what to do if I had any issues..." You chew your lip for a moment. "He... He told me to make myself at home, obviously, and it's not like there's another one there for me to occupy... He told me more than once: sleep in my bed. Even mentioned something about wearing his clothes so I could be comfortable."
She bolts upright. "I'm sorry, what?"
You consider a thin sweater, then shake your head. It's hot as hell out right now, so you don't imagine you'll be needing it anytime soon. "He might've given me a credit card, too. But only for emergencies. Like if the washer breaks and can't be repaired and a new one has to be delivered instead. That sort of thing."
She bobs her head from side to side in understanding. "I guess I can get that. But... Wearing his clothes?" she asks incredulously.
You opt not to mention the part about him telling you to also use it for gas and groceries. The latter is sort of understandable, but the former not so much, at least in your opinion.
He's just not himself right now, right? Makes sense that on top of acting out of sorts, he's also saying some off-the-wall stuff.
You ball up a ratty old t-shirt and stuff it in your luggage bag. "I won't be."
"It's the fact he said that to begin with," she presses while scooting closer. "It's inappropriate."
You snort. "And me staying in his house isn't?" You raise a brow while refolding a pair of jeans. "Still don't understand why he didn't ask Jack or Noelle instead. Because even if she and him aren't in an established relationship, they had something going on between them. You'd think he'd be begging her to take up space in his home and bed and clothes instead."
"Oh my God," Samira whispers, like realization of something shocking has just overcome her.
"What?" you asked with a raised brow.
Her brown eyes flit to yours. "How do you... You don't even see it, do you?"
You blink absentmindedly. "No, but I assume you're about to tell me whatever it is that I'm apparently blind to."
"He's in love with you," she expresses doubtlessly.
Unable to help yourself, you bark a laugh. "You can't be serious right now. I'm a resident. And he's—"
"Telling you to make yourself at home, giving you his credit card, telling you to bathe in his shower, eat his food, lie in his bed, put on his clothes," she counts off across two hands. "I always sort of questioned all the extra attention he gave you at work, but I guess I get it now."
You shift uncertainly on your feet. "He's just...being a good host."
"But he's not really hosting you if he isn't there, is he?"
Turning your back to her to begin emptying your underthings from your dresser, you shake your head. "I'm sure he'll rekindle things with Noelle once he gets back. It's not like that."
She shakes her head. "Never took you for the clueless type."
You sigh while tucking a bra away into a mesh pocket. "We should've all taken bets on what he'll get up to while away. I say that wherever he's headed, it's to see someone that he's perhaps fallen for."
Or to check out a new job opportunity...
You start in on socks next.
After only two weeks on the road, Robby already feels beat. Then again, he did before he ever planted two wheels upon it.
Lying in a strange motel room in a strange town far from home, he's unable to control the tempest of thoughts that rage in his tired head in the unwelcome silence that encapsulates him. All the patients that died beneath his hands, all the people he loved whom he failed, all the students he should've done better by.
It all started with the first who failed him, he thinks. The catalyst for why his life has fallen apart, or never had a proper chance to become what it should've to begin with.
But he can't think on that right now or he'll...
As always, his thoughts instead drift toward another.
One who's currently warming his bed that he's at least a thousand miles from at present. She's all feminine curves, sweet smiles, and warmth in every spoken word.
It's easier to lose himself in delusional daydreams with her instead of facing the harsh, ugly reality that's collapsing all around him.
It's become prevalent, this habit: when he's driving, eating, taking a piss, even when he's supposed to be sleeping, his mind instead chooses to paint a false picture that's becoming increasingly harder to pull himself out of day-by-day, like quicksand.
He's losing hours to it, but it's so much more soothing than addressing his own self-made problems.
He worries that if he ever finds the strength to go home, that he'll struggle with being able to tell the difference between what's real and what he's willingly imagined as he trails across the Badlands.
If he'd done things differently—been braver and spoken up—perhaps he'd be there with her now. Lying beside her, holding her close to keep her safe and warm while she dreams peacefully in his arms and against his chest... But his time has come and gone for such fanciful romances. He's too old, broken down, and hollowed out now.
He'd be no good for someone like her.
It's why he settles for fantasy instead. It's the closest he'll ever come to actually having her the way he means to.
The reveries can vary. He's become quite adept at storytelling, in truth. In some, he's beside her in the ED, coaching her through every move, every incision, every decision, and the patient never dies. Others—his favored ones—she's at home with him. She greets him at the door with an adoring smile and an affectionate kiss before pulling him inside so that they can have dinner while she listens about his day. Sometimes she works in it, others, she's a quaint housewife with a swollen belly who lives for her husband, and he for her.
And then there are the darker ones where he's buried inside of her—right between her legs—and he loses himself to the feeling of her soft, trembling body lying beneath his own, where she clutches at his chest and arms while whimpering wantonly against his lips. He always finishes inside of her, and she promises him a baby in return.
He's projected so many idealized archetypes and scenarios onto her that when the time finally came to reluctantly say goodbye, he'd been a bit taken aback when she didn't beg him to stay while throwing herself at him with reckless abandon.
She was supposed to react differently. Not bring up another woman that he only half considers an ex. Robby made things clear to Noelle at the beginning that whatever they were doing would be casual—no strings attached or grand expectations had.
She would find no commitment on his end, because he knew that he wanted another, and as long as his heart was held in her unwitting hands, he couldn't give anyone else 100% of himself. So, after almost a couple months, when Noelle started dropping hints that she was desiring more, he broke it off entirely.
Live in my home, sleep in my bed. Why couldn't he have just told her what he really meant?
I love you, I love you, I love you and you alone.
Pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes, he groans in frustration. Did she really have no idea? Why didn't she question further as to why she was his chosen candidate for house sitting? If she had, though, would he have told her?
He's not sure.
He truly is a fool.
Can't have the fairytale—kids and all—if you can't even achieve an erection anymore. Happened once or twice with Noelle, actually.
He preferred to keep his eyes shut during at times because it made imagining easier, but the truth was always right there beneath his hands.
He knows it hurt her feelings; that she blamed herself when he failed to properly perform. Bless her, she even tried to help him, but it somehow made it all the worse instead. Just gave him one more reason to cut it off clean. If you can't please a woman, what's the point?
Rolling onto his side, he tries to sleep.
"Have you heard from him?"
Tucking your stethoscope into your bag, you shake your head and click your locker shut. "I haven't. I'm sorry, Jack. Guessing it's the same for you?"
He shrugs and shakes his head. "I check the fuckin' thing about a dozen times a day, always expecting something. Think after over a half a month I'd get the hint that he doesn't want to reach out or be reached out to, but I clearly haven't."
You slide your backpack onto your shoulders. "You're a worried friend. Nothing wrong with that."
He doesn't tell you about how he keeps Googling 'Buffalo Jump Albany deaths'.
He should've done more to keep Robby in Pittsburgh.
Wrapping his arms around you, he pulls you into a tight hug and gives you a firm squeeze. "Let me know if you do."
You nod. "I will."
It takes about two and a half weeks before you even think to snoop around a bit. Between work, errands, taking care of Robby's space by regularly cleaning and tidying up after yourself, and trying to tend to your own health, the thought of rifling through his sock drawer just didn't register.
After fixing yourself a stir-fry dinner with a small glass of red wine, you had sat on the couch for awhile watching Netflix before you finally got bored with some poorly scripted period drama and switched the TV off in favor of exploring.
You begin where many do: the medicine cabinet. Your hand hovers over the small silver knob which will reveal to you some of Robby's medicinal secrets, and frown slightly. You'd dislike if someone did such a thing to you, but... What he doesn't know also won't hurt him. Just might cause you to see him in a bit of a different light is all.
Pulling the small door with a gleaming mirrored front open, you trail your eyes over mostly predictable finds: shaving cream, a razor, as well as clippers, an assorted box of Band-Aids, triple antibiotic, ibuprofen, a glass bottle of half-empty cologne with a gold cap, wet wipes, and a couple prescriptions are amongst the items within.
Plucking the first orange bottle from the middle shelf, you turn it over to study the label. Buspar 10 MG. You slide the pad of your thumb over his printed name, Michael Robinavitch, and your brows knit together in sympathy.
"Oh, Robby," you whisper before returning it to its rightful place. A pretty basic medication for anxiety, yes, but it nevertheless tugs at your heart to see. Especially since it's here, and not with him like it should instead be.
Grabbing the next one, blood immediately rushes to your cheeks and you nearly toss it back inside with a quiet squeal. Viagra.
Slamming the door back closed, you thoroughly wash your hands, then exit the bathroom and head for the bedroom instead.
Flipping through the clothing that hangs in Robby's closet, you find yourself underwhelmed. Scrubs, scrubs, and more scrubs. Along with a couple three-piece suits which you deign he must look rather sharp in. At the back, though, is a collection of t-shirts. Half of which are just basic, solid colors—black, blue, forest green, grey—but there's also surprisingly some graphic tees, too. You grin as you swipe your fingers over a decal of Led Zeppelin's untitled album. The 4th one which included Stairway to Heaven.
Nearly pulling it from the hanger, you bunch the hem up beneath your nose and inhale, but are met only with hints of detergent instead of him.
You click the door back shut and pad over to the chest of drawers that stands across from the foot of the bed—which doubles as an entertainment center, since he has a small flatscreen on top—and you grip a wooden picture frame and slide it toward you.
Inside is a photo that was taken approximately a year ago in the ED around Christmas. No one is dressed up for it, but you remember that afternoon and how a fresh box of cookies from a local bakery was delivered—their tops complete with designs of Santa, Rudolph, Christmas trees, and snowflakes.
You'd rolled your eyes, then looked at Robby and muttered how you were sorry that there wasn't one with a menorah on it. He'd stared at you, and the look was so intense that your mind short-circuited for a moment as you actually doubted whether you remembered his heritage correctly. He was Jewish, right?
And then he kissed your forehead before biting through a Christmas tree and saying sarcastically that he hoped he wasn't being sacrilegious somehow.
You'd not entirely understood the joke, but laughed anyway.
Studying the photo, you examine all the familiar faces included. Dana, McKay, Langdon, Trinity, Mel, Samira, and many more. But only now do you notice that only one wasn't smiling at the camera lens, but instead was gazing at you with a toothy grin.
Robby.
Pulled flush against his side you'd been, and his hand was wrapped around the crown of your shoulder to keep you close.
Was Samira right after all?
Letting go of the frame, you plop down on the bed and begin to think.
You've known him for a long time now, as you've been at PTMC since you were but a med student. You'd initially tried to get yourself on night shift after your first couple weeks there so that you could have your days to accomplish everything else you were overwhelmed with, but Robby was insistent that you stick with him and that he'd 'see you through thick and thin'. So you did, and to be fair, he hasn't steered you wrong.
His teachings have been invaluable, which you're thankful for, but now you wonder when the relationship shifted from mentor and mentee to something more affectionate—at least on his end.
You want to tell yourself that you're reading too much into it, but all you have to do is look around to know that that's a lie.
With a sigh, you slide over to the head of the bed and pull the top drawer of his nightstand open. A Roku remote greets you, as well as an issue of The New England Journal of Medicine, a small flashlight, and an open box of Trojan condoms.
Size?
Large.
You shove it back closed and stare ahead at the open doorway.
Before tonight, you never imagined him that way: naked and sweaty and writhing on top of a woman.
Now, you can't stop.
With a huff, you begin readying yourself for bed.
It's been an hour and rest still has yet to find you. Counting sheep is fruitless, as is mentally singing yourself old childhood lullabies.
It's because you can't stop the racing thoughts now that you've been bombarded by silence. Thoughts...of just how lonely you truly are. Living with Samira, it was easy to ignore. At work, there was no time to think of anything but the medicine, and at home, you had a friend to always talk to and share things with. But here, in a house too big for just one person to occupy, you're left to take stock of how outside of your roommate, you really don't have anyone else.
So you ponder whether Robby's feelings are returned.
An attraction you've always had towards him, sure, but something even bordering on love? He's...him. Doctor Michael 'Robby' Robinavitch. Chief of the ED at PTMC and a whole lot of man, to boot. He's worldly and wise and steady and capable.
Meanwhile, you're more like a wobbly newborn chick fresh out the egg that has no idea how to even walk some days, let alone carry on with a damn rooster.
Ok, so the analogy is getting a little weird.
Point being that he's lived a life, whereas yours has yet to even form its first greatest hit.
Turning onto your side, you slide your hand across a half empty mattress and fantasize about it being occupied, and what such a thing might entail. What has he considered, you wonder? Shared meals, movie nights on the sofa, and sex right where you lay? Bills and correspondences with both your names printed on the envelope? Matching his and hers coffee mugs hanging from Command hooks in the kitchen?
Just when you think to close your eyes again, your phone lights up, so you grab it from atop the nightstand and check what's just come through.
You sigh with relief when you see that it's the very man occupying your current deliberations.
Everything going ok?
"Thank God," you whisper while making a mental note to text Abbot that Robby has reached out.
It is! Been taking care of the house. I've sorted your mail, too, by the way. Junk mail is set aside incase something piques your interest.
You debated whether to toss fliers for cheaper internet and brochures for a new car wash that just opened up down the street, but figured that was his decision to ultimately make. Perhaps you'll use a Pizza Hut coupon one of these nights.
Thanks.
You raise a brow and begin rethinking everything you were only just ruminating over. Like imagined fondness. Short, straight, and to the—
I meant with you.
Talk about whiplash.
I'm doing okay. Thinking about adopting a cactus. Figured you could use the company once you get back.
Not really a lie, since the lack of any other living thing here sort of depressed you to see after first moving in, so to speak. Not having pets you get for numerous reasons, but even just an air plant could be nice.
Had one before. Overwatered and killed it, but thanks.
How the hell do you overwater a cactus? Something that literally thrives in the desert. Too much of a good thing, you suppose.
Air plant, then.
typing...
Work going alright for you with me gone?
No more talk of flora, apparently.
It is. You're still very missed, though.
typing...
Miss you, too.
Your heart somersaults in your chest. What do you say now?
Thanks? Come back soon? Want a selfie of me in your bed so your replies might become a bit more lively?
Your fingers hover above the keyboard, but before you get a chance to attempt a reply, another message comes buzzing through.
Going to sleep. Talk later.
You reply with a simple Goodnight before doing the same.
It's too fucking ridiculous to ever admit, but the sign for him to finally turn back came in the form of a country song playing on an overhead speaker in a small roadside diner. He forgets the name of the artist, but he sang of being on the road more than home, and how leaving the woman he loved all alone was killing him. How only if he returned could he feel, see, touch, and kiss her anytime he wished. Could place hands upon her bare skin as they slept together.
Robby paid his tab and turned his ass back in the other direction without a second thought.
With him being so far gone, it taking an almost thirty-year-old tune to change his mind about whatever the hell he was doing tracked.
So, here he stands, leaning against the doorway of his bedroom sipping on a cold bottle of Budweiser he found in the fridge while watching you sleep.
A small twinge of disappointment had settled in his chest when he trailed his eyes along one of your bare arms that's thrown across a pillow when he caught sight of the thin strap on your shoulder. Certainly not something of his.
You never bothered using the credit card, either, turns out. Not even for a quick snack at work.
He dislikes the fact.
You stir, then promptly calm and return to breathing evenly.
With a sigh, he turns and heads for the bathroom to take a quick shower.
At least you're in his bed.
Small blessings.
You're groggy and initially unsure of what you think you just felt.
When you slide a hand over to the left side of the bed and your palm meets with that of a soft belly smattered with hair, you jerk your head and hand both back and open your mouth to scream, until Robby swiftly cups your cheek in his hand. "It's me. You're safe. It's just me."
You bury your face in a pillow and groan. "You scared the daylights out of me," you mumble sleepily.
He runs a comforting hand along the curve of your spine. "Sorry. I was trying not to wake you."
This feels natural to him: the two of you in bed in the middle of the night with only a simple exchange of words between you. Like it's habit, almost. Being near you has always came as easy as breathing to him, though.
Just something about your nature.
Resting your cheek back atop the pillow, you gaze at him from beneath drooping lids. "You're back early," you whisper.
He considers for a moment, then slips his hand beneath the hem of the thin camisole you wear and he begins massaging your naked skin.
