summary: when you join the FBI, everybody on your team is so welcoming except for steve harrington. when your team is placed on an undercover case, you're partnered with the one person you can't stand. your ability to work together will be detrimental to the case to save as many lives as possible.
current word count: 16k
pairing: agent!steveharrington x femagent!reader
notes: i miss criminal minds and steve harrington so i put them together </3
warnings: no use of y/n, enemies to lovers, eventual smut, fake dating, forced proximity, some violence + graphic cases will be mentioned, core four <3, everybody is here, slowish burn, SO angsty, kind of mayfield!reader (she's adopted), will add more as i think of them
summary: through your five years of residency at PTMC, you grew to hate Jack Abbot with all your might. Robby makes sure you come to terms with him, all of it having an unexpected turn as he sends you both to the medical conference in Washington.
warnings: 18+, undisclosed age gap, smut, unprotected sex (plan b mentioned), oral (f receiving), creampie, brief breeding kink, enemies to lovers, one bed trope, curse words, alcohol consumption
word count: 4.8k
“He clearly doesn’t like me, Michael.” You huffed, adjusting the stethoscope around your neck.
Michael Robinavitch was your mentor and also a best friend. You worked together for almost five years after you moved to Pittsburgh. And you were one of the few people who actually called him by his first name.
Robby looked through some papers on the chart, humming underneath his breath, his reading glasses hanging low.
“You are not listening.” You rolled your eyes, walking over to the nurse station, looking through a chart.
Dana glared up at you, shaking her head with a little smile.
“Arguing with Robby again?”
You straightened your back a little and huffed. “I would call it an exchange of opinions.”
Day and night shifts met for a quick briefing, Robby standing tall and serious. You were beside Mel, who looked anxious as always, stealing occasional looks at Langdon who were unusually smiley.
Then your eyes flicked to the opposite, to who dared to stand beside your partner in crime. Jack Abbot with his arrogant and cocky energy.
You scrunched your nose and he caught your stare, giving you a lopsided smile. He always enjoyed teasing you and you never held back.
“So, the thing is there’s this medical conference next week and I have to pick two of us who will represent the PTMC there.” Robby started, he wasn’t a fan of those events so you knew exactly he won’t be attending. You crossed your arms over your chest, curiosity took over your brain and you thought about who he should pick.
Frank raised his hand. “I’ll go. I think I’m pretty capable of doing so.”
Robby shook his head no. “No. I already made my choice.” And his gaze ended up on you. Oh no. Oh no. You knew where this was going.
Inhaling sharply, you were about to speak when he pointed at your figure adding: “You and Abbot.”
Jack raised his brows in surprise, but then his expression changed into an amused one, flashing a smirk at you. “Oh, funny.”
“You can’t be serious, Michael.” You growled, anger fuelling your body.
“That’s my final decision. I expect you two to behave like the professionals you are.” Robby dismissed the meeting, others already whispering and giggling.
You stomped on your feet, walking towards him all the while Jack still stood beside him.
“I won’t go.”
Robby scribbled something onto a paper, clipping it onto a chart not caring about your words.
“Come on. Don’t be silly.” Jack chuckled.
“I’m not talking to you.” You shot him a death glare and he just shook his head.
Michael lifted his gaze to look at you, being all so serious. You know it's just a bullshit facade.
“I’m giving you a chance to solve this— this something, which I don’t understand what is, between you two. Talk it out, spend some time together, I don’t know, but don’t come back from that conference with unresolved issues you have with yourselves.” And he was gone for a patient that just came through.
The way you were pissed off was unbelievably bad. Jack crossed his arms over his chest.
“Well, I won’t be easy on you, so you better get ready.”
“Go fuck yourself.” You scoffed, trying to find yourself a useful thing to do, you decided to go triage.
Arriving into the hotel you were staying in Washington was another kind of shock.
After neverending bickering through the flight, you were excited to get some peace in your hotel room.
Only to find out there was a mistake with your booking and you ended up in the same room as your rival.
One bed
Your worst nightmare, sharing the most intimate space with this unbelievable man.
Jack shook his head when he put his suitcase against the wall, taking another glance at the bed as if he was able to divide it into two.
“Robby, you piece of shit…” he muttered, but you heard it, shooting him an annoyed look.
“I will kill that man, with my bare HANDS.” You were livid, pacing at the window.
“Calm down, it’s okay. This bed is fucking huge, so there’s plenty space for us both.” He was amused.
“I don’t care what you think, Abbot. I’m getting my own room.” You were determined.
Casually, he shoved his hands into the pockets of his pants. “You heard the receptionist. There’s no other room, because they’re overbooked. Everybody is here for the medical conference. So be a professional and suck it up.”
You hated how he was right.
Jack was unbelievably gentle, standing tall beside you, chest puffed with pride when you spoke with other people representing the medical field. He took in how you were glowing while talking about things you loved.
When sitting at the table, you circled the leg of the champagne flute, watching it with an empty look.
“You don’t fancy alcohol?” His voice got you out of your mind.
“Not much.” You murmured, taking a glance at the speaker on the podium.
Jack was listening to everything that was said, massaging his thigh above the prosthesis, it was one of those days he felt utterly exhausted by that damn thing.
You didn’t care, trying to mind your own business, making some notes.
But Jack couldn’t help but steal occasional glances at your figure, the dress you were wearing was really enhancing you, as if you were born to wear that fabric. Clearing his throat, he shook his head to get back to his line of thinking.
You noticed he was staring, but said nothing, because you were already exhausted from dealing with him before, so there wasn’t a point in losing any more time with him. But you had to admit that he looked damn good in that suit, that white shirt under his blazer was really something, with those two buttons undone from the top revealing a little of his greyish chest hair. Swallowing hard, you felt your throat becoming dry, so this was the time you gulped the champagne.
Staying for the dinner and some evening chat with other doctors, one of them flirting with you, Jack decided he had enough and he excused himself to go back to the hotel room. His leg was bothering him to the limits the same as that damn young doctor trying to impress you with his successes through internships.
“Jesus Christ, what the hell?” You huffed when you arrived at the hotel room, a little tipsy, spotting a prosthetic leg casually resting against the wall near the bedside table.
Jack lifted his gaze lazily from the tv show he was watching, already tucked in the spacious bed.
“Scared by an innocent part of a leg? Get a grip.” He scoffed, but there was that sarcastic undertone you couldn’t unhear.
“Pff… I don’t have limbs scattered across my flat, so…” you rolled your eyes, trying to take off your heels, but it was already a struggle given to your tired state.
He noticed your fight with the tiny straps and he sat up on the bed. “Come here, you clumsy thing.”
And you did, landing on your ass on the edge of the bed and he gestured for you to lift your leg up so he could reach for it. Once his large hands wrapped around your ankle, your guts did a flip, the one you didn’t expect.
Jack was focused on the small fastening that was stuck. With the surgical precision he undid it and relieved your foot from the tight grip of the heel.
Then you lifted your other leg and he did the same. Now you had your legs on his lap and he ran his fingers over the curves of your insteps, pressing a little into the marks from the straps.
“You should consider stopping wearing those damn heels. Not good for your feet and back.” His voice soothed something in the depths of your soul, you started to melt under his skilled touch.
“Keep it to yourself, doctor Abbot.” You muttered and moved down to rest on your elbows, the dress hanging on your figure, your skin growing annoyed of the fabric.
Jack let out a soft chuckle, pressing his thumb to your sole causing you to groan in utter satisfaction.
“Fucking hell…” a soft mutter escaped your lips, your head falling back with a deep sigh.
“I know what I’m doing.”
The way he massaged your feet was astounding and embarrassingly great. You thought that you could never admit this to Robby. Ever.
“Sure you do…”
Jack hummed, tracing your ankle with his thumb. “I have an idea. Go take a shower and I’ll massage your feet even more, you can fall asleep comfortably. Hm?”
You turned your head back to stare at him in disbelief, awaiting something mischievous behind it but his face was soft and full of honesty.
“Okay.” You whispered softly, getting off the bed, already missing his warm touch. Collecting your toiletry bag and pajamas, you disappeared into the bathroom.
After a while you were out, fresh as a daisy, a tired expression written all over your face. A scent of your shampoo hit his nose and he cleared his throat.
Climbing into the bed under the sheets, you lay your head on the pillow, looking up at how he was seated against the headboard.
“Were you serious or you were making fun of me?”
Jack patted his lap again, your legs moving instinctively towards him and he moved a little closer to you for you to be more comfortable. You could smell him, feel the heat radiating from his body, but you didn’t feel nervous or scared. It brought you peace and comfort.
“Is this okay?” He asked for your permission in a low tone, giving you a concerned look.
You nodded, eyes closing as he massaged your feet gently.
For you it was a very intimate act. And with your sworn enemy?
“Thank you.” Your murmur was barely heard, but he caught it, smiling to himself, working on your toes.
“I would take care of you every day if you were mine.” Jack sighed into the silence of the room, while you were already out, deeply asleep.
The first sunrays peeked through the curtains of the hotel room, having you stirring in the bed. Something heavy was draped over your upper body, heat radiating at your back. A soft hum of approval escaped your mouth, but then you opened your eyes slowly, confused a little.
Jack had his arm draped over you, holding you close to his chest while his breath trickled your hair on your neck as he was still asleep.
Your mind yelled at you to jump out of the bed immediately, but you decided to shift a little, your stare taking in his skin.
Counting the freckles on his forearm, you actually felt good, safe even.
Until you felt another thing poking into your back, blush was creeping up your cheeks.
“Jack. Hey. We have to get up.” You tried to gently nudge him but all he did was wrap his arms around you tight, his face buried in the crook of your neck, exhaling heavily.
“A few more minutes, baby…” he hummed, grinding his hips into you.
Eyes wide you jumped out of the bed, heart thumping in your chest. “Abbot. Wake up, you dang idiot!” Your voice surely caused him to open his eyes lazily, looking at you and then he shifted to lay on his back.
“What’s the rush, huh?” His voice was hoarse and now you could see clearly the tent formed between his legs.
“Jesus Christ, you have no decency.” You huffed, grabbing your clothes to disappear into the bathroom.
Jack peeked under the cover to seek his morning wood only to grin. “That’s a sign my body is working well.”
Doing your skincare, you still felt the ache in your lower belly, the one that you desperately tried to keep at bay with your own skilled hands. There’s no way you would want to have sex with your enemy. No.
Maybe… a little. Yeah. No.
You shook your head and once being ready, you fled out of the bathroom, taking a glance at him with the corner of your eye.
Jack struggled to put on his leg, grunting and cursing under his breath.
“Need a hand?” You were all sarcastic but in your mind you pitied this man.
“Actually, yeah.” He ran a hand through his messy grey curls and you put down your phone, walking to him. Jack noticed you’re wearing a dress, again, but this time it was a nice summer one with flowers on it.
“You look good.” He hummed out and you just got onto your knees completely ignoring him as you focused on the task and that was clasping his leg on where it has to be.
“Tell me what to do?” You lifted your gaze and you caught his expression. Sucking in a breath he got out of the trance, showing you exactly what he needed help with.
You nodded, trying your best, your dainty fingers helping but that prosthetic bitch had its own mind.
“Shit…” you cursed and Jack propped himself back on his hands.
“Fuck. I hate this.”
You sat back on your heels, taking in his frustrated expression and your eyes wandered down south.
“Abbot, are you fucking kidding me?” You breathed out at the sight of his erection again.
His gaze fell down and he smirked a little.
“Well, you're on your knees…”
Your eyes went wide, mouth open agape when you wanted to insult him but your brain was numb. You could use some relief, a man hasn’t touched you in ages.
“You're an unbelievable asshole.”
“Really? Then why are you blushing? Why are you so flushed, princess?” He mocked you and you noticed his dick twitching in his shorts.
Acting more on instinct, you managed to rip your panties off you and throwing them at him with annoyed grunt. Catching them swiftly, he brought them to his nose, inhaling your sweet scent.
“Guess we’re gonna need to prolong our stay.” His voice was suddenly so deep.
Your hands grabbed his thighs, a longing sigh escaping your mouth. “How do we play this out?”
Jack was still mesmerised by the piece of fabric that used to hug your pussy, but he gave you a look full of lust.
“Robby wants us to get our frustrations out. So, use me. Ride me. Whatever you like. Because I know you’re secretly thinking about all the things you’d do to me.” His body leaned closer to where you kneeled, whispering against your lips as his fingers tipped your chin. You were like a moth caught by the flame, your lips parted slightly, trembling, you were needy as hell.
Not giving you time to speak, he captured your lips in some kinda soft kiss, like testing the waters if you’re gonna kiss him back. And you waited no more. Literally jumping onto him, you wrapped your legs around his hips, his one hand keeping you steady in place while the other was a little behind him to not fall on his back.
“Eager girl.” He muttered in between kisses, gasping when he felt you grinding against his groin.
“Can you shut up for a moment?” You breathed out heavily, arms around his neck, staring into his eyes.
“Never.”
That goddamn smirk that was driving you crazy.
“I hate you.” You gritted through your teeth, your hand traveling down between your bodies, into his shorts to finally take a hold of his girth. And holy shit, girl, your hand suddenly felt very small.
Jack could see it in your eyes, the surprise and warmth of your arousal when you found out how blessed he actually was.
“So, what are we saying?” His hand casually fell down to the curve of your ass, underneath the soft fabric of your dress.
“I’m not gonna praise your cock.” You huffed, palming him, trying not to salivate at how much you wanted to have your mouth stuffed with him. But you won’t give him that satisfaction. Not yet.
Being so focused on that, you almost didn’t notice his hand on your ass moving towards your pussy, his fingers smearing in your wetness.
“Oh, ohhh…” you jolted forward into his chest, whining in process.
“Jesus, love, I think we both need me to be inside you soon as possible, hm?” Jack was starting to get frustrated, expecting you to be more denying as usual but you nodded fast and shifted your hips to navigate his tip to your aching folds. All that while you were holding his gaze, you were shaking at the anticipation and he helped you with both his hands to guide you down.
Once his cock started to stretch through your velvet walls, your eyes rolled back into your skull, mouth letting out a loud gasp, your consciousness faltering slowly.
“Easy, baby, easy… fuck, you’re so tight.” He got you, slowly getting you lower and lower on his length, biting his lip to hold back the pathetic moan at how you clenched around him heavenly.
After a while, you were sitting fully on him, his shaft being swallowed whole by your hungry pussy and you held onto him tight, like you didn’t want to fall off. You didn’t even have a single thought to talk.
“So this is what it gets for you to finally be quiet, huh?” His arm holding you close on his lap, while his other hand reached out to brush a strand of your hair from your face to look at you, to note how you were out of your mind, so pliant and soft.
Then it struck him that you were still wearing that dress and he pushed the straps down your shoulders to reveal your breasts. Licking his lips, he then took your right nipple into his mouth, giving it a proper care, sucking it as if there was no tomorrow.
“J-Jack…” you whimpered, losing your mind through being full by him.
Trailing his way up your neck to your ear, he chuckled smugly. “Come on, baby girl, ride me.”
Lifting your hips, you slammed back, over and over, his hands gripping your hips to help you with your moves.
Face flushed, eyes rolled back, you couldn’t breathe from how much you loved the moment. He was absolutely perfect for you, matching your desire, holding you exactly how you expected from a man.
Sweat formed on your forehead, hair sticking to it, you were riding this man with all your might. And he was there, for you, watching you, without any biting remark, he was enjoying himself too.
Suddenly he stopped you, halting you fully onto his cock. You inhaled sharply, mind dizzy from the lack of oxygen, but you noticed his trembling lower lip, his features tight.
“Huh?”
“I’m gonna come, sweetheart, and–” you interrupted him.
“Don’t care. Gonna take a plan b. Just fucking fill me, Abbot.” ah, there it was, the fire in your eyes was back.
Something dark flashed across his gaze and he nodded. Quickly, he moved you on the bed, flat on stomach, and he did his best to climb on you, slapping your ass gently.
Settling between your ass cheeks, he rubbed his dick through your folds, only to fill you again. It was really hard for him to keep his balance, so he leaned forwards onto his hands.
Your hands gripped the sheets, drooling into the fabric, muffling your moans as he pounded into your relentlessly.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck, oh baby, oh…” he whimpered, it was like music to your ears and finally you felt his dick twitching with release, his thick cum coating your inner walls.
Breathing heavily, you buried your face into the mattress when Jack collapsed onto your back, peppering your bare shoulder in kisses.
“So good for me…” whispering, it gave you shivers.
“Fuck you…” you mumbled and he chuckled.
Jack carefully slid out of you, body still thrumming with post orgasmic flow, and his strong hand flipped you onto your back.
Gasping in surprise, you stared at him when he moved between your legs, laying on his stomach, one of his hands settled on your hip and the other cupped your ruined pussy. He was mesmerised by the way his precious frosting dripped out of you. Carefully, he scooped a little by his fingers, only to push it back into you, causing you to whine in overstimulation.
“Shhh… I almost forgot about you, how wrong of me…” he darted out his tongue and licked a long stripe to your clit, all the while his fingers were curling in your clenching cunt.
“Jack… please—“ you moaned, face frowned and eyes full of tears.
“What is it, baby?” He held you in place, noticing how your hips tried to escape from him even though you ached to come.
“T-too much—“ you gasped when he latched onto your clit with his lips, suckling sounds filling the room and your eyes went wide.
“Fuck— gonna kill you—“ it was all you had to say when your hands flew to his hair, to tug it rough, making him grunt into your core.
“Of course.” His voice vibrated your folds to the point you were going crazy, your pussy making all those lewd sounds of arousal.
Then he let go of you, blowing a little air onto your petal, chuckling at your squirming figure. Pulling out his fingers, having them coated with a mix of your juices and his cum, he propped himself onto his hand to bring them to your lips.
You shook your head no, brows furrowing in annoyance.
“Open your mouth. I want you to taste us.” His voice was commanding and you let out a shuddered breath. You were a mess, you wanted to come already, to be over with it, but you had to play his game.
Holding his gaze, you obeyed, parting your lips and he waited no more, pushing his fingers onto your tongue. Inhaling sharply, your tongue swirled eagerly, moaning quietly at how intoxicating taste it was.
Jack grinned victoriously, getting back to your painfully edged cunt, delving his fingers back into your depths.
“Look at you, taking me so well, who would have thought that you’re such a good girl. So fucking good. Mhm… come on… give it to me, all you have is mine, princess…”
The way he talked, you couldn’t take it, your body screaming in utmost pleasure and pain from the overwhelming sensations.
“You’d be so hot being round and soft with my baby. You were made to be filled by me…” he continued and you were bewildered by this and you shot him a shocked glare.
“Stop— don’t say— holy— Jack!”
But it was all you needed to actually reach your highest of the high, coming around his fingers, sucking him tight with your velvet walls.
Jack laughed softly, feeling so proud that his little talk made you come hard.
Giving your pussy a soft tap, he moved to lay beside you, enjoying your panting breaths, grinning how ruined you looked, sweaty and done.
Fingers grazed their way between your breasts to your neck, ending up on your jaw.
“You’re beautiful like this.”
Turning your head to look at him, you let out a sigh.
“Don’t start with this…”
“I’m just saying what’s true.” His features softened while caressing your cheek.
You leaned into his touch, closing your eyes for a moment. You wanted to savour every possible second of it.
“Robby can’t know about this.” You shot your eyes open with an amused expression.
Jack was smug, running his hand through the strands of your damp hair.
“He’s gonna be so nosy. Prepare for it.”
A soft laugh slipped past your lips, you were staring into the ceiling.
“Thank you.”
He cocked his brow. “For what?”
“Good fuck?” You looked at him again.
“Anytime.” He shrugged and moved to sit on the edge of the bed, reaching for his leg. This time he put it on the right way.
“Motherfucker.” He cursed under his breath and then he turned to see you over his shoulder.
“You have to get yourself cleaned up. I can help.” He offered you his hand and you took it without any hesitation. Still having your dress scrunched up around your waist you took it off and walked to the bathroom with him.
Jack grabbed a towel to clean himself quickly, not bothering about anything else and then he gestured for you to step under the spray of hot water.
While you were cleaning your skin he watched you intently, leaning against the vanity counter until he sat down on the closed lid of the toilet.
After you stepped out, wrapped into a fluffy towel, you let out a sigh of relief. His hand suddenly reached out for yours, bringing you to stand between his open legs.
“I don’t want this to be a one time thing. I’m not a man like this.” His thumb brushed over your knuckles.
That took you aback. “I… Jack…”
“Sorry, I… I just want you to know that I didn’t hate you. I don’t hate you. You captivated me from the moment you entered that damn hospital in Pittsburgh. You and your attitude just didn’t give me much choice.” He chuckled and his words tugged on your chest.
You placed a hand on his shoulder and he lifted his gaze to meet your eyes.
“I was so irritated by your cocky behaviour, I knew men like you. But… it appears that I didn’t know you at all.” Your hand moved to his cheek, cupping it.
A shaky breath went through his mouth. “You’re so insufferable, you can’t imagine.”
Rolling your eyes, you squeezed his hand instinctively. “Oh believe me. I can.”
“So, I suggest we come back and take it easy. No rush. We have to be careful around others on our shifts. What do you think?” Jack stood up, flinching a little, shifting his leg, but still holding your hand.
“Sounds good to me.” You nodded with a smile, while he leaned forward to press a kiss against your forehead.
“Let’s get you that morning after pill.”
A day shift was in full swing when about three in the afternoon Jack clocked in and his eyes were searching for you through the space.
You were on a case with Robby, finished with the patient to be sent to the OR.
Taking off your bloodied gloves, you huffed at something Robby was talking about behind you.
“Yeah, clearly I’m not in the best shape, okay?”
Robby noticed Jack standing at the computer at the nurse station, already watching you both. “Well, maybe you should think about switching for the night since you warmed up with our daddy one leg.” The last three words he whispered near you to tease you and you smacked his arm.
“Fuck you, Michael.”
“Ah, so, I’m not wrong with my assumption, huh?” He followed after you, when you hurried towards the charts.
“What’s the hush?” Jack smirked, taking a slow step forward Robby, who was eyeing him with amusement.
“Michael here just called you the daddy one leg.” You wiggled your brows in amusement, sipping coffee from your cup.
Jack feigned a little gasp, placing a hand on his chest. “You just hurt me, a war veteran, an amputee, Robby.”
Robby just scoffed, shaking his head in disbelief, a wide grin spread across his face. “I’m just trying to find what’s behind this little alliance you two made all of sudden. What the fuck happened at that conference, hm?”
Both you and Jack met with your gazes, but he decided to speak. “Well, you said we have to discuss the shit between us, and we sorted it out, case closed. What’s the matter with that?”
“That you both almost bit your head off and all of sudden you’re cooperating without a fuss. It’s weirdly hard to believe that you just discussed it out.” Robby bounced on his feet, irritation evident from his voice as he shoved his hands into the pockets of his scrubs.
“Get out of your head, Michael. You’re spending too much time there.” You chuckled at your own joke, Jack trying so hard to not laugh.
Later that day, when you were about to clock out of your shift, you stood beside Dana, who was scribbling something down, staring through her readers. Robby was discussing a case with Ellis and Shen who arrived just in time to relieve the day’s, while Jack stood close to them, somehow watching you again.
“So, what’s he like in bed, huh?” Dana nudged your arm, looking in the direction where Jack stood.
You bit the inside of your cheek with a little sigh. “Unbelievable, Dana. Fucking unbelievable…”
Summary: After your anatomy scan, you and Jack spend one quiet morning at home with the ultrasound photo, married toast, and the growing suspicion that your son has inherited Jack’s entire face. At work, your Child Life coworkers already know about the baby. The ED does not. Not yet. But when you get called downstairs for a scared little girl with a broken arm, your son decides he has absolutely no respect for timing. One kick, one accidental sentence, and suddenly, PTMC learns the second secret. Everyone knew you and Jack were married. No one was ready for Tiny Abbot.