Something a husband would do for a wife.
"I am."
"Everything go okay?" you ask with a yawn. "Did you make it to the site in Albany?"
He shouldn't really be touching you like this, but his callouses gently scratching against your soft skin feels kind of nice. And you're too tired to tell him to stop.
It's sort of soothing.
Robby nods.
"Everything you hoped it would be?"
He shrugs. "Just a cliff."
You're grateful he chose not to drive off of it. Means he found a reason after all.
"I picked you up a few things," he murmurs. "They're in my bag. I'll give them to you in the morning."
You smile lazily—a sight which causes his cock to twitch unexpectedly. Then again, he was already sporting a semi in the shower due to standing there naked while holding a pink bottle of soap that belonged to you in his hand.
"Is it a keychain or magnet?" you ask with a soft giggle.
He shakes his head and his lip barely twitches into a smile in response. "No. I think more of you than cheap, tacky gifts."
You're certainly intrigued now.
Removing his hand from beneath your top, he cups the back of your head and tenderly strokes the side of your scalp with the pad of his thumb. "Did you miss me?"
You nod. "We all did. Just glad you're back in one piece."
His eyes flit to where the comforter has been pushed down to your hips. "But did you?" he presses.
Your brows merge together. "Of course."
His darkened eyes roam upwards again and settle on your face.
Robby leans in toward you while his large, calloused hand ghosts across your waist before gently gripping your hip and tugging you against his chest.
When his lips meet with yours, his eyes flutter closed and yours widen.
It's almost comical that this moment finally confirms for you that he does indeed have feelings. You would think someone with a degree in medicine would be a bit more perceptive, but apparently not.
When he runs the speared tip of his tongue along your bottom lip, you gently pry your lips apart to grant him entry to your mouth. With patience, Robby savors this first kiss he's desired for so long. His tongue greets your own with quiet passion—first sliding along the slick underside before twisting to meld it against your own.
Lifting his right leg, he plants it over your opposite side, then rolls himself atop you.
With Robby's full weight settled across your body, and his forearms bracketed on either side of your head, it leaves you securely covered in him. Raising an uncertain hand, you cup his cheek and curl your fingertips against his unkempt beard while your other toys with the gold chain that hangs around his neck—its charm of the Star of David resting between your breasts.
It almost feels like something this monumental should've been proceeded by a lengthy conversation first—just out of respect for the weight of this moment—but now isn't the time for talking.
Slipping a hand beneath your top, Robby eases the material past your belly and breasts, and ultimately over your head before he balls it up and tosses it across the room to rid himself of any hindrances toward having you entirely.
Dipping his head, he sucks a nipple into his mouth and groans.
Your back arches off the bed, and Robby plants a palm against the curve of it to keep you impossibly close while switching sides. Dragging the pad of his tongue over your pebbled nipple, he laps at the smooth skin which surrounds it before dragging it between his teeth.
"God, Robby," you sigh while carding your fingers in his tousled brown hair.
"Michael," he mutters with a lift of his head. "Call me Michael when we're like this."
Nibbling his way toward your throat, his hand crests its way past the waist of your panties and he swipes a finger through your slick folds, followed by a rasped 'fuck' uttered from his lips. Shoving off of you, he rests back on his haunches and hooks his fingers under their waistband and tugs. "Lift your hips, sweetheart," he instructs.
You do.
Once you're lain wholly bare before him, you watch as his eyes trail over your every feature and asset with lustful abandon.
"I've wanted this for years," he whispers while kneading your breasts in his hands. "You don't know how long I've waited for you."
Caressing your cheek, Robby grips the side of his briefs and pulls the elastic band below his hip. "Do you want me inside of you?"
Your head is absolutely spinning, and as you survey the generous swell of his belly that now hangs over the waistband of his underwear, you swallow thickly and nod.
A gesture he returns before pushing them down to his knees and removing them.
With his cock only semi-erect, he fists it in his hand while pressing the index and middle fingers of his other against your dripping entrance. Easing them both inside, your knees fall apart in quiet welcome.
Robby doesn't want to bother with a little blue pill tonight. No performance enhancers. Not with you.
Slowly easing his digits between your fluttering walls, he swipes his thumb over your clit and you gasp in response.
He eyes his bedside table fleetingly, but decides against it.
Unless you ask him to use protection, he won't offer. Bare is the way he's always wished for it to be between you.
"Did you ever touch yourself?" he asks. "Here?"
Your eyes slowly open and you grip the pillow beneath your head in either of your hands. "I did."
It had felt wrong with it being his place of rest, but you figured there would be no way for him to know in the end, so it was fine.
He lines himself up against your cunt and swipes the weeping tip of his cock against it, leaving it shimmering and wet from your arousal. "Did you think of me?"
Yes and no.
You found it invigorating that it was Robby's bed you were lying upon and playing with yourself in, but you didn't imagine anything particular while doing so. You just enjoyed the sounds of your own breathy moans and whimpers to get you to your finish.
"Yes."
His cheek twitches and he eases inside of you inch by inch. Slow is his descent as he allows you to adjust to his size. Your walls stretch to accommodate his girth, and he mutters quiet, affectionate praises all the while of how well you're taking him; that he's almost there.
Once he's bottomed out, Robby leans forward and rests his right forearm next to your head while his opposite hand grips your chin, tilts your head to the left, and he plants featherlight kisses along your jawline. "That feel good, sweetheart?" he rumbles while rocking his hips against yours.
You draw in a ragged breath. "Y-yes," you stutter while running your hands up his warm back.
"It's only ever been you," he rasps while running the tip of his nose along your pounding carotid. "You're why I came back."
Turning your face toward him, he grants many slow, open-mouthed kisses which break the silence of night. "Couldn't stand the thought of you here alone," Robby whispers before kissing your cheek.
He draws out his cock until only the tip remains, then eases back in. But gently, for your sake.
You shudder beneath him. "Glad you're home," you whimper.
As is he, because look at what he had waiting.
Perfection.
His forever, if you let yourself be.
He tilts his head back to watch you for awhile as he makes love to your body. Your every mannerism endears him to you even more—something he hadn't thought possible. The way a tiny crease forms between your brows every time his cock fills you, your parted lips which tiny puffs of breath escape from, quiet whines that get caught in your throat, and the way he's so completely surrounded you.
Rolling his hips, you tremulate and sink your nails into his shoulder blades. "Oh, Michael," you mewl against his pec.
His cock quivers inside of you and his breath shudders in his chest.
Robby runs a palm under your thigh and lifts it over his hip. "Tell me," he rustles against your ear. "You're mine."
You're so, so close. Just a little more.
"I am," you sigh.
"Please," he pleads with a wet kiss before twining his fingers between your own and sliding your conjoined hands across smooth white sheets.
You lift your hips and they buck when the coarse patch of hair that rests above his cock brushes against your swollen clit. "I'm yours, Michael," you assure.
His eyes fill with tears, so he buries his face in the curve of your shoulder and groans from behind clenched teeth as his cock spasms between the intimate safety your slick walls provide him with. Spurts of semen coat—he presumes, or, rather, prays—fertile walls, as he empties a part of himself inside of you; all for you to have.
A broken sob breaks on his lips, so he clutches you close to him to try and calm his pattering heart.
Due to his cock spilling against your core, and the feeling of it still continuously twitching, you throw your head back and snap your hips upwards while biting your lower lip in a race toward your own orgasm.
Squeezing your ass cheek in his palm, Robby guides you toward where you want to go and reels back to watch as it happens.
Your lip is drawn between your teeth before you release it entirely in favor of your mouth quirking into a perfect 'O'. Your body gyrates beneath his as your warm walls pulsate around his softening member and you quake beneath his touch. Quiet "Oh, oh, oh My God"s vocalize as soft bursts of light paint themselves across your eyelids.
When you finally calm, Robby doesn't pull out, but instead remains lying on top of you as his cock softens and his cum dribbles out of your pussy and onto what were previously clean sheets.
The two of you stay like that for awhile: him planting kiss after kiss against your damp cheek and you lying still—apart from your right hand running soothingly up and down his left forearm, because the rest of you feels depleted, and like your limbs are now made of wobbly jelly.
When your lids begin to grow heavy and your heart starts to slow is when you blink yourself back awake. "I'm gonna use the bathroom," you whisper while manuevering a leg out from under him.
He grunts quietly in response. "Just come right back to me," Robby murmurs while squeezing your hand.
You nod with a tight-lipped smile before sliding off the bed and padding into the other room.
Once you've peed, squatted in the shower and washed yourself thoroughly between your legs, and panicked for just a moment as to how you could've been stupid enough to have unprotected sex—not to mention allowing him to finish inside of you—you exit the bathroom and watch as Robby throws back the covers for you to rejoin him.
Your mouth waters at the sight of him like this. Naked, his long legs extended toward the foot of the bed, his belly that's covered in dark hair lying against the mattress, and his strong chest which you were nuzzled against only moments ago.
Could he truly be all yours?
You hold up a towel and nod sheepishly toward the mattress. "Should probably put this down. Sheets are kinda...damp."
He scooches to the side and you fan it out across the middle where the two of you will lay, then climb back in beside him again.
Robby doesn't spare a moment before he pulls you flush against his abdomen and throws his limbs back over your own to make sure you don't go anywhere during the night.
Once your mind has calmed again and you're at the pleasant, humming in-between of waking and sleeping, you hear a muttered 'I love you' before drifting off.
When you wake, it's to an empty bed. Something you're actually rather grateful for, since it grants you a bit of time to catch your bearings before you start your day. Splaying your fingers across the mattress, you play and replay every moment from last night in your head.
It all happened so fast, didn't it? One minute, you were asleep, and the next, Robby's cock was buried inside of you without even an ultra-thin condom to keep you safe from any unwanted consequences his semen may bring about.
You should run out and pick up a box of Plan B today.
Last night he'd seemed... Not himself. Somehow worse than when he left. More emotional, maybe? Or detached? Then again, he was utterly exhausted, you're sure. Which is why you're the least bit surprised that he's already up.
You wonder when he'll return to work.
With a sigh, you rise and wince as your muscles strain. Ones you're not exactly used to utilizing were certainly given a bit of a workout not too many hours ago.
Perhaps you'll try and work on doing some squats and lunges today to loosen them up.
When you pad into the kitchen, you're greeted by the sight of Robby leaned back in a chair with a steaming mug of coffee sat before him and a newspaper spread open on the table.
He turns and smiles softly at the vision of you clad in an old Led Zeppelin t-shirt of his that falls to your knees. "Mornin'."
"Morning," you reply shyly.
"Looks good on you," he remarks. "You wear a lot of my stuff while I was gone?"
This makes a first, but you fear that he'd be disappointed to hear as much. "I did. I sort of favored this one," you lie while fingering the soft, cotton hem of it.
He nods. "That makes me happy to hear." He tilts his head back toward the counter behind him. "There's coffee."
You walk over to pour yourself a cup. "Thanks."
Once you've a mug in hand that's drowned in cream and sugar, you pull out a chair and sit to Robby's left while taking idle sips of your caffeinated drink.
Folding the paper back up, he rests an arm atop the table and his other in his lap. "How d'you feel?" he inquires with a slightly tilted head.
Crossing your legs at the ankles, you study him from beneath your lashes. "Good. A little sore," you say with a quiet laugh. "Just...muscles I'm not used to working."
"But a good kind of sore," he replies while searching your eyes with his own. "Right? Sort of," he shrugs, "Reminder of me."
You nod silently and take another sip after blowing on it to cool it down.
"So, should we go ahead and address the elephant in the room?" Robby asks warily.
Your eyes flit to him. "We can."
He scoots his chair closer to you—the legs quietly scraping against polished hardwood—and loosely hangs an arm off the table while folding his hands. "I thought it was perfect; everything I hoped it would be."
You wonder if he's thought about it a great deal.
"It felt like..." he purses his lips and glances away, toward the living room. "Something finally falling into place." Looking at you again, he listens earnestly. "Did you feel it, too?"
It'd felt wonderful, of course. Robby had taken his time in being slow and sensual so that he could savor every moment, thrust, and kiss, but you're not sure that you felt some magical awakening when he sank between your thighs.
It takes a handful seconds for Robby's features to gradually shift into that of unease and worry, though, so you swiftly reach forward and pry his hands apart so that you can squeeze his fingertips reassuringly. "I did feel it. I wasn't...sure if you did."
He exhales in relief and you feel a twinge of guilt for giving him false sentiments.
"It seemed right somehow: having you in my bed. Being inside of you." He leans back again and your muscles suddenly loosen. "It's why I returned a month early."
He shakes his head. "Thinking of you here all alone got to me." Shifting in his seat, he sucks on his teeth. "I didn't like it. But now that I'm back..." Robby reaches forward and cups your cheek. "You don't need to worry about leaving. I mean, you're half moved in already. So just stay here for awhile longer. And if things progress the way I hope they will, then it can become a permanent thing."
Your brows furrow and you open your mouth to question him, but your words fizzle into silence when he stands. "I'll go get your gifts."
A couple paper bags are set on the table before you, which you slowly rifle through. Truth is, you want to rip them open like an excited kid on Christmas Day, but are trying to be an adult about it.
Your first find is a plush stuffed buffalo with fluffy brown fur and glass eyes, which causes you to grin and giggle. "He's very handsome," you state before setting him to the side with an affectionate pat on the head.
Robby smiles softly and cups the back of your head which he gently kneads with his fingertips as you go through the rest of it. Next is a snow globe which you turn back to him for explanation over.
"It's the heritage site," Robby clarifies with a nod toward it.
"Oh," you chirp with surprise. You shake the glass bulb and watch as white flakes swirl around. "Now I get to see it in winter."
He presses a kiss to the crown of your head.
Next is a non-fiction book titled Ancient Alberta.
"Figured we could put it on the bookshelf in the living room," Robby states. "I wasn't sure if you much cared for history."
"I do," you reply in confirmation.
Lastly is a long black box that's not quite the length of your forearm. Prying is carefully open, you gasp at what lies inside: a beautiful necklace comprised of brilliant white and brown beads. "Oh, Robby, this is lovely," you murmur while tracing it with your fingertips.
"So you like all of it?" he inquires warily.
Rising from your chair, you wrap your arms around his neck and stand on tiptoes. "I do," you say with a kiss.
That night as you make dinner, you study Robby from afar. You've done a lot of that today: staring. More so because he somehow seems worse than when he left. His face is more gaunt, but at least he seems to have gotten some sun on the road, and now has a healthy golden tan going for him. His belly has receded just a little, but since he's asked you to continue staying here, you'll have him fattened back up in no time.
After all, when you cooked him breakfast, he cleaned every bite of syrupy pancake from his plate.
That made you happy to see.
He's not as chatty as he once was some time ago—his words are more measured and to the point now—but maybe he's just tired.
Lounged back on the far end of the sectional, Robby is currently thumbing through the book he purchased at the heritage site's gift shop. You admire the glasses perched upon his long nose and smirk. You feel quite domesticated today playing house with him.
You haven't done much digging into the things he said, however. Like about things 'falling into place', and his 'hopes for the future', or how you're fairly sure he uttered those three little words last night as you were just drifting off to sleep.
You care for Robby—deeply—but you don't know that it's love, exactly.
You're afraid that if he says it again, however, you'll return the sentiment because the last thing you want to do is make him unhappy. Not after all he's been through.
It's why you've tried to make the house a peaceful environment for him today. You took the liberty of changing the bed sheets and doing a couple loads of laundry, as well as unpacking his things for him. It kept you busy at least. Folding his underwear and hanging his belts back up in the closet had caused your cheeks to warm, but if you didn't, he probably wouldn't have himself.
It's a dreamlike experience being here while he is. Two months ago, Robby was an attending you conversed with and aided on the daily, but aside from the occasional embrace, things never went further.
Now...
"Dinner's ready," you chime from the table you've just set respective steaming plates of steak upon.
Dog-earing the current page he's reading through, Robby rises with palms planted against old knees to join you.
He's surprisingly cuddly.
You're learning much about him today, turns out.
"Oh, shit," you hiss before snatching your phone from the back of the couch.
"Somethin' wrong?" he questions from where his head currently lies between your breasts.
"I forgot to run out and pick up Plan B today," you explain while bringing up the Postmates app.
He bristles. "Do you need it?"
Your eyes flit to the crown of his head, and he tightens his arms around your waist while staring ahead at the TV. "I mean, I'm on something, but I'd rather be safe than sorry."
His jaw ticks. This isn't how he imagined you would be—that you would want to prevent your womb from quickening. It's unwelcomely breaking the fantasy he's painted in his head.
He shrugs casually. "I always thought you were exceptionally maternal. Not saying you shouldn't order it, just an observation."
You want to tell him to just shoot where he's aiming, but don't think you're entirely keen on opening such a horrific can of worms after a long day such as this one. It'd be better for you if you did, but...
You lock your phone and tuck it back away, deigning that you'll do it tomorrow, either before or after work.
After a moment, Robby raises his head and kisses you softly while yanking at your hips to bring you beneath him.
When he shoves a hand beneath the waistband of his sweatpants, you also spread your legs, as if on instinct.
You once again don't mention a condom.
Stupid.
Robby plans to remain off work for a few more days, but insisted on driving you today. So much for a pharmacy run. Perhaps you'll venture up to obstetrics today and see if they can give you what you're looking for.
With your hand held tightly in his the whole way there, only the radio playing quietly in the background interrupts the hum of the engine and the wheels beneath you.
When a rather twangy tune enters the truck stereo, Robby smirks and turns the dial up a few notches. "Like fuckin' fate," he drawls. "This is the song that made me decide to head back. Heard it one morning and just," he shrugs a shoulder, "Made a choice."
It's a song you know—Gary Allan.
All this leavin' her alone is killin' me.
Your forehead creases and your nose stings.
I can feel her skin against me when I sleep.
You glance to Robby and admire the soft smile that's now spread across his lips.
Where I won't miss her, I can kiss her anytime that I want to.
You cup the back of his head.
'Cause I've finally got all my priorities in line, and I'm right where I need to be.
It's so incredibly silly because it's a little country song that came out at least twenty-something-years-ago, but it's like the singer is providing a voice for the thoughts in Robby's head. His feelings. He drove how many hundreds, if not thousands of miles to race back just to be with you?
"I want to stay," you state then, with certainty. "At home. With you."
Raising your hand toward his lips, he presses a firm kiss to the back of it before resting your entwined arms on the center console.
Your chin wobbles when you see him swipe an unbidden tear from his weathered, freckled cheek.
"I'll be here to pick you up after shift," Robby informs you as you gather your things.
"Alright. Thank you." You lean across the cabin and cup his cheek before planting a soft kiss upon his lips.
Once you've exited the truck and are standing between the driver's side door where Robby sits and the glass doors of the ED, he calls to you.
Turning back to him, you await with a raised brow to hear what he has to say. "Text me if shift runs over."
You nod. "I will."
He rests an arm upon the windowsill and plants the pad of his thumb against his chin while studying you with quiet adoration. "I love you."
Your stomach squeezes uncomfortably and you find yourself at a loss for words.
Why did he have to do this so soon?
He clears his throat and shifts in his seat while hanging a wrist over the wheel and glancing ahead, then back to you.
You allow a smile to bloom upon your lips, as if you're only just registering his romantic admittance. You take a couple small steps toward him. "I love you, too," you reply with a lilted tone of surprise.
Why're you doing this to yourself? Have you always been such a people-pleaser?
He chuckles and hangs his head with a happy grin. "Glad to hear it."
"Is he back?" Jack asks insistently while following you to your locker.
"As of a couple nights ago."
"You never texted me," he retorts with crossed arms.
"I know, I'm sorry." Popping open the small door in front of you, you hang your backpack from a silver hook. "I meant to, but got distracted."
"Well," he begins with a shrug. "How is he? He seem to be doing better?"
Clicking it shut, you wrap your stethoscope around your neck and hold fast to each end of it. Yes? No? "Too soon to tell."
Seems a safe enough answer.
He raises a brow and plants his feet in quiet expectance of elaboration.
"He's done a lot of driving, Jack. I think he just needs a few days to rest up from... Whatever the motorcycle equivalent is of jet lag. He needs to be able to catch his bearings, and Robby will be back here soon enough, I'm sure."
He sighs while scrubbing a hand down his face. "He say anything to you to let on how he's doing after his sabbatical?"
You mean while he was fucking me in his bed, or came inside me again on the couch last night? He's been communicating in other ways, Abbot.
You need to run up to OB before your shift starts to take a much needed pill.
"Well," you drawl while skirting past him. "He still has a month left technically, so it's not over yet."
"Just answer the damn question," he spits while trailing you to the elevator.
You huff in exasperation. "He hasn't really talked much about his state of mind, no."
"I mean, did you just take off back to your and Samira's once he got in, or did you have a chance to sort of—"
"Observe him?" you ask with a raised brow while pressing the button that will take you up.
He stays silent.
"I guess you'll just have to wait and ask him yourself how he's doing." Saved by the bell, stainless steel doors spread apart and a couple people exit before you step inside.
"Where're you headed?" Jack questions while crossing his arms.
"Just something I need to see to."
You watch him shake his head as they close.
Robby's return to the ED is two weeks later. You try to keep an eye on him, as does Jack—since he chooses to hang over for a couple hours so that he can try and get a conversation in with his friend—but he otherwise seems... Okay, you think.
Maybe not great, but functional. Better than he was a few nights ago when you awoke to the sight of him hunched over the side of the bed with his head held in his hands while he quietly wept.
You'd promptly crawled into his lap, wrapped yourself around him, held him incredibly close, and rocked him in your arms like a mother would her baby while showering him in soft kisses and comforting words of reassurance that everything would be okay.
He never did tell you what had him so tore up, but instead fell asleep with your breast in his mouth while you sang him a lullaby. You were just glad he managed to rest for the remainder of the night.
Robby starts off strong with a coding patient straight off an ambulance that he pulls you in for, to which Abbot accompanies, and he runs the entire trauma room operation from start to finish without impediment.
His keeping you close isn't just a one-time occurrence, though. It's every single case, much to the frustration of a few others when he barges into this exam room or that trauma bay to steal you away, saying he needs you more than they do.
You were elbow-deep in someone's chest cavity at one point and trying to keep a level tone while insisting that you cannot just come because he orders you to when he lost his temper and shouted that as your attending, he wasn't asking, but telling.
Jack thankfully barged in and pulled him out for a private conversation, while you returned to your patient.
"What's going on with you, man? First day back and you're acting like unless you have her strapped to your side that you can't function in there."
Back to the fucking ambulance bay again. Robby should've known he was in for another goddamn lecture the second Jack started leading him in this direction.
"Just trying to teach my resident," he replies with a shrug and hands slid into his back pockets.
"Is she..." He crosses his arms and takes a step forward. "Is she still living with you?"
Robby shakes his head dismissively. "Hardly see how that's of concern to anyone but us."
He wonders a bit more seriously now as to what that trip up to OB was all about a couple weeks past, and if it had anything to do with the man standing in front of him now. "So in other words: yes," he retorts.
Robby purses his lips and narrows his eyes while shrugging. "We done here?"
"What do you think, Robby? That keeping her around is going to solve whatever's gone wrong? The road trip clearly wasn't the solution. Brother, I'm—"
Folding his hands behind his head, he arches his back and groans. "Why don't you try minding your own fucking business?" he growls while leveling him with a malicious glare.
Abbot stumbles back a step and hurt flashes across his wounded features.
Robby sighs and runs his hands down his face while opening his mouth then shutting it again. "I'm sorry," he mutters in apology. "I just don't have time for this right now, alright? I need to get back in there."
"I'm concerned," he says, trying again. "The last couple weeks, I thought she seemed different—off somehow. If you lay all your baggage at her feet and expect her to unpack, or—or solve all your problems for you, or be some ultimate God-given solution... How long before she's exactly where you're standing?"
With brows drawn together and creases folded across his forehead, Robby's attention flits back to the ED. "We're fine. She's fine. Y/N is a big girl, and is more than capable of telling me how she feels." He takes a step back. "Listen, after..." he sighs. "Maybe while I was gone you got a little close to her. Thought something was there that wasn't. After losing your wife—"
"This has nothing to do with my wife," he spits while nervously twisting his wedding band.
Robby nods and half turns away. "She's with me now," he states. "So just... Keep that in mind going forward."
Jack watches him walk away.
Just across from the computer station, Robby observes Frank conversing with you.
He's in the middle of tugging off a pair of gloves when he feels his body grow cold all over at the sight of the pair of you looking at one another. It's just casual conversation, he's sure, but how can he be certain of it?
Somehow, the only place that Robby feels whatever bond he's forming with you is safe is when he's with you in bed. When his limbs are lying heavy atop your own and his cock is softening inside of you after finishing into a condom—no, he's not pleased that you insist on using them, but either he does, or you stop making love altogether—and for a fleeting moment, everything else fades away.
He can't be left again. He can't...lose you.
But you promised him, the day he divulged his mother's abandonment to you, that you were here to stay.
You'd pressed his head close to your heart and carded your fingers in his hair while he quietly cried, despite trying to choke it down for your benefit.
He exhales and throws the gloves away before seeing to another patient.
"You doing alright?" Robby asks while sidling up next to where you stand at a computer cart.
You nod while typing. "I am."
He chews the inside of his cheek for a moment. "Are we okay?" he questions hesitantly
You jerk your head to the side and gaze into Robby's troubled, glassy eyes. "Of course. Why would you ask that?"
He shrugs nonchalantly. "Saw you talking with Langdon earlier and I got worried. Been away from here for awhile, so—"
Your brows furrow. "He's married, Robby. With two little ones. We had a patient a couple hours ago that we worked on together, and since I was already at a computer, he asked if I could check on him in the system. He's upstairs and resting now," you finish with a small smile.
He sighs. "I'm sorry. Just me being—" Insecure in his old age? "I'm sorry, sweetheart."
You sign out of the desktop. "It's okay, sweetie."
You're unsure if you truly mean that.
"Knew you'd come back early," Noelle states with a laugh and slender, folded arms.
"Just two weeks," Robby replies while finishing up some charting at the same cart you made use of earlier in the day.
"Still," she states with a cocked head. "May I ask what brought you back before your sabbatical's end?"
He raises a shoulder. "Just had someone at home which I didn't like the idea of being there alone."
Her manicured brows furrow and she leans back to study him. "Last I checked, you were at least half single before you left. Don't remember you having any housemates."
Robby continues tapping away on the keyboard.
"May I ask whom?"
He considers for a moment.
He's already caught shit from Abbot, and with your shared shift nearly at its end, he just wants to walk out of here in half-decent shape. Not pissed off now that he's finally cooled down after twelve hours.
He glances toward the computer station where you're seated yet again and nods.
Noelle turns and almost snorts when she spots you. Turning back to him, it's with raised brows and wide eyes of incredulity. "Robby, you cannot be serious. She's a kid. Not to mention a resident."
He signs out of the desktop. "She's woman enough, trust me." Stepping past her, he mumbles "And all I need" before coming to join you.
Observing from afar, she watches as he seats himself next you and cups the back of your head while staring at you with unabashed adoration and warmth—like you hung the moon and dotted the sky with stars.
You giggle, say something she can't discern, and he grins while rolling his shoulders.
But she does make out his reply: I love you.
With a roll of her eyes, she makes a beeline for the elevators.
"I can't concentrate on charting if you're staring at me, Michael."
He grins. "Can't help it. Just hard to believe that you're real sometimes." Robby massages the back of your neck. "And finally mine."
He slides a hand between your thighs while mentally making plans for tonight once you're alone together. Perhaps a talk should be had soon about getting you off birth control so the two of you can start trying for the baby he's always wanted.
Maternal as you are with...patients, he knows you'd be an ideal mother.
"Don't know what I'd do without you now." He shrugs. "Don't like to think about it, anyway."
You give his hand a squeeze and shift in your seat. "I'm right here, Robby." You look at him. "I'm not going anywhere."
He kisses your cheek. "I know."
"I can carry that."
You slide the straps of your backpack onto your shoulders and shake your head. "It's okay, I got it. You already have one."
Robby extends his hand then, and you twine your fingers tightly between his and hold firmly to his arm. Navigating your way through Chairs always gives you anxiety, so now having him to shield you from impatiently waiting individuals who're likely to ambush you and demand an ETA on when they'll be seen is a relief.
Just as he opens the door that'll lead you toward the perpetually crowded space, you glance over your shoulder and still at the sight of Abbot watching the two of you leave.
When your eyes meets his, his face crumples at the sight of you so intimately attached to Robby's side, but the exchange is cut short when he pulls you along beside him to take you home.
The door swings shut behind you, leaving Jack behind.
Warning: This is my interpretation of Park’s character, considering the 30 seconds of screen time he got. No medical knowledge from the writer. slightly suggestive?
Summary: Brendon Park feels like he’s being haunted by a pretty girl in scrubs who seems to always show up when he needs her.
Chapter Summary: Dr. Park drives you home. He didn’t say he’d drive you STRAIGHT home.
Part 18 | Masterlist
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“What’s your address?” Park asked as he grabbed his phone and unlocked it.
“You don’t have to drive me all the way home,” you insisted.
Wordlessly, he passed you his phone with the Maps app open. You reluctantly took it from him and typed in your address, then passed it back to him. He put the phone back on the stand and drove away.
You tried to ignore him, you really did. But there was something about Dr. Park that made it impossible to ignore him.
“You cold?” He asked, hand hovering over the heater button.
“Mm-mm,” you shook your head. If he insisted on driving you home, you’d survive the car ride in silence you figured.
“Tired?”
“Mm-hmm” you nodded. Unsure of what else to do, you tapped your fingers on your lap.
This was going to be the longest car ride ever.
Park drove like the elderly. Slowing down at yellow lights, waiting too long at the stop sign and letting people cross streets. You understood driving safely in the rain, but this was almost like he was taking longer on purpose.
You stared straight ahead the whole time, but you could feel his eyes constantly checking on you. Like he wanted to make sure you were still there.
He cleared his throat, disrupting the awkward silence you decided on.
“Did you see the moon tonight?”
With this rain? You wanted to respond.
“Is it a full moon tonight?”
Since when do you care about moon phases? You bit your tongue.
“Is it,” he paused and stood straighter. “I heard full moons are the worst.” He said tersely.
You whipped your head towards him. This was rich coming from the man who rolled his eyes at your suggestion that the solar eclipse meant new beginnings.
“Heard they’re bad luck too. They bring out the worst in people.”
“No, they don’t.” You finally snapped. “They-“ you cut yourself off, turning back to stare at the road. Damn it. So much for giving him the silent treatment.
Out of the corner of your eye, you caught him smirking. The bastard was smirking while staring straight ahead at the road.
“I shouldn’t talk.” You mumbled as you crossed your arms, slightly eyeing him.
His smirk dropped, replaced with a guilty look on his face. Good. He should feel guilty.
Eventually, he slowed down to a stop in front of your place. He put the gear stick in park and rested his hands on top of the steering wheel, staring straight ahead. In a strangely pensive manner.
You unclicked your seatbelt and grabbed your bag, rushing to end the interaction.
“Thanks for -“ “I just want-“
You both spoke at the same time.
“Thanks for driving me home,” you said earnestly and grabbed the door handle.
He said your name, making you stop to look at him. His hands fell off the steering wheel as he shifted his body towards you.
“Yesterday at lunch” he spoke up as he met your gaze. He exhaled deeply, seemingly gathering his thoughts. “I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that. I was…” he paused.
“An asshole.”
“An asshole,” he nodded in agreement and swallowed forcefully. His eyes studied yours. “I’m sorry.”
You scanned his face, missing his usual scowl and frown. A remorseful look paired with his apology. You leaned your head back on the headrest, feeling your anger slowly simmering down. Perhaps it was best to not end this job assignment so bitterly. That wasn’t really you.
“I should make you earn my forgiveness,” you turned to look at him. “But I forgive you.”
He let a big breath out and scratched his ear. “Good,” he nodded and shifted back to stare straight ahead. His hands hovered over the steering wheel again.
You took that as your cue to leave.
“Thanks again,” you reached for the door handle again. “I guess I’ll see you around.”