Warnings: Pregnant!Reader, pregnancy symptoms/discomfort, baby kicking/fetal movement, anatomy scan/ultrasound mention, food mentions, emotional overwhelm, happy tears, soft husband Jack, brief pediatric injury/broken arm mention, child life specialist Reader, workplace reveal, found family, fluff, no angst.
Author’s Note: This chapter is probably the softest one so far. I wanted the pregnancy reveal to feel less like a dramatic secret being exposed and more like private joy becoming shared joy. Reader and Jack have been holding this baby close, and now PTMC gets to love him too. Also, yes. Tiny Abbot is canon. Jack is fighting for his life against that nickname and losing badly.
The newest ultrasound photo had been on the fridge for less than twenty-four hours, and you had already stopped in front of it seventeen times. Maybe eighteen. You had lost count somewhere between brushing your teeth, making coffee, forgetting what you had walked into the kitchen for, and standing barefoot in front of the refrigerator with one hand beneath your stomach while Jack pretended not to notice you staring at the same black-and-white image again.
He noticed.
Jack noticed when a patient’s breathing changed from across a trauma bay. He noticed when your ginger ale went untouched for too long. He noticed when your socks left tiny indentations above your ankles and when you were pretending the ache in your back was merely decorative.
There was no universe in which Jack Abbot did not notice you standing in front of the refrigerator like it had become a religious site.
He just had the good sense not to comment right away.
The photo was tucked beneath the little Pittsburgh magnet Robby had bought you as a joke three years ago and then acted offended when you used it. Your grocery list sat beside it, normal and ordinary and safe, with coffee, bread, honey, and paper towels written in Jack’s neat handwriting.
No proposals this time. Just groceries.
Still, the list made your chest warm every time you looked at it. But the ultrasound photo was the thing that kept pulling you back.
Not the first one.
The first one had been a blur of static and possibility, a tiny bright shape you loved before it looked like anything at all. The kind of picture people smiled at while secretly admitting they needed the ultrasound tech to point out where the baby actually was.
This one was different. This one had a profile. A forehead. A nose. A mouth.
Your son, still grainy and shadowed in black and white, looking briefly like someone the world had not met yet.
You were trying to be reasonable about it.
Truly.
You understood that an ultrasound was not a portrait. You understood that black-and-white medical imaging was not the same as seeing your son’s actual face. You understood that medical science would probably have several calm, boring things to say about image angles, shadows, and fetal positioning.
But you also understood something deeper.
Older. Instinctive.
You had made a Jack clone.
A tiny, curled-up, twenty-week version of your husband was currently living beneath your ribs, and you were holding out fragile hope that maybe he would at least inherit your eyes.
Or your smile.
Or your ability to enter a grocery store without declaring war on the parking lot.
Jack stood at the counter behind you, making coffee with the quiet efficiency of a man who had learned your current tolerance for morning conversation was directly related to how soon he could get caffeine-adjacent hope into your hands. Real coffee for him. The good decaf for you. The bag he had brought home after night shift sat beside the coffee maker, already clipped closed with the little metal clip he had found in the junk drawer after watching you struggle with the bag for three seconds.
He had not said a word. He had just taken it from you, clipped it shut, and put it where you could reach it.
Emotionally devastating maniac.
You stared at the ultrasound photo. “He looks like you,” you said.
Jack looked up from the coffee maker. “It’s black and white.”
“I know.”
“We haven’t seen him out yet,” Jack added.
“I know that too.”
Jack leaned back against the counter, one hand braced beside his mug. “Then how are you making this assessment?”
You looked at the photo again. His tiny profile. His little nose. The frankly suspicious set of his brow. You sighed. “Because I made a clone.”
Jack stared at you. “A clone.”
“A tiny Abbot,” you said mournfully.
His eyes narrowed. “Do not start that.”
You sighed louder. “I’m just hoping he gets something from me.”
Jack’s expression softened. He did not move right away. He only looked at you across the kitchen, morning light catching in the silver at his temples, coffee still dripping steadily into the pot behind him.
“He will,” Jack said.
You looked at him. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” His mouth moved faintly. “He already has your stubbornness.”
You gasped. “That is slander.”
Jack’s mouth twitched. “And your dramatic sense of injury.”
You frowned. “I am injured.”
“By an ultrasound,” Jack replied.
You pointed at him. “By genetics.”
Jack’s smile almost got free. Almost. You turned back to the fridge, trying to keep your expression dignified while wearing one of his sweatshirts and standing barefoot in front of a baby picture you had already stared at eighteen times. Maybe nineteen.
“He has your face,” you said.
Jack stepped closer. You felt him before he touched you. The warmth of him at your side. The soft brush of his shirt against your shoulder. The way the kitchen seemed to get smaller when he came near, even after all these years.
“He has a face,” Jack said.
You smiled. “Your face.”
Jack looked at the ultrasound. This time, he did not argue as quickly. His shoulder brushed yours. His eyes stayed on the picture, and for one quiet second, the practical line of his mouth softened into something you did not think he meant to show.
“You really think so?” he asked.
Your heart turned over. There it was. Not skepticism. Not entirely. Hope, carefully disguised as disbelief.
You looked up at him. “Yeah. I do.”
Jack swallowed once. Then he looked back at the photo. “Poor kid.”
You elbowed him gently. “Beautiful kid.”
His mouth softened. “Yeah,” he said. “That too.”
Your son shifted beneath your hand. Small. Lazy. As if he had heard the assessment and decided to participate only enough to remind everyone he was present.
You breathed out a laugh.
Jack’s gaze dropped immediately. “Again?” he asked.
You nodded. “Small one.”
His hand hovered near your stomach, not touching yet. Even now, even here, he still asked without words. That always got you. The care in it. The restraint. The way he treated your body like it was still yours, even when he loved the person growing inside it so fiercely he sometimes forgot how to breathe around the evidence. You covered his hand with yours and brought it to your stomach. Jack’s palm settled carefully against the curve beneath his sweatshirt. Your son did not move again. Jack waited anyway.
The sight of it made your throat tight. “He knows your voice,” you said.
Jack looked down at his hand. “Maybe.”
“He does,” you insisted.
“He could be reacting to anything,” Jack murmured.
You turned your head and stared at him. “Jack.”
His mouth twitched. “Pattern needs more data.”
“Oh my God.” You looked back at the ultrasound photo. “You are not evidence-basing our son’s love for you.”
“I’m not.”
You rolled your eyes. “You absolutely are.”
Jack’s thumb moved once against your stomach. “I’m being reasonable.”
“You’re being emotionally avoidant with a control group,” you corrected.
His eyebrows lifted. “That feels unfair.”
“It feels accurate.”
Your son shifted again. Small, but definite. Right beneath Jack’s palm. You looked down immediately. Then you looked up at him. “Data.”
Jack’s mouth opened. Then closed.
You smiled. “Data.”
“That is not—”
“Data,” you repeated.
Jack looked down at his hand, and whatever argument he had been preparing seemed to lose momentum somewhere between his brain and his mouth. Your son moved once more, as if he had decided to make your case for you.
Jack went still. Not trauma-still. Not clinical-still.
Father-still.
You watched the way his face changed. The way all the controlled, practical edges of him softened under the weight of one tiny movement from a person he had not met yet.
“You love that,” you said.
Jack did not look up. “What?”
“That he knows your voice.”
His jaw shifted once.
You smiled gently. “You love it.”
Jack’s eyes stayed on your stomach. “I might,” he said.
It was the smallest concession. Barely one at all. But his hand stayed exactly where it was, and his thumb moved again, careful and reverent.
Your chest filled. “A mother knows,” you said.
Jack’s eyes lifted to yours.
For a second, you thought he might tease you. Say something dry about data or ultrasound accuracy or the legal admissibility of mother’s intuition.
He did not. He only looked at you. Soft. Private. A little undone.
“Yeah,” he said quietly.
Your throat tightened. “Yeah?”
Jack’s thumb shifted over your stomach. “Yeah. She does.”
That got you. Not enough to cry. Not today. But enough that the kitchen went a little blurry around the edges for one dangerous second. You blinked hard and looked back at the ultrasound photo. Your son’s profile.
Your tiny Abbot.
The Jack clone currently using your bladder as a rental property and responding to his father’s voice like he already knew exactly where home was.
Then your stomach growled. Loudly. Not delicately. Not romantically. A full, undeniable announcement from the digestive portion of your anatomy.
Jack looked down. You looked down too. Your son gave one more tiny shift, like he wanted to formally distance himself from the sound.
You closed your eyes. “Oh my God,” you said.
Jack’s hand stayed on your stomach. “What?”
“I’m hungry,” you murmured in awe.
His attention sharpened immediately. “Yeah?”
You nodded, excited. “Like, actually hungry.”
Jack looked at your face, then toward the counter, already recalculating the morning around this new, fragile miracle. “What sounds good?” he asked.
You opened your eyes. The answer arrived fully formed. Not from logic. Not from nutrition. From the deepest, most sacred part of your pregnant soul.
You looked him dead in the eyes. “I want married toast.”
Jack stared at you for one beat. Then his mouth twitched. “Married toast.”
“With Irish butter,” you said.
“Obviously.”
“And the good honey,” you added.
Jack nodded. “Farmers market?”
“The one that tastes like flowers and sunshine.”
Jack’s expression softened in the way that still made your chest ache, even after years of knowing what it felt like to be loved by him. “Toast is doable,” he said.
You lifted one finger. “Married toast.”
Jack’s mouth moved faintly. “Married toast is doable.”
You smiled, triumphant and starving.
Jack leaned down and kissed your forehead, his hand still warm against your stomach.
“Sit,” he said.
You narrowed your eyes. “That sounded like husband tone.”
“It was breakfast tone,” Jack replied.
You shrugged. “Same thing.”
His mouth moved again, closer to a smile this time. You stepped away from the fridge and toward the kitchen island, one hand still under your stomach. Behind you, Jack opened the bread. The house smelled like coffee and morning, and the first real hunger you had trusted in days. You lowered yourself carefully onto the stool and looked back at the ultrasound photo on the fridge.
Your son’s little profile stared back in grainy black-and-white.
Jack’s face.
Your stubbornness.
Maybe your eyes, if genetics had any sense of fairness.
And the whole fragile, impossible thing still belonged mostly to the two of you.
For now.
Jack set the bread in the toaster.
You watched him move around the kitchen like this was the most ordinary thing in the world. Bread. Butter. Honey. Coffee. His hand checking the edge of the plate before he set it down, like he was making sure it would not slide. His thumb brushing a stray crumb from the counter. His body still close enough that you could reach for him if the moment got too big.
It almost did.
Then the toaster clicked.
Jack plated the toast with the kind of care he would deny under oath. Irish butter melted into the bread. Farmers market honey drizzled in a thin, golden line over the top. He set the plate in front of you.
Married toast.
You looked up at him. “I have never loved you more.”
Jack pointed one finger at you. “Do not start ranking again.”
“I’m just saying,” you replied with a smile.
Jack’s eyes narrowed. “You said the decaf won yesterday.”
You nodded seriously. “The ranking system is fluid.”
Jack leaned one hand against the counter. “That seems rigged.”
“It’s pregnancy.”
“That is not a legal defense,” Jack replied.
You clicked your tongue. “It should be.”
Jack poured your decaf and set the mug beside the plate. You picked up the toast and took one careful bite. For a second, the kitchen went quiet. The toast was warm. The butter was rich. The honey tasted like flowers and sunshine.
And your body, miracle of miracles, wanted it.
Your eyes closed.
Jack watched you from across the island. “Good?” he asked.
You nodded, mouth full, possibly emotional.
He grinned softly, “Words.”
You swallowed carefully. “If I speak, I might cry.”
His face softened.
You pointed the toast at him. “Happy cry.”
He sighed, “Still.”
“I’m fine,” you added.
Jack held your gaze. “Yeah?”
You looked at the ultrasound photo. Then, at the man in front of you. Then down at your stomach, where your son shifted faintly, quiet now but there. “Yeah,” you said. “I’m fine.”
Jack’s eyes stayed on yours.
For once, he let that be enough.
He picked up his own coffee and came around the island, stopping beside your stool instead of across from you. You leaned your shoulder against his side. Jack’s hand settled gently on the back of your neck, thumb brushing once beneath your hair.
Neither of you said anything for a while.
The toast cooled by degrees.
The coffee steamed.
The ultrasound photo stayed tucked beneath the magnet on the fridge, grainy and impossible and still mostly yours.
A tiny Abbot.
Your tiny Abbot.
Still held inside the quiet of your kitchen.
Still safe beneath your sweatshirt.
Still nameless to the rest of the world.
Jack’s thumb moved once at your neck.
You closed your eyes and let yourself have the moment.
No texts. No questions. No highlighted lists.
No one asking for drawer lore, wedding photos, or explanations.
Just your husband beside you.
Your son beneath your ribs.
And married toast on the plate in front of you, tasting like butter, honey, and the kind of ordinary life Jack had once written a proposal into because he knew exactly where he wanted forever to begin.
By the time you got to PTMC, your son had kicked twice in the car, once in the elevator, and once while you were trying to unlock the Child Life office door.
You stopped with your badge still in your hand and one palm pressed low against your cardigan.
“Bud,” you murmured, “I am trying to work.”
Your son shifted again. Small. Busy. Unbothered by your schedule.
From the other side of the office, Brie looked up from the sensory bin cart. “Active today?” she asked.
You glanced over at her and smiled. “Very.”
Brie’s face softened immediately.
She knew.
Everyone in Child Life knew.
Not because you had made some dramatic announcement with cupcakes or a tiny onesie folded into a gift bag. Child Life knew because Child Life noticed everything, and because hiding a pregnancy from people trained to recognize coping behaviors, body language, and emotional overload was a doomed enterprise. They knew because Sarah had covered a prep session for you during your first OB appointment. They knew because Brie had found you in the supply closet at twelve weeks, crying over the smell of banana-scented markers. They knew because Abby had quietly started stocking ginger chews in the top drawer without saying anything about it.
They knew because they were your people.
Here, upstairs, you did not have to stand at a strategic angle or pretend ginger ale was a personality trait. You could sit behind the shared desk with your patient list open, one hand resting openly under your stomach, and let yourself smile when your son moved as if he were trying to rearrange the furniture.
Sarah rolled her chair back from the computer beside yours. “He still doing the Jack voice thing?” she asked.
You looked down at the spreadsheet you were pretending to update. “Unfortunately for Jack’s ego, yes.”
Abby grinned from near the supply shelves. “He knows his dad.”
“He knows dramatic timing,” you said.
Your son gave another small roll beneath your hand. You looked down at your cardigan. “I am literally trying to update the patient list.”
Brie leaned against the sensory cart, smiling. “Maybe he has notes.”
“He is twenty weeks old,” you said. “His notes are bad.”
Sarah clicked her pen. “Strong opinions, poor handwriting.”
You laughed, and the sound came easily. That was the best part of being up here. The ease. The lack of performance. The simple relief of being around people who knew and did not make you feel like your body had become public property. Downstairs, the ED knew you were married. Up here, Child Life knew you were pregnant.
Both truths were yours.
Just not in the same room yet.
Your smile softened as your hand curved over the small swell beneath your cardigan.
You were going to have to tell the ED soon.
Pretty soon, the cardigan strategy was going to stop being strategy and start being comedy. Your body had started keeping fewer secrets than you did, and now that everyone downstairs knew about Jack, they were watching you both too closely to miss things forever.
It was not that you did not want them to know.
You did.
Eventually.
You wanted Cassie’s happy tears, Mel’s soft smile, and Santos’s offended list-making. You wanted Javadi’s unfiltered joy. You wanted Robby’s smug, impossible uncle energy and Dana’s practical, quiet warmth. You even wanted the inevitable moment someone called your son Tiny Abbot, and Jack looked personally betrayed by the entire department.
You just wanted one more day where he was not a topic beside the medication room.
One more shift where he was still yours in the quiet way.
Your son kicked again. Firm. Low.
You paused with your hand over him.
Sarah noticed first. “Still going?” she asked.
You nodded. “He has been like this all morning.”
Abby tilted her head. “After the scan?”
“Yeah,” you said.
Brie’s smile softened. “Maybe he knows you saw him.”
That landed somewhere tender.
You looked down at your stomach, at the place your son had been making himself known all morning, and thought of the grainy black-and-white profile still tucked beneath the magnet on your fridge.
Tiny forehead. Tiny nose.
Suspicious little Abbot brow.
Your chest went warm. “Maybe,” you said.
Then you reached for your phone. “I have the new picture,” you said.
Sarah’s chair rolled back immediately. “Oh, absolutely.”
Abby crossed the room before you had even unlocked the screen. “Show us.”
Brie came around the sensory cart, her smile already soft. You opened the photo and turned the phone toward them. For a second, no one joked. The office went quiet in that gentle way Child Life spaces sometimes did. Not empty. Not heavy. Just careful around something small and important.
Sarah leaned in first. “Oh,” she said softly. “Look at his profile.”
Abby pressed one hand to her chest. “That’s a whole little person.”
Brie’s expression warmed. “He’s beautiful.”
Your throat tightened. “Thank you,” you said.
Sarah tilted her head, studying the screen. Then her mouth curved. “Oh, my God.”
You looked at her. “What?”
Sarah glanced from the ultrasound photo to you. Then back to the phone. “He looks like Jack.”
You pointed at her immediately. “Thank you.”
Abby laughed. “You’ve been saying that?”
“All morning,” you said. “Jack keeps telling me it’s black and white.”
Brie leaned closer to the screen. “No, he definitely looks like Jack.”
You let out a relieved breath. “Thank you.”
Sarah grinned. “That little brow is very attending physician.”
Abby nodded gravely. “Tiny chart-review energy.”
You looked back down at the photo and sighed. “I made a tiny Abbot.”
Brie’s eyes sparkled. “You did.”
“Maybe he’ll get my eyes,” you said.
Sarah smiled. “Maybe.”
Abby looked at the phone again. “But he got Jack’s whole face.”
You closed your eyes. “I know.”
Your son kicked again, as if he had heard the verdict and agreed.
You lowered the phone and looked down at your cardigan. “You know,” you told him, “you could at least pretend to be on my side.”
Brie laughed softly.
Sarah rolled back toward her computer, still smiling. “He’s on your side. He just brought Jack’s face with him.”
You sighed. “That is exactly the problem.”
Abby leaned against the supply shelf. “It’s a cute problem.”
“It is,” you admitted.
Because it was.
You loved that he looked like Jack. You loved it so much that it made your chest ache in ways you were not remotely prepared for. You loved the little profile, the tiny nose, the thoughtful shape of his mouth. You loved that some part of the man you loved was already visible in the son you had not met yet.
You were just holding out hope that somewhere in there, beneath all that unmistakable Abbot structure, there was something of yours too.
Your phone buzzed on the desk before the thought could make you too emotional.
You glanced down. ED consult request. Four-year-old female, possible forearm fracture after fall from playground equipment. Scared, crying, refusing X-ray. Parent overwhelmed. Child Life support requested. You sighed softly and pushed your chair back.
Brie’s expression shifted into work mode. “ED?”
“Broken arm,” you said, reaching for your bag. “Four-year-old. X-ray is currently the enemy.”
Sarah rolled back toward the supply shelves. “Bubbles?”
“Bubbles,” you said. “And Dr. Pickles.”
Abby grabbed the small container from the shelf and tossed it to you.
You caught it against your chest. Your son kicked. You looked down at your stomach. “Sir.”
Brie laughed. “He wants to consult.”
You shook your head. “He is not credentialed.”
Sarah smiled. “Legacy hire.”
“Nepotism,” Brie added.
“Absolutely not,” you said, sliding your bag onto your shoulder.
Your son shifted again, busy and insistent. You pressed one hand beneath your stomach and looked down at him through the soft fabric of your cardigan. “We are going downstairs,” you told him quietly. “You are going to behave.”
He kicked once. Firm. Disrespectful. You frowned down at your stomach.
Abby lifted her brows. “That looked like an answer.”
“It was the wrong one,” you said.
Brie picked up the patient list you had abandoned and slid it toward Sarah. “We’ll finish updates.”
You looked at her. “You don’t have to.”
Sarah was already clicking into the spreadsheet. “Go defeat the X-ray.”
Abby nodded toward your bag. “And take your uncredentialed consultant with you.”
You smiled, one hand still under your stomach. “Thank you.”
Brie’s face softened again. “Text us if you need anything.”
“I will.”
You headed for the door with your Child Life bag on your shoulder, bubbles tucked inside, Dr. Pickles peeking out of the side pocket, and your son apparently determined to make himself known before you were ready.
By the time the elevator doors opened onto the ED, you had accepted two things. The four-year-old with the broken arm needed you. And your son had no respect for timing. The little girl’s name was Maisie, and she had already decided the X-ray room was haunted.
Not scary. Not bad. Haunted.
There was apparently a difference, and she was very committed to it.
By the time you reached the ED, she was tucked against her mother’s side in bay four, face blotchy from crying, one arm held carefully against her chest. Her wrist was swollen, her little fingers curled around the edge of a stuffed rabbit that had clearly been through several life events already.
Santos stood near the nurses’ station with Javadi beside her, both of them looking toward the room like they were trying to decide whether they were allowed to be helpful or whether the four-year-old had declared all adult intervention illegal. Robby was at the board. Dana was half-listening while signing off on discharge paperwork.
Mel looked up the second you walked in. Her eyes flicked once to your cardigan, then to your face, then to the way your hand had settled low beneath your bag strap.
She smiled gently.
You smiled back and pretended that you did not feel like being seen through a wall.
Santos spotted you next. “Child Life,” she said. “Good. The X-ray room is haunted.”
You nodded solemnly. “That happens.”
Javadi looked at you. “Does it?”
“For four-year-olds?” you said. “Frequently.”
Santos pointed toward bay four. “She also said the camera is mean.”
You shifted your bag higher on your shoulder. “That one is also common.”
Javadi’s eyebrows lifted. “The camera has been accused before?”
“Many times,” you said.
Your son shifted low beneath your cardigan. You kept your face calm through sheer professional practice. “We are working,” you murmured under your breath.
Santos’s eyes narrowed. “What?”
You looked at her. “Nothing.”
“That sounded like something,” Santos said.
“It was a Child Life prayer.”
Javadi nodded, like that made sense.
Santos pointed one finger at you. “I still have questions from yesterday.”
“I know,” you replied.
“Highlighted questions,” Santos added.
You sighed. “I remember.”
“You fled,” Santos said.
“I was employed elsewhere,” you said.
Santos’s eyes narrowed. “You used children as cover.”
You adjusted your bag on your shoulder. “Again, that is the job.”
Dana’s voice came from the discharge stack. “It is, unfortunately, a strong defense.”
Santos turned toward her. “You are always on her side.”
Dana looked up from the chart. “I am on the side of people doing their jobs.”
Robby glanced over from the board. “That explains so little about your tolerance for me.”
Dana’s expression did not change. “It explains everything.”
You smiled despite yourself. Your son kicked again. Not hard. Enough. You shifted your weight and pressed your bag a little closer to your front. Mel noticed. Robby noticed. Santos noticed that you had moved, but not why.
Maisie cried harder in bay four before Santos could say anything else, a small, breathless sound that cut through the ED noise and pulled your body toward the room before your brain had fully decided to move.
Your son shifted again, as if startled by the sound. You set one hand briefly against your cardigan. “Okay,” you whispered to him, then stepped toward bay four.
Maisie’s mother looked up when you came in, tired and worried in that specific way parents get when fear had been stretched too thin.
“Hi,” you said softly, crouching a few feet away instead of moving too close. “I’m with Child Life. I heard the X-ray room might be haunted.”
Maisie’s tear-wet eyes lifted from the rabbit. “It is,” Maisie said.
“That is very important information,” you said.
Her lower lip wobbled. “They want to take a picture of my bones.”