“You didn’t eat,” Park stated, quickly turning his head to you.
“What do you mean?”
“You didn’t eat lunch at work.”
“I had a vending machine snack,” you shrugged. “I’m not hungry.”
Like comedic clockwork, your stomach loudly growled. You hung your head shamefully as Park hummed.
Without a warning, he switched the gear stick into drive and pressed on the gas. You jolted at his actions as the car swerved.
“What are you doing?” You asked alarmed.
“You’re hungry.” he explained matter-of-factly.
“Park, stop,” you turned to look at your street as it got farther away. “You were supposed to drive me home.”
“We’re making a stop,” he shrugged.
“We were at our destination already.”
“Put your seatbelt on,” he muttered quickly, gesturing to your seatbelt. You started pulling on it, quick to click it safely. You looked through the side mirror, your street long forgotten. Where was this urgency when he was driving you home earlier?
“This is essentially kidnapping.”
“What’s the nearest restaurant?” Park ignored you as he took his phone off the stand. Swiftly, you reached to steal it from his hand. He whipped his head towards you, with a questioning look on his face.
“I’ll guide you,” you waved him off. The idea forming in your head.
If he wanted to be stubborn. So could you.
—-
“No.”
“We’re already here,” you pointed ahead.
“We’re leaving,” He looked through his rearview mirror and looked over his shoulder.
“But, I’m hungry,” you insisted.
“We are not having dinner from a McDonald’s drive thru.”
“Not only did you insult me yesterday” You sighed heavily and dramatically. “You’re purposefully starving me too.”
Park narrowed his eyes at you as you smiled at him. He tsked and pulled up closer to the drive thru speaker box.
He ordered, paid and rolled his eyes at your attempt to pay. Handed you the bags with a disapproving shake of his head. He made his way to the parking lot, pulling into an open spot.
You peeked out the window, examining the sky.
“The rain's calmed down. Do you want to eat on that bench?” You pointed at the bench that was slightly covered by the trees. It seemed decent enough.
Park didn’t answer, just stared at you and scanned your body. Twisted his mouth and sighed loudly, clearly bothered by something.
He seemed strict about food in his car, hence your suggestion. Was junk food in his car the tipping point after all these months?
He stretched out his hand and pinched the sleeve of your sweater.
“Your sweater is drenched,” he mumbled.
Park turned around digging through the back seat. He pulled out a hoodie and offered it to you. You raised your eyebrows at him, expectantly.
“Just use my sweater,” he answered like it was the most natural thing in the world.
You hesitated.
“You’ll smell like mold if you don’t change.”
“It’ll go with the smell of greasy food.”
He visibly grimaced and placed the sweater on your lap, leaving you no choice.
You unzipped your own sweater, struggling with it. It’s much harder to take off clothes when they’re wet. While you took off your sweater and put on his own, he looked away to text on his phone. A gentlemanly gesture you appreciated.
You exhaled in relief once you adjusted the strings so it would fit your neck better. He was right, it was better to not rot in wet clothes. You threw the wet hoodie on the floor of the car by your feet.
Park met your gaze only to quickly look away.
“So, are we eating outside then?” You grabbed the bags.
He shook his head, “It looks like it could rain again.”
You looked out the window again, the clouds had dispersed and the moon was visible now. Sure, whatever he said.
You started taking out the food, handing him the different items. You unwrapped your own burger and took a bite. Wow, you really were starving. Turning your head to see how he was handling his meal, you caught him staring at you. You chewed slowly and pointed at the burger in his hand.
“Don’t make me eat alone,” you insisted.
He cursed under his breath and unwrapped the burger slowly, taking a small bite out of it.
“Good?” You asked hopefully.
He side eyed you. A quiet “watch it” on his face.
He turned off the car and turned down the windows the tiniest bit, letting the fresh air inside.
“How much do I owe you?” You pulled out your phone.
“For what?”
“The food…” you hinted.
“Nothing,” He said your name, scoldingly as he pinched the bridge of his nose, “Stop offering, it’s insulting.”
You put your phone down and held your hand up in surrender, “just wondering. Don’t want to get a venmo request later.”
“Who would do that?”
“You’d be surprised by some…guys,”
“Was it Dodger?” He asked mockingly.
“Roger.”
“Same thing,”
“No, this was a different bad date I had.” You shuddered thinking of the dating failure that was Chad.
“But you don’t want to hear all that,” you waved it off, taking another bite of the burger. Yesterday’s events were still fresh on your mind.
“I want to hear.” He gestured at you with his chin. “Tell the story.”
So you told him the story of Chad and how the date went. His eyebrows shot up higher with each detail you added.
“Idiot,” he scoffed at the end of your story.
“What about you? Any bad date stories?”
“No,” he shook his head. “All my dates end well.”
“Oh come on,” you rolled your eyes as he smirked.
Cocky bastard.
“So you’re luckier with the dating thing? Got a girlfriend?” You asked the question that had been killing you since you met him.
“No,” he looked down. “My schedule’s difficult, most women don’t understand.”
The tiniest part of you was hoping for that answer.
“Be honest,” you chose to change the subject. “When’s the last time you had a burger?” You eyed the half-eaten burger in his hand.
“I eat burgers. From restaurants or made at home,” he explained, like it was obvious.
“So, you’re out of your comfort zone right now?”
He frowned at you, then looked down at the burger in his hand.
“Yeah, you don’t strike me as a burgers in the car kind of guy.”
“I’m not,” he scoffed. “But your stomach was loud. I couldn’t send you home like that.”
“You could, though. I’m not your responsibility.”
“My staff is my responsibility,” he dipped his chin.
“I’ll be sure to tell Gilroy, then. That you’ll take him out to dinner next time.” You hid your smile with your hand.
“Not funny,” he pointed a finger at you and took a bite out of the burger.
“He’s staff,” you gestured.
“Only staff I like,” he said in between bites.
“Well, you did call me your favorite nurse earlier.” You teased him.
“I called you my nurse.” He countered.
“Well, I won’t be…anymore.”
Finishing your sentence was a struggle. You wondered if you would ever see him again after tonight.
Park sighed, reaching for his phone. Unlocked it and scrolled for a bit. You didn’t mean to ruin the moment, but for once, you had to be negative.
“When do you start the new job?” He put his phone on his lap.
“I didn’t get a job offer yet.” You shrugged. “Still waiting to hear back. So wish me luck.”
He frowned at you, “you don’t need luck. You’re overqualified, you’ll get it.”
“I hope so, I really want the job.”
“Why?”
You smiled shyly and told him all about it. Why you liked it, why it worked for your mind perfectly, how you found purpose in it. He listened quietly, following along.
“You actually… enjoy working there,” he processed out loud.
You nodded proudly.
Park grabbed his phone from his lap and put it back on the stand. For a second there, he almost looked disappointed. Sad even.
“I will admit, though. Out of all the doctors I’ve worked with…” you tried to switch the somber mood. “You might be my favorite.”
His back stood straighter at your words, like pride was swelling in his chest.
“I mean no other doctor would keep me fed, drive me home or let me borrow his sweater.” You gestured to his sweater. “I might just have to keep it. It’s good quality.”
“It suits you,” he said quietly as he stretched out his hand and messed with the neck strings, straightening them. You hoped he couldn’t feel your heart speeding up at his actions.
“But you gotta give it back,” he added more seriously.
“I don’t know, Park. I th-“
“Brendon,” he cut you off, dropping his hand. “Call me Brendon. We’re not in the hospital.”
“Can I just call you Shark like everyone else does?”
“No, you can’t” he balled up the empty burger wrap and tossed it in the bag. “Sunny.”
“No,” you shook your head. “You can’t call me that.”
“You don’t like Sunny?” He quirked an eyebrow.
“I’ll report you to HR.”
He huffed loudly, holding back a laugh.
“Your buddies in the ED call you that,” he spat out.
“You had to be there to get it,” you teased him. “Call me something else… Shark.”
The side of his mouth curled up.
It shocked you. How quickly you two settled back into your old banter. Like nothing had happened yesterday.
“How’d that start anyway? The nickname?” You asked him.
He shook his head in amusement and told you the story. Surprisingly. It started back in his undergrad days and followed him to this day. Park told you a full story about himself with details. As many details as a man like him would give. You couldn’t believe your ears.
“That’s where it came from?” you rubbed your face with your palm in disbelief.
“You can’t tell anyone,” he warned you.
“I promise,” you extended your pinky towards him. He enveloped his pinky in yours and you promised each other.
You peeked at his palm as you shook his pinky, he quickly pulled away.
“Nice try,” he said sarcastically.
“Just a peek,” You balled up the burger trash and tossed it in the bag. “It won’t even take a minute.”
“No,” he shook his head and closed his eyes.
“First, you insult me. Then you tried to starve me.”
“I already apologized,” he said defensively.
“I’m thinking of retracting my apology.”
“You’re milking it at this point,” he shook his head. He huffed loudly, like it was the biggest inconvenience.
Begrudgingly, he extended his palm. You giggled as you held his cold palm in yours. Frankly, your knowledge was limited, but you were curious either way.
“Oh, I see. You’re a complicated one,” you lied as you examined his palm.
He hummed.
“This line is your life line,” you traced the line slowly from his thumb to his wrist. “You're gonna live a long healthy life for sure.”
You leaned closer to his palm, struggling to inspect it in the lowly lit car. The light above you turned on. You looked up to catch Park’s other hand retracting from the light switch. The light perfectly shined on his veined arm as he put it down.
“Go on,” he lifted his eyebrows.
You looked down again.
“This one is your Mercury line,” you traced the line under his pinky to his wrist, then lightly went over the small branches extending upwards . “You got a good sense of business. Success and opportunities coming your way.”
“Do I?” He mumbled.
“Oof, but this one” You looked up at him, he was staring at your face already.
You tsked, “you see it?” With your chin, you gestured to his palm.
He leaned forward, his forehead almost bumping yours. “Sure,” he said softly.
“This one means you struggle with expressing yourself,” you smiled at him teasingly, “but you already knew that.”
He looked up from his palm to you. His gaze was more intense than it had ever been, making it harder to breathe.
“Am I forgiven now?”
“Hmm,” you pretended to think. “I gotta think about that.” You absentmindedly traced his palm. His fingers twitched at your movements.
He huffed in amusement, his body still close to yours. You couldn’t take it anymore and you slowly dropped his hand. He retracted it and put it back on his lap, refusing to look anywhere but your eyes.
You broke away first and you looked out the window. Trying to take deep breaths and calm your nerves.
“Can we turn on the AC?” Your body felt warm.
Park nodded and turned on his car.
You glanced at the time.
3:33 AM.
You had been out with Park for five hours now.
“That’s the time?” You exclaimed. “I shouldn’t be out at this time, I should be in bed.”
“I kept you out pretty late. Sorry.” Park said without remorse in his voice this time.
“It’s haunting hour.”
Park jerked his head back in confusion, shifting the gear stick.
“You know, when all the ghosts come out to haunt the living.”
Park slowly turned to you, seemingly holding in a laugh. He put his arm on the back of your headrest, looking over his shoulder to back out of the parking space. The gesture made you dizzy.
“Let’s get you to bed then,” the side of his lips slowly curled up. “Ghost Girl.”
“No,” you covered your face. “That doesn’t even make sense.”
“The ghost references, the palm readings. You did it to yourself.”
“Can I get another one instead?”
He didn’t answer you, just smirked, as he drove away from the parking lot.
—-
Park drove into your street to drop you off…for the second time that night. He slowed to a stop and parked the car.
“Thanks again for everything” You smiled as you leaned on the headrest. “I guess I’ll see you… eventually.”
“Eventually? You gotta return my sweater on Monday.” He said, confused.
“I won’t be here Monday or the whole week actually,” you revealed.
His face dropped. “Why?”
“Got bridesmaid duties and a bunch of outings.”
“What kind of outings?” he asked suspiciously.
“Oh, the usual. Bar hopping, skiing the alpines, bungee jumping,” you joked.
“You are not going bungee-jumping,” he pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Why? It’s fun,” you teased.
“Do you know how many bones you can break from bungee jumping?”
“Good thing I got me a great orthopedic surgeon,” you tapped his elbow.
He sighed with a shake of his head, extending his hand.
“Let me see your phone.”
Warily, you unlocked it and handed it to him.
He took it from you and started typing away on your contacts. His phone on the stand lit up, showing your number. He hung up and saved his number as a new contact, then handed it back to you.
“Brendon Park - orthopedic surgeon.” You read his contact name. “So formal…” you unclicked your seatbelt.
“They’ll need to know who to call to put you back together,” he tilted his head at you.
“Morbid,” you snorted, putting your phone away and grabbing your bag. You pushed the door open and stepped out. With your hand hovering over the car door, you leaned your head down.
“Good night…Shark.” You smiled coyly.
“Good night, Ghost Girl,” he responded.
You closed the door shut and walked away.
You were somehow right. It was the longest car ride ever.
———————————————-
A/N: this is the longest chapter I’ve ever written. 3.2k words of mostly dialogue. My thumbs are stuck in typing mode.
|| jake is aged up in college, (legal) age gap, robby has lots of dirty thoughts, girly!reader, some clothing descriptions but no other physical descriptions of reader, smutty thoughts, lots of ‘pretty’ / ‘cute’ / ‘sweet’ when referring to reader, back in my day we’d call this a lime on the citrus scale ||
wc: 2k
a/n: im sorry I know I have wips to work on... but I just.... I needed this
it's been a long fucking day. full of too many close calls, a few patients lost and many more saved. robby knows which ones he'll remember most. he always does.
but when jake comes to visit, it's the one bright spot in his day. though he wasn't expecting to see him until tonight, robby lights up at the sight of his step-son. even if it feels funny to call him that now. jake is in college now, practically an adult. he's taller, filled out, smart as a whip. he's got his own schedule full of classes and work and his own life. robby's just grateful he makes the time to stop by at all. jake is more like a friend now, in some ways.
is it possible for an old man like robby to even have friends?
he joins jake every wednesday after work when he can. even though his knees show up tired and protesting, he always lets the kid talk him into just one more game.
today, robby is too busy to notice jake has brought someone with him. he's pulled from room to room, trauma bay to trauma bay, patient to patient. half of his coffee had been abandoned somewhere behind the charge desk, the day moving faster without asking. gloves on, gloves off, orders called and charts signed, someone always needing him before he can finish answering the last person.
it's not for another hour or so when he's finally pulling the surgical gear from his body and cupping his hand under the sanitizer than he gets to say hi.
jake is talking to langdon over by ahmad's security desk—some bet going on about how bad the heatwave will get, how many patients will come in with heatstroke, whether heritage day will bring in more injuries than patriotism.
as soon as jake's eyes meet robby's, his smile widens. they clap hands and pull each other into a short half-hug.
'where you been?' jake asks.
"sorry, man. crazy day right now." robby says, squeezing the kid's shoulder before letting go. "what're you doing here? not that i'm not happy to see you."
"just wanted to stop in and say hi…and, uh, listen." jake rubs the back of his neck, eyes flicking briefly down the hall. "can we talk?"
robby can see the crinkle of a smile in his step-son's eyes, something nervous there. something pleased with itself too. his curiosity is immediately piqued.
he nods, and just then langdon's name is called, ushering him away.
robby walks with jake down the hall a bit, finding a miraculously blank spot of wall where no bed has taken up space. he grabs his room temperature coffee on the way and leans beside him.
'what's up?'
"i know I promised we'd see a movie later… you know, the new ready or not?"
robby had only promised that so he could spend time with jake, not because he's all that into horror these days. he feels like he sees enough blood as it is.
he nods. "yeah."
"well…" jake glances toward the charge station, then back at him. "i was kinda hoping we could reschedule for another time?"
robby shrugs. "sure. why, what do you have going on?"
“I was… gonna maybe see it with a friend.”
"a friend, huh?" robby's face breaks out in a wide smile. "does this friend happen to be a girl?"
jake scoffs, grinning a shy smile, face ducking. "shut up."
"i didn't say anything." robby chuckles.
“you didn't have to."
robby's cheeks are sore as he laughs some more under his breath, lifting his coffee again to his lips, he admits, "fine, fine, here—"
he's reaching into his pockets when jake's eyes widen.
‘please don't hand me a condom.’
robby chokes on his coffee. 'a condom?'
he looks at jake more seriously, tilting his head, trying to read that look in his step son's face, 'wait—are you having—?'
‘jake!’
it's a voice from the charge nurse station, one robby doesn't recognize. when both look up, robby sees the cutest thing he's possibly ever laid eyes on in his 50-ish years.
bouncing over to jake on strappy wedge sandals, is you.
and you are something in your tiny denim skirt that stops high on the thigh, your visitor sticker lopsided over the top of your shirt that can hardly be called a shirt at all—more like a scrap of fabric barely covering your breasts. and you clearly aren't wearing a bra. it's a strapless little thing, and the cold blast of ac from the vent above the charge desk has caused goosebumps to rise over your skin.
robby has half a second to take in your pebbled nipples before he forces his eyes back up to your face.
'hi!' you chirp sweetly, holding out your manicured hand, 'you must be jake's step dad!'
robby takes it, your fingers small and delicate in his grip. and you're so warm. nails glossy, one of your rings pressing lightly into his skin. he can feel the fine bones under your hand— fifth metacarpal, proximal phalanx, the soft pad of the hypothenar eminence beneath his thumb. abductor digiti minimi, flexor digiti minimi brevis, opponens digiti minimi.
he recites the latin of each one in his head, unsure if he's smiling or grimacing down at you, because suddenly he is having the most debaucherous of thoughts.
maybe it was the fact only moments ago he found out his step son—who wasn't even really his step son—was sexually active, or just that it had been a while since he himself got laid… but as you held onto robby's hand, he pictured it somewhere else. everywhere else. hooked up around the back of his neck while he pulled you in to stick his tongue down your throat, or maybe tracing his happy trail down to his cock while he laid out on the couch, with your knobbly knees bruising on the floor below between his legs.
fuck.
get it together, robinavitch.
'this is my girlfriend,' jake introduces, as your hand falls from robby's grip. his step son's arm goes around you so easily it almost makes him jealous, palm flat to the small of your back.
you're grinning up at robby now, your skin glowing, looking so soft and smooth to the touch. your pretty, perfect eyes made even bigger with mascara, lips glossy and pink. he wanted to ruin it all. he wondered what your makeup would look like running down your face, smudged under the eyes and streaked across your cheek. how those glossy pink lips might look wrapped around his cock instead.
normal thoughts to have about your step-son's college aged girlfriend. great. yeah.
'hi, sweetheart.' he says, a little hoarsely. "I'm robby.'
you give him your name, and robby could swear your voice drops a few octaves as you look up at him under your lashes. he doesn't let himself believe it, though.
'so… you're cool if I ditch tonight? promise to make it up to you.' jake says.
" wait—what?" you ask, your cute little nose scrunching up as you look over at your boyfriend.
"it's okay," Jake cooes, "we can still go see—"
"no, no, i don't want to ruin the time you have with your dad," you say softly, looking up at robby again. "why don't you join us?"
jake's mouth opens in protest, and robby laughs a little, reaching for his glasses and the ipad chart sitting on the counter beside him. mckay's patient had a ct scan done that just came in. perfect thing to distract from that adorable look on your face that has robby wanting to kiss you stupid.
you and jake whisper back and forth beside him while he tries to read the scan.
it is impossible to focus.
he gets through the first line twice before his eyes slip back over.
your arms are around jake's neck, fingers pushing into his dark hair. your is chest pushed into his side and you have a pout on your lips. robby’s eyes skate down to where jake's hand sits just on the top of your denim skirt, fingers dangerously close to the upper curve of your ass.
then robby's eyes haphazardly fall lower, to your wedges lifting you onto your toes, the tilt of your hips, the short hem of your skirt threatening to show his entire department what color your panties are.
he thinks if you'd ever look at him the way you're looking at his step son, he'd crumble immediately.
he has to say no. absolutely, no question. easiest decision of his life.
when he sets down the chart after giving up trying to descern anything from it, his glasses slide off and he looks over, clearing his throat.
'it's really fine,' he begins, 'you two have fun tonight. here's some money for popcorn.'
he's reaching into his pocket for his wallet, but you're jumping from jake's arms and standing in front of him again.
'oh, no! it's okay!' you say quickly, 'jake says you can join us!'
jake's face says nothing of the sort.
you step closer anyway, smiling that wide, adorable smile up at him. your eyeslashes flutter as you plead, 'would you join us, dr. robinavitch?'
oh how cute you sound when you say his entire name like that.
'just robby, sweetheart.' he answers, 'I just don't want to ruin your date.'
his eyes glacne over your shoulder where he sees jake fidgeting, the answer plain on his step-son's face.
say no. say no. let me have this date in the movie theater with my girlfriend. say no!
but you're so cute. so pouty, so god damn sweet. you sidle up even closer to robby, close enough that he gets a whiff of vanilla and brown sugar coconut from your perfume or lotion. something warm that he inhales greedily over the sharp antiseptic of hospital smell on his scrubs.
your fingers are wrapping around his wrists now, shackling him to yourself.
'please come.'
robby doesn't even look at jake's wide eyes begging him to say the opposite.
'okay.' he whispers.
you squeal, freeing him of your hold only to throw your arms around his neck.
robby goes very, very still.
he doesn't touch you back. he forces his hands to stay hovering over you instead, fingers spread uselessly in the air while your entire body presses up against his, your perfume invading him.
he tries to think of dead puppies. of the pittsburgh penguin game he watched last night. of freezing cold ice baths. because his cock is stirring in his cargos, swelling at the feeling of your warm body against his, the feeling of your breasts pushed up to his chest and the happy sound you make right in his ear.
his traitorous mind invites the awful idea of letting his hands fall over you, what it would be like to slide them down your denim clad bum to get a handful, to hike your legs over his hips. maybe then he could feel exactly what you have under that skirt—lace, cotton, maybe silk. something easy to push aside and slide his fingers against your waiting pussy. maybe you wore nothing at all. wouldn't that be something.
he thinks of what it would feel like to drag you into one of the empty exam rooms and take you up against the wall. what you would sound like as you moaned and begged him. that little 'please come' much more lewd in his memory than it really was. he wonders what your wedges would feel like knocking against the back of his legs as his cock pushed into you over and over. your skirt rucked high, his broad hand probably taking up half your face to keep you quiet while he split you in half.
he holds his breath until you let go, until you slide down his body, your hands lingering a little too long on his chest before you step away. his hands curl around your elbows, instinctively steadying you as your wedges settle back flat on the floor.
"we'll see you tonight, dr. rabinavitch," you simper with a wide smile.
then you turn, taking a very begrudging jake's hand again and turn to leave from the er, but not before glancing back over your shoulder with that same sweet smile still sitting on your mouth.
maybeeee a part two of robby having reader alone at the theater? 👀
summary — jack has seen you leave a trail of broken hearts and bad dates, and he’s determined to prove to you that you’re looking for love in all the wrong places.
warnings — 12.6k words. age gap (jack’s around 50; reader’s a 4th year resident, so 20s), attending/resident power dynamic; mentor/mentee relationship, idiots in love maybe?? yearning!jack, jealous!jack, jack ‘i’ll pay for it’ abbot strikes Again!!!! hurt + comfort (one instance of jack being an ass, but he smooths it over during the same shift - they can’t stay mad at each other), mild angst, patient death, jack’s leg - reader helps him adjust the prosthetic and takes care of him during a long shift, canon-typical medical scenes and probably lots of inaccuracies (i’m an english major reddit is my best friend) ; on-page patient death, reader performing compressions, reader DATES DATES and may be unprofessional (affectionately she just wants to find love and her entire life revolves around the hospital who can blame her), reader’s written to have hair she brushes and can pin up, she also gets on her toes to kiss him but that can be ignored i just liked the image jack basically bribes her into a date, no smut but they’re So very much thinking about it, rushed-ish ending i think?
notes — wrote this in a slump it took so Unbelievably long and i’m not even sure i like it but i wanted to post something before i give up on writing anything ever again!!!!
It was midnight and a peds nurse was lingering by the ambulance doors, and Jack knew that he wasn’t meant to be there. Lewis was his name, maybe, but Jack couldn’t even be sure of that — and knew he had no reason to be sure of it, because the guy wasn’t meant to be there. Running the ER in the middle of the night, with all of the day’s patients handed off, and the night’s still finding their way through triage, was difficult in itself, and he didn’t have the energy to also babysit Ryan-or-Lewis-or-whoever hovering there like a little boy waiting to be picked up from school.
“Is he meant to be here?” Jack asked, closing the space toward the desk where Lena was pointing something, jutting his thumb in the direction of the guy.
Lena flattened a printout on the desk with two fingers, hardly sparing him a glance.
“Him. Peds. Why is he there?” he tried again.
“Couldn’t tell you,” she said, but the corner of her mouth had flicked up, proving that she was simply choosing not to tell him.
“He’s off his unit,” he said. He knew he sounded just slightly silly stating the obvious.
“Seems so.”
“Send him back, then,” Jack drawled, incredulous, hands finding his hips. “There’s enough shit going on here.”
“You send him back,” she retorted, amused just slightly. “If you’re so concerned.”
Jack looked up at the ceiling, shaking his head as his hands went to rest on his hips. When he looked back down, he found you walking toward the nurse and it suddenly made complete sense.
He let out a sigh. “This has to be a joke.”
His eyes, as they did more often than was appropriate, caught on you, hair coming down loose from where you’d pinned it, the scrubs lopsided at one hip, riding lower than where they’d started at the beginning of the night. You turned to say something to the guy quickly, and the movement caught the slip, your scrub top moving up half an inch, and Jack’s eyes went there before his brain could tell him that was wrong, some groove in him that noticed you before it noticed anything useful. He had a second of pure, unhelpful distraction before his brain reminded him that he was an attending and had things to do.
“I actually think it’s funny,” Lena said, shrugging.
Of course it had something to do with you. He should’ve figured it out the second he saw the guy standing there with his hands in the pouch of his scrubs, rocking heel to toe like the floor was just too exciting to be standing on. Nobody loitered around the ambulance bay at midnight for good reason. People came through those doors bleeding or they didn’t come through them at all, and this guy had shown up with nothing wrong with him, except maybe a case for some lovesickness.
“I’m gonna make this stop,” Jack said, already pushing himself away from the nurse’s station.
Lena’s eyes widened slightly. “Don’t say anything that gets you sat down with HR.”
“She can goddamn try me,” he said, and went. Also because Jack was fairly sure you would never report him to HR.
He crossed the floor and caught the tail-end of your conversation as he closed in.
“ — just tell me when you’re free, that’s all I’m asking,” the guy was saying.
You were already half-turned, already gone as you waved a hand loosely beside you. “I don’t know, I just don’t think we should try again.”
Jack blew out a breath, standing a few feet short of you, your back facing him. Why was he not surprised? He’d been keeping tally without meaning to, and he knew that was embarrassing. There was the radiology fellow who’d started hand-delivering films that very well could’ve gone through the system; the travel nurse who’d washed through in six weeks and left the floor faintly weird in his wake; the anaesthesia resident who now took the long way around the department if he saw you at the end of it, as though he were a dog who’d learned the fence was electric. And now this one, apparently, Peds with his whole hopeful heart hanging out in Jack’s department.
“You’re so sweet for coming down here,” you practically crooned at him, shifting on your heels, eyes flicking down to the form in your hand. “But I really do have a whole long night ahead of me, and I know my answer’s not gonna change, so I won’t make you wait around for it, okay?”
Jack fought the urge to roll his eyes when you said the words with the upward lilt of a woman sending a toddler back to his mother. He wanted to laugh a little when he saw that the guy had taken it standing up like it was a gift.
The hell of it was that Jack understood the man. He understood every last one of them because he stood next to you fifty hours a week, had been doing so for three years, and whatever the department thought of him after his consistent therapy, he was not carved out of stone.
Jack was afraid that if he hadn’t been your attending these last four years and a little younger, wearing his heart on his sleeve, he’d have been eating out of the palm of your hand.
You gave the guy a there-there pat, and it was only then did his eyes land on Jack, who he probably knew was your fucking attending. You turned then, and immediately said, “Oh, Dr. Abbot, I’ve got the guy in six’s labs back, the potassium —”
“Mhm.” Jack’s hands came up and landed on your shoulders before you’d finished the sentence, squaring you off the spot where you stood and turning you bodily back toward the floor like you were a gurney.
“It is four-point-nine, but the EKG’s good, so I was gonna recheck in —”
“Let’s recheck it now,” he said. He kept you moving, his palms broad through the cotton of your scrubs, steering you a few feet till your own feet caught onto the idea.
You grumbled something under your breath, and once he’d stopped you right in front of six, you turned to face him with your brows raised.
“Say something?” he asked, tipping his chin down.
“You seem like you’re mad at me,” you said.
“Huh. I do?” He let go of your shoulders — noticing, distantly, the exact second his hands came off and suddenly felt too empty — and reached past you to pluck six’s chart off the tray, more to have something to do with them than needing it. “You’re right. You should recheck in ten minutes.”
“You’re mad at me,” you said again, crossing your arms over your chest.
He blew out a breath, and suddenly felt just a little silly at getting worked up over a nurse by the doors when there was a large, glowing board behind him full of names that needed his complete, undivided attention.
You were a senior resident, after all, four years deep, one of his sharpest — you’d treated the guy in six, hadn’t you, you’d flagged it and called for the EKG and made the right call on the recheck before he’d even asked, all while dismantling some man’s hopes. Somehow, your mess and competence ran on the same current. You never let the first touch the second. He’d have loved, some nights, to have an excuse to be mad — a missed lab, a blown line, anything he could write up and point at — and you kept declining to hand him one. All of this meant he was left with this vague swampy irritation, and Jack wasn’t the sort of mentor who liked to hound upon that.
“No, sweetheart, I just love it when you get random men hanging around the department,” he settled on saying, feeling his shoulders visibly loosen a fraction.
You winced, eyes darting over to the emptiness in front of the doors now. “Sorry.”
“You’d say it won’t happen again, but we both know better.” He shrugged. Then, he reached out his hand — he wasn’t sure why, except that it just happened naturally — and patted you once on the shoulder, then on the second turned you to face the curtains leading to your patient. “Doctor up.”
And you did, the loose, embarrassed shape of you being replaced in the space of a single breath, being replaced by something Jack had watched grow into you over the years and still hadn’t quite gotten used to.
Trauma called it in nine minutes later, an MVC, unrestrained driver, GCS dropping in the field. Jack was working on a laceration in four when he heard the crackled warning, and by the time he’d looked up out the curtains, you were already moving, gowned and at the head of the bay calling out assignments like you’d been doing this for a decade.
“I need two units O-neg before he rolls in,” you said, voice pitched high enough to carry without yelling, cutting clean through the perpetual noise of the department. “Somebody get me a second eighteen-gauge ready, and I want an ultrasound in here.”
Donnie and Mateo were already moving, and so were the people around you, falling into your orbit like the room had easily reorganized itself around your voice the second it went up. Jack stood by the curtain, gloves from the lac still on, and found he couldn’t make himself move just yet.
The doors banged open. EMS wheeled the stretcher through fast, calling out vitals over each other, and you were already on the patient’s side before the gurney had fully stopped moving, hands moving on his neck, chest, eyes scanning his pupils in a matter of ten seconds. He began walking over, catching your voice as you called out your reads as someone hung the blood and someone else prepped the ultrasound wand. “Page neuro now.”
“On it,” Mateo said, already moving.
You had both hands on the patient, running the primary survey quickly, confirming, checking, discarding possibilities out in short, clipped sentences Jack recognized as the sound of your brain running six steps ahead of your mouth. Sweat had started on your hairline. You called out for OR to be on standby, eyes flickering around the room and landing on Jack. “OR, please,” you said, aimed at him, brows going up.
“On it,” Jack said, because there was no way he was going to let you be wrong about needing something and didn’t make sure you got it.
The next six minutes went by fast and loud, in bursts and then suddenly quiet, the room narrowing down on functionality. You stood at the center of it; you called it and ran it. You got the man upstairs stable enough that Walsh didn’t sound worried for one second, and that was a compliment from her.