“They do,” you said. “And that sounds really weird.”
Maisie nodded hard.
You opened your bag slowly enough for her to watch your hands. “I brought someone who knows a lot about weird hospital pictures,” you said.
Maisie sniffed. “Who?”
You pulled Dr. Pickles from the side pocket. The green squishy dinosaur emerged with as much dignity as a squishy dinosaur could manage. Maisie stared at him. Her mother exhaled through a watery smile.
“This is Dr. Pickles,” you said. “He has had his bones photographed many times.”
Maisie looked suspicious. “He has bones?”
“That is between him and radiology.”
Her eyebrows pinched together. Then, despite herself, she looked closer.
You took that as a win.
You kept your voice quiet. Calm. Steady. You explained the X-ray like a camera with a special job. You let Maisie help Dr. Pickles practice holding still. You let her decide whether the bubbles were for before or after the picture, and she chose both because she was injured, not foolish.
Your son kicked twice during the explanation. The first one made you pause between sentences. The second made you lose half a breath.
Maisie noticed. “Are you scared too?” Maisie asked.
Your chest softened. “No,” you said gently. “Just surprised.”
“By the ghost?”
You smiled. “By something else.”
Maisie considered that. Then she held Dr. Pickles closer. “I can be brave if he comes,” Maisie said.
You nodded. “He is very good at X-rays.”
Maisie looked down at the dinosaur. “Even haunted ones?”
You smiled. “Especially haunted ones.”
That was how you ended up walking beside a four-year-old with a possible broken arm, her mother, one X-ray tech, and a squishy green dinosaur who had apparently become essential medical staff.
By the time Maisie was calmer, the X-ray room had been downgraded from haunted to suspicious. By the time the pictures were done, it had become kind of loud. By the time you returned to the ED, Maisie had informed Santos that Dr. Pickles was brave but lacked good shoes.
Santos looked down at the dinosaur in your hand. “That feels actionable,” Santos said.
“He is a dinosaur,” you said.
“Still.”
Javadi leaned against the counter, smiling. “Does he have a union?”
You grinned. “He has stickers.”
Robby looked up from the board. “Strong benefits.”
You tucked Dr. Pickles back into your bag and reached for the ginger ale you had left near the workstation. The moment you took a sip, your son rolled low and firm beneath your cardigan.
You closed your eyes for half a second.
Mel’s voice was gentle from the workstation. “Do you need to sit?”
Santos turned immediately. “Why would she need to sit?”
You smiled too quickly. “Because my feet hate me.”
Robby’s gaze flicked down. Dana’s pen paused. Mel did not move.
Santos looked at your shoes. “Your feet hate you?”
“They’ve been rude lately,” you replied.
“Rude feet,” Javadi repeated, like she was trying to decide whether this was a diagnosis.
You lifted one shoulder. “It’s a lifestyle.”
Robby lifted his coffee. “A tragic one.”
You leaned against the counter and tried to look casual. The baby moved again. Busy. Insistent. Like he had taken your quiet request to behave as a challenge.
You set your ginger ale down and placed one hand on the edge of the counter instead of your stomach. Careful. Always careful now.
Santos watched you for a second, then lowered her voice a little. “You good?”
The question surprised you. Not because Santos could not be gentle. She could. She just usually disguised it as an accusation.
You looked at her.
Her face was still sharp with curiosity, still armed with questions, but the edge had softened around concern.
“Yeah,” you said. “I’m good.”
Santos studied you for another beat. Then she nodded once, accepting it.
For now.
The ambulance bay doors opened before she could say anything else. Jack stepped in with coffee in one hand, dark scrubs neat, badge clipped at his chest, his hair still slightly damp from the shower he had taken after sleeping. He looked like he had gotten exactly enough rest to function and nowhere near enough to enjoy being questioned by Santos again.
His eyes found you immediately. They always did. Face. Shoulders. The hand on the counter. Ginger ale. The line of your cardigan. Back to face.
You felt the assessment like a touch.
Your son shifted.
Your whole mood lifted before you could stop it.
Santos saw your face. Her mouth curved, just a little. “You’re doing it.”
You looked at her. “Doing what?”
“Looking at him like that.”
Jack had almost reached the counter when you smiled. “Hello, husband.”
Javadi’s eyes widened.
Cassie, coming around the corner with a chart in hand, stopped dead. “Oh,” Cassie said softly. “I love that.”
Jack stopped beside you and looked at Santos. “No.”
Santos lifted both hands. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You were going to.”
“I was,” she admitted.
You smiled up at him. Jack’s eyes came back to yours. For half a second, the ED softened around the edges. “Hi,” Jack said.
Then he stepped closer and pressed a quick kiss to the top of your head. His hand settled at your side. Familiar. Automatic. Just above the place where your cardigan curved over your stomach.
Your son kicked. Hard. The biggest one yet. You gasped softly.
Right beneath Jack’s hand. Jack felt it. You knew he felt it because his whole body went still.
Not trauma-still. Not clinical-still.
Father-still.
His hand stayed exactly where it was. His eyes dropped. “That was a big one,” Jack said, surprised and soft.
Javadi blinked. “What was?”
You were still looking at Jack when you answered. “The baby kicked.”
Robby exhaled like he had been waiting for this since the moment Santos unfolded her highlighted list. “Finally.”
Dana smiled. Small. Satisfied. Like she had watched a timer reach zero.
Javadi and Santos turned at the exact same time. “THE BABY????”
The ED went silent. Not quiet. Silent.
Your brain caught up one second too late.
Oh.
Right.
They did not know.
Cassie’s mouth fell open.
Mel’s expression softened into something warm and unsurprised.
Robby closed his eyes like he had wanted this to happen with slightly more warning and had also known better than to expect it.
Dana turned one page with suspicious calm.
Santos stared at you. Then at Jack’s hand. Then, at your cardigan. Then back at your face.
Jack’s hand stayed warm at your side.
You looked up at him. He looked back at you, steady now, asking without words. Your call.
You took a breath. Then you set your ginger ale on the counter, unbuttoned your cardigan, and slowly pulled the edges apart.
The loose fabric fell open around the soft curve of your stomach.
There it was.
No longer hidden by layers and clever angles.
Small, but undeniable.
Twenty weeks of secret tucked beneath hospital-friendly clothes.
Your hand settled over the bump before you could stop it. “Our baby,” you said.
Cassie’s hands came to her mouth. “Oh my God,” she whispered.
Javadi’s eyes went shiny immediately. “You’re pregnant?”
You glanced down at the bump. “That is the working theory.”
Santos lowered herself onto the nearest stool like her legs had stopped accepting new information. “You’re having a baby,” she said.
Her voice was quieter than you expected.
You nodded. “Yeah.”
Santos looked down at your stomach again, all the sharp edges of her outrage blunted by wonder.
“Okay,” she said. Then, softer, “Wow.”
Dana looked up at last. “You asked the wrong questions,” she said.
Santos looked at her. For once, she did not argue. Robby made a sound that was almost a laugh and almost something else.
Santos turned toward him, but even that was softer than usual. “You knew.”
Robby looked at you. Then at Jack. Then back at Santos. “Yeah,” he said.
Santos’s eyes narrowed faintly. “Of course you did.”
Robby’s mouth curved. “I’m family.”
Jack’s head turned slowly. “Don’t make it weird.”
Robby lifted both hands. “Too late for that.”
Cassie stepped closer, eyes still bright. “How far along are you?”
“Twenty weeks,” you said.
Javadi’s expression softened. “Halfway.”
The word settled over you. Halfway. Halfway to holding him. Halfway to meeting the tiny profile on your fridge. Halfway to seeing whether he really did have Jack’s face.
Jack’s hand moved from your side to your back, steady and warm.
Cassie smiled through tears.
Javadi’s voice softened. “And everything is okay?”
That question made the whole moment gentler. It cut through the shock, the comedy, the list, the noise. You looked at Jack. His eyes held yours.
You smiled. “Everything looks good,” you said.
The words settled over the nurses’ station differently than everything else had. Softer. Careful. Cassie breathed out like she had been holding the air for you. Mel smiled. Dana’s pen paused, just for a second. Robby looked down at his coffee, then back at you with his mouth pressed into something too gentle to tease.
Santos did not say anything for once. Neither did Javadi.
The kindness hit you harder than the shock had.
You had expected noise.
You had expected questions.
You had expected Santos to become a one-woman investigative committee, Robby to make himself impossible, and Cassie to cry. You had expected Dana’s dry comments and Mel’s quiet warmth and Javadi’s wide-eyed disbelief.
You had not expected the room to go this tender.
Not all at once.
Not for Jack.
Not for you.
Not for your son.
Your throat tightened fast. Too fast.
Jack felt it before you said anything. His hand firmed at your back. “Hey,” he said quietly.
You shook your head, already smiling because nothing was wrong. That was the problem. Nothing was wrong. Everything was suddenly too good.
“I’m okay,” you said.
Jack’s eyes searched yours.
You could feel everyone watching, but it did not feel like being exposed. Not exactly.
It felt like they were seeing something true.
Jack shifted closer, just enough that your shoulder brushed his chest. “Breathe,” he murmured.
You let out a laugh that sounded dangerously close to a cry. “I am breathing.”
“Barely.”
You pressed your lips together.
Jack lifted his free hand and touched two fingers lightly beneath your chin, gentle enough to guide your eyes back to him without making a spectacle of it.
The ED went quiet around you. Not awkward. Not nosy. Just watching. Seeing.
Jack kept his voice low. “Look at me.”
You did. His face was calm. Soft. Yours. “There you are,” he said.
That broke something open in your chest. A tear slipped free before you could stop it. Cassie made a tiny sound behind you.
Jack’s thumb moved once at your back. “You’re okay,” he said.
You nodded, laughing softly through the tears. “I know.”
“Happy?” Jack asked quietly.
You nodded again. “So happy.”
His mouth softened. “Good,” Jack said.
The word was simple. Steady. Enough.
You breathed in. Then out.
The room came back slowly. The monitor sounds. The phones. The movement beyond the nurses’ station. Cassie wiping beneath one eye. Javadi still looking stunned and soft. Mel’s expression warm. Dana looking down at her paperwork with suspicious focus. Robby watching you and Jack with an expression he would absolutely deny later. Santos holding the highlighted list against her chest like she had forgotten it was supposed to be evidence.
Jack’s hand stayed at your back. He did not move away. You did not want him to.
For the first time since the parking garage, it occurred to you that maybe letting people know did not mean losing the privacy of what you and Jack had built.
Maybe it only meant the circle got bigger.
Maybe it meant your son was loved by more people than you had allowed yourself to imagine.
The thought made your eyes fill again.
Jack saw it. His brows drew together by half a degree.
You laughed and wiped carefully beneath your eye. “I’m fine.”
His mouth curved. “Pregnancy fine or regular fine?”
Javadi laughed. The tension broke. You looked around the station, still a little teary, and the love in the room landed all over again. Robby’s crooked smile. Dana’s almost-smile. Mel’s quiet joy. Cassie’s wet eyes. Javadi’s wonder. Santos’s offended tenderness.
Jack beside you, steady and warm.
You swallowed. “I just realized something,” you said.
Jack’s hand moved once at your back. “What?”
You looked down at your stomach. Then back to the room. “He’s really loved.”
No one made a joke. Not even Santos. For one impossible second, the ED held that truth carefully.
Then Cassie nodded, voice thick. “Of course he is.”
Javadi smiled. “Very.”
Mel’s eyes softened. “Already.”
Dana looked up at you. “Obviously.”
Robby cleared his throat and looked toward the board. “Kid never stood a chance.”
You laughed.
Santos blinked hard, then pointed at Robby. “Do not make me emotional. I’m already behind on questions.”
The ambulance bay doors opened before anyone could say anything else. Shen came in first, pulling on his badge with one hand and holding a chart in the other. Ellis followed behind him, coffee in hand, already mid-sentence. Cruz came in last, shrugging into his jacket and looking toward the board.
The night shift arrived in pieces.
Then stopped.
Because day shift was gathered around you like something sacred had happened in the middle of the nurses’ station, and Jack was standing beside you with one hand at your back and the other hovering near your stomach like he was holding himself back from touching the whole miracle in front of them.
Ellis slowed first. “What happened?” she asked.
Cruz looked from Santos’s face to Cassie’s damp eyes. “Is everyone okay?”
“Everyone’s fine,” Santos said, still emotional enough to sound offended by it.
Javadi pointed toward you and Jack, smiling now. “They’re having a baby!”
Cruz blinked. Then his eyes moved to your open cardigan and softened with instant understanding. “Oh,” he said.
Shen’s gaze moved to you. Then to Jack. Then to the soft curve beneath your open cardigan.
His expression changed. Not much. Enough. “Congratulations,” Shen said.
The word was simple. Sincere. No joke beneath it.
Jack went still for half a beat. Then he nodded once. “Thanks.”
Ellis stepped closer, her expression changing as the pieces landed. “You two are having a baby?” she asked.
You nodded, suddenly aware of the ultrasound photo waiting on your phone. “Yeah.”
Ellis looked at Jack. Her whole face warmed. “Oh, Abbot,” she said softly.
Jack’s jaw shifted. “Don’t start.”
“I’m not starting,” Ellis said, but her smile had already gone tender. “I’m happy for you.”
Something in Jack’s face changed. Tiny. Almost hidden. But you saw it. So did Ellis. So did Shen. So did Cruz.
Maybe that was the thing about night shift. They knew how to read small changes in terrible lighting. They knew what Jack looked like when he was annoyed, focused, exhausted, furious, amused, and worried. They knew what he sounded like when he was about to take over a room. They knew the shape of his voice over alarms. They knew the stillness that came right before he moved.
And now they were getting to see him loved.
Getting to see him as someone’s husband.
Someone’s father.
Cruz stepped closer, his eyes moving from your bump to Jack’s face. “You’re having a kid?” Cruz asked.
Jack’s hand stayed warm on your back. “A son,” Jack said.
The word changed the air around him. Not because he said it loudly. He did not. Jack said it as if he were still learning its shape in his mouth.
Cruz’s expression softened immediately. “A son,” he repeated.
Jack nodded once.
Cruz smiled, small but real. “That’s really great, man.”
Jack looked at him. For a second, he did not seem to know what to do with all of it.
The congratulations.
The softness.
The fact that night shift had walked in expecting work and instead found this piece of his life standing open in the middle of the nurses’ station.
“Thanks,” Jack said again. His voice was rougher this time.
Ellis glanced down at your phone. “Do you have pictures?” Ellis asked.
You looked at Jack. His eyes came to yours immediately. Your call.
You smiled, then opened the ultrasound photo and turned the phone toward them.
“There he is,” you said.
Ellis leaned in, careful and close, her expression going softer with every second she looked.
“Oh,” Ellis said. “Look at him.”
Cruz stepped beside her and looked at you. “About twenty weeks?”
You nodded. “Yeah.”
Shen moved closer last. He did not crowd. He only stood at Ellis’s shoulder and looked down at the grainy black-and-white image of your son. For three full seconds, no one joked.
Not Santos. Not Robby. Not even Cruz.
The nurses’ station, somehow, became quiet around the little shape on your screen. Tiny forehead. Tiny nose. Thoughtful little mouth.
The profile you had stared at on your fridge all morning, now reflected in the faces of people who knew Jack as their attending, their leader, their steady center in the worst hours of the night.
Ellis looked from the photo to Jack. “He’s beautiful,” Ellis said.
Jack’s eyes dropped to the screen. His expression went still.
Cruz studied the photo. “He looks like Abbot.”
Your head snapped toward Cruz. “Thank you.”
Jack closed his eyes. “It’s black and white.”
Cruz looked at him. “Still.”
Ellis smiled. “No, I see it.”
Jack opened his eyes and looked at her. “You do not.”
“I do,” Ellis said. “The profile.”
Shen looked at the photo a second longer. Then he looked at you. “You’re correct,” Shen said.
Your whole body filled with vindication. You pointed at him. “Thank you.”
Jack stared at Shen. “You too?”
Shen’s mouth barely moved. “Pattern recognition.”
Robby made a pleased sound. “Oh, that’s brutal.”
Santos looked between Shen and the ultrasound. “Wait. Even Shen sees it?”
Dana turned a page with great care. “Everyone sees it.”
Jack looked at her. “Not helping.”
Dana shrugged. “I wasn’t trying to.”
The smile faded from Cruz’s face, replaced by something more sincere. He looked at the ultrasound again.
Then at Jack.
“That kid’s lucky,” Cruz said.
Jack’s eyes lifted. “What?”
Cruz shrugged, but his voice stayed steady. “He’s got you.”
The ED quieted. Jack did not move. For a second, he looked like Cruz had hit something he did not know how to protect.
Shen’s gaze moved from Cruz to Jack. “He’s right,” Shen said.
Jack looked at him.
Shen’s expression stayed calm. “You’ll be good at this.”
That was what did it. Not the reveal. Not the congratulations. Not even the ultrasound photo.
That.
Jack went still. Not trauma-still. Not clinical-still. The other kind.
The kind where something had gone too deep for him to move around it.
You knew.
Before anyone else did.
You turned toward him, your hand leaving your stomach to settle over his wrist. “Jack.”
His eyes came to yours. They were wet around the edges. Barely.
Just enough.
Enough to make your chest ache.
Enough to make the room go quiet. You softened your voice. “Hey.”
His jaw shifted. “I’m good,” he said.
“I know.” Your thumb moved over his wrist. “Too much good?”
His mouth moved like he might laugh. He did not.
“Yeah,” Jack said roughly. “Too much good.”
You knew what he meant. Not because he said it. Jack would not say all of it here.
Maybe not ever in a room this full.
But you knew.
You knew the shape of the losses he carried. The rooms he had walked out of changed. The people he had not been able to save. The versions of his life he had quietly stopped expecting.
You knew that some part of him had never really believed he would get this.
You.
Your son.
His team, smiling at an ultrasound photo and telling him he would be good.
A future standing right there in the middle of PTMC, loud and impossible and real.
You stepped closer.
Jack’s eyes stayed on yours.
The crew watched. Quiet. Gentle. Getting to see, maybe for the first time, that your marriage was not only Jack steadying you.
It was this too.
You knowing where to put your hand when the joy went too deep for him to hold alone.
You keeping your voice soft enough for him to hear beneath the noise.
You standing close enough to remind him that this was not a dream he had to wake from.
“He’s not even here yet,” Jack said.
You smiled through your own tears. Jack looked down at your stomach. As if on cue, your son shifted beneath your hand. Jack’s breath caught. Not much. Enough.
Santos’s voice came softer than you had ever heard it. “Abbot.”
Jack looked up. She was still holding the highlighted list, but it had lowered to her side. Her eyes were shiny.
“We’re really happy for you,” Santos said.
Javadi nodded quickly. “Really happy.”
Cassie smiled through tears. “For both of you.”
Dana looked at Jack. Her expression was calm. Practical. Kind. “You deserve this,” Dana said.
Robby looked down.
Jack stared at Dana for one second like he had no defense at all.
Then he nodded once. “Thanks.” His voice barely held.
You tightened your hand around his wrist. Jack looked back at you. You smiled. There you are, your eyes told him.
His mouth softened. There you are, his answered.
For one impossible second, the ED held that too.
Then your son kicked again. Small. Insistent. Apparently unwilling to let his father have an emotional crisis without offering commentary.
Jack looked down. You did too. The room followed.
Robby cleared his throat. Then, softly and with devastating sincerity, he said, “Hi, Tiny Abbot.”
Jack exhaled. It was almost a laugh. Almost a sob. Almost both.
He looked at Robby.
Then at your stomach.
Then at the ultrasound photo still glowing on your phone.
“Know I wanna beat it, wanna beat it bad
Oh, everyone looks happy in a photograph
I've crossed the county line, I cannot go back
I'm always on my own.”
-All Them Horses, Noah Kahan
summary: your family is in town for the annual ‘parents berating their kids for their decisions’ get together. jack overhears you talking about how much easier it would be if you had a boyfriend to shove in their face, and offers his services. No strings attached, of course.
wc: 15.7k (steak is too juicy lobster is too buttery)
tags/tropes: jack falls first and harder, reader is an eldest daughter (but not the eldest child) to a large judgmental family who are constantly disappointed in her, jack pretty much uses the fake dating as a chance to show reader what a good boyfriend he COULD be to her if she let herself have nice things, jack 'i'll pay for it' abbot, jack is YEARNING in this one, a teeny bit of mean dom jack as a treat
a/n: how are we all feeling about the latest noah kahan album. Doors is great. i do NOT repeat timestamp 2:14-2:21 of All Them Horses. i’m normal and can be trusted with noah kahan’s discography. this fic was supposed to be crossposted on ao3 at the time of post but ao3 crashed and i lost all of my tagging and uploading process so im saving that. for later. when it is POSTED it will be linked below :)
acknowledgements: thank you @wesandresons for the amazing gif and @saradika-graphics, @chrisssiren, and @uzmacchiato for the dividers! and thank you @leeknowpegger for your work in keeping up morale and being deranged with me
masterlist
“Your family’s in town?”
You’re at the nurses station, tucked into a corner with your head in your hands while Shen, of course, drinks what has to be his third Dunkin coffee of the day. Where he’s getting them is one of the world’s strangest unsolved mysteries.
You can’t see his face, on account of the heels of your hands being pressed into your eyes so hard stars are bursting and swirling behind your eyelids, but you can hear the grimace in his tone.
“Yeah. I moved out here to get away from them, but they decided to host the annual family dinner circuit here in Pittsburgh instead. My mom always complains about how it’s such a huge imposition to have the entire family fly out, but I never asked to do it and offered to just fly to them on multiple occasions. Apparently, my work schedule is too hard to work around.”
“Dinner circuit?”
You wave a hand. “It’s actually a lunch circuit now, since I work nights. Basically, for every single day that they’re here everybody has to attend a lunch, no matter what. Most of the time they’re at different restaurants, but sometimes my mom demands to have them at my place.”
“Yikes,” The attending says, sipping on the last bits of his coffee, “And the whole successful doctor thing doesn’t work on them? It got my parents off my back.”
You shake your head. “I’m the only doctor in the family, but they thought I should’ve been a hospitalist or go into general surgery.”
The sound of ice being shaken in a plastic cup rings in your ears. “There’s money in emergency medicine. Eventually.”
“There’s money in all medicine eventually,” You groan, lifting your head and leaning against the wall, blinking dazedly up at the flickering fluorescent lights. “I’m sure if I'd picked general surgery they would’ve found a problem with that too.”
“So your fucked, basically.”
Your eyes slip shut again. “Yep. Anything short of showing up with a rich boyfriend and a promise of grandkids on the way won’t get my mom off my back.”
Shen clasps you on the shoulder. “Best of luck with that. You’re the only intern the night shift has got, so we’d rather you don’t off yourself via poisoned wine.”
“I wouldn’t do poison. I’d choke on bread so they’d have to live with the guilt of not being able to save me.”
“Jesus fuck, man. I mean, clearly, they suck, but that’s brutal.”
You shrug. “Not as brutal as my mom not coming to my med school graduation.”
He gapes. “What reason could she have possibly had for not showing up?”
“I told her at dinner the night before that I was going into emergency medicine.”
“That’s…” Shen trails off, flabbergasted, “…Wow. Now I'm worried you’re going to kill one of them.”
“Way too much effort. They aren’t worth the jail time.”
The attending tosses his now empty coffee in a nearby trash can. “Well, if you snap and kill them all in a fit of extremely valid rage, please don’t call me. I can’t afford to be implicated.”
“You saying I can’t hide a body myself?”
“I’m saying I can’t hide a body.”
“Who’s hiding bodies?” Jack says, sidling up to the two of you with a tablet and a chart open in his hand.
Shen jams a thumb in your direction. “She’s killing her parents later today.”
You roll your eyes. “I’m not. Honestly, so long as I agree with whatever my mom says and don’t bring up any trigger topics, I’ll be fine.”
Jack snorts. “You’re describing being held hostage by someone mentally unstable.”
“Dr. Intern?” Ellis interrupts, using the stupid nickname Santos picked for you when she found out you’re the only PGY1 on the night shift, “There’s a woman in the lobby here to see you. Says she’s your mom.”
Your stomach drops to your feet and your heart seizes in your chest. “It’s six in the morning. Oh my god. Oh my god.”
Someone behind you says “Holy shit,” but you’re already gone. As you’re speed walking you whip out your phone, checking the dates of their flights that you’d only had a chance to skim and— fuck. They got in an hour ago. Why the fuck would she stop here? At the PTMC?
You practically slam the doors open and make eye contact with your mom across the crowded lobby.
“Mom?”
“There you are sweetie. I was trying to explain that there’s nothing wrong with me and I was here to see you, but they wouldn’t let me. Something about a security issue?”
“It’s not safe. We’ve had incidents in the past—“
She waves a hand, dismissing you. “I’m your mother. Honestly, I wouldn’t have had to come down here if you’d just respond to my texts.”
“I’ve told you mom, I’m really busy here and I don’t get very much time to look at my phone—“
“Your brothers take the time out of their busy schedules to text me back,” She sighs, then continues on, “Did you get time off this week for dinner?”
You frown. “I thought we were having lunch.”
“Well, I figured since we’re all making it easier for your work schedule to come to you, you could manage to take a few days off for your family. But if we need to make an extra effort—“
“It’s fine, mom,” You tell her with a gritted-toothed smile, “I can make something work. Can you just send me the dates again?”
“It’s this Friday and Saturday.”
Before you can even open your mouth to respond, a large, warm hand settles on your shoulder. Accompanied by the hand is a steadying one on your lower back, a familiar, rich scent and a low voice.
“Can I help you, ma’am?”
Jack.
Jack fucking Abbot.
Hottest man in the ED. Probably in the world.
Your mom blinks, clearly caught off guard, before regaining her judgy senses and narrowing her eyes at him.
“I’m trying to have a conversation with my daughter. Don’t tell me you’re security.”
You know for a fact that Jack has his stethoscope around his neck and his keycard in his scrub pocket that says ‘DOCTOR’ on it, so your mom’s just being bitchy. Figures.
Jack’s hand in your shoulder gives you a tiny, reassuring squeeze before he speaks.
“I’m Dr. Abbot,” He sticks out a hand for her to shake, the one that was on your shoulder, “I’m an attending here at the ED.”
And my boss, you mentally add. Your mom probably hears it anyway.
“You work with my daughter?”
“Yes ma’am. She’s the most promising intern we have here on the night shift.”
Your lips twitch at his words. He’s joking. Testing your mother— you’re the only PGY1 on the night shift. If your mom remembers that, she’ll pick up on his joke.
She doesn’t. She purses her lips for a moment before giving him one of her big, fake smiles.
“Well that’s good to hear. We’re very proud of her.”
Proud of the money I send home, maybe.
“If you’ll excuse us, I need her working on patients.”
“Oh yes, of course,” Your mom gushes, clearly already charmed by Jack. He has that effect on people. “I didn’t realize she was so important and busy here.“
You would if you’d ever let me talk about work before interrupting me and telling me what I should be doing better.
Jack’s thumb makes tiny sweeping motions on your lower back, little tingling motions that distract you enough to unclench your jaw and relax your shoulders.
“I’ll text you as soon as I can, okay mom?”
Your mom sweeps you into a hug, a rare show of affection. Putting on a show for Jack, more than likely.
“No rush. Whenever you get the chance, sweetheart.”
Jack gives her a parting nod, but you wait until your mom’s turned around and walking out of the lobby before allowing Jack to steer you back inside.
The second the doors close behind you and you’re enveloped in the sounds and smells of the heart of the PTMC, you shut your eyes and release a long exhale.
“I,” You start, “Am so sorry. I never thought she’d show up here, I got the flight times mixed up—“
“Hey,” Jack’s voice is low and steady, a much needed anchor. He uses the hand still on your lower back to turn you towards him, “None of that was your fault. We deal with patients like that every day. It is not your job to keep your mother in line.”
“I know. I know. Still, I’m sorry. She can be… difficult.”
He snorts. “Understatement of the year. But seriously. Don’t worry about it. If I didn’t want to get involved with her, I wouldn’t have swooped in there.”
You huff a laugh. “My hero. I’m pretty sure if you’d introduced yourself as my boyfriend she would’ve had an aneurysm. Or a heart attack.”
“Are those desired outcomes?”
“Mostly.”
He slides his hands into his pockets and leans against the opposite wall. “Might be worth a shot, then.”
It’s a very well kept secret that you’ve harbored an embarrassing, ‘think about him while you’re falling asleep at night’ crush on Jack.
So naturally, your response is to laugh. Loudly. And semi-awkwardly. Because he has to be joking. Obviously.
“Yeah, right,” You say, looking down at your feet because eye-contact has never been your forte and Jack’s gaze is too intense, “Could even take you to dinner with me. Maybe my dad would have a heart attack too. Really just wipe out the whole family.”
“You could.”
“Wipe out my entire family?”
“Take me to dinner with you.”
Jack’s body is relaxed and his tone is even. Not light and humor-filled. There’s no mischievous uptick to the corner of his lips. He looks like he’s serious.
“Are you joking?”
He can’t really be serious. He’s probably just fucking with you. He wouldn’t actually—
“No.”
You run a hand over your hair. “Yeah, sure, laugh it up, haha—“
“I’ll go to dinner with you. As your boyfriend.”
What. The. Fuck.
“No.” You gape, incredulous.
“No?” He raises an eyebrow.
“No, I mean— fuck. Dr. Abbot—“
“Jack.”
You purse your lips. “Jack. You can’t just… pretend to be my boyfriend at a family lunch.”
“Why not?”
“Why not?” You sputter, “For one, we hardly know each other—“
“You’ve been working here for three months. We’re hardly strangers.”
“You’re my boss, your way older than me, you’re—“ You cut yourself off before you can say something embarrassing like ‘you’re ridiculously fucking hot and I haven’t washed my socks in months’, “It wouldn’t even be believable. How would we even have met?”
“In the ED, obviously.”
“How long have we been together?”
“Month and a half.”
“Why are we even dating?”
“Because you’re a beautiful and intelligent woman, not to mention a good doctor.”
Your mouth goes dry, and your stomach does an entire gymnastics routine.
“Have you… thought about this?”
He makes a noncommittal hum, tilts his head back a bit. “Would it work?”
“Are you rich?”
There’s that devilish, pants dropping smile.
“I’m a senior attending on night shifts in an emergency department. I’m comfortable.”
You worry your lip between your teeth. “I still can’t… I appreciate the offer, but I can’t subject you to my family. No one else should have to suffer through these lunches and dinners.”
“But you do?”
“They’re my family.”
Jack doesn’t respond, but he doesn’t move off the wall and walk away either. Distantly, you really hope a patient isn’t coding somewhere.
You sigh. “Why would you even offer, anyway?”
“You need help, and I’m in a position to give it. Plus life has been kind of boring recently. My therapist told me to pick a new hobby that doesn’t involve people dying or getting shot at.”
“So you thought spending an evening being subjected to backhanded questions, comments, and not very subtle micro-aggressions was a good substitute?”
“Beats drinking beer in the park.”
You can’t say yes. It’s crazy. One, it would make your crush a million times worse and you might never recover on that fact alone, and two, when this inevitably blows up in your face, your family will never let you live it down and bring it up in literally every conversation for the rest of your life.
On the other hand, if it works, it will work. Your mom would probably get off your back for a while. You wouldn’t be a complete and total disappointment. If it works, it would be a much needed win.
“So. We’ve been dating for a month and a half?”
Jack nods, another smile playing at his lips. “I asked you out, of course.”
“Flowers?”
“Naturally.”
“You pay?”
“For every meal.”
“What’s my favorite color?”
“Navy blue. Mine?”
You roll your eyes. “Black. What are we going to tell my mom when she pokes at the age gap?”
Someone rushes by, pager beeping, and you both wordlessly start moseying towards your respective patients.
“Will she really be that upset about it?”
“Probably not, but she’ll definitely ask about it. My dad will probably be angry, but he’s easier to placate than my mom is.”
Jack hums thoughtfully. “When’s the lunch today?”
“Twelve-thirty, at that Italian place that has that mussel dish.”
“How about this,” He starts, apparently not needing anymore clarification on the location, “Lets focus on finishing our shifts right now. Then go home, get some sleep, and I’ll pick you up at eleven so you can pick my brain for every detail that you want to make this work. Deal?”
Last chance to back out. Say hell no, this is a crazy idea, why would you even volunteer for it, I changed my mind.
“Deal.”
—
Holy fucking shit. Jack Abbot is your boyfriend.
Fake boyfriend. But for the next few hours, he’s as good as yours. Kind of.
In a way.
You’re standing in front of your bathroom mirror, dressed in the outfit you picked out for the stupid lunch when your mom texted you the plane ticket details a month ago.
Neither your makeup nor your hair are cooperating and you really need them to because you have to be perfect, so you need your mascara and stop clumping and your hair to stop laying like that and you just don’t want to fucking go.
Before frustration induced tears can ruin your half-done makeup, a knock sounds at the door.
You rush through your apartment, nearly cracking your skull open on the corner of the couch when you trip over a stray shoe.
Shit, he’s here and you’re not ready, god he’s going to be so upset you have to make him wait it’s so rude—
“Hi!” You swing open the door and plaster what you hope is a cute-frazzled smile and not a panicked one. It’s a thin line between the two, “I’m almost ready, I’m so sorry, you can come in and sit down wherever, I promise I won’t take too long to finish up. Sorry.”
You turn, unable to bear the anger or frustration on his face and dart away (an old method— hiding and disappearing is much better for everyone in the long run) but a hand encircles your wrist before you can successfully escape.
“Woah, easy girl. Nobody’s mad at you. We have time, remember?”
Your smile is definitely coming across as panicked.
Your nails wander and find a hangnail to pick at while you talk. “I know, but that was so we’d have time to plan and it’s rude to make you wait and I really need time to plan, but I can’t get my makeup to look right—“
Jack nudges you into the house and you cut yourself off with another apology. Right. Cause he’s just standing in the hallway and you’re rambling on like someone deranged. God. Why can’t your brain just work? Get into gear? Actually function properly?
“First of all,” Jack starts, gently steering you towards your couch, “You look beautiful.”
Why does he have to say these things? Has he no care for what he’s doing to your heart? Is he unaware that Simone Biles would be impressed with the flip routine your stomach is currently doing?
He places a throw pillow in your hands which were previously clenched in your lap. It’s your favorite throw pillow, actually, because the texture is very soothing. You squeeze it and rub your fingers across the grain.
“Secondly, we don’t have to do this if you don’t want to. I can go home and go to bed and if you want, I’ll never bring it up again. Not even to Robby.”
You crack a wobbly smile. “Not even to Nurse Evans?”
“She’d probably guess on her own, but I would never confirm her suspicions.”
You tuck your feet under your legs, shrinking into the corner of your couch. “I couldn’t even if I wanted to. I already texted my mom to add a person to the reservation, and if I show up without a plus one there’ll be hell to pay.”
“You could swap me with someone else?”
“Do you think I would have agreed to let my boss be my fake boyfriend if I had someone else to bring?”
“Touché.”
The corner thread of your throw pillow has begun unraveling, and your wandering fingers pull and tug at it erratically.
“I’m sorry. I’m not usually this neurotic, I swear. My family brings out the worst in me.”
“I ain’t judging, sweetheart,” Jack soothes, “Besides. We’re ER doctors. We’re all a little neurotic.”
Steadfastly avoiding his gaze (again, just a little too knowing, like he can see every insecurity you’re trying to hide) you stand on shaky legs and rush to the bathroom.
“I’ll just. Finish up. Sorry again.”
“I’m gonna start a tally of unnecessary sorry’s. You’re gonna owe me an hour of overtime for each one.”
Oddly enough, getting ready (the rest of the way) feels much more manageable and much less difficult with Jack nearby. He doesn’t critique how long it takes you, the fact that you change earrings three times, or tell you that you look good enough and should just go.
He just hangs out in your living room, on the couch, practically oozing calm and nonchalance. The foolish, romance-starved part of you wants to cancel on your mom and spend the rest of the day curled up next to him on the couch, like a cat. Lazily dozing while Jack watches TV or something sounds like a much better way to spend your time after work than experiencing all five stages of grief over the course of one lunch. Repeatedly.
Finally ready, and with your sanity intact thanks to Jack, you pause by the kitchen and debate the merits of taking a shot to loosen your nerves. Unfortunately, your mom would undoubtedly somehow smell the alcohol on you and no doubt chew you out for a minimum of twenty minutes. Heaven forbid you make the event bearable.
Ever the kind host, you peek your head around the kitchen wall. “Do you want a shot, Jack?”
“You’re aware that I’m fifty?”
Right. That's probably an unhinged question.
“Just thought I’d offer,” You say, meekly tucking the bottle back under the shelf, slightly embarrassed, “Sometimes alcohol is the only way I can survive these things.”
He’s leaned up against the couch, hands in his pockets when you exit the kitchen. “It was very considerate, thank you. But I think the days of vodka and tequila shots are behind me. I’m more of a whiskey man, anyways.”
“I’ll keep that in mind when we end up at a bar afterwards to drink away memories of the lunch.”
Jack raises an eyebrow. “You act like we’re going to be hung, drawn, and quartered after showing up.”
You worry your bottom lip between your teeth. “Sorry. I just don’t want you to be unprepared, because they’re not always bad but when they’re bad they’re bad, you know? And I just don’t want to scare you off, and ruin the day you could be spending sleeping, and I really am thankful, by the way, I just don’t—“
“Do you always ramble when you’re worried?” Jack interrupts, tilting his head to the side.
“Um. No? I don’t know. I try not to. But like I said. My family brings out the worst in me.”
He searches your face for a moment, then taps the underside of your chin with a crooked finger, raising it slightly.
“We got this, okay? I’m not easy to scare. Combat med vet, remember? Plus, if it really gets that bad, I’ll fake a call from the hospital. Say there was some horrible accident and we’re being called in.”
“Won’t my mom get wise when she never hears it on the news?”
Jack shrugs. “It’s the city. Something horrible is always happening here.”
He holds the front door open for you when you’ve got your shoes on and purse ready, but as you’re sliding past him, he leans down, the angle of his jaw almost brushing the side of your neck, and breathes in deeply.
“You smell good.”
Fuck the gymnastics routine. Your stomach is going for Olympic Gold.
“Oh,” You exhale, a shiver running up your spine and a pleasant tingling sparking where your skin barely brushed his, “Uh— Thanks. Vanilla and spice. I like layering scents.”
“It’s nice. Suits you.”
You manage to squeak out another awkward “Thanks” before hastily locking the door, hoping he can’t tell just how flustered he keeps making you. Judging by the smile playing at his lips, your hopes are in vain.
The car ride to the restaurant is longer than it should be, on account of Pittsburgh traffic, but the time goes by quickly as you pepper Jack with questions to prepare for the million and one that your mother will no doubt ask.
(“What should I say if she asks if we’ve slept together?”
“Do you really, honestly, truly think your mother is going to bring up the topic of sex at the table, in a nice restaurant, with your entire family present?”
“Fair point.”)
By the time you arrive, you’ve picked and torn every single hangnail and loose cuticle around your fingers down to raw flesh and tiny dots of blood. Jack parks the car (parallel parks easily in one go, no repositioning needed, in downtown Pittsburgh. It’s one of the hottest things you’ve ever seen in your life) a good distance away from the restaurant, so that your family wouldn’t be able to see you if you decided to flee to his car to escape them.
At least, that’s what he says.
“I want you to hang onto the car keys, okay? If they get too much, you can sneak out through the kitchen and go to the car. I’ll meet you there.”
You can’t help but smile at his efforts. “And what will you be doing while I’m sneaking out?”
“Singing your praises, of course.”
Exhaustion from the shift you worked in what seems like a lifetime ago lines your limbs, but as you step out of the car (through the door Jack insists on opening for you “In case they’re still watching,”) and loop your arm through Jack’s, you feel… almost capable.
The lunch is going to suck. That’s a given. But Jack assured you he’s seen worse (“Probably done worse, sweetheart,”) and will not leave the lunch in a fit of rage and cause a scene. His arm is firm and solid —and fucking huge, how are his biceps that big— under your arm, and his presence is steadying.
As you cross the street and begin your final walk towards the building, he un-loops his arm from yours, but after you make a questioning noise in your throat, worried you’d be completely untethered (how pathetic to already be this reliant on a man, but there’s no time to unpack that now) but instead he wraps his arm around your waist instead, drawing you to his side and effectively grounding you to his body.
The entire left side of your body lights up at the contact, and if this were your apartment, it would be very difficult to refrain from climbing him like a tree or doing something equally embarrassing, like plastering yourself to his side and begging him to never stop touching you.
You’ve almost managed to come off unaffected, but then he leans down, lips almost brushing your ear, and whispers:
“You’ve got this, baby. And if you don’t, I do.”
Forget your family. Jack Abbot is going to be the death of you.
When you walk into the restaurant, hyper-aware of Jack’s grip on your body (your delusional mind has you thinking how… possessive the hand almost feels, if you ignore the fact that this is all fake) your family is waiting in the foyer, talking amongst themselves.
Your mother immediately zeroes in on you. “Honey, we’ve talked about you being on time to these things. You can’t be late to important family—“
You watch in real time as your mother’s gaze finally flicks to Jack, and the shades of recognition, shock, almost disgust, and confusion before settling back into forced pleasantness.
Your father, however, looks downright murderous. Looks like the age gap isn’t going down too well.
If Jack is at all nervous or put off by the several stares and outright glares from your family, he does not show it. He exudes cool confidence, the same unflappable energy he has during chaotic night shifts. The same calm that makes him so alluring to you in the first place.
He sticks out his hand for your mother to shake, a mirror of earlier that day in the PTMC lobby.
“I believe we’ve met before, but I’ll introduce myself again. I’m Dr. Jack Abbot.”
Your mother shakes his hand, but looks between the two of you like you’ve just spilled wine on her Persian rug that she can’t afford in the first place.
“You’re my daughter’s plus one?”
Jack nods. “Her boyfriend, yes.”
Your brother’s gape. Your dad’s glare intensifies. You want to kiss Jack.
“Honey,” Your mother says, gaze darting to you, “You didn’t say—“
“I didn’t want you to meet him at the hospital,” You tell her, hoping the lie doesn’t come across as too rehearsed, since you did rehearse it several times with Jack in the car on the way over, “The lobby of the hospital isn’t the best place to introduce people. And we really did have patients to get back to.”
Your mother purses her lips. “Why the last minute addition? If you’d told me that he was coming before today, it would’ve been easier to make the reservation.”
Jack is quicker to respond than you. “That’s my fault, actually. I didn’t think I was going to be able to come, what with my shifts as a senior attending, but when we met in the lobby I understood how important it was to make the time.”
You have to try hard not to smile at Jack’s not-so-subtle flex. Senior attending.
“Yes, well. My daughter doesn’t always stress the importance of these things.”
Jack’s grip on your waist tightens ever-so-slightly at the backhanded remark, and your mother’s gaze darts to the point of contact. But your father jerks his head towards the tables before she can say anything. “I’m starving.”
Everyone files in behind him, with you and Jack at the back of the line. Again, he leans down to whisper to you.
“How’d I do?”
You elbow him in the side. “We’ll discuss your performance after this is over.”
“Looking forward to it.”
The hostess leads everyone over to a large table near a window (your mother is particularly about seating) and everyone finds a seat. One of your brothers, either as a test or just to be a shit (your money’s on the latter) slides into the open seat next to you before Jack can.
To his credit, Jack doesn’t cause a scene, but he doesn’t back down either. He just stares at your idiot brother for awhile before finally asking:
“Do you really wanna do this right now?”
Your brother must sense that Jack Abbot is not a man to be fucked with (just a man you want to fuck), and scurries to his own seat, tail between his legs.
Once everyone is seated and the food is ordered (you don’t bother ordering anything other than the salad; Jack orders the most expensive thing on their menu. He’s never seemed like one to care for finery and expensive Italian restaurants where you practically have to order in Italian, but again, his unfazed demeanor makes him fit in anywhere) your family immediately begins peppering him with questions. Questions you knew they’d ask and appropriately prepared him for.
“So. Dr. Abbot—”
“Just Jack is fine.”
“—How long have the two of you been dating?”
“A month and a half.”
“Why’d you start dating?”
You take a generous gulp of your wine.
“Because your daughter is an incredible woman and an even better doctor.”
“Do you think she’s pretty?” One of your brothers chimes in.
Jack takes it in stride, despite that not being a question you prepared. “I’d have to be blind and stupid if I didn’t.”
You feel hot from the tips of your ears down to your toes.
That’s going in the mental folder.
“Have you always wanted to be a doctor?”
“Pretty much. Took a bit of a detour as a combat medic first, though.”
“Why’d you leave?”
“Honorably discharged after I lost my right leg. Below the knee amputation.”
You drain the rest of your glass and inconspicuously motion to the waiter for more wine.
The table is silent for the customary length of time after someone drops the “got a limb chopped off” bomb. Your family is clearly mildly uncomfortable, but Jack just keeps sipping his drink, his free hand drifting down and brushing the side of your thigh.
Your dad clears his throat. Here we go. Home stretch. Final questions before we’re in the clear.
“Mr. Abbot—“
“Either Doctor or Jack works.”
Ooo. There was some bite in that one.
Your Dad frowns. He does not like to be interrupted or corrected. You’ve been on the receiving end of far too many hour long lectures (read: berating and borderline verbal abuse) to know better.
But Jack isn’t his daughter. Jack is pretty much his equal. Actually, the fact that Jack not only served but is now a doctor places him above your father, by social conventions.
This no doubt infuriates your father. He’s always hated it when he couldn’t tear somebody down to his level. A true coward.
“Jack,” Your dad continues, a trademarked forced smile to save face, “You’re a smart man, yeah? Haven’t you ever considered the age difference between the two of you might be a little much?”
Yikes. Questioning Jack’s competency is not the way to go. Jack is very competent. And smart. And capable. It’s really hot.
Your fake-boyfriend just reaches over and grasps your hand, over the table, and looks at you with such devotion in his eyes that you forget how to breathe.
“War doesn’t really lend to longevity. I’ve learned to hold on tight to things I care about.”
For a moment, it doesn’t feel fake. There’s raw, punched emotion in his voice, and his thumb rubs your hand gently. Like he really does care that much. Like he wants to hold on.
But then your brother fake-gags and your fake boyfriend looks away with that, he’s passed the tests, and the conversation moves onto to different topics. Jack laughs at all the right moments, doesn’t bring up any argument-starting topics, doesn’t rise to bait when it’s thrown his way.
He’s perfect.
Eventually lunch is drawn to a polite close. You have one last glass of wine while Jack settles the bill. Himself. With one card. He doesn’t even look.
Your mom sends a smirk your way after he waves off your father’s attempt at splitting the bill or offering to pay. It’s probably the third time she’s actually looked at you for the entire duration of the lunch, but since it’s positive, you’ll let it slide.
Pretty soon bags are grabbed, hands are shook, and Jack’s hand magically finds its way back to your lower back and you’re being (very gently) escorted out of the restaurant and to the car.
“Wow,” You breathe as you slide into the passenger seat of his car. “I think that’s the smoothest a lunch with my family has ever gone in my entire life. You’re really good at this.”
Jack doesn’t respond though. Doesn’t make any kind of noise that he heard you. His hands are nearly white knuckled on the steering wheel and he’s staring straight ahead.
“Jack?”
“They didn’t even talk to you.”
You blink.
“What?”