Jack watched the whole thing from four feet back, arms crossed, and chipping in when your brain had snagged. He was feeling a heat in his chest helplessly and entirely unprofessional, it was always present when he was able to see, in real-time, how far you’d come from your first day of residency when your hands were a second too slow on the central line and how your voice would pitch up at the end of every read, asking for permission every time instead of stating it like a fact, eyes finding him across the room each time, checking.
There was none of that left in you now, he realized, had done so a long time ago. He thought, watching you now, that this was the closest thing he’d let himself do to falling in years, standing uselessly riveted as he watched a woman he’d taught outgrow the need for him in real time, and finding that instead of the loss he’d expected to feel when the day finally came, all he felt was warm and terrifying and too much like pride.
When the room had started clearing out, he watched your mouth drop open as you let out a heavy breath, eyes going over to him. The second he watched you realize he was still there, your face shifted, the relief turning into something sharper.
“Why didn’t you jump in?” You crossed the floor toward him in four hard strides, gloves already peeled off and balled tight in one fist, snapping the second one free with a motion that looked terrifyingly like it wanted to be aimed at him. “His pressure tanked for thirty seconds and you just watched.”
“You had it.”
“You didn’t know that,” you said, voice going up an octave, adrenaline still thrumming through you, hands coming up the gesture at the blood-streaked floor. “I could’ve missed something. You’re the attending, Jack, you’re supposed to catch if I missed something —”
“I would’ve,” he interrupted, stepping in close enough that you had to tilt your head back to keep glaring at him properly. “The second you needed me, I would’ve stepped in. I wasn’t gonna take it from you before you did.”
“You can’t gamble like that with a patient —” Your chest was rising and falling fast, gloves now crushed in your fist, and he could see the fear catching up now that everything around you had gone quiet enough to let it, something that looked more like fear of yourself than for the patient. “What if I’d frozen —?”
“I knew you wouldn’t.” He reached his hand out, thumb catching a smear of the blood at your jaw you’d accidentally smeared on yourself, wiping it off carefully with the pad of his thumb, and felt you go still under it. “You don’t trust my judgement?”
“You know I do. You just could’ve said something.”
“I could’ve. He dropped his hand from your jaw only to catch your wrist instead. “Didn’t wanna interrupt you being brilliant. Kinda liked watching it happen.”
Your mouth opened, surely to let out some unnecessary retort, and died there when he pressed one slow stroke of his thumb against your wrist, raising a brow.
“Relax,” he said, voice going rough as he leaned in a little, forcing you to meet his eyes properly. “Just take the win. That’s an order.”
“Now you wanna give orders,” you mumbled.
He barked out a short laugh, letting go of your wrist. “Only when you’re being stubborn for no reason.”
It was sometime during the second year of your residency when he’d started catching your drift. It had started with a random Friday shift. He’d seen you at the station, elbows on the counter, telling Lena something conspiratorially. Jack was meant to be reading a chart but couldn’t help how his ears had perked up. Anything to get through the shift, he supposed.
“ — no, but he was perfect on paper,” you were saying, “kept his house clean and everything. He told me he kept his plant alive for six years —”
“So, what happened?” Lena said flatly, like she already knew what you were going to say but wanted to hear anyway.
“He wanted to take me bowling on the second date,” you said through a sigh. “I know how it sounds, but you’ve gotta hear me out —”
“I’m genuinely not going anywhere.”
“ — for the first date, bowling’s fun. But he took me to a nice dinner the first time, he set a standard, and then the second date he goes bowling, which means the effort’s already —” You created a little downward slope with your hand. “And if it’s already sliding on date two, where’s it at on date two hundred? I can already see my marriage with him and it’s bad.”
It seemed you had a criteria, Jack learned then. It was proven even more when he’d heard you talk about your other failed dates, seen them, and learned — without ever wanting to — what they were, to an extent.
He knew you couldn’t stand a man who ordered for you without asking. He knew you’d written off a fellow for the way he talked about his mother, and another one — an accountant, a rare specimen who had no clue what an EKG was — over a text message you’d read aloud to Ellis in a voice of complete horror, though Jack had never caught what it actually said, only your face while you read it. He knew you gave people precisely three dates, that this was a rule you held if the first and second date went well, three apparently being the magic number at which a person could no longer hide the demon they were going to turn out to be (your words).
He knew, too, that you only allowed one kiss after the first date, if even that. It was never up for negotiation, no matter how beautifully the night had gone, for you never wanted to end up “emotionally overdrawn on an account you hadn’t even opened yet.”
He knew you a man lost real points if, over the three dates, if it involved drinks, he ordered the same one. He knew a man gained them, silently and instantly, for being able to sit in a lull without narrating his way out of it, and that you considered this the single rarest trait in modern dating.
He knew you were looking for something you had no name for and would recognize on sight, which struck him as a hell of a way to run a search.
He’d have told you, if you asked, that he tuned most of the station chatter out as a matter of survival, for while he enjoyed the occasional gossip, he couldn’t very well absorb everyone’s business. And that was true about everyone’s business but yours, apparently, because yours came in clear.
Your business he retained against his own better judgement, and he realized — once, during a slow shift — that he could’ve drawn you a better map of your taste than you seemed to carry yourself. He could’ve told you, if you asked, exactly the kind of man who’d finally clear your bar, and exactly why he had yet to show up.
It was almost nice, some nights, watching you try anyway. The ER was a place where everyone was kept tethered to the world by a thread, and everyone who worked in it long enough to develop some version of the same calluses. Jack had grown his years ago, and he wore them invisible, occasionally aching, and had come to terms with it being permanent.
Love, for Jack, had stopped being a real noun before you’d shown up, somewhere between things he used to want and things he’d decided weren’t for him anymore.
You still believed in it. You’d watched this place take everything soft out of grown men twice your seniority and somehow walked through the same fire hopeful, still convinced, against every scrap of evidence, that somewhere there was a person worth all that hoping.
For that reason, he had decided to not interrupt your endeavors, not until now, when he noticed you during hand-off before your night shift with him started, in front of Robby, of all people.
While Jack loved Robby like a brother, he had a documented, department-wide, actuarially reliable seven-week expiration date on every woman he charmed out of this building. He’d heard intra-departmental gossip about him. There was, Jack was fairly sure, a running joke about it that predated your residency by years.
He knew you definitely were not finding love in his best friend. But Jack felt the buzzing in his mind go quiet and mean watching how you with him.
You laughed at something and Jack lost, for one humiliating second, the thread of what he’d walked over to say. It happened sometimes, more than he’d admit to anyone. Ordinary noises out of you hit him somewhere in his chest before the better part of him flagged it as a problem, and he had to physically clear his throat before finding his footing again.
“ — Italian’s always good after pulling a double,” Robby was saying. “But I do love some microwave ramen, too, when I’m missing my med student days.”
“Oh, so your standards have been raised being chief?” you said, and Jack could hear the smile and wariness in it.
“For sure —”
Jack let out a huff, something resembling a laugh, as his feet planted him between the two of you. He was close enough that his shoulder nudged yours and you had to step back to keep your balance. He felt your weight land for a second against him with a satisfaction he had no, absolutely no business feeling for something so small. So childish.
He turned to Robby, spreading his hands wide, mock outrage. “My resident.”
Robby looked mildly amused, unbothered, so Jack added, before he could respond, “Go home before I report you to HR.”
“You’d do that to me?”
“In a heartbeat. Have some shame.” Jack kept his shoulder where it was still angled half in front of you, an old, unexamined instinct keeping the line drawn even though Robby had already backed off.
He tipped his head toward the doors, toward the gold light coming up in them, the day shift draining out around you both. “There’s a whole rich life waitin’ for you out there.”
Robby just smiled and pushed off the counter, giving you a small wave before he left.
Jack turned to you then, brows furrowed. “Seriously?”
You let out a short laugh. “Work hard, play hard?”
“Soundin’ a lot like a frat brother right now. Never have those words been said in an ER,” Jack said.
“I wasn’t actually going to do it,” you said, rushing the words out with something more honest in them. “For the record. I know what — he’s got a reputation.” You picked at the counter. “I was just talking to him. He’s funny.”
Jack had to recalibrate for a second. “You were talkin’ sweet to him.”
“I talk sweet to everyone.” You lifted a shoulder, completely unbothered. “You should try it sometime.”
He rolled his eyes at that. He reached over for your cup of coffee sitting between you — closer to his elbow than yours — and drank a sip, eyes going up to the ceiling at the sheer volume of syrup you’d decided you needed in your bloodstream today. “The hell?” he muttered, turning the cup slightly as if that would help. “Are you trying to embalm yourself?”
“Give it back.”
“In a minute.” He took a second sip, slower this time, and watched you over the rim of the cup. Then, he set it back a few degrees off how you’d had it, just to see your jaw tick.
You pulled the cup back in, thumbed it around until the lid faced you again, and drank from it without breaking your explanation. “I’m offended you think I’ll get wine and dined by the chief attending.” You tilted your head. “Give me some credit here. I won’t be his seven weeks.”
“Huh.” He rubbed the back of his neck, which was warm. “Well, good. Don’t think he’ll clear your bar anyway.”
“See, you get it,” you said, pointing a finger at him. “At least someone around here does.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, tipping his head slightly forward that even he hadn’t realized that he had shifted the distance just slightly. “Better than most.”
Your eyes widened slightly at that, and Jack took that as his cue to step back, clear his throat, as he jerked his chin toward the board.
“Alright, time to work. Stop the play,” he said, trying to get his voice the right level. “Go look at chest pain on three.”
“So bossy,” you said, but you were already turning around to go to three.
Well, that’s what he was, wasn’t he? For some reason, he had to remind himself that.
It was what he had to remind himself as his hands hovered your trembling ones as you tried to pump air into Mrs. Foley’s lungs, knowing she was already gone — had been for a while now, if he was honest — longer than it took you to admit. He knew it, he’d grown the grim ability to recognize when a body stopped being a patient and being someone you were performing compressions on for the family’s sake, for your own need to have done everything.
He’d let it run anyway, because you hadn’t accepted it yet, and he’d wanted to give you that extra minute to arrive at it on your own.
Mateo had come up to Jack’s side, snapping his gloves off, the sound of it overshadowed by your own heaving.
“She has to call it,” he murmured. “You want me to —”
“No.” Jack’s eyes, he felt, could not move away from your distress. “I’ve got her.”
Mateo looked at him for a moment longer than the moment warranted, and then he stepped back and let Jack be. You were still going, your compressions had gone harder, faster, less like genuine medicine and more like you were pleading with Mrs. Foley herself now. Sweat had gone to the hair at your temple. Your jaw was set in a clench Jack recognized all too well, and for a moment, Jack wished that he didn’t have to be so acutely tuned into watching what the job did to others, the same way it did to him.
He stepped in behind your shoulder, close, and brought his hand down over yours where they were locked on the old woman’s chest.
“Look at the clock,” he said quietly into your ear.
“One more round —”
“You’ve done plenty.” He pressed, gently, until your hands stilled under his, and felt your entire body resist it. “You know she was gone before we could’ve even done anything —”
“She’s been my patient for years —”
Jack knew then that while you may have been an excellent doctor, his senior resident that had bloomed under his mentorship but still could’ve gone without him and done just the same, it wasn’t a good feeling to wonder if the job would dim you the way it had him.
“I know.” He kept his hands over yours with enough pressure so as to not let you drive them down again. “That’s why it’s yours to call. But you’ve gotta call it, Doctor.”
Your breath hitched as you turned your neck to face him, and there was a pool brimming on your lashline that you kept at bay, nodding. Your hands under his stopped straining upward, and he felt the exact second you accepted it, for it moved through your shoulders and down your spine and left you a little smaller standing there, the fight trickling into the moment after, which Jack always thought was worse.
“Time of death,” you said, forcing your voice back into the procedural tone, “oh-three-forty-one.” You peeled your gloves off finger-by-finger.
His hand found the small of your back after taking the minute, leading you to the little family consult room with the boxed tissues and fake ficus with a couch that had absorbed more bad news since longer than you or he had worked there. He shut the door with the flat of his hand and let the floor’s noise cut to a hum through the drywall.
You stood in the middle of the room with your arms crossed, holding yourself, and stayed silent.
Jack propped himself against the table, arms folded, as he breathed out a small sigh through his nose. He knew you weren’t a talker after the bad ones. Some residents came out of a loss with their mouths running, narrating it into something survivable, and some went quiet and small and had to be waited out, and you were the second kind. So he waited.
You broke it eventually, like he always knew you would have. “I’ve got a butterscotch she gave me seven months ago in my locker still,” you murmured, craning your neck so you were looking at the ceiling. You wiped under your eyes with the heel of your hand roughly.
“Think I’ve got one, too,” he murmured, wincing as he tried to shift his weight.
It had been building up for the past few hours, a hot ring of wrong down below the knee where the socket had gone slick and furnace-warm because it was past hour fourteen, when he’d sweated the fit and never changed the liner because there’d been no window that wasn’t already accounted for. He shifted his weight off it, trying again, and reached down to thumb the release, breaking the seal.
He let out a short, punched out sigh as he pulled himself down onto the chair behind him, one hand balancing himself on the table. “Sorry,” he gruffed out, jaw clenching.
Your eyes flickered down to the prosthetic limb he was balancing against the pole of the table and you were already moving before he could finish apologizing. You never asked if he needed a hand. You’d learned sometime during your second year that asking him gave him a chance to say no, and you’d quit handing him that chance sometime during your second year, so now you just came. You went down on one knee at the pole of the table.
“Don’t say sorry,” you mumbled, eyes not meeting him.
His jaw stayed tight and he didn’t fight it, fight you. That was a formality and you both knew it, a thing he did with his shoulders and not his hands, but he watched the top of your head and thought — like he always did, each time, and never said out loud — there was no one else on god’s green earth he’d let do this in the way you did. Not the prosthetist, who did it clinically. Not the VA, who did it tired. You did it each time like it was nothing and everything at once, as though this something not worth remarking on.
He very badly wanted to thank you, despite how small he always felt when you did this. He wanted to tell you that you were, without question, better at this than anyone who was paid to do it.
Your fingers found the socket and went for the liner because you knew the fit went bad and the sweat before it went bad anywhere a person could see, knew he’d have to run it slick and furnace-hot than spend the fourteen minutes off the floor. You rolled it back with the flat of your thumb, easing the trapped heat out of it, and he felt the pressure of the ring of raw below his knee and had to clench his jaw to not let the relief show on his face. You spared him anyway by keeping your eyes down where they’d been.
“You’ll strip your skin doing this,” you said conversationally, the roughness still present in your voice from the code. “You know that. You keep running it past twelve and one of these nights it’s cellulitis and I’m admitting you.”
“If only I could be so lucky.”
He ducked his head slightly, a part of him wanting to catch the reaction, and he saw how one corner of your lip was barely turned up.
You thumbed a line of red where the socket’s edge had bitten in, checking it, and your touch went careful around there. “This is new. The edge is catching higher than it was.”
“Went to a new liner last month,” he said, voice low. “Not broke in yet.”
“Then you break it on your days off. Not on a fourteen hour.” You finally looked up at him, shaking your head with this flat, fond expression he’d come to realize was your favorite way to look at him. “You’d write me up for less.”
“I’d write you up for a lot less,” he agreed, thinking back on the time you’d fought him tooth-and-nail over staying through a migraine, refusing, point-blank, to hand off a soft rule-out chest pain at eleven when the migraine had started very visibly began creeping up on you.
He’d caught you before you’d said a word about it because you’d begun squinting at the numbers and pressed the heel of your hand against one eye for a moment too long between patients, thinking nobody was watching. He was, he realized, always watching you in some way.
“Go home,” he’d said quietly, catching you by the elbow outside the curtain. “That’s not a request.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’ve got a migraine.”
“I’ve got a job.” Your jaw had clenched, stubbornly, and Jack had thought that even if he’d put all his strength into it, he wouldn’t have been able to unclench it for you. “I’m not handing off a chest pain because my head hurts. This guy has waited long enough for a bed. I’m not the priority here.”