“Your family never tried to include you in the conversation. Didn’t even ask you any questions.”
You snort. “Trust me, it’s better that way.”
He hasn’t started the car yet, just keeps staring off into the middle ground. He can’t be old enough to start doing a thousand yard stare already, right?
“You ordered a salad.” He says, a very prominent frown on his lips.
“So? It wasn’t too expensive, was it? I swear, if I knew you were gonna pay for the whole bill I would’ve looked at something cheaper, I don’t know why salads are so expensive—“
“Please don’t apologize for ordering a salad,” Jack says, voice pained, “Especially because I know you hate salads.”
Oh.
“How do you know that?”
“I overheard you talking to Dr. King that time you two were discussing the merits of Olive Garden. You said the salad there was the only kind you like, because of the dressing and the pepperoncinis.”
Your cheeks heat. “I never said I hated all salads. I said I like that one in particular.”
“You hardly ate anything during lunch.”
“My family tends to have that effect on my appetite.”
Jack does not look placated. He doesn’t take the out that your little joke provides. Doesn't so much as huff. He looks upset. Distressed.
Something about what he said goes ding! in your mind.
“…Mel and I had that conversation like, last month. You seriously remembered that?”
He frowns harder, like the answer to your partly rhetorical question should be obvious.
(It’s not. Why would he remember that conversation? Why would he care at all?)
“Of course I remember.”
There isn’t much to say after that. You’re not really sure what in particular has upset Jack, what possibly blunder or error you’ve made to incur him going completely monosyllabic and frowny. Ever eager to appease, you refrain from any attempts to cajole him, make conversation, breathe too loudly, or make any kind of indication that you’re still present.
The tension in the car is thick and uncomfortable. It prickles at your skin and the hairs on the back of your neck, but the only thing you dare to do is scroll through Pinterest, only looking at the safest, basic boards in case Jack glances over (he doesn’t.)
But then he does glance over. He just doesn’t look at your phone.
Jack just keeps looking at you.
He’ll look over, eyes darting over your face like he’s looking for something, and then he’ll look away. Over and over for almost the entire course of the drive. He only stops when you accidentally time your staring (monitoring) of him wrong and make eye contact.
He parks by your place (he once again sexily parallel parks with ease) and then puts the car in park. And then he starts talking.
“You’re so much more than them.”
Jack has the heat on, but the air in the car suddenly feels cold.
“What?”
“Your family,” Jack clarifies, like that was the confusing part “Your parents. I hated watching you… disappear like that. You deserve better than that. You are better than that.”
You try to swallow, almost choking on the sudden lump in your throat.
“Listen,” You start, unaware of how to even begin processing what he said, let alone formulating the best response because your brain is just flashing abort! Abort! Abort! in big neon letters,, “Thank you for today. I really appreciate it. But if this is all just too much, I can handle things from here. Really. I can say that someone called out and you had to cover shifts—“
“No.”
Jack says it with such vehemence, bordering on vitriol, that it startles you, and you flinch backwards ever so slightly.
An old habit.
Something flashes across his face —gone before you can decipher it— and he noticeably forces himself calmer.
“I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I let you go alone again. Ever.”
Your brain starts short-circuiting at his words. “I really can’t ask you to—“
“It’s a good thing you’re not asking me then.”
“Jack—“
“Please.”
You’re stunned silent at the rawness in his tone— the pain.
He said please. He said it like he was begging. He is begging.
“I don’t know how you do it,” He continues, jaw working, “I can see it on you, plain as day. How you hate what they do, how it makes you hurt. But you keep going.”
You shrug uselessly. “Is there another option?”
Jack reaches out for you, then falters, like he thought better. A tiny part of you wishes he’d followed through; bridged the yawning gap between the two of you that’s made up of the center console in his car, a couple decades, and your own unwillingness to try at vulnerability.
“I’ll walk you to your door.”
The walk to your door is a stark contrast to the walk to the restaurant. There’s no mischief on his face now, only a mask of stony distress.
At the doorway to your apartment building, you pause. It seems customary. Appropriate. Necessary.
Really, you just want to look at Jack some more. Try to puzzle out why the lunch that felt like it went so well made him so upset. Where you’re getting signals wrong and crossing wires. Why success to you is failure to him.
(As an ED resident, you’ve seen child abuse cases. You’ve seen foster care children littered with cigarette burns and criss-crossing scars of broken bottles and the corners of coffee tables and haunted eyes.
You know your family isn’t great. But there aren’t any cigarette burns or glass scars or eyes that track fast movement.)
You have this burning inclination to apologize to Jack. Logically, you know you haven’t done something wrong, but you feel like you have because he’s upset so maybe you can make it better?
“You have that look on your face.”
You frown. “What look?”
“The ‘I’m gonna apologize for something stupid’ look.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
“You were thinking about it,” Jack ducks down, catches your eyes, “Hey, listen to me. You cannot fix what I am upset about. It is not your job. My mood is not your responsibility.”
“It’s freaky when you do that.”
“Do what?”
“You always know what I’m thinking.”
Jack just huffs; shoves his hands in his pockets.
Emboldened by his reassurance, you ask: “Why are you upset?”
“Because your family treats you like shit, and I want to fix it, but I can’t.”
“Oh.”
It’s not that bad. It can’t be that bad. You’ve seen bad. This isn’t it. It’s hard, but it’s not bad.
He stays quiet, seemingly sensing the inner turmoil his words have sparked. That, or he really is that good at reading you.
Jack nods towards your door. “We can talk later. Get some sleep. We both have shifts tonight.”
Right. Yeah. All of these events roughly occurred over the course of six hours. Time makes sense.
Despite the fact that you are exhausted and desperately need to sleep if you have any chance of surviving your –quickly approaching– shift, you linger.
“How am I supposed to repay you for all of this?”
The question that’s been burning a hole in your pocket since he said I’ll do it.
He just shakes his head. Like it’s simple. Easy. “This isn’t something I want repayment for. Now go. You’re no good to me as a zombie.”
“I’ll just have some of Shen’s Dunkin.”
“He doesn’t share that shit. Besides, he’s off tomorrow.”
“Maybe I‘ll—“
“Sleep,” He points at your door, “Now.”
You smile at his insistence. He’s sort of like cold coffee with sugar. Seems all bitter but then you get a bit of that sweet crunch, so it balances out. He balances out.
Sometimes it feels like he balances you out.
“Goodnight.”
He gives you a little smile of his own.
“Goodnight.”
—
Jack Abbot does not take his own advice. Mostly because he knows if he doesn’t talk about what happened during that lunch from hell, he’s going to do something that will end in him being thrown in prison and having his medical license revoked. More importantly, if that happens, he won’t be around to take care of you.
So instead he collapses on his couch, works his prosthetic off to give his stump a needed break, and dials the number at the top of his favorites in his contact list.
“This really isn’t a good time—“
“Robby,” Jack starts, “They didn’t even fucking talk to her.”
“Jesus, okay. Whitaker! Cover for me a sec, will you? I gotta deal with this.”
“They just…” Jack continues, genuinely at a loss for words. His vocabulary feels woefully unequipped to relay the depth of anger he feels about the events of the lunch, “…Ignored her. They talked over her, didn’t ask her questions, hardly ever let her finish speaking when she did finally get a chance to speak, and threw jabs at her constantly. It was fucking awful.“
The background noise quiets over the phone, and Jack knows Robby’s moved to either the break room or an empty patient room.
“She fight back at all?”
“No. Just… grinned and beared it. It was fuckin’ unsettling, man. I’ve seen her yell back at rude patients, watched her stand her ground to EMT’s who think they know better. It was like she hollowed herself out to sit at that table.”
“Christ.”
“She flinched away from me. Afterwards, in the car, when I raised my voice on accident.”
“Fuck. Do you think—“
“I don’t know. Maybe when she was younger. They don’t live in state, so if they are, she’s safe.”
Jack scrubs a hand down his face. “God. I don’t know what to do, Robby. It doesn’t seem like she’s got… anybody. She didn’t even understand why I was upset. She doesn’t get why that would be upsetting.”
“She’s friends with Mel and Santos, right?”
“And Whitaker by extension, yeah. But those are recent friends. I’ve never heard her mention anybody from back home. No boyfriend or best friend or anything. She’s just been doing everything on her own.”
Jack can picture Robby nodding. “We’ve done our fair share of that.”
“Yeah, and look where that got us. I can’t just leave her here. Fuck, it was like watching someone kick a puppy, over and over.”
“That bad?”
“Yeah.”
The line goes silent for a bit, both men stewing on the subject at hand.
“She’s always had these habits. I thought they were just personality quirks, you know. I mean, we’re all fucked up, but watching it happen…”
“It’s different.”
“You could say that,” Jack sighs, “She soaks up praise like a fucking sponge. She looks surprised every time I do something nice for her. And she keeps trying to make me happy.”
“You lost me on that last one.”
“It doesn’t… She’s not doing it to make me happy, exactly. She just does everything she can to keep me from getting mad.”
“Is there a difference?”
“There is. Eager to please versus eager to appease.”
“Are you sure you want to get involved?”
“Bit late for that.”
“You could pull back.”
“Fuck no, I can’t. Then I’d be kicking the puppy.”
“She is a grown woman.”
“Who happens to look like a kicked puppy.”
He scrubs a hand down his face, groaning into the microphone.
“You finally realize how ridiculous you sound?”
Jack grunts. “I’m not giving you the satisfaction of answering that.”
The line crackles with the staticky sound of Robby chuckling. “That’s an answer in it of itself, and you know that.”
He lets the line go quiet again, briefly debating just hanging up.
“I don’t know, Robby. It’s just…”
“Worse than you expected?”
“Yeah.”
“Come on. You knew that was a possibility. Has it put you off, at all?”
“Fuck no.”
“Exactly. Now please, go to bed so I can get back to saving lives? Whitaker is covering for me and he’s only gone through two pairs of scrubs so far today. I’m not a betting man, but if I were, I’d bet money that he’s moved onto his third during this conversation.”
“I save lives too.”
“You won’t save any if you fall asleep on the drive over and die.”
“I would never fall asleep behind the wheel.”
“That’s what they all say.”
Jack really does hang up after that, plugging his phone in and rushing through everything he needs to do before bed.
But even as exhaustion pulls his body down into deep, dreamless sleep, he can’t stop thinking about that hollow look on your face. And he knows, even half-asleep, that he won’t be able to let it go.
—
The next night at work is weird, because nothing has changed, except now you know what the inside of Jack’s car looks like and how his voice sounded when he begged you to let him help.
It’s jarring, to say the least. Unsteadying and mildly world-rocking if you’re being honest.
But gossip travels fast within the walls of the PTMC, so by the time night shift is halfway over, you’re convinced you’ve heard every variation in existence of the same two questions:
“Did you and Jack go on a date yesterday?”
And:
“What’s Jack like on a date?”
The answer to the first question is complicated and embarrassing, so you don’t answer it or any of it’s variants. The answer to the second question is not complicated but it does, however, stir some very complicated feelings, so you refrain from answering that one too. You just try to refrain from thinking about or seeing him in general.
You’re not avoiding Jack, per se. Just keeping busy. With other stuff. That’s conveniently nowhere near him.
Ellis keeps shooting you entirely too knowing looks, Mckay, who’s pulling a double, pats your shoulder and tells you she’s there if you want to talk, Shen is absent as Jack said he would be, and Jack himself is acting like nothing happened and everything is normal and he’s never been to your apartment smelled your perfume.
(“…I like layering scents.”
“It’s nice. Suits you.”)
It’s all too much.
Hence the avoiding.
You try to curb your own ridiculousness for the sake of your patients, but it’s oddly difficult. You’ve always been amazing at compartmentalizing. If your family gave you any kind of skill, it’s the ability to shove your feelings in a box, and then shove that box in a corner of your mind you won’t access consciously until you end up on public transportation with your headphones. You should be more than capable of gathering up all the loose feelings labeled ‘For: Jack Abbot’ and tucking them all nice and neat in that little box and then shove it in a dark mental corner.
But you can’t. And along with the flurry of Jack Abbot causing a hurricane in your head, there’s a lesser storm that is the result of your family. More specifically, how they look to Jack.
All roads lead back to Rome. Or, in your case, to Jack.
You catch yourself during every spare moment or menial task that doesn’t require 100% of your brain power analyzing every interaction he had with them. Everything they said, everything they did, and how Jack would’ve taken it. And why. Because clearly, the act of dealing with them isn’t the problem. The ease and finesse in which he did so crosses that off the list. So it’s something else.
It’s how they treat you.
You understand, logically, that it would be upsetting, from his point of view. If you were in his place, you’d also probably be upset too.
But this feels different. Jack’s reaction is different. Jack is different.
It’s just never really been something that anyone should be upset over. Your family are who they are. Not great, but not truly bad either. You deal with them sparingly. You don’t even live in the same state anymore. It’s not a big deal.
“Why are you hiding from me in a supply closet?”
You whirl around, a box of gloves clutched in your hands.
“I’m not hiding from you.”
Jack crosses his arms and leans against the doorway. “This is the third time you’ve been here in two hours.”
“So? I just want to be… on top of things. I’m a productive person.”
“You are,” He amends, “But all of your productivity tonight has been pretty strictly nowhere near me. Funny how that works.”
You sigh, placing the gloves back on the rack. “Things are just… weird, okay? I don’t know how you’re being so normal about all this?”
Your fingers wander and find a loose piece of skin on the edge of your cuticle, and you begin absent-mindedly picking at it.
You can’t exactly disagree with him, right here, in the supply closet at the hospital. But you can’t quite bring yourself to agree either– because whether he acknowledges it or not, things have changed. Seeing him outside the hospital, perfectly placating your family into one of the most peaceful get-togethers you’ve had in years isn't just nothing.
It’s everything. And you, for one, can’t just pretend that it didn’t happen.
“Hey,” He calls your name softly, “What’s on your mind? What’s bugging you?”
“Nothing.”
He snorts, pushing off the doorframe and shutting the door behind him, so it’s just the two of you alone. “Liar.”
He doesn’t probe any further, just leans against the now closed door with his hands in his pockets, eyes flitting over you like they’re looking for an answer. An answer you’re too hesitant to give.
“I’m just worried.”
“You? Worried? No.”
You cut him a glare, “There’s a very real chance that this could all go horribly awry, you know.”
“Sure,” Jack dips his head, “But that’s not what you’re really worried about.”
“And how do you know that?”
“Because that doesn’t address the fact that you’re avoiding me.”
You sigh, scrubbing a hand across your face.
“Why do you care?”
The question that’s been nagging at you since the beginning. The little itch in the back of your mind that you just can’t seem to get rid of. The puzzle you can’t figure out; the tune you can’t place.
You’re a logic driven person. You like knowing how things works– why they work. Why things do the things they do.
You like having the why. Having the why makes the world make sense.
Nothing about Jack Abbot makes sense.
“Why do I care about what?”
“This,” You gesture vaguely to the air, “Me. I don’t buy that you just didn’t have anything better to do or whatever it was you said. People don’t just… do that. You’re really ruining your life for an entire week for what? So I'm a little less uncomfortable? Me? At the end of the day, we’re just coworkers. I know how important your down time is for you, so I just don’t get why you’re so okay with being miserable just for my sake. I’m not that important. These stupid lunches aren’t that important.”
It’s a stupid confession. Much too vulnerable for a supply closet and a man you’re harboring feelings for.
He doesn’t respond right away. Hums, stares at his shoes for a bit. Re-adjusts so his prosthetic isn’t taking so much weight.
“You are important. You’re important to me, to this hospital, to your patients. And for the record, I am not ‘ruining my week.’ If it was that easy for my week to be ruined, I never would have become a doctor, let alone joined the military.”
“But why?”
“Jesus, you watched a lot of the science channel growing up, didn’t you?”
You snort. “Guilty as charged.”
Now it’s his turn to sigh.
“You… seem to have this misguided belief that caring is reciprocal in nature.”
You frown. “It is.”
“It isn’t. At least it shouldn’t be, but I don’t think anyone ever told you that.”
You scoff. “So this is about my family.”
He shrugs. “Amongst other things.”
“They’re not that bad.”
“They are.”
“Other people have it worse.”
“It’s not a competition.”
You resist the urge to throw your hands in the air. “Why is this such a big deal to you?”
“Because it’s a big deal to you.”
The air gets quiet and tense. Like the supply closet and all the medical supplies in it are holding their breath. If they were alive, if they were holding their breath, you’re convinced they’d all be looking at you.
It’s Jack who speaks first though.
“I can see it. You do everything yourself, get back up even when it’s hard. You look out for other people more than you look out for yourself. You’re selfless and kind and I don’t think very many people give that back to you.”
A reflexive smile pulls at your lips, a habit you never quite managed to kick after years of people telling you ‘smile, look grateful, stop looking so upset, there’s nothing to cry about.’ It feels awkward and clunky on your mouth but you don’t know what else to do. There’s no pre-written protocol for something like this.
“I still don’t really get it.” You murmur, more to yourself than to Jack.
Jack sends you a light grin. “We’ll work on it.”
“We will?”
“Sure,” He shrugs, “Already started anyways.”
“If you’re sure.”
“I’m sure,” He opens the door, “Now get back out there. And bring the gloves too.”
You roll your eyes but comply, snagging the box off the shelf where you’d left it and following him out.
The rest of your shift passes much smoother than before, even with the routine influx of patients as the time inches closer to morning. Jack doesn’t hover, but doesn’t pull the disappearing act that you (totally fairly) pulled on him either. He truly seems unfazed. Like it really, actually doesn’t bother him.
Well. Correction. It does bother him, but not because it’s something he’s doing for you, the part that bothers him (apparently) is how all of this affects you. All this caring makes you feel like a deer in the headlights.
You recall something he said that night. Something that had made you shiver– something that hit the nail right on the head.
“Hey, listen to me. You cannot fix what I am upset about. It is not your job. My mood is not your responsibility.”
He always seems to know exactly what to say to you. How to act, what to do, what specific worry you’re feeling and the best course of action to soothe it. It’s great but it’s also difficult, because there’s a part of you that wants to let him keep doing it, but then there’s the part of you that bristles every time and wants to snap that you’re completely capable of doing things yourself.
That probably wouldn’t even work. He’d just say something infuriating and sexy, like “I know, but I want to do this for you.”
He would. He totally would.
The thought is equal parts haunting and reassuring.
(And maybe, also, a little, kind of really sweet?)
–
The next two lunches go great. Jack is still freakishly incredible at charming your family. And, with his help, you actually manage to hold a (mostly) civil conversation with your parents for the first time in… years.
The lunches are fine, but the part you’ve started looking forward to is the before and after. Before, Jack comes to pick you up, and sometimes he comes early and helps prepare (which mostly involves him either talking you off the ledge, pouring a shot or two, or assuring you that your makeup and outfit look great. Not fine, great) or just to hang out. The hanging out part is nice, because he never comes with any sort of expectation. He’ll sit on your couch and scroll through his phone and entertain all the inane chatter you like to get out of your system beforehand but never had an outlet for before.
The after is even more fun. You run through the highlights of the night and hate on all the annoying things your family said to you. This usually also involves stopping somewhere for food (only for you, Jack’s never hungry because he eats t=at the restaurants but you’re never allowed to order anything that isn’t a salad) and then the two fo you fight over who pays. You always insist since you’re the only one actually eating any of the food, but then Jack usually takes your card, puts it in his pocket, and uses his own.
It’s as frustrating as it is hot.
But for the most part, the lunches and your shifts at work have actually been pretty good– as good as night shifts in a trauma center can be, anyway. Jack’s presence is… steadying, even when he’s not physically there. He’s always present in some way– whether it’s little reminders he leaves at your favorite spot for charting (he only uses blue sticky notes) or a real lunch left for you in the breakroom fridge (you weren’t previously aware he actually knew how to cook, or that he knew how picky you are when it comes to what you’ll actually eat for lunch and how often you get too busy to properly make something.) Sometimes he’s there in your head; in little things he’s told or taught you that you remember in the moment.
It’s nice. To have someone be around. Someone you can relax with, joke with– someone who hasn’t looked down on you for the the way you turned out.
You were pretty ready to declare smooth sailing ahead, but then on the third lunch your mother shows up and is decidedly not in a good mood and the seas turn choppy and the boat smashes into the rocks below.
At least, two peach bellinis in, that’s what it feels like.
“Honestly,” Your mother puffs, “I don’t understand why making some simple appetizers could take so long. This is why I hate going to restaurants during lunch hours, the staff just gets so lazy. The menu is always better at dinner anyways.”
You ignore the thinly veiled dig and instead choose to quietly drain the rest of your third peach bellini. They taste like juice and take a much needed edge (or two) of the evening. Lunch. What-fucking-ever.
Jack, ever aware of the best way to survive these functions (somehow) whilst keeping his sanity, remains silent as your mom huffs and puffs, seeming to understand that trying to placate her when she gets in these moods is a fruitless endeavor that only leads to your mom getting more upset and everyone else more annoyed.
You, made slightly optimistic by the wonderful powers of alcohol, attempt to put her in a better mood.
“I have the next three days off, mom. We’ll be able to do dinners instead.”
Your mother, however, only scoffs. “That’s no good to anyone now. We’ve already spent half this week dealing with poor restaurant service. I mean, no respectable job would have such a ridiculous schedule."
“I’m a doctor, mom. It doesn’t get more respectable than that.”
Jack nudges your leg with his, either a silent laugh, show of support, or quiet question of your sanity. Maybe all three.
Another bellini appears in front of you, this one heavier on the alcohol than the last. Your server is getting a giant tip when this is all over.
“You work in the emergency department, dear. That’s hardly stable, and stable is respectable,” Jack clears his throat, and your mother at least has the manners to look mildly sheepish, “No offense, Jack.”
He smiles thinly. “None taken.”
Conversation from there is stilted at best with even your brothers tip-toeing around your mother. No one wants to be the subject of a nitpicking lecture, even when the version she gives them is a slap on the wrist compared to what you endure.
So you keep drinking your bellini’s and they keep coming. After your fourth, you think you should maybe slow down a little, but then your dad starts grilling Jack about his life (again) and you decide that alcohol is, in fact, necessary.
“Have you ever been in a serious relationship before, Jack?”
That one almost makes you ask the server for a shot of vodka, straight. That’s a question you ask a nineteen year-old pimple-faced boy, not a fucking fifty year old man.
“I have, yes. But, like most things in life, they were learning experiences. I’ve moved on.”
Your dad snorts, then gestures to you. “You could teach her a thing or two about moving on.”
Your blood runs cold.
Jack sets his glass down. “And what do you mean by that?”
It’s your mother who answers. Because one vulture circling your soon-to-be carcass wasn’t enough.
“I’m surprised she hasn’t told you. It was all she ever talked about for years. She’s had exactly one boyfriend before you– what was his name honey?”
“Christopher,” You answer hollowly, stomach churning.
Your dad snaps his fingers. “That’s it. It took ages for her to get her first boyfriend. We were fairly convinced it would never happen, but then one day she came home with Christopher. Whole family wanted to throw a party– finally found someone to put up with all that attitude!”
Your family laughs, but Jack doesn’t.
“Where’s the funny part, in all this?”
Your mother clears her throat, just a tad awkward. “When she broke up with him it was awful. She refused to leave her room for works, cried all the time. Honestly, I would have understood if he had broken up with her, but it was all her decision.”
Your dad nods in agreement. “We had to have a sit-down conversation with her about decisions and consequences before she finally stopped crying and hiding in her room. Christopher was such a nice boy, we hated to see him go.”
Jack opens his mouth, poised to fire something back and defend you, but you beat him to the punch.
“He cheated on me with my best friend.”
At that, your mother frowns. “That’s not what Christopher said. You were in your teen angst era, remember? Always picking fights? He told your brother that you were so distant with him he didn’t know you were still together.”
“I wasn’t distant, I was really busy. I was studying for the MCAT. He knew that. He knew how important medical school was to me.”
Your brother rolls his eyes. “Med school was all you talked about. It’s not like you were putting out.”
Your mother snaps her fingers once. “That is inappropriate talk for public. You know better.”
“Come on, mom. It’s true. Everyone knows–”
“Sorry to interrupt,” Jack says, not at all sounding sorry, “But the hospital just texted. There’s an emergency, and we’re needed, so we have to go.”
Jack does not wait for your mother or father to excuse him. He just stands, offering you his hand. It turns out that you need it, because there is, apparently, such a thing as too many peach bellinis. Your mom sends you a pointed glare as you stumble once, after which you make a concerted effort to look more sober.
Neither you nor Jack bother saying proper goodbyes. Once he grabs your jacket and purse (and your vision stops swimming so much and you’re sure you can walk in a convincing approximation of a straight line) you’re both gone. You pass your server on the way out, who is slipped a very generous cash tip for the excellent bellini service.
By the time you get to the car, you realize that you’re about to have to save patient lives and you are very, extremely, drunk. There is no way you are capable of doing any life-saving at the moment.
“Jack,” You mumble, fumbling with your seatbelt, “I think I’m too drunk to go in. Did they say how serious the emergency was? Can I just get a banana bag?”
“There is no emergency,” He says calmly, batting your hands away and buckling you in properly, “I made it up. I figured you’d be okay with ducking out of there.”
“Oh. That was nice of you.”
He clicks you in and gives you a wry grin. “Told you I would handle things.”
You nod, the movement exaggerated and lopsided. “I hate it when they bring up Christpher. They always take his side. Like, is there ever a situation where it’s okay to cheat on a girl with her best friend? I was studying for the MCAT. I didn’t even wallow or break up with him when I found out. I waited until after I took the exam so I didn’t fuck up my score.”
“That’s my girl.”
“Christopher was an asshole. He was a real dickhead. The whole situation sucked. I lost the only two people who I thought cared about me at the same time. My family acted like I was the fucking anti-christ for being upset about it, too. It was fucking terrible. I’m so glad I don’t live with them anymore. I mean, I still love them, and I care about them, cause they’re my family, but everything is just so much easier when they’re not around.”
“You’re allowed to hate them, you know.”
“I know,” You say, fiddling with a hangnail. “I know I probably should.”
You sigh, tilting your head back against the headrest. “I always keep holding out hope, you know? That one day they’ll apologize, figure their shit out, care about me in a way that matters. I know it’s stupid.”
“It’s not stupid.”
You frown. “It’s not? It kinda seems stupid. You’d think by now I would know better.”
“No,” Jack eases the car out of the parking space, “We’re biologically wired to love our families. It’s the reason why they can fuck you up so bad. Your brain can’t compute why the people who are supposed to love you above all else just… don’t. Not in any of the right ways.”
You blow air through your lips. “I think my parents fucked me up. I was so happy when I matched into the Pitt, because it was so far away. But then I got out here it just kind of hit me, all at once, that I was alone. My best friend was gone, my ex boyfriend sucked, and I was too busy in med school taking care of myself and my family to make any friends.”
Shit, that sounds so whiny. “But it turns out it wasn’t so bad. Now I've got Mell, and Santos, and I’m pretty sure I’m friends with Shen too. Mckay is nice too. I like her. She’s cool.”
Jack huffs something that could be a laugh, and you turn to study him; the angles of his face awash in the glow of the red light you’re currently stopped at. From here, you can see the tiny bits of tension he carries in his face— a slight pinch in his brow, the tiniest downturn of his lips. It’s the only evidence that he’s not as unaffected by your family as he pretends to be.
Then the light turns green, and his face isn’t illuminated the same.
“And what about me?”
Oh. Well. That’s a loaded question.
The alcohol emboldens you to answer honestly. “I don’t know what to think about you.”
“Oh really?”
“Mmm. Nope.”
“How come?”
"You're so–” You gesture vaguely, “Confusing. I can’t figure you out. For a while there, I was pretty sure you hated me, but then you offered to help me with this and you keep saying you care so I think I’m wrong.”
“You think you’re wrong?”
“Still can’t figure you out.”
“And how can I show you that I mean it?”
That’s. Hmm.
“I don’t know. I think what you’re doing is working,” You pause, debating the pros and cons of continuing to just say whatever the fuck you want before deciding you’re too tired to care, “It helps that you’re really hot.”
His lips twitch. “Oh, does it now?”
“Mhm. You’ve got this whole… capable thing about you. It’s hot. Competency is in.”
“If you say so.”
“I do say so. I feel like if I had a problem I could call you or something and you would fix it. You’re so…”
“Competent?”
“That’s the word.”
If he’s at all irritated, annoyed, or otherwise put off by your stupid rambling, he didn’t show it.
“You should call me whenever you have a problem. Chances are, I can fix it.”
“Are you like Bob the Builder?”
“I’m a doctor, so no.”
“You’re kind of like Bob the Builder.”
“Whatever you say,” He pauses at an empty intersection before continuing on, “Before I start heading towards your place, do you want to stop by mine? You didn’t even get to eat your salad, and I have leftovers. You can say no.”
“Are you gonna be mad at me if I say no?”
“No.”
‘Then yes.”
“You sure? I wasn’t lying.”
“I know. But I like your cooking.”
You spend the drive to Jack’s continuing to ramble about nothing and everything, to which he entertains with a seemingly endless amount of patience. The only time he interrupts is to hand you a bottle of Gatorade he procured from his back seat. Apparently, he bought a few to keep in his car after the first lunch. “For any alcohol excursions.”
It’s freaky how prepared he is for every situation.
When you arrive, he unbuckles your seatbelt for you (unbuckling is just as difficult as buckling when you’ve had an unknown amount of peach bellinis) and helps you up the stairs to his apartment.
His gigantic apartment.
“Woah,” You mumble as you shuffle through the doorway, pulled along by your hand in Jacks, “I didn’t know they made apartments this size.”
“Its not that big.”
“I think, like, four of my apartments could fit in here. Your living room is the size of my entire place.”
You stumble once, heel catching on the little rug on the entry way, and he’s immediately motioning for you to sit on the little bench by the door and pats his thigh once. You clumsily raise your leg, barely managing to land your foot on the general area he gestures to. He pulls the first shoe off, then repeats with the second with an air of total calm. Like this is normal and he does this all the time for you. Like you regularly find yourself drunk in his apartment.
You decide to unpack the moment when you’re sober.
“One, it’s not that big, and two, that’s what you get for renting a studio apartment.”
“Like you could afford better when you were an intern.”
He snorts, leading you to his couch and gesturing for you to sit. “If you want to change clothes you can borrow some of mine.”
You chew on your lip. The outfits you choose to look nice for your mother are never exactly comfortable, and when else are you going to get the chance to privately live the scenario you fantasize about several times a week before falling asleep?
“Only if you don’t mind.”
“I wouldn't have offered if I wasn’t. Stay there.”
Jack’s only gone for a few minutes before he reappears with a dark grey sweatshirt and a pair of sweatpants in a slightly lighter shade. The sweatshirt is oversized and looks well worn, but the sweatpants are suspiciously new, close to your size, and look eerily similar to a pair you changed into after a shift a few weeks ago.
He hands them to you. Neither of you mention the sweatpants. “You can change in the bathroom. Door locks from the inside. I’m gonna change too, and then I’ll heat up the food.”
Jack shows you the bathroom (you don’t bother unpacking why exactly he felt the need to tell you that the door locks and from the inside, that’s for when you’re significantly more drunk than you are now and when you’re not in his fancy-ass apartment.)
Because he’s a man and men take approximately three seconds to change, he’s already in the kitchen setting stuff on the counter by the time you emerge from the bathroom. His countertops are solid granite, because the apartment is clearly expensive and he’s a man. They’re an inky black color with tiny flecks that sparkle when the light hits them just so.
“What are you doing?” Jack asks when he turns from the fridge to find you tilting your head this way and that.
“Looking at the sparkles.”
“Oookay. Do you want me to heat up the vodka pasta or the chicken?”
“You made vodka pasta?”
He shrugs. “You said you liked it.”
You slide into a seat at the kitchen island, a flush creeping up your neck. “The pasta, please.”
Suddenly exhausted now that you’re in soft, comfortable clothes that smell like Jack, you decide to just rest your head on your arms for a bit. And close your eyes. But you’re not going to fall asleep. You’re not.
“Don’t fall asleep. You need to eat something first.”
“M’ not fallin’ asleep.”
“Mhm. Sure.”
With great effort, you blink your eyes open and watch Jack while he heats up the pasta and prepares something else. A salad maybe?
“What’re’you’ making?”
“Just a little salad. In case the pasta is too heavy for you.”
“Oh. How come?”
“Because I don’t want you to throw up.”
“I promise I won’t throw up on your furniture. I don’t usually throw up when I’m hungover.”
“You drink often?”
“No,” Your head lulls to the side, “I’m too busy. I’m actually not-so-secretly very boring. I don’t really like partying. I much prefer staying at home.”
“Thought you went to that thing with King and Santos?”
“Yeah, but that was ‘cause Trinity really wanted me to come and I felt bad and I didn’t want her to think I was a boring, uptight bitch.”
“I see.”
“Yeah. I kinda had fun, though. I wished you were there.”
“Really?”
“Yeah,” You sigh, probably a hint too dreamily, “Makes me feel better when you’re around.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
He slides a little bowl with a light salad in it to you across the counter, and it's perfectly refreshing. Not at all heavy like the pasta ends up being.
“Sorry I couldn’t finish it,” You say, forcing down a yawn and resisting the urge to burrow into your arms and go to sleep right there, “I feel bad that you went through the trouble of making it and heating it up.”
“It wasn’t that much effort. Besides, now you can just eat it for lunch tomorrow instead. I’ll send it home with you.”
“Mhm.” You hum, slowly inching your arms forward and down onto the counter, your head quickly following suit.
Jack chuckles, and you can hear the light step of his feet as he rounds the corner of the island and nudges you in the arm.
“Come on, sweetheart. You wanna get home to bed, don’t you?”
“No,” You shake your head, “I wanna sleep right here. It’s comfortable.”
“It won’t be when you wake up.”
You whine, curling away from him.
He just puffs another little laugh. “You can either sleep in your bed, or my bed. You can’t sleep on the kitchen island.”
“Why not?” You finally lift your head, “And why is your bed an option?”
“One,” He lifts up one finger in front of your face and slowly drags it back and forth, “Because the kitchen island is not a bed. Two, I’m not letting you sleep on the couch.”
“Why? Is your couch uncomfortable?”
“No,” He says, shuffling back over to where the leftovers are and tucking all the food away in the proper places, “It’s just not right to make a woman sleep on the couch.”
“I like sleeping on couches.”
He shoots you a look over his shoulder, “I’m sure you do. But you’re still a little drunk, and my bed is closer to the bathroom than the couch is.”
You prop your head on your hand. “Who said I’m even staying here tonight?”
Jack closes the fridge. “Do you want to? Because I don’t care either way. We both have tomorrow off.”
“It’d be weird to wake up here.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re my boss.”
“And I’m faking being your boyfriend so your parents get off your back. Pretty sure we’re past coworkers.”
“What would we even do in the morning?”
“Sleep.”
“I don’t want to kick you out of your bed. I’ll sleep on the couch.”
“You’re my guest–”
“You’re already doing so much for me,” You blurt, stomach clenching, “I– You know me. I can only handle so much. Let me do this one thing? Please?”
Jack glowers for a bit, then sighs.
“Only because you asked nicely and I believe in rewarding good behavior. And because I know my couch isn’t uncomfortable. I’ll help you make it up.”
Jack’s apartment is surprisingly tidy for the fact that a man lives in it (Christopher’s room at his parent’s house always looked like shit) and he pulls down a couple options for bedding. You go with the plain black sheet and its matching thick, fluffy comforter. He insists on making up the couch himself (despite the fact that the alcohol has mostly worn off by now) and even sets up a glass of water, a liquid IV packet, and a bucket– “Just in case those bellini’s don’t love you back.”
The sight of it all is almost too much. It’s just so much care. All of it. The fact that he’s helping out with you and your disaster of a family, the way that despite the horribleness of it all he hasn’t judged you at all for how you deal with them. He refuses to let you drive yourself, always pays for every lunch for your entire family and the little snacks you get afterwards. Listens to you rant and he makes you food and gets you blankets and–
“You okay there?”
“Mhm,” You hum, “Just thinkin’.”
He leaves you be for a moment, busies himself with fixing your pillows and and tugging the comforter into its proper place.
Before you can talk yourself out of it, you turn, throwing your arms around Jack’s middle and burying your face in his chest.
“Thank you,” You say, voice muffled by the fabric, “For doing all of this. Thank you for looking out for me.”
Jack is still for a second, just long enough for you to second guess initiating physical contact –a line you were previously too scared to cross– but then his hands come up and it's so, immediately, remarkably over. Because you’re never ever going to draw that line again. You can never go back to your life without having this. Without having him.
Jack’s hands are big and deliciously warm as they slide up, around your waist, lingering to rub a few circles on the mid of your back before moving on. One arm stays, tightening around your waist and drawing you closer while his other glides further up, up, up, his callused palms sliding over the knob at the very base of your neck before his hand settles around your nape, fingers just barely brushing the edge of your hairline.
You barely manage to suppress a whine at how warm and incredible it feels to be fully enveloped by him. You never want him to let go. Goosebumps erupt everywhere he touches, little sparks of electricity lingering under your skin in his wake.
“I will always,” He presses the lightest of kisses to your temple, just a feathering of his lips, “Look out for you, baby. I’m always gonna be right here.”
His arms tighten around you, drawing you in— closer, closer, closer. Wrapped up in everything that is Jack you can’t help but sag, going completely boneless in his grip and allowing yourself to just bask in him.
“You smell good.” You mumble into his shirt, completely lost in the moment.
“Do I?”
“Yeah. Good. Like man.”
He chuckles, the sound vibrating pleasantly against your cheek. “Thank you sweetheart.”
“Why do you call me sweetheart?”
“Because you’re a sweetheart.”
“I am?”
“Don’t play dumb now,” He pulls back a little, just enough to get a good look at you, fingers curling in the fine hair at your nape and tugging down, angling your chin up so you’re forced to look at him, “You know you are.”
You shrug, eyes darting to the side, your cheeks flushing, “I don’t know. I was just making sure.”
“Mhm.” He hums, tone almost mocking, fingers tightening around your hair just before the precipice of pain.
You stay like that for a few moments of charged silence. Jack’s eyes shamelessly rove over the planes of your face, mapping it out in his mind. He keeps his grip on your hair, not completely forcing eye contact but keeping your head firmly in place.
It’s possessive. Bold. Probably too intimate for two people who (supposedly) are not actually dating
And you love it.
Jack only lets his hand (and your head) drop when your jaw opens in a splitting yawn.
“Okay,” He huffs, taking a step back, “Time for bed. Get going.”
Embarrassment is the only thing keeping you from whining at the loss of contact and impending reality of sleeping on the couch alone. But you made your bed (figuratively) so now you have to lie in it.
The couch does look comfortable. Especially since Jack put all the blankets together.
He waits until you’ve crawled under the comforter to bid you goodnight, followed by a parting reminder to “Wake him up if you start aspirating on vomit.” It’s a very Jack thing to say.
You’re out almost the second Jack turns the lights off. You fall into deep, blissful sleep, dreaming of that final moment in the living room, your eyes boring into each other.
Except in the dream, you tilt your head up those last few inches, and kiss your fake boyfriend as hard as you can.
–
Generally, the annual lecture event ends with a massive blow out argument. Something dramatic and filled with expletives, after which your mother will refuse to answer any texts or calls you send before finally telling you that’s she’s sorry if (always if) something she said offended you, but talking to you is just so hard sometimes so she doesn’t want to unless you’re ready to be more civil. By the time the two of you are on neutral terms again, it’s time for the next annual lunch circuit.
You’re a mess of nerves in the hours before the last one. Like usual, your mom requested that the last dinner be held at your place. “So it can feel like a real family dinner.” While you know that there isn’t any saying no to your mother, you also know that there is no way you’re cramming your entire family in your tiny ass studio apartment. It happened once. It will not happen again.
You originally asked Jack during a last minute shift you both got called in to cover if he would help you move some of the furniture at your place to accommodate them, and then he’d gotten this incredulous look on his face and then told you to tell your mom that you’re having dinner at his place.
“Jack,” You’d gaped at him, “It’s fine. My apartment isn’t that small, and you don’t have to help move the furniture if you don’t want to. I can ask Dennis to give me a hand instead. I really don’t think you want to host my family.”
“Sweetheart, it’s just logic. You’ve seen my place.”
“Okay. No need to rub it in.”
He’d just rolled his eyes and pinned you with a firm look. “Come on. You know this is the best option. If your mom throws a fit, tell her I insisted and give her my number.”
“Do you have a death wish?” You hiss, “That’s asking for torture.”
Jack had just shrugged. “Would having it at my place be easier for you?”
“...Yes?”
“Then we’ll do it there. You’re off in a bit, right?”
You’d nodded.
He fishes something small and shiny out of his pocket and tosses it to you. “That’s my spare key. I’ll be here later than you, so just let yourself in if you want to get there earlier to start setting up. I’ll be home soon.”
Robby shouted his name soon after and Jack was whisked away, leaving you standing in the middle of the ED, holding the fucking spare key to his apartment, gaping like a fish.
The line between real and fake has become so blurred you’re not sure if it ever was there to begin with.
He’s started calling you sweetheart more and more often– sometimes when no one's around. No familial audience to be persuaded into the romantic lie you’re selling. Is it still a lie if it doesn’t feel like one anymore?
The question and accompanying feeling follows you all day. All throughout your harried dinner preparation. Even now, with a solid hour until your family is supposed to start showing up, you can’t help but pace the length of Jack’s kitchen, heeled feet clicking on his floor. Jack himself is similarly dressed up, wearing a pair of dark jeans (“I’m not wearing slacks in my own home, and I’m not old enough to start wearing khakis with everything.”) and a black button down shirt with the first two buttons undone and the sleeves rolled up to his forearms. He makes a very nice view and under other circumstances you might take the opportunity to climb him like a tree. But alas. Anxiety.
“Take your shoes off if you’re going to pace. You’re gonna give yourself blisters.”
You ignore him, chewing on an already stinging cuticle.
“Things have been pretty good this far, right? Do you think she’s just waiting until the very end to bring up some secret thing that she’s upset about?”
Jack begins preparing the wine –your mother only likes red– for decanting. “I think if your mother were that upset about something she wouldn’t be able to hide it.”
“True. But what if?”
“I’m not going to help you spiral.”
“Why not?” You whine.
He looks at you with a heavy glare and points to the shoe tray at the door. “Shoes. Off. You can put them back on when they get here.”
You grumble under your breath the entire way but comply. Only because your feet were starting to hurt.
When your family finally does arrive, it ends up being annoyingly anti-climactic. You spend the entire time on the edge of your seat (literally and figuratively) waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for conversation to turn sour, arguments to erupt, someone to choke on a piece of lettuce and die despite professional intervention.
But the argument never starts, conversation remains what it usually is and becomes no worse (or better, unfortunately) and no one passes away due to unevenly chopped vegetables.
The torture is over fairly quickly. Most everyone’s flight back home leaves early the next morning and your dad is paranoid about flight times.
Pretty soon it’s all just… over. They leave, your mother bickering with your father on the way out about something that probably doesn’t matter, and then it’s just you and Jack and the entire scheme is just done. Finished. Just like that.
There won't be anymore knee's brushing under the table, no more shared glances and pecks to the cheek when you make a joke that actually lands. No more excuses just to sit and watch him under the guise of playing the adoring girlfriend. No more late night milkshakes.
You'll just go back to being coworkers-- People who pretend not to know each other intimately. Jack probably won't struggle with it. But to you, right now, the idea of just not having him anymore seems like a another wound, right over top all the others.
You don't want him to become another person who used to know you.
You’ve been staring at the closed door for upwards of five full minutes, clenching and unclenching your fists when Jack comes up next to you. He hands you the same clothes you wore the last time you were there and jerks his head in the direction of the bathroom.
“Why don’t you go and change, huh?”
Your lip wobbles a bit as you answer. “But I want to help you clean up.”
“You can,” He soothes, “After you change.”
“But–”
“Hey,” He interrupts, “No. You’ve been stuck in those clothes for hours. Go change. I’ll wait for you.”
Jack keeps his word. He’s leaned up against the kitchen island when you emerge, rubbing at your –now bare, having had the foresight to bring makeup wipes with you– face.
He looks up when the door opens. “Better?”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
He just hums, heading back over to the kitchen table, stacking plates and cutlery. You follow in silence, and he thankfully doesn’t push for conversation.
Cleaning up doesn’t take long enough. Jack has a fancy dishwasher (and probably doesn’t want to stay standing any more than he has to this late in the day) and there aren’t any leftovers to pack up. Your brothers are bottomless pits when it comes to free food.
It can’t just be over like this. It can't.
When everything is finished and there isn't anything left to do, Jack wordlessly leads you to the couch and puts something quiet and calm on the TV. The white noise washes over you as you attempt to get comfortable, but the knowledge that it's all over proves to be an itch under your skin that you just can't seem to squash.
“So,” You say after the two of you are seated on opposite ends of the couch, “That’s it then.”
“So it is.”
“Guess I owe you big time, huh?”
“I’ve already told you I don’t care about that.”
“Right,” You look down at your lap, “Yeah. Sorry.”
You lapse into silence.
Jack sighs. “Sweetheart–”
“Was it fake to you?” You blurt, jiggling your knee, still staring at your lap, “Were you– did you mean it?”
It never felt fake. It never felt like pretending.
It felt real.
It felt like, for the first time in your life, things could be easy.
Maybe easy isn't the right word. But it life sure as hell didn't feel as hard.
When you look up, uncomfortable in his silence and hoping there’s answers in his face, but instead of finding something like disappointment or irritation, he’s grinning.
“What do you think?”
“I don’t know.”
He dips his head once. “Yes you do. You’re a smart girl, I think you can figure it out.”
Your fingers are curled around the hem of his sweatshirt, white-knuckling the fabric as if to stabilize yourself. Like you’re liable to somehow float away if you don’t dig your heels into the couch and hold on tight.
“What if I’m wrong?”
“You won’t be.”
A scoff escapes your lips, “You can’t know for sure.”
He taps his pointer finger on his leg in an unhurried rhythm.
“You do.”
Your stomach is rolling in a combination of leftover anxiety from the dinner that went better than it was supposed to and the weight of Jack’s gaze on you.
“I think…” You pause, worry threatening to overwhelm you, and take a deep breath before continuing, “I think you might like me.”
“You think,” He drawls, “I might.”
“I don’t want to be wrong!” You cry.
Jack huffs, throwing his head back in a good-natured sigh.
“Come here.”
You scoot further down the couch, sitting criss-cross right in front of him. This is not going the way you thought it would. You were almost certain you’d walk away shamed and embarrassed, forced to fake your death and flee the country out of the sheer humiliation of thinking your boss would actually have a crush on you.
Jack does love to prove you wrong.
“Soo,” You start, still hesitant, “You do like me.”
Jack props his head on his hand, his expression something you’re starting to recognize as fond. “Yes.”
“More than a little?”
“Yes.”
“And you weren’t faking anything. You were serious about the— You know.”
“Use your words.”
“The flirting.” You clarify, ears burning.
“All correct,” He nods, “Though I would have said it differently.”
You frown. “And how would you have put it?”
“I would have said,” He reaches out, snagging your arm and tugging until you fall down onto his chest with a little oof, “That you have a hard time believing things that are good, so I had to audition for my role. Like old-fashioned courting.”
You want to be offended, but unfortunately, it did work.
You frown.
Wait.
“Have you known I liked you this whole time?”
Jack snorts. “Overheard you talking to Whitaker about it during your second week.”