He’d wanted to tell you that you were, actually, that you were exactly the priority, and watching you white-knuckle forms with your pupils blown different sizes from pain scared him more than any board full of critical pains ever had. But he’d just pulled down the light two notches, told the nurses to shadow eleven’s discharge, and put a bottle of water and two Tylenol on your desk without a word. And thank god, you’d taken the Tylenol and finished the shift standing up because sitting made the room tilt worse, and only taken on non-critical cases. You’d refused until the end that you should’ve gone home three hours earlier.
Now, you huffed something that was nearly a laugh, your first real once since the code, and went back to setting. And Jack sat there with his arms crossed in the dark with your hands on the worst-guarded part of him and the door shut against the whole floor, and thought about how he believed nobody deserved you. People were vile and sucked and cut in line and let doors swing shut behind them, and you handed out three dates to men who wrote sonnets in your voicemail and couldn’t clear a bar you’d never once lowered for anyone. He’d thought, more nights than he liked to admit, that these people had no idea what they were auditioning for.
His eyes snagged on you because there was nothing else in this small room worth looking at. There was still salt dried in your lashline from the code. You were a wreck and you were fixing his leg anyway, still half-shaking from a woman you couldn’t save, and it hadn’t occurred to you to stop and put yourself back together first. It never did. Jack had seen the care run out of you before you ever decided to spend it.
“I’m sorry about Mrs. Foley,” he said.
You shook your head, face still angled down, thumb pausing mid-motion. “I’ll be okay,” you murmured, lifting up one shoulder. “I just hate that she couldn’t get here sooner.”
“You did nothing wrong,” he said plainly. “Family said she’s been feeling off for two days now.”
“I know.” Your voice cracked, betraying the flatness you were trying to present. “Doesn’t make it easier.”
You lifted your head for a moment, then, looking at him with a sad smile he knew you were painting on to get him to stop talking.
He nodded stiffly, tipping his chin down. “Alright. Finish my leg and we’ll run this floor together.”
Up in radiology a few nights later, Jack had gone himself to sort out a reading that had been sitting long and he’d cornered a tech and got what he needed and was already halfway out the door, jacket sleeves still rolled from the last set of compressions, when he saw the guy standing off by the light boxes.
Younger. A resident, he supposed, in scrubs a size too crisp for someone who’d actually been on the shift long enough to earn wrinkles in them. He’d been watching Jack the whole time — Jack could feel it, the itch of being observed — shifting his weight heel to toe against the linoleum floor.
“Somethin’ on my face?” Jack said flatly because he really did have to get back to the floor.
“You’re — sorry, you’re Dr. Abbot, right?”
“Last I checked.”
The guy’s hand came out of his jacket’s pocket, and there was a piece of folded paper in it. Jack looked at it like it was a spider, hoping — no, praying — it had something to do with work.
“Could you give this to her?” the guy asked, and Jack’s hope died, as he stepped closer. “The senior resident on your shift. She’ll — she’ll know who it’s from.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Jack murmured, brows pulling in together. “You ever heard of texting, kid?”
“I did,” he said, and Jack could practically feel the heat radiating off of him. “She stopped answering, so I figured, maybe on paper, she’d actually —”
“Take the hint,” Jack grumbled, snatching the paper out of his hand. Then, as he turned to the door, he said, “You know I work in the ER?” When the guy only nodded quickly, he added, “You know she works in the ER?”
“I — yeah. Obviously.”
“Then you know she doesn’t need this.” He held up the paper between him and the guy. “She’s got enough on her plate without some guy too chicken to call her handing me a note like I’m her mailman.”
The guy opened his mouth, nose scrunching at Jack’s words, but nothing came out.
“Yeah.” Jack was already walking, note tucked in his pocket, done with the conversation. “Try calling next time. Or don’t.”
The guy looked at least a little sheepish, a little ashamed, and Jack thought good, he should feel ashamed. He wasn’t sure what the protocol in dating was now — he’d been just a little rusty and out of the stretch for a stretch of years he preferred not to count in single digits — but he was fairly certain that whatever the rules had curdled up to, this could not possibly be inside them.
He rode the elevator down with the note in his pockets, and he could feel the small stiff square of another man’s hope pressing over the outside of his thigh.
He found you at your desk, hands running restlessly through your hair as you spoke into the microphone, charting. The words were coming out of you bluntly, mechanic and after saying the same variation a thousand times over. There was a pen behind your ear you’d forgotten about and the residue of a lab value gone blue across the back of your hand where you’d scrawled it hours ago and never washed off.
He stood there for a second before you noticed him, and thought — not for the first time and with the same low irritation he always felt about it — that he had no earthly business being the man this got routed to.
Jack leaned down so his head hovered beside yours, scanning your work on the screen, close enough that his shoulder nearly brushed yours, head tilted to read your screen at an angle that had nothing to do with actually needing to see it.
“The man wants an espresso martini?” he asked, furrowing his brows as he read over your notes, right by your ear.
You jumped just slightly and swivelled on your stool to face him, then back at the screen. “Shit — Jack. Announce yourself.” You scanned the words on your notes, shaking your head and already backspacing. “No, that was me talking to myself. Stupid mic picked it up.”
“Long as it’s just the one,” he drawled, staying there in your space a little longer, watching the side of your face instead of the screen now. “Those things sneak up on you.”
“Speaking from experience?” You turned on your stool to face him fully, chin tilting up to meet his eyes, something playful and a little challenging in it.
“I’ve got a couple decades on you. Everything’s snuck up on me.”
You held his gaze a little longer, then looked away first, tongue coming out over your lips for a second. He took a small satisfaction in not being the one who blinked first.
He blew out a breath through his nose, remembering, with reluctance now, what he’d actually come here to do. “Speaking of sneaking up.” He pulled out the note from his pocket. “I got something to deliver to you —”
You furrowed your brows when he handed it to you. “Secret admirer?” you asked jokingly.
He barked out a short laugh. “Nothin’ secret about it. You ignoring some radiology fellow?”
You grimaced, opening the note and scanning over the words quickly. He could’ve left, but stayed instead and watched you read it. The frown only pulled deeper, and he saw your eye twitch once as you scanned the words.
Against his better judgement, he murmured, “That bad?”
“Uh — no, it’s okay.” You shrugged stiffly.
“Huh,” he breathed out, studying you outright now. “Wonder what you’re doin’ to these guys to get them so wound up.”
You chuckled, mostly to yourself. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”
His chest tightened at that. It was unfair how you could make anything to him sound like something he’d been waiting to hear. He swallowed. “Suppose I would.”
“That an offer, Dr. Abbot?”
“Might be,” he said, shrugging one shoulder.
You laughed — surprised, the tension in your shoulders breaking slightly — and shook your head, folding the note back up. “You’re ridiculous. Well, thank you for getting it to me. I’m sorry he bothered you with this —” You swivelled, placing the note on your desk before picking up your phone. “That’s really weird.”
“That’s one word for it,” Jack said, and left it there, because you’d already turned and had your phone in one hand and the microphone in the other. The small furrow was back between your brows, and he’d learned there was a point past which pushing you got him a brighter, smaller version of whatever you were covering.
He drifted toward the far end of the station where Mateo was crouched at the crash cart running his palm along the drawers, checking seals, restocking and checking the fact of it on slower nights like this.
“She okay?” Mateo asked, snapping the drawer, seemingly having caught the interaction.
“Oh, you know.” Jack leaned a shoulder into the wall, arms crossing. “The belle of our ball. Can’t clock in without collecting a proposal.”
Mateo huffed. “She loves love.”
“That she does.” Jack watched you across the station, the phone lit against your ear now. “Don’t know why she keeps doing that to herself, though.”
“She’s an optimist.” Mateo clicked a seal into place, then moved down the cart. “Thinks someone’s gonna turn out different.”
Jack hummed, then, because the question had been sitting low and unlovely for a couple hours, he asked, “You two give it a run ever?”
Mateo turned his neck to look up at Jack. “Me and —” He jutted his thumb behind him to vaguely gesture at you. “Her?”
“Mhm.” Jack kept his eyes on you. “You’re close.”
“Nah.” Mateo went back to the cart, shaking his head as he chuckled softly. “I don’t think I’d pass a single one of her tests. Besides, I got my eye on someone.”
“Apparently I don’t make the list either, I guess,” Jack murmured.
Mateo laughed through his nose, eyeing Jack with something new now. “You want to?”
Jack caught it, reaching his palm and smacking it against Mateo’s curls with no force. “No. Now, do your job.”
“I am —” He laughed through the words, eyes scanning over Jack’s stiffened posture now. “It’s good you don’t, then. Couldn’t handle her anyway.”
“Sure, I could,” Jack said immediately.
Mateo’s head turned again, lips curving upwards at Jack’s words, and he felt momentarily blindsided by his own mouth, entirely too honest for something that had started as a joke.
“Sure, you could,” Mateo teased, drawing out the words.
“Shut it.” Jack grabbed a box of gloves off the cart and set it down two shelves lower than it needed to go, purely to do something with his hands that didn’t involve reaching for Mateo’s collar. “Wasn’t a real question.”
Couldn’t handle you? As if he didn’t know, without having to think about it, that you took the stairs two at a time instead of the elevator when you were annoyed and needed somewhere to put your extra energy, or that you’d started drinking your coffee black on nights a patient reminded you of someone, syrup and cream abandoned, like sweetness felt wrong to have that shift. As if he hadn’t noticed, months ago, that you hummed the same four off-key notes from a jingle neither you nor Jack could place when a chart was boring you to death, or that you double-checked every single IV line now, ever since one bad mistake in your first year. He could very well handle you, he simply hadn’t been given the chance to do so.
Most of the time, Jack was fine with watching your love life play out in 3D. More often than not, he knew they’d never work out. You were just too good for anyone who came sniffing, and there was a grim comfort in that, in knowing the fellows and the nurses would wash through and out and leave you exactly where he found you, three feet down the counter from him, close enough to keep.
Tonight the comfort wasn’t coming. Mateo’s accidental interrogation had rubbed Jack wrongly, somewhere he had yet to fully locate yet, and was sitting in his chest like a splinter he kept forgetting was there until he turned the corner over the night, saw you, and noticed it was there. He should’ve let it stay as nothing, but his brain had apparently decided three hours later was the correct time to relitigate the whole exchange, turning it over at odd intervals between patients like a tongue worrying a chipped tooth.
It was the bad sort of slow in the ER, the sort that let his brain fill up with things he’d have no time for on a real night. Ellis had wandered over to your desk with two energy drinks and placed her arms loosely beside your computer.
Jack was distantly aware he had misplaced labs to hand back to you because they’d gotten lost in the system, and he told himself that was the whole reason his body had started moving in your direction.
“I got a rundown from Marge,” Ellis said, dropping into an empty stool beside you. “Apparently he wrote it out of the OR.”
“You’re joking,” you muttered. “I don’t understand it.”
Jack stood there with the labs in his hand, close enough to hear it.
“I’m still wondering if I should respond,” you were saying, half into your hands. “Is this romantic? This one’s never happened before.”
Ellis laughed slightly with you, and the two of you had built one of those small pockets that slow nights sometimes allowed, thirty seconds of being people instead of clinicians.
Jack set the labs down at the edge of your keyboard harder than he meant to, the papers slapping flat against the desk, and both of you looked up at him like he’d grown two heads. Fuck — had he? It sure felt like he was operating off of whatever chemical cocktail his brain had whipped up for nights like this, some ugly little compound of jealousy and exhaustion. He was fairly sure if you pulled his labs right now they’d look like a man in the middle of a bad reaction to something not yet figured out in the scientific world.
“Labs on eight got lost.” His palm stayed on the sheet for a few seconds too long, some instinct telling him to keep his hand on something solid before the rest of him did something stupid. “You’ll want to recheck the trop.”
His eyes cut, against every ounce of better judgement he had left, to the note still folded in your hand, the same one he’d carried down like it was radioactive, the same note that had clearly done something for you that four years of Jack standing next to you clearly hadn’t. An unreasonable, low feeling creeped up behind his ribs at the sight of it, hot and out of proportion to a piece of folded-fucking-paper.
Ellis’s smile went uncertain as he felt her gaze snag on him.
You blinked up at him, and whatever had been sitting easy in your face a second ago curdled itself away, the corners of your mouth retreating. He knew this same retreat, had watched you recalibrate your muscles, swiftly, built to be unreadable against anyone who hadn’t spent four years learning your face.
His stomach dropped and heat climbed up the back of his neck, jaw tightening on its own. He hated that his body had learned to answer you the way it answered a motor alarm. He hated more that some raw, cornered part in him — still smarting about Mateo’s offhand comment and sore from that folded note — felt it wasn’t soothed.
You blinked up at him, and the laugh faded off your face, and you said, easily, warm, “Yeah — course. I’ll get right on that.”
He shrugged up one shoulder, lips pressing into a thin line. He turned, already walking away. “Whenever there’s a gap on your social calendar, I guess.”
He heard the small silence that opened behind him, and he could practically imagine you and Ellis looking at each other. Then, he heard you push back from the desk, the stool wheels catching, and your footsteps coming after him like he’d known they would, because you were the last person to let something like that go.
“Hey.” You fell into step beside him, voice pitched low, still giving him more benefit than the doubt had earned in the last ten seconds. “What was that about?”
“Nothing.” He tilted his neck up slightly to do a quick scan of the board, some stubborn muscle in his neck refusing to let him meet your eyes. “Got a department to run.”
“And you’ve been running it great. You just became weird right now.” He could feel you working it over beside him, shifting on your feet as you toed the line between resident and the hard-won territory neither of you had ever named. “Jack.”
“You want to laugh about your shitty dates, that’s your business,” he said instead of letting it go, sounding too far from the man who’d had his hands hovering over yours an hour ago, watching you put in a chest tube, telling you that you’d done well. “Do it a little quieter. This is an ER, not a lunch table.”
His words stopped you for half a step. Jack kept walking, an ugly, cowardly momentum carrying him three more steps before you caught back up.
He heard you recalibrate your voice in real time when you said, “I was charting on a slow shift,” carefully. “You’ve made worse jokes when it’s even more busy. What’s this about?”
“It’s about you treating this place like it’s your dating pool and not your place of work.” The words came out much uglier than he meant, and he didn’t have it in him to call them back. “It’s not professional. It reflects on the department. Reflects on me. Somebody’s gotta say it, and apparently that’s me, since you clearly enjoy it too much to stop.”
You stopped walking altogether this time. He turned to face your stillness whole, then, and found your eyes narrowed at him, looking like you’d been hit from a direction you hadn’t been completely guarding against.
He let out a breath, fingers going up to his forehead to wipe at sweat that wasn’t there. “I’m just saying what —”
“I’m sorry,” you said, voice going level and courteous, as you nodded quickly. “You’re right. You’re my attending, it reflects on you. I’ll keep my personal life out of work.”
“That’s not —” he tried, but you were already turning away, shoulders squared and chin level, professional armor snapping into place just like he’d told you to. It should have made him feel better to watch you take it so cleanly, to not make a big deal out of it. All it made him feel was like something had been surgically removed from him.
“Stop —” he tried again, to your back now, and the sentence died somewhere between his teeth and the air. That was okay. There was no end to the sentence that didn’t sound worse than the beginning anyway.
He blew out a sharp breath through his nose, standing in the middle of the floor with his hand still half-raised toward you, fingers curling back into his palm when he realized you weren’t there to reach. Jack felt, distantly, uselessly, like the only thing standing still in the entire building.
“Great going,” he heard Lena say, trailing past him, a tray tucked against her hip, not even breaking stride. “You got rid of the one entertainment we’ve got around here.”
His shoulders stiffened, and he caught up with her in three steps, jaw working around words that wanted to spill out defensively and came out simply tired. “It’s not entertainment if she keeps getting hurt,” he grumbled. “She’s not a show. Stop treating her like one.”
“Didn’t look like she was the one getting hurt tonight,” she said, rounding a corner and leaving him standing there.
Jack let out a low groan, running a palm down the lower half of his face, and dropped his hand only when he’d scrubbed enough friction into his jaw to feel it sting a little, which was at least a sensation he’d chosen, at least tonight. He stood there a second longer, staring at nothing in particular. His hands found his hips on reflex.
“Fuck,” he muttered to himself, and dragged both hands back through his hair, gripping once at the roots before letting go.