He’s known since the second week?
“Oh my god.”
“Don’t worry, I didn’t tell anyone. Except Robby. He’s been hoping you would figure it out for awhile now.”
“Oh my god.”
“I thought it was cute,” He smoothes a hand over your hair, “You were so much more nervous back then. You’ve come a long way.”
You shift uncomfortably at the praise, but Jack’s having none of it. He wraps his arms around you, holding you in place.
“Can you take a compliment?”
“No.”
He re-positions under you, getting more comfortable. “We’ll try again later.”
“Am I– Can I stay here tonight then?”
“Of course,” he murmurs, “My one condition is that you’re not sleeping on the couch.”
“Fine,” You sigh, long and drawn out, “I suppose we can share.”
“How kind of you to share my bed with me.”
“I have been told I’m kind.”
You both smile, and everything just feels so right and so perfect that you can't help but lean up, clearing the last few inches, and pressing a hesitant, gentle kiss to his lips.
It’s just like your dream.
Only this time, it’s real. And Jack is kissing you back.
summary: you and steve have to fake-date after an awkward dinner at the wheeler-byers household—all while you're sure that he still wants nancy.
pairing: steve harrington x reader
word count: 6.9k
tags: (set before stranger things season 5 !!), fake-dating, friends-to-lovers, fluff & angst, requited unrequited love, miscommunication, awkward family dinners, robin = wingman, steve = clueless
cross-posted to ao3
a/n: had to rush this out before vol. 2 came out, just in case steve dies (if he dies, i die) — merry christmas if you celebrate !!
“I’ll give you twenty bucks if you admit it right now.”
“I’m broke, but I’m not that broke,” you shake your head, “Jesus, Rob.”
You’re mildly offended, but not remotely shocked, by the proposal. It’s easier to pretend to sort between The Jesus and Mary Chain and The Stone Roses and Modern English than to listen to Robin try to pry her way into your personal life; your fingers slide against the paper covers as you slot them back into their alphabetical placements. Even if your friend is well-intentioned, she’s completely out of her depth.
“A hundred bucks. A hundred bucks, and I’ll let you select the entire noon roster. That’s a bargain!” Robin rattles on, close on your trail; if she was any closer, she’d probably give you a flat. “Do you know how many times the boys have tried to get me to play The Cramps on-air this month? I’ve lost count. And, sure, the psychobilly stuff isn’t bad—but, hello, it’s the middle of December, not, like, Halloween night. What I’m trying to say is: it’s a pretty hefty deal I’m offering up here. Limited time offer.”
“You’d have to give me a thousand bucks. Or, put a gun to my head.”
“Dramatic,” she murmurs under her breath—not nearly enough to seem any less rude than it sounds, “Does that imply you’re only worth a grand?” You decide to let her think it out, but it doesn’t last for nearly long enough. Robin’s eyes flit from the ground, to the ceiling, and then back to you. She exclaims, “It’ll exponentially improve your mood if you just let it out. It’s psychologically proven!”
Though she’s been trying to convince you for the better part of a month, you still haven’t let up: you will not admit that you’re jealous of Nancy Wheeler. By no means is it Nancy’s fault. In fact, you adore her just a little bit more everyday with the way she takes lead on the crawls and makes sure that everyone’s in top shape for any major emergencies. The fact of the matter is that Nancy Wheeler is still the centripetal force of Steve’s affections. Steve sees her shaggy curls, the denim-jackets placed over floral blouses, the stack of metal bracelets, and his brain goes on the fritz.
The way that he looks at her makes you want to retreat into your own skin—siphon yourself out of existence—and still, you stick around to watch. A train crash you can’t bring yourself to look away from. Part of you wonders if it’s the nostalgia factor of it all—if Steve’s just one to reminisce about the good old days, still caught up on “King of Hawkins.” The worse, and fearfully more accurate alternative, is that Steve is in love with Nancy as she is now. Clever, witty, journalist Wheeler. The kind of gal to chew the ends of her pens and weasel the right information out of people. Strategist with a sawed-off shotgun. Though you’re not one for comparison, you’re sure that she must win in some way or another.
But, your harbored feelings for Steve are hardly anything new. Robin’s known about your little schoolgirl crush—you try to tell her, We’re early-twenties! Not early-tens, to no avail—since you started working at Family Video. You’re sure that’s when it started, because that’s when you had to start being around him five days of the week. Though you’d been a particularly good fly on the wall in high school, graduation swung around quickly. You needed a job to pool up a good sum of cash to move to some far-off city (the cliché smalltown transplant). Family Video was conveniently there. So were Steve and Robin.
Robin takes the record—U2, you think—gingerly from your hands and deposits it into the shelf in some off-place you’ll likely fix within the hour. She places both of her hands atop your shoulders. “Okay. You cannot tell me that you weren’t trying to laser-blast her with your eyeballs last weekend at the Wheeler’s. I saw it.”
You snort skeptically, “Why would I do that?”
“Because Steve was being all Steve. He offered to serve her plate and you were all weird and zoned and didn’t talk until Mrs. Wheeler started asking you about where you got your blouse.” Robin tugs at your collar—hung smile, like she’s got you all figured out—and it nearly makes your left eye twitch.
“Well, maybe, I’m just watching out for Jonathan. He gets all weird and jealous whenever Steve’s involved, and we kind-of, sort-of don’t have time for infighting.” You retreat from Robin’s touch, taking yourself into the little seating area the WSQK has set aside for breaks. You crash down on the coffee-stained orange couch, trying to be as leveled as possible with Robin; she lands just beside you, half-leaned on the back of the couch, legs crossed.
“There’s actually plenty of time for it. It’s been months with zero action in the Upside Down—minus the stupid patrols. Hop’s found nothing. You are scot-free to play this whole thing out. Finally!” Aside from Vickie and radio-hosting, you’re absolutely convinced that this is the only entertainment that Robin gets. “You are the master,” she claps her hands together, bows down to you just slightly, “of the long-game.”
You hate to think of it like that. Like you’d had some deliberate motive. For the first month of knowing Steve (Mr. Cologne-Heavy) in the flesh, you were just slightly dazed by the normalcy of him. He was just a guy—and, frankly, a bit of a dork. Clumsy sometimes, and easy-to-please. You weren’t nearly as serious about your little boy-crush then. Steve was just the nice back you got to look at during your morning shifts, you labeling the VHS tapes and him re-alphabetizing the romcoms.
You liked Steve; he was attentive. He knew that you liked to park your car under the fir in the backlot to keep the leather from frying up under the sun. He knew which customers you despised, and he knew when to step in. He knew that you wanted nothing but silence for the first hour of your shared morning shift—and was ready and willing to sort tapes conversation-less with you. He was your very good friend.
You sat through every single one of his failed matches with a strong-held despondence—even the desperate one-night stand he’d had with one Priscilla Allbright, a matchmaking scheme hatched up by Robin herself; she was the older sister of one of Robin’s theatre-kid buddies, but a tad too mean towards waiters—so it was easily one-and-done. And though Steve had rambled on about his continuous dry spell, you didn’t see it fit for you to throw yourself in the ring. It wasn’t until Steve’s dating ceased that you started to get concerned. He’d just stopped trying after Hawkins split in two. Nancy’s unintended doing.
Robin can’t help it. She wants more than anything to see the two do to shack up. She’s been making nothing but stupid bets and wagers for the past year—and even though she hasn’t made even a dime from it all, she still gets to revel in the satisfaction of you and Steve even being in the same room.
“I’m not jealous,” you affirm—easily ignored by Robin, who stretches her back left-and-right on the cushions.
“I don’t blame you. I’d be freaked too if Vick had some super-cool, fiery ex-girlfriend. No—I’d die!”
—
The next time the five of you get together—you, Rob, Nancy, Jonathan, and Steve—is at another one of those Wheeler-Byers dinners. This is the routine under your newfound militarized quarantine, especially when the Hawkins movie theater has tired of playing the same collection of movies five times over and you can only hit the same bar up so many times. All things considered, you think it’s a nice gesture that the Wheelers have offered up their home; it works out to have everyone under the same roof. They’re just as charitable when they host their little dinners, foldable chairs pulled from the basement and stuffed leg-to-leg at the dining table. Everyone pitches in to help prep—save for Mr. Wheeler, who slouches at the television box watching old tapes of football games from the year prior.
You have a decent spot at the corner of the table, wedged between Robin and Steve. Then, Steve next to Nancy, Nancy across from Jonathan… the usual. Steve has the tendency to jump his leg up and down underneath the table; the friction of his against yours isn’t easily ignorable, and yet you try to keep yourself quiet. In your peripheral vision, you can see the dad-looking sweater he chose for tonight, and his coiffed black hair.
You hate sitting next to Steve. It’s like this every dinner. You, getting passing whiffs of sandalwood and hairspray—trying not to look him in the eyes. Him, oblivious. There’s lots of ruckus; you’re pretty sure that there are four different conversations being shot across the table between the boys (save for a recluse Dustin), the parents, and you half-adults. Though Hop and El are still where they always are at the cabin, you’re sure that Joyce will bring them a well-packed plate the morning after. This dinner, Jonathan has persistently wrestled to pick up Nancy’s plate and serve her food; you’re very sure that she’s irritated by his insistence, because she gently scolds him with “I’m not a child.” Steve snorts, and you… don’t do a single thing. The chatter carries on, and you sit scooping peas over your mashed-potatoes.
You feel Steve lean his shoulder against yours, a too-warm attempt to get your attention. You’re too quiet for his liking. You crane your neck to look up at him, with a too-casual, “Yeah?”
“You know, the ‘indie’ stuff is really growing on me,” Steve chews, “I mean, I don’t really like how it’s all British—Go, Boston Tea Party, right?—but, they sound great.” You’ve been tossing in your personal favorites into Robin’s morning setlists. He’s clearly noticed.
You almost have to laugh. It’s a shocker, coming from him. “You like indie.”
Steve’s brows furrow, nodding his head along mid-question. “I do now. You’re, like, the connoisseur of the stuff. No offense, Rob.”
Robin beams. “Sure. None taken.” You hate sitting next to Steve. Especially when he acts like this.
The conversations carry on. Topics are restricted to normal, non-Upside Down, non-military—a house rule set by the kids. It’s like you’re spies. Steve picks up his reindeer-shaped ceramic mug—no thanks to the cup shortage (the Wheeler’s never hosted parties this big before)—takes a big swig of water out of the top. “You know what I miss? County fair.” Random. He continues, “I would kill for a churro. You guys ever ride the Zipper?”
Will diverts his attention from whatever pre-Calculus assignment Mike keeps moaning about to over to the other half of the table. “Jonathan threw up after the Zipper. Didn’t you?” Though he’s flat-faced, Jonathan’s clearly frothing with embarrassment.
“I did not throw up,” the older Byer brother insists, tone wavering just slightly. Will takes the win, turning back to the rest of the boys to continue rattling on about trigonometry.
“No throw-up talk at the table, please. Dinner,” Joyce warns, lifting her fork pointedly at Will and Jonathan. Tight-leash. You’re sure that she tries very hard to push good manners, especially under the Wheelers’ roof.
Steve carries on, trying to recall under his breath: “I took… Dana Mattey to the county fair? Think I won her a bear.”
“That was me, actually,” Nancy amends. Too loudly. Any existing conversation ruptures, leaving only the lingering silence of a dinner turned sour. Steve softens in his chair, looking at her meekly—before looking straight down at the table; he stops his jittery leg, eerily still. You’re very sure that you can see Jonathan’s knuckles whiten as he grips his fork. Mr. Wheeler grumbles some string of expletives that you can’t quite catch, and little Holly’s eyes flit between her parents and her siblings.
Mrs. Wheeler—already half wine-drunk—jumps to turn the conversation back around. She slurs, “The two of you aren’t seeing anyone?” The direction of her question toward the half-adult end of the table tells you that the question is pointed. The interrogatees: you and Robin. Steve is exempted, clearly. Mrs. Wheeler does this most nights, because Steve’s still very much her daughter’s preppy, popular high school ex-boyfriend.
Robin coughs up a bit—caught off-guard: “Oh. No. I’m not really looking for dates right now. Very career-focused. Radio’s, like, the new TV.” Robin lets out an affirmative, little “mhm!” before scarfing down too much food. Shitty liar. You try to give a nod in agreement, hoping that Robin’s response is satiating enough.
Mrs. Wheeler takes another swig of her wine, and then points lazily with her glass at you: “You?”
“Me.” You feel clammy.
She giggles coquettishly, “Well, you’re gorgeous. There’s got to be guys flocking to see you.” The wine in her glass sloshes left and right with the beat of her matter-of-fact explanation. You hear a little bit of a snort coming from the other half of the table.
“Lucas had a crush on you in middle school after you babysat him for Memorial Day,” Mike snickers, “Does that count?”
“Dude, shut up.” Lucas smacks Mike’s hand down into the table brusquely. You can see the two of them shove each other back-and-forth just beneath the sightline of the dining table. Robin gives you a nudge; the sole of her shoe juts into your calf, trying to urge a response out of you.
You’ve got a choice: tell the truth (you’re the modern-day equivalent of an old maid) or, opt for the easy way out. You choose the latter, replying wondrously—and maybe too proud: “I actually have a date on Saturday night.” Robin stifles her loud guffaw; she’s loving your improv. The rest of your friends—no, the entire table—look quite caught off-guard. Seems like everyone’s hushed up, save for the metallic scraping of forks against plates. It’s the puzzled tilt of Steve’s head that really does you in.
Though, Mrs. Wheeler is pleased enough with your response. “Of course you do, honey. Who’s the lucky guy?”
“He’s… uh…” Now, you’ve really dug your own grave. Your stammering dims her grin, and you’re afraid Mrs. Wheeler can see right through you.
It’s taking you far too long to spill. Robin brings her own drink slowly to her lips—wineglass, filled with apple juice—trying not to wear a sorry look on her face; it’ll only make it worse if she tries to come up with something for you. You’re just about to say a measly “boyfriend from Canada” joke, when Steve wraps his hand around your knee. “I’m taking her to Enzo’s.”
Robin makes a quick inhale-and-snort of her apple juice, and grabs for her napkin to try to wipe away the mess under her nose, dribbling down to her chin. The rest of the table reacts similarly—doe-eyed and curious. How did this happen? Mike murmurs a quick “Bullshit” under his breath, to which Nancy shoots out a stern “Mike!” By the looks of it, though, Nancy and Jonathan are the most confused out of everyone; after all, they spend the majority of the week with you guys at the Squawk, and they’d be able to see if you two were hooking up. And, it certainly doesn’t pair well with Steve’s here-and-there advances towards Nancy. The only person who’s mildly amused happens to be Will, who wears a proud, open-toothed smile on his face.
You try not to look as astonished as they do, but it’s taking a lot of work considering the fact that Steve’s hand is still landed on your knee—fingers edging toward your inner thigh. You’re so packed together in this dining room that you’re sure that the heat pooling off your cheeks easily reaches the other end of the table. You sum up just enough courage to look Steve in the eyes—maybe, to try and seal the deal, convince everyone that you are going out. Steve only gives you that tender, puppy-dog sort of look that he gives to pretty girls. You almost want to punch him for doing this for you. It’s too big of a lie.
When you swivel your head to look back at the rest of the table, everyone’s rather occupied by the sight of the two of you: Steve’s watchful eye and your electrified posture. You smile weakly, “We don’t have to talk about it right now. Lotta pressure.” An un-entertained Mr. Wheeler excuses himself to the living room (presumably, to watch last year’s baseball), and all the chatter resumes accordingly.
—
Robin’s the first to leave. A promise to Vickie to bring coffee for her late shift at the hospital gets her out the door promptly by nine o’ clock; she uses an easy excuse—need to make sure Grandma takes her meds. She doesn’t leave without giving you a wary look—you’ll get a stern talking to tomorrow—before she makes it out the door.
There’s a handful of things that run through your mind as you’re washing the dishes after dinner—up to your elbows in suds as you wash everyone’s plates. It’s Steve who insists on helping you dry them all off with a kitchen towel and file them back into the cabinets. Together, you create a two-person factory line. Wash-and-dry.
“You didn’t have to do that for me,” you murmur to him—hoping that the sound of the sink running will drown out your voices. Everyone else is scattered back around the house by now, but you’re quite sure that the boys are gathered in the living room. Nosy.
Steve shrugs. He leans in to murmur back to you, “Isn’t that what friends are for?” Right. Friends. “And, besides, it’ll get old Jonathan off my back about being around Nance so much.”
Now, you’ve got a better picture. If Steve “dates” you, he’s not nearly as much of a threat to their relationship. You’re not sure how much you like the sound of it. “Yeah. It’s a… good trade.” It’s hard for you not to wince. You focus more ardently on scrubbing the fork in your hand. “But, if they ask about the date—“
Steve tosses the towel over his shoulder, leaning against the counter beside you. “You’re right. Enzo’s is a stretch; I’d pay for it if you wanted me to, but realistically, you’d probably insist that I not do that. We would probably go for fries and a shake at Dee’s. Then, a late showing. Top Gun.” It’s the same old routine you go through every other week: post-work snack and a movie.
You snort, trying not to spritz soapy water on yourself: “God, we’ve seen it like a trillion times.” Steve pops a grin, too—satisfied with making you laugh for the first time tonight.
He leads, “Which is exactly why we would totally go see it again. Boom: flawless plan.” As soon as you slot the last plate into the dish rack, Steve takes the towel over his shoulder and tosses it to you. After drying up, you toss it over the rack of the oven. “Let me walk you out to your car, babe?”
“Asshole.”
—
You’re on one of the wheelie chairs back at WSQK. Saturday opening shift—you and Robin. It’s still shivering-cold this time of year, and there isn’t a bit of insulation. Steve’s not due for thirty, so the two of you are stuffed into the sound booth wrapped in blankets pulled straight from Robin’s trunk. You talk about the dinner, and after the dinner, all while you’re queuing up the setlist and sound cues for today’s morning segment. Robin’s too excited—flailing her arms around, up and at ‘em, pacing back and forth in the studio—while you scribble hard on the clipboard on your lap.
“This is perfect!” she shouts. It makes your right eye twitch; her volume is fifty decibels too loud for six-in-the-morning.
“No, Rob. It’s embarrassing.” You check off cassette numbers, placing the janky plastic cases into their respective slots.
“Sure, he volunteered to be your boyfriend—fake boyfriend—to save you the embarrassment of being a perpetual single. That’s nice and all. But, if you guys keep this up—“
It’s a nightmare just to think about. Every Wheeler-Byers dinner spent with Steve pretending to coddle you. Now, you’re really feeling sick of the military quarantine; New York sounds especially appealing. Or, Antarctica. You have to interrupt her. “We can’t keep it up.”
Robin goes blank, dingy-old Converse glued to the rug beneath you both, before shaking her head with an especially sharp-edged stare. “Sure you can. You have to. Or, it’ll disappoint the hell out of everyone.” ‘Everyone’ and ‘Robin’ are somewhat interchangeable, you think.
“I don’t think he’s going to want to keep it up that long.”
“He might surprise you,” she says earnestly. You wonder if you should trust Robin a little bit more than you do with these matters; after all, she is his best friend as much as she is yours. She carries on, “And, he’ll eventually face the fact that you are the top-tier option. Can’t get better than this.” Robin tugs cheekily at your collar, flouncing your hair a bit. It isn’t until you hear Steve’s Beamer roll up onto the gravel out front that you begin to shove her wriggly hands away. “Okay, okay,” you tell her, “Cool it, Buckley.”
As you carefully smooth down your hair, Steve makes it through the metal front door with a carton cup holder balanced on one hand and his keyring swinging in the other. “Coffee delivery,” he shouts over to the two of you, shoving his keys into his back pocket.
“Robs,” he deposits the cup on the nearest surface by her: counter by the microphones. “Steve, equipment. We talked about this,” she squeaks out, picking up the hot drink and placing it outside of the booth on the sturdier surface of a coffee table.
“Sorry, sorry,” he spews out haphazardly, before sliding over to you. You prop the clipboard gently onto the floor so you can take the coffee cup from his grip. Leaning down to bestow the cup upon you, Steve mumbles, “Girlfriend.” Your hands tremble just slightly as he hands it over to you—fingertips pressing against yours. A strong grip around the coffee cup quells your shaking—but you feel extremely hot-faced. Through the waxed-glass window of the sound booth, you can see Robin flags you with a crazed, wide-eyed smile. You’re only thankful that Steve has his back turned away from her.
“You don’t have to fake it right now,” you tell him. He knows and you know and Robin knows. There’s absolutely nothing to hide amongst the three of you.
Steve tuts softly, “Well, I know that. I’m just trying to build a good habit. I don’t want to be the one who slips up.”
“Well, I definitely won’t be the slipper-upper,” you retort. It’s a half-competitive, half-truthful sentiment that urges you to stand up, shedding your blanket over the top of the rolling chair—still gripping your cup tight. This brings you and Steve chest-to-chest, you tilting your head up to meet his gaze. You swear to God that the sound booth usually feels a lot bigger than it does right now. Steve pulls at the hem of your shirt as he looks over you.
“Actually, speaking of,” Steve perks up, “I wanted to run something by you.” You try to keep it cool, letting a lowly breath pass your lips.
“Yeah?” You can feel heat fanning across your body.
“If any of our friends ask about our little movie-date—like the little P.I.’s that we know they are—we should probably make sure that our stories line up.” Right. Steve wants to make sure that you both have all your bases covered. Clever. You give him a curt nod, under the impression you’ll both just have a little study session after Robin gets off-air, when he says: “We’ll just go on it—the date. As friends.”
You’re not sure whether you should be pleased or frightened, but Steve looks rather adamant about carrying through with the whole ordeal. “Are you sure?”
“Well, yeah. We’ve already put in all this work to keep it up, so we can’t just back down now,” he tells you plainly, “I’ll even bring you flowers to seal the deal. Still, flawless plan.”
The thought of Steve showing up to your doorstep with his stupid cologne and bouquet of lilies is nice. Too nice. A part of you has to wonder whether he’s still doing it for you, or if he’s doing it for himself. Realistically, it’s a bit of both—and you’re not sure if you see this working out well for either of you. You want to tell Steve, No, you should just tell her that you love her, but the sound of Robin knocking over a stack of cassettes just outside the booth makes you falter.
“Flawless plan,” she crackly echoes, before ushering herself to the vinyl shelves. You’re certain that if she turns around to face the both of you, her face will be highlighted red from top to bottom. But, Robin merely huddles herself against the wall—face out-of-sight.
—
Steve doesn’t show up with lilies, because you both leave straight from the WSQK. The sappy offshoot: a couple of daisies picked off the lawn outside. Curfew in Hawkins means any plans are pushed back at least a couple of hours. So, your Saturday night date is more like a Saturday afternoon. The two of you roll up to Dee’s with a Daryl Hall & Oates cassette slotted into the player of his Beamer. It’s better this way, you think. More like you. You’re just glad it’s not Enzo’s, and that neither of you had to dress up. Steve spritzes his cologne, you spruce your hair up a bit. It’s comfortable.
Not too many customers at this hour—so you and Steve get placed at a booth in the corner right away. You wonder how it looks from an outsider’s perspective—if it looks right, the two of you sitting on the same side. The waitress sure buys it, with Steve ordering for the both of you with his arm scooped around the back of your seat. She takes your orders as quickly as she can so she can skitter away to the kitchens, out of sight—probably to smoke a cigarette out back.
Once she’s gone, you turn to Steve with a hint of a smile on your face. “Okay. We should have, like, a good anecdote. Something really cute.” You want to be able to make this whole thing believable for the entire clan that is your friends.