He rolled his neck, felt it pop unsatisfyingly, and pushed off the wall he hadn’t even realized he was leaning against. His leg fucking ached, the burn starting behind his knee. He ignored it like he always did and started walking anyway, jaw still held tight, hands shoved deep into his pockets like he could physically hold himself together with the seams of his own black scrubs.
It was by the lockers after hand-off that Jack saw you next. Both of you had conveniently managed to work over-time; he because there was nothing to get home to, and you — he’d heard through the grapevine — because one of your patient’s little sister was coming in toward close, and you simply wanted to talk with her instead of handing the situation off to one of the day residents.
Usually, nobody had asked you to stay when you did. Most times, there was no version of staying that showed up in your favor; he and Shen were gone, so there was no attending grading you on it; no hours that counted. It was just for a kid who was going to get bad news from a face she’d seen before, so you cost yourself hours of sleep you most definitely needed to be the soft spot for a stranger’s little sister, and hadn’t mentioned it to a soul, and he knew you would’ve been embarrassed if he brought it up.
He found you using the little mirror inside your locker to apply some kind of pink-tubed gloss with one hand while the other ran its fingers through your hair. Jack pursed his lips, eyeing you from the doorway, because he was pretty sure you’d done something different to it in the last ten minutes.
“Look nice,” he tried, biting the bullet and walking toward his own locker. “Goin’ somewhere?”
You caught his eyes in the mirror instead of turning around. “Just breakfast,” you said, and there was none of the earlier lilt in it, the warmth that you’d always aimed at him gone functional. You capped the gloss with more force than it needed and dropped it into your bag.
Jack stood there a second too long with his hand over his own locker without opening it. He’d expected — and he knew he was more optimistic than usual for doing so — your easy back-and-forth, his slip-up from earlier forgotten. He wasn’t sure what to do with the quiet or you not looking at him properly, hairbrush working through your hair in short strokes.
He’d saved around thirty lives tonight, and that was what he was good at. He was not good, and had never claimed to be good, at the aftermath of hurting a person he’d have put his own body between a stretcher and wall for, without meaning to, over something that had never been about the radiology fellow at all.
He opted out of opening his locker and chose instead to lean his bicep against the locker, eyeing you in front of him. “Mad at me?” he murmured.
You let out a short breath, shaking your head, and he tracked all your micro-expressions through the mirror. “On the clock?”
“Well, we’ve both been off it for a while now,” he said, watching the shape of your mouth in the mirror, waiting for it to give something away. It didn’t. “But no. Asking as your —” He stopped himself, because ‘friend’ seemed not to be the honest word though it was the first one that popped up. “Off the clock. Whatever I am to you right now.”
You set the hairbrush down on the little shelf with more care than the moment needed. “It’s okay, Jack,” you said, shaking your head.
“Don’t think it is. Try again.”
You watched him for a second in the mirror, then you turned.
“It’s just embarrassing,” you said, and the words came out smaller than anything he’d heard out of you in years. You crossed your arms over your chest. “I respect you and I hate that you’d think for one second I don’t take this place seriously.” Your voice cracked on the last word, just barely, and you pressed your lips together. “So, yeah. It’s embarrassing to have my attending confirming I’m exactly what people think I am.”
He was shaking his head before you could even finish the sentence. “Nobody thinks —”
“You do,” you said, voice rising slightly. “So, off the clock, I’m embarrassed, and tonight, I’m going to be your resident. Because I agree with you. It’s been unprofessional of me to keep dating within the hospital —” You threw your arms up halfway by your side, and you let out a short laugh that came out dry and wrong. “And I hate that you’ve probably been thinking it for four years.”
“I haven’t,” he said too fast. God, he’d come here to make tonight better for you, not to make you re-evaluate all your years working with him. “Sure, I thought it was none of my business how you spend your good nights off. Didn’t stop me from thinking they didn’t deserve ‘em.”
You rolled your eyes. “You’re just saying that now ‘cause you feel bad.”
“Wish it were that simple,” he said, and chose to leave it unelaborated because it wasn’t that simple and he had no intention of explaining exactly why. “Half the time, you know it’s not gonna work out. You’re breaking my heart by making me watch you break yours.”
You blinked, and he watched the fight loosen out of you by inches. “It’s just a free breakfast, Jack. Nothing to get your heart broken over.”
Jack let out a huff through his nose, mouth opening to say what, he didn’t know. “Is that all? ‘Cause I can get you free breakfast for the rest of your life.”
You laughed, disbelieving, through your nose, some of the night’s weight finally cracking off of you. “You’ve got a weird way of apologizing.”
“Just to my favorite resident.” He pointed his index finger at you, lazy, and pushed himself off the lockers. His shoulder blades left a faint dust-print on the metal where he’d been leaning. He thumbed in the combination without looking at the dial — muscle memory, years of the same locker — and the door swung open with a rusted squeak. He pulled out his bag. “So?”
“So what?”
“You ditch the fellow.” He slung the bag up over his shoulder, close enough now that he caught the tail-end of the perfume you’d lightly spritzed over yourself. “I buy.”
You looked at him for a second too long, lips pushing to one side, as though you were gauging whether this was a bit or not, another line he’d tossed and wanted to let die on its own. He stood there, jaw set and features relaxing to show you he did mean it, more than he wanted to admit, if he was being honest with himself.
“You’re serious.”
“Do I look like I’m not?” He nodded once at your locker, your bag sitting on the shelf. “Grab your stuff. We’re going.”
“Fine,” you said finally, reaching over and zipping your backpack all the way before throwing it over one shoulder. “Can you drive? I’ve been taking the subway.”
“Why?” he asked drily. “You’ve got a car.”
Jack realized, as he watched you slide in across from him and folding both hands around the coffee before it was all the way poured, that he’d never once been on a date where the woman had no idea it was one.
It wasn’t lost on him what that made him, a man old enough to know better, letting a thing be one thing on his side of the table and another thing entirely on yours, saying nothing to square the difference. But he’d meant what he’d said, and he was going to feed you.
You ordered a short stack, eggs, hash brown, decaf on loop. She wrote it down, definitely having heard worse from better.
“Thanks for the treat, Jack,” you said when Dina left, bringing the rim of your cup to your lips. “Don’t think I could’ve done another breakfast to let him down gently.”
“We have to make some changes to your lifestyle,” Jack replied, voice rough, as he eyed you.
“Oh, yeah?” you murmured. “We?”
“Well, I did have to deliver a note to you today. In all my life working here, that’s never happened.”
You laughed around the rim of your cup. “In my defense, I don’t think anyone’s wrote me a note out of an OR either. That’s a first for both of us.”
“Glad we share the experience.”
Dina came by with a pot and topped you off without being asked, and placed the food in front of you. Jack watched you reach for the salt before your fork had even touched the eggs, shaking it twice over the plate.
“You’re gonna give yourself a stroke by forty.”
“You’re gonna give me a stroke right now if you comment on my food.” But you set the shaker down after the third shake, which he noticed and had to bite back a smile.
Dina dropped his plate in front of him — bacon, eggs, no pancakes — and you were reaching for it with a piece of your fork before she’d even finished setting his fork down. He gave you a faux-frown, picking up his fork and, without looking, spreading a piece of your hashbrown off the opposite plate in trade. He wasn’t sure when the two of you had started stealing bites and sips off of each other’s stuff, only that it’d started somewhere and calcified into something neither of you mentioned.
“Rude,” you said, mouth already full.
“Learned it from you,” he muttered, nudging his plate an inch closer to your side of the table, which you took full advantage of.
Dina’s radio crackled through something twangy and close-to-familiar behind the counter, competing with the clatter of a skillet somewhere in the back, the whole place smelling like batter and grease soaked into decades of countertop, syrup that had dried a hundred small amber rings nobody had ever fully scrubbed off.
“I’ve never been here before.” You absentmindedly cut the hashbrown in half as your eyes raked over the place. “This a regular spot for you?”
“Since before you joined,” he said easily, but his brows furrowed as he realized he’d been coming here alone for years. He was in the same booth when he could get it, ordered the same order, and it struck to him only now, watching you eat your hashbrowns, how much smaller and less lonely a booth felt with you taking up the other half of it. “Used to be the only quiet I got on some weeks.”
You hummed. “And now?”
“Guess the quiet’s pretty negotiable.” He shrugged. “I can go without it.”
You smiled down at your plate, something easy working at the corner of your mouth. A thread of syrup had gathered at the seam of your lips — you hadn’t noticed, too busy considering his answer — and before he’d cleared the impulse with the rest of himself, his thumb was already moving, catching it at the corner quickly, no different than when he swiped under your lashline for salt after a bad night.
You stayed still, having gotten used to his hands somewhere during your residency.
“You’re a mess,” he said, wiping his thumb off on the paper napkin folded under his elbow.
“You’ve got coffee on your scrub top,” you said, eyes flicking down to his chest. His brows furrowed and he looked down, and you were right. “Pot, kettle.”
He’d been about to say something else, he could’ve sworn it, but had lost every word of it watching you smile so unguarded, free enough to let him look at you. He had to reach for his coffee just to have something to do with his hands.
When the check came, folded in its little plastic tray, you both reached for it at once. Your hand landed flat over his knuckles. Neither of you moved it for a second, for his hand stayed exactly where it was, broad and unmoving under yours, and something unspoken passed through the two inches of fornica between your faces as he raised a brow at you. He slid the tray out from under you slowly.
“Said I’m buying,” he said, shaking his head slightly.
The drive back had been quieter than the one there had been. It was nearing ten in the morning, and he knew both of you had stayed up longer than intended, especially for two people who had to clock back in in a shorter amount of time than he deemed plausible to reset completely.
He’d cracked the window down an inch, and the air coming through carried the smell of wet pavement and the sound of a garbage truck grinding its gears three streets over. Your neighborhood, he was learning, woke up slow; there was a paperboy on a bike, a guy in scrubs different from yours locking up his own car after a shift that wasn’t at the PTMC, and Jack drove through it with two fingers loose over the wheel. Neither of you had bothered with the radio.
You’d gone somewhere billowy around your third cup of decaf, all the sharp edges of the night replaced with something looser and sleepier, and you gave him directions in a voice gone thick from exhaustion as you were likely starting to feel it behind your eyes.
He pulled his car along the curb and let it idle, one shoe braced against the floorboard, watching the numbers of your building.
“Gonna sleep?” he asked.
“Gonna try.” You were already working the bag strap over your shoulder, hair falling loose out of the knot you’d put it up in at some point at the diner, strands of it catching the early light. “I’ve got no idea how you do this then take SWAT calls.”
“You’d be able to do it, too, if I put you on the field.”
You mumbled something, letting your head drop against the window for a second, before picking itself back up. “Stop threatening me, Jack.”
He watched you fight your eyelids, his mouth pulling up at the corners at the sight. “C’mon. Get inside before I gotta carry you up.”
You snorted, half-hearted. “You can’t. You’d throw your hip out.”
“Try me.” He was already rounding the hood before you’d gathered your bearings, boots loud on the quiet street, and you let out another laugh and let him get there first, too tired to argue about who gets to open what.
He walked you up the cracked path, palm settling at the small of your back, and you leaned back into it, half your weight given over without you noticing it.
At the door, you fumbled with your keys out from under a granola wrapper and a capless pen, missed the lock twice, and gave up trying on the third. You turned to face him instead with your back against the frame and your bag slowly sliding off one shoulder.
“Thank you,” you said, words coming out loose and filtered by the exhaustion even as you tried to meet his eyes head-on. “For the — everything. The explanation. And the breakfast.”
Jack felt his lips curve up, fingers flexing at his sides. “Anytime.”
“And for driving me there — thank you. And for the drive back.”
“Uh-huh. You gonna go inside?” he said, voice going quieter as he looked down at the ground, at how the toes of your shoes were almost touching. “Or keep thanking me until you fall asleep standing up?”
You cocked your head to the side, your lips moving upwards into a fuller smile. His own mouth curved as he shifted on his feet slightly, closing the barely-there inch between his shoes and yours.
“Jack?”
He hummed, and you went up slightly onto your toes before he’d finished deciding what to do with you. Or maybe he’d moved in first, or maybe there was no real order to it at all. His mouth found yours somewhere in that uncertainty, slowly despite it, because he’d already worked out every version of this moment and this one had simply appeared in front of him.
His hand came up to cradle the side of your jaw, thumb settling into the soft hollow just beneath your ears. Your skin was warm despite the cold snap in the air, much softer than he’d let himself imagine, and he felt the exact second your breath caught against his mouth, a small stutter that made his fingers curve around your jaw, index resting against your cheekbone.
He kept it slow, it was the only thing he had any real control over right now, the pace of it instead of the fact of it. He used what little he had left, dragging his mouth against yours, like he could somehow make up for four years of nothing by refusing to rush the first thirty seconds of something. His other hand found your waist, and his palm felt how your back curved into him, the hitch of your ribs on an inhale, and he pressed you back the last inch against the doorframe more to ground himself.
Your fist found the front of his canvas jacket, dragging him in the last stubborn space he’d been too careful to close himself, and a sound came out of his chest that embarrassed him a little. He felt you smile against his mouth, and his entire body felt warm at having been caught enjoying this entirely as much as he was.
He tilted his head so his forehead pressed against yours and pulled his mouth away. His lips jutted out slightly, feeling suddenly empty and unwilling to put the full distance back between the two of you.
Your eyes were still shut, and you were breathing unevenly. “Thank you,” you murmured.
He huffed a short laugh, and in it, realized how breathless he, too, was.
You tipped your chin back up, already chasing him.
Jack felt the want knot up inside him, greedy and unreasonably leaning back in to meet you halfway before the rest of him had caught up and made him stop. He made a small sound in his throat and pinched his eyes shut, letting you get right up to the edge of it, breath already tangling with his, wanting so badly to just let it happen, before his finger came up between you, pressed light against your bottom lip to stop you a hair short. It was more for his own sake than the words he remembered you telling someone years ago ringing in his head.
“Ah-ah.” His voice came out rough with want, entirely at odds with his actions. “Your rule. Only one kiss after the first date. I’m trying —” he exhaled hard, almost dramatically, “— trying real hard here to make it to the second.”
“Huh?” Your eyes peeled open. “This was a date?”
“Best one you’ve had I’m guessing, with the way you’re breaking your rules.” His finger stayed right where it was, and he watched your eyes struggle to focus, still glassy from the kiss. He could feel the warm huff of breath breaking unsteady against his fingertip, could feel your mouth soft and parted underneath it, waiting on him.
You pressed a peck against his finger instead, your mouth barely dragging against his skin as a shy smile formed behind it that he felt more than saw. “Maybe.”
“Well, good.” He smiled, despite himself, and pushed himself off your forehead, opting instead to press his lips there. “Get some sleep,” he murmured against your hairline, lips lingering a little longer there. “Might be able to get a full seven hours.”
“Will you?”
“Doubt it.” He pulled back enough to look at you properly, thumb tracing a line along your cheekbone — his touch feather-light, tracking the exact curve of it, memorizing the route — before he made himself drop his hand entirely, fingers curling loosely at his sides because suddenly he had no idea what to do with them without you under them. “Kinda got a lot on my mind now.”
“Yeah?” You bit back a smile, still not quite steady on your feet. “Anything you wanna share with the class?”
“Not a chance.” He bent a fraction and hooked two fingers under the strap of your bag where it’d slid down to your elbow, dragging it slowly back up to your shoulders, knuckles grazing your arms the whole way. “You’ll find out. Eventually.”
He forced himself to step off the mat — one step back, then the second, putting real distance between you now — forcing ease into his expression that he definitely wasn’t feeling. He stopped a few feet away from you anyway, unable to fully commit to walking away, watching you stunned and still in your doorway, mouth a little kiss-soft. He felt so completely helpless and pleased at the sight. “Text me when you’re up and I’ll get to planning date two.”
You raised a hand into a wave, fingers curling in the air.
“Bye, Jack,” you said, and his name came out of your mouth softer than you probably meant it to, smooth and cushy the way it never sounded on shift.
He lifted his chin up at you once and made himself turn, finally, finding the path back to his car. He made it to the curb before he looked back again, and you were still standing there, one hand braced on the door, watching him go with an expression he was sure he was going to think of the entire drive home.