“Right.” Steve tries to think something up, hand rubbing his cheek, eyebrows furrowed. He’s sifting through the possibilities. Then, he gets it—finger successively tapping on the surface of the vinyl table: “This old couple sat right by us and told us that we reminded us of them.” He looks so exhilarated by the little made-up scenario, head perked up like a meerkat out of Nat Geo—that you almost don’t want to shoot it down…
Still, you shoot out: “...Yeah, that sounds like bullshit.” He’s just a little bit offended—shoulders dropped, huffing out in only slight irritation.
He nudges his shoulder against yours. “Go ahead, then. Come up with something better.”
“Okay—we… got bored and played hangman on the placemats,” you volunteer. It’s not a terrible lie; Dee’s has the plain-white paper placemats, and crayons in cups just behind the counter for kids. A pretty good way to stay entertained.
“Just as bad as mine,” Steve retorts, stretching back out with his arms folded by his head, extended against the back of the seat. You’re very sure that Steve has some kind of back issues from everything you’ve been through—he’s always complaining about knots—and it worries you every now and again. Twenty-one going on sixty. It worries you even more when he does the little stretch-and-groan, an occasional test of your self-restraint. You try your hardest not to flick your gaze down to the sliver of stomach that gets exposed in his movement. Steve grumbles out: “My God—that’s gotta be from a movie or something.” Absolutely clueless.
You keep your eyes locked on the table in front of you—hands locked neatly together. “It probably is. God knows how many bullshit romcoms we sped through back at Family Video. Probably printed onto our brains by now.” He snorts.
The waitress comes with the fries—a large plate of them for the two of you, and a cookies and cream shake with two straws plunged into the cup. You don’t remember Steve asking them to group it like that, but to ask the waitress to send it back sounds like so much of a hassle, and you’re already pretending—it would be weird if you didn’t split it. The image of the two of you sharing the shake, nose-to-nose, makes your palms sweat.
Steve doesn’t give you any flack for the panic setting in on your face, just scoots the shake towards you with a nod. You first. “I know you totally dig that stuff. You don’t have to lie,” Steve carries on, “Hots for Swayze big time.” Relief. You pull the straw into your mouth, sipping up a gulp of the shake. It cools you down, only by a bit, and you spend the next couple of seconds focusing very intently on mashing the cookies around the bottom of the cup.
“Swayze’s not my type,” you say. Too much conviction. You know your type well—got it all figured out. So, this piques Steve’s interest; his eyebrow raises up just a tad, and you can feel him eyeing you.
Steve tries again, not before chewing on a couple of fries. “Then, what is your type?” Tall, dark hair, loyal as a German Shepherd, maybe a little bit dense…
“Don’t have one.”
“Everybody has a type,” Steve insists, “I’ve got a type.” He drags the shake towards himself, out from your hands, to take a generous sip. You’re very sure that you have his type all figured out, too.
“Witty and unavailable?” Nancy Wheeler, in two words. This gets him straightened out, trying to check the validity of your suggestion. Steve mulls it over, while you find yourself grabbing for a messy stack of fries to shut yourself up. This is small-talk Hell, and you’re only making it worse for yourself.
Finally, Steve gives a noncommittal shrug—wick of black hair falling over his forehead. You’re even sure that his ears have turned a bit pink; the overhead lights of the diner are bright, not doing him any favors in concealing it. He hums, “That’s one way to put it.” Then, he slides the cookies and cream shake back over to you insistently: finish it. “You’re sure Swayze doesn’t do it for you? No? Okay. The, uh, the Indiana Jones guy,” he guesses.
“None of the above,” you retort, shaking your head with a faint grin on your face. Steve smiles to himself, only satisfied with the fact that he’s giving you a light bit of entertainment.
You spend the rest of the meal—as short as it is—thinking about his answer. It’s still daylight by the time the two of you make it out of Dee’s and back to Steve’s Beamer. On the drive to the movie theater, you’re still thinking about it. About him. It puts you into a bit of a crisis, really. Steve’s in love with Nancy, but he’s out on this date with you. It takes a bit of time to settle with it again: it’s fake, it’s a favor, and Steve’s only half-there on your behalf. He isn’t yours.
Your contemplative silence on the drive to the movie theater makes him only a little bit unnerved. Steve decides to drive the two of you around to the back of the theater—“knowing a guy who knows a guy who’ll let him park his car in the backlot.” You’re pretty sure it’s one of Steve’s old basketball teammates, but you’re not particularly inclined to call him on it. You know it’ll all be pretty patched-up once you make it through to Top Gun. Quoting lines to each other, all whispers and airy laughs, like always. Good friends.
—
You decide to go in one car for the next Wheeler-Byers dinner a week after. Robin’s already inside, planning some monthly interview for the WSQK with Nancy—so it’s just you and Steve in the Beamer, parked up on the end of the block. “Should I give you my sweater?” he asks you, shifting his gear shifting into park, “I feel like that shouts ‘We’re together now.’ You can leave your coat in the backseat, we’ll say you forgot it, and I’ll freeze my ass off. Totally sells it.” He doesn’t wait to hear your response, just slides out of the car and shuts the door soft behind him. Steve swings his keyring around his index finger, coming around to the passenger’s seat to open your door for you. He grabs your hand, helps you out of the car with a steady grip.
Once he shuts the door, you jump to ask him: “How long do you think we should keep this up?” Like a deer caught in headlights, Steve stares at you. He purses his lips.
Erring on the side of caution, he replies, “That’s a good question. How long do you want to keep it up?”
“Well, what if there’s somebody that you really, really like and we have to stage a massive fake-breakup?” A worst case scenario given Nancy breaks up with Ionathan. Even worse: “Or, what if they expect us to kiss?” So, maybe you sound a bit immature, but it isn’t out of the realm of possibility. There’s a chance that—given enough wine—Mrs. Wheeler will become just audacious enough to ask you about the more intimate aspects of your relationship; it’d be strange for you and Steve not to be all attached at the hip. And, other places. Steve seems to think it over, hands moving to rest on his hips. He looks troubled, tapping his sneaker against the sidewalk, eyes darting across your face like he’s trying to glean something off of you.
“Okay,” he decides, a short sigh—before sidling up closer to you. He tries to kiss you—and you let him. He leans in, plants his lips onto yours—your noses tentatively bumping against one another in the quick motion. Steve’s face is hot against yours, and you can hear him let out a guttural sigh as your lips move to meet one another. It’s like a dream, the way he walks you back against the Beamer, and runs his fingers through your hair… He stops as soon as he feels you push against his chest. Your lips brush for a second more, before Steve retreats away from you. “Shit. I’m sorry.” He peels off of you to lean on the side-door of the Beamer beside you. Steve’s hands are stuffed into his jacket pockets, as he looks gravely down at both of your shoes on the concrete. “Stupid idea.”
You have your arms crossed, hand over your mouth. He just kissed you—hard. You can’t say you’re not pleased with it, because you are. Extremely so. But, you’re even more confused by it than anything else. “You’re in love with Nancy,” you spout.
Steve’s head whips up, dumbfounded. “No, I’m not.”
“Uh… yeah, you are. You hate Jonathan, you get all close and weird like you do, and you can never stop staring at her.”
“I don’t hate Jonathan. I love pissing him off,” Steve corrects you. The lack of reaction that you give him makes him startled. He backtracks, “Okay, okay—maybe, I thought I had a shot with her last year, but that was last year. I wasn’t thinking straight, I was all over the place. We’re friends and all now, but that’s it.”
“But, we were talking about—y’know, on Saturday,” you stutter out, “Nance.”
“I was talking about you,” Steve shakes his head, “You’re witty and unavailable and…” His train of thought takes him right up against the truth. Steve is nearly glowing with recognition—you don’t respond, reticent, face hardened with embarrassment: “You’re jealous.”
You almost feel like bolting down the edge of the street, ditching Wheeler-Byers’, and maybe even running home. You open your mouth to protest against the claim, and Steve’s astounded expression just makes you more fired up to prove him wrong. There’s a long string of “I’m not’s” and “You are’s” that passes between the two of you, enough to lose count—God, he’s so like Robin in his stubbornness. No wonder they get along—before you finally shut him up with a loud: “I am! I’m jealous of Nancy, and it drives me crazy. Happy?”
With a tilt of his head and a shrug, Steve murmurs, “I mean, yeah.” You can only reach out to shove him by the shoulder. He lets you push him back a couple of feet, soles scuffing against the sidewalk, before he plants himself more solidly on the ground. He’s trying very hard to conceal the growing grin on his face as you swat at his arms, all pissed and flustered. The second you let up, he grips you by your arms. “I should’ve just asked you on a regular date,” Steve admits, “I kept on putting it off because you’re just so…” He moves his hands to gesture over you. “You. And, with the whole dinner thing, I thought, ‘What the hell, why not take the easy way out of friendzone?’—even though I could’ve just asked you out months ago and solved the whole issue in the first place.”
“We’ve been dancing around each other for no reason,” you murmur.
“Not a lick of it,” Steve nods, shooing you aside a bit to pull open the backseat of the Beamer. “Now, toss your coat in the back.” You shrug your coat off of yourself, taking the heavy lump of fabric and tossing it haphazardly on the leather cushions. It’s shivering cold without it on, but the heat emanating off your face makes up for the lack of layers.
It doesn’t last for long. Steve shuts the door, before grabbing at the bottom of his sweater and pulling it over his head. He gestures for you to come closer to him, before tugging it carefully over your head. You slot your arms through the sleeves, well-wrapped in the warmth of the plush fabric. He makes sure the hem is straightened out, and fixes your hair accordingly. “You’re it for me. No fake-outs.”
You hook your pinkies into his belt loops, pulling him in for a chaste kiss. A flat “oh” slips past his lips as you pull him in, and he makes sure to place his hands around your hips as your lips slot together. Again. And, again. Steve’s wearing a smirk through each of your kisses, nothing but pleased about how it’s all played out. “Can’t wait to do this all the time,” he exhales.
“Let’s get inside. I know you’re freezing to death in just this.” You pull at Steve’s white t-shirt. His shoulders are tightened, arms quickly crossed, and you can tell very clearly that he’s trying not to shiver.
—
Entry into the Wheeler house isn’t anything but excitable. As soon as you're through the front door, Robin peeks the two of you from the staircase—Steve’s red face and your swollen lips; she nearly pushes Nancy over to tumble down the steps, inspecting each of you closely. “Holy shit,” she gasps quietly, “Holy shit! Did the two of you hook up? Say yes.”
“We kissed, you dork.” You have to slap her hand away as she pokes her index finger against your bottom lip. “Don’t say the H-word. There’s kids around.”
“Holy shit, or hook-up?” Steve asks. Neither of you respond.
“Well, I’m just saying that the credit for the H-word should be given where it’s due.” Robin points two thumbs in her own direction, and you reach up to noogie her hair. She yelps, trying to pry you off of her. “Okay, okay, I’ll shut up,” she tells you, but you can see her divert her attention towards Steve with a devilishly pleased expression. Robin punches him without restriction on the arm with a cheerful “You did it, bud!”
Your eyes flit suspiciously between the two of them. She’s proud, and he’s sheepish. God, Robin’s a meddler, but you can’t be completely irritated with her. Nancy makes her way down the stairs behind Robin with a pleased smile—and a teasing “nice”—shot at all three of you before she passes through the hall. You follow her trajectory to the dining room, where you can see the rest of your motley gathering of family moving around to set the table. You’re not nearly as scared to play boyfriend-girlfriend with Steve—especially when you can feel his hand resting securely on the small of your back.
summary: After a brutal shift pushes Robby past his breaking point, you're forced to confront him about his temper, his self destructive habits, and the exhaustion he's been pretending doesn't exist. But when an injury leaves him unable to hide how worn down he really is, anger slowly gives way to concern, and the tension between you becomes impossible to ignore.
wc: 8.6k
warnings/content: shitty overwhelmed robby, descriptions of injury (deep cut) and bleeding, swearing, mental health talk, implied age gap (due to reader being a resident and robby being an attending, but no specified age), burnout, medical trauma
Robby had been in a bad mood all shift. Not the normal kind, not the sharp sarcasm or clipped exhaustion everyone in the ER was used to from him after twelve straight hours of chaos.
This was different; meaner. Like every nerve in his body had been sanded raw.
He snapped at a med student before noon, argued with radiology twice, bit one of the nurses’ heads off over a delayed consult.
And now, halfway through hour thirteen, he was currently reaming out a resident outside Trauma Three hard enough that people were actively avoiding eye contact while passing by.
“You can’t just ignore a pressure drop because you’re overwhelmed,” Robby snapped, voice low but furious. “That’s how people die.”
The resident looked ashamed, “I'm sorry, I know, I know better-” But Robby cuts him off, “No, clearly you don’t.”
The resident looked devastated, his expression made your jaw tighten immediately, “Robby.” You tried to interven, but he ignored you, the resident muttered another apology, visibly flustered now. Robby exhaled sharply through his nose, “Go recheck the labs and page me when you actually know what’s happening with your patient.” The resident fled.
“What the hell was that?” you asked once the resident disappeared around the corner, still looking vaguely shell shocked from the interaction.
Robby barely glanced up from the chart in his hands. “I corrected a mistake.” The dismissiveness in his tone irritated you immediately. You understood being stressed, everyone in the ER was stressed but that didn’t justify publicly tearing apart a resident who already looked two seconds away from a breakdown.
“He’s a first year resident handling a triple trauma,” you said, lowering your voice slightly as another nurse hurried past. “You didn’t need to humiliate him in front of half the department just because he missed a pressure drop.”
Robby looked up then, exhaustion and frustration sitting harshly across his face. “A pressure crash isn’t a small mistake.”
“I know that,” You snapped back, trying and failing to keep your own irritation under control. “But there’s a difference between teaching somebody and unloading on them because you’re pissed off at the world.”
"Jesus Christ.” Robby shoved a hand through his hair roughly, already turning away, “I don’t have time for this.”
You don't let up, “No, actually, you do.” You snap, your tone finally made him stop. Slowly, Robby turned back toward you, expression exhausted and simmering with irritation. The fluorescent ER lights made the dark circles under his eyes look brutal, “You wanna lecture me too?” he asked flatly.
You crossed your arms, “You’ve been acting like an asshole to everybody all day.”
He scoffs, scratching his beard before he shrugs, “Then maybe stay out of my way.” That pissed you off instantly, your lips part in shock before you say anything, “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” The tension between you snapped tight immediately.
Nearby nurses suddenly became very interested in literally anything else, expectedly, beause this happened with you and Robby sometimes. Too much stress, too many hours, too much unresolved tension neither of you touched directly.
And suddenly every conversation felt like standing too close to a live wire. “You don’t get to take your shit out on everyone else because you’re exhausted,” you shot back. His jaw clenched hard, “You think I don’t know that?” You throw your hands in the air in bemusement, “I think you clearly don’t care right now.”
Robby laughed once under his breath, humorless, shaking his head, “Unbelievable.” Before you could answer, Dana appeared around the corner, “Room eighteen needs a physician now.” Robby turned immediately, already moving, conversation over.
Or it should’ve been, except ten minutes later you heard shouting from down the hall, not angry shouting, but panicked.
You rounded the corner fast enough to nearly collide with a nurse, “What happened?” You asked, catching the arm of a passing nurse as she hurried toward Room Eighteen, “Combative psych patient.” The look on her face was enough to make your stomach drop before she even finished the sentence.
You pushed through the doorway immediately and were met with complete chaos. Security was struggling to pin the patient to the bed while he thrashed violently against the restraints, monitor cables had been ripped half off the wall and tangled around the stretche, one of the nurses stood off to the side, visibly shaken after nearly taking an elbow to the face.
For a second, there was too much happening at once for your brain to process, then you saw Robby.
He was standing near the foot of the bed barking orders over the commotion, his attention fixed entirely on the patient. At first nothing seemed unusual; until your eyes caught the blood running down his arm.
A lot of blood, at that. Bright red streaks soaked through the torn sleeve of his scrub top and dripped steadily from his fingertips onto the floor. Your heart lurched, “What the fuck happened?”
Robby glanced over briefly, as if only just realizing you'd entered the room. If the sight of his own blood bothered him, it certainly didn't show. Instead, he turned right back toward security and pointed toward the patient. “Get him restrained properly before somebody else gets hurt,” he ordered sharply. “I want him sedated now.”
The patient screamed another string of profanity from the bed, you barely heard it, your eyes were still fixed on Robby's arm. Blood continued to drip onto the floor between his feet, and somehow he seemed completely unconcerned by it.
No way he couldn't feel it, yet he carried on as if nothing had happened, already reaching for the chart at the foot of the bed while everyone else in the room looked significantly more concerned about the injury than he did. “Robby.” Your voice came out sharper this time.
He finally glanced over, the look he gave you was almost annoyed, as though you were interrupting something important, "It's fine." You looked from his face to the blood still running down his arm and back again.
For a moment you genuinely wondered if exhaustion had finally broken something in his brain, “You're bleeding through your scrubs.” His gaze flickered downward for all of half a second before returning to the patient. “It's superficial.”
The casual dismissal made your irritation flare instantly, because blood was literally dripping onto the floor beneath him, and somehow he still seemed more concerned about finishing the encounter than the fact he'd just been injured.
The sight of blood still dripping steadily from his fingertips finally snapped something in you. Another nurse appeared at Robby's side and offered him a roll of gauze, but he ignored it entirely. Instead, he reached for the chart at the end of the bed as if finishing his documentation was somehow more urgent than the fact that he'd just been injured.
You stared at him for a second, genuinely wondering if he'd lost his mind, then you grabbed his wrist, hard. The movement was enough to make him finally stop what he was doing. His eyes lifted immediately, irritation flashing across his face the second he realized what you were doing, "Enough."
For a moment neither of you moved. The patient was still shouting from the stretcher, security was adjusting restraints, monitors continued beeping in the background, but somehow your entire focus narrowed to the man standing in front of you pretending he wasn't bleeding through his scrubs.
Robby looked down at your hand wrapped around his wrist before meeting your gaze again, the expression on his face suggested he thought you were being ridiculous. You hated that expression.
"It's fine." The calm certainty in his voice only made you angrier. Blood had already soaked halfway down his forearm, staining the cuff of his sleeve dark red, yet he still looked more annoyed by your concern than the injury itself.
"You are literally bleeding through your scrubs." His gaze flicked downward briefly, acknowledging the evidence for perhaps the first time. The look lasted less than a second before he dismissed it completely.
"It's a scratch." You let out a short, disbelieving laugh at his words. A scratch. As if scratches usually left trails of blood across the floor, as if half the room hadn't watched him get injured five minutes earlier.
The absurdity of it almost made you laugh, instead, it just made you squeeze his wrist harder, "It's through your fucking sleeve, Robby."
That finally earned a reaction, not concern, but annoyance. His jaw tightened immediately, and you watched the familiar signs of his temper begin to surface again.
Around you, the room had gotten noticeably quieter. Security was still working, nurses were still moving, but everyone had suddenly become very interested in looking literally anywhere except the argument unfolding in front of the, nobody wanted to get caught watching.
Robby shifted his arm, attempting to pull free, you didn't budge. The brief tug-of-war only seemed to irritate him further.
A muscle jumped in his jaw before he exhaled sharply through his nose and fixed you with a look that probably terrified most people, unfortunately for him, you'd known him too long, "You really want to do this right now?" he asked.
The question sounded less like genuine curiosity and more like a warning, but weren't particularly impressed, "Yes." For a second he simply stared at you.
Then he glanced around the room as though hoping someone else might intervene and save him from this conversation, nobody did. The corner of your mouth twitched despite yourself.
"You're making a scene." The accusation would've carried more weight if there wasn't a literal trail of blood leading from where he'd been standing. You followed his gaze downward pointedly before looking back at him, "And you're dripping blood on the floor."
The silence that followed felt almost comical, because for the first time since this started, Robby didn't actually have a comeback. He just stood there looking exhausted, irritated, and very obviously injured while frustration practically radiated off him in waves.
The frustration in his voice should've made you back off, instead, it just annoyed you more. Robby had a habit of acting like concern was an inconvenience, like every person trying to help him was personally getting in the way of something more important. Most days you could ignore it.
Today, after sixteen hours of watching him run himself into the ground, you couldn't, "Can you not start?" He snaps finally, the irritation was immediate, but there was something else underneath it too. Exhaustion, maybe. The kind that made everything feel heavier than it should.
You folded the fresh gauze into your palm and stepped closer, "What I'd like is five minutes where you stop acting like you're indestructible."
The words sounded harsher than you'd intended, you saw it immediately in the way his expression shifted, it wasn't dramatic, just a brief flicker of something behind the annoyance before the walls went right back up again. Gone almost as quickly as it appeared.
A nurse passed behind you and silently handed over another packet of supplies. You accepted it without looking away from him, neither of you seemed willing to break eye contact first, "Sit down." You tell him.
Robby let out a slow breath through his nose, the look he gave you suggested he'd rather be anywhere else. Unfortunately for him, there was enough blood on his arm to make arguing feel ridiculous.
He glanced toward the patient, toward security, toward literally anything that might provide an excuse to leave. When nothing presented itself, his shoulders sagged slightly, not quite surrender, more like reluctant acceptance, "You know," he muttered, "Most people don't enjoy ordering attendings around."
You shake your head, "Most attendings aren't actively bleeding on me." The corner of his mouth twitched before he could stop it, the closest thing to a laugh you'd seen from him all day. It was brief, but enough to break some of the tension hanging over the room.
Still looking thoroughly unimpressed by the entire situation, Robby lowered himself onto the edge of the stretcher. The movement wasn't graceful, now that he was sitting still, the exhaustion was harder to ignore.
You stepped between his knees automatically and took hold of his injured arm before he could think of another excuse to leave. The second you rolled back the torn sleeve, your stomach sank, the cut was deeper than you'd expected. It wasn't catastrophic, nor was it life threatening. But it was definitely not the superficial scratch he'd been trying to sell everybody.
For a moment you just stared at it, then you looked up at him, "You're kidding." Robby followed your gaze down to the wound and shrugged. The gesture would've been more convincing if blood wasn't still seeping through the edges, "It'll be fine."
The response was so predictable you almost laughed. Instead, you carefully inspected the laceration again, already mentally counting how many stitches it would probably need, "Yeah, no. That's getting closed."
His immediate expression made it clear he hated that answer, the stubbornness would've been impressive if it wasn't so irritating. "You know what's funny?" you asked, reaching for fresh gauze. "You spend half your life telling patients not to ignore injuries."
"I am aware." He says flatly, but you continue. "And yet somehow you're the worst patient in this entire hospital." That earned you a look. Not an angry one, just tired.
Up close, it was impossible to miss. His eyes were bloodshot beneath the fluorescent lights. Tension sat heavy in his shoulders, pulling every muscle tight as steel wire, and the exhaustion you'd noticed earlier suddenly looked less like a bad day and more like weeks of accumulated strain finally catching up to him.
For the first time since the argument started, your irritation softened slightly, because underneath the stubbornness and temper, Robby didn't really look angry anymore. He looked spent.
The more time you spent looking at him, the worse he looked. Not physically, at least, not just physically The cut was one thing. The blood, the torn sleeve, the fresh bruising already beginning to form around his forearm; those were obvious. Easy to identify, therefore easy to fix. Everything else was harder.
"How long have you been awake?" The question slipped out before you could stop it. For the first time since you'd cornered him onto the stretcher, something in his expression shifted. Not surprise, not irritation, defensiveness. Immediate and instinctive.
His gaze dropped away from yours as if the answer itself was something he didn't want to examine too closely, "That's not relevant." The response told you more than an actual number would've. You didn't push right away. Instead, you focused on cleaning the wound, pressing fresh gauze against the cut a little more firmly than before. Robby hissed through his teeth.
The reaction was brief, but it earned a small sense of satisfaction. Good, maybe pain would accomplish what reason apparently couldn't, "Hold still."You didn't bother looking up when you said it.
From the corner of your eye, you saw him settle back against the stretcher with obvious reluctance, shoulders still tense despite his attempts to appear unaffected. A few seconds later, his voice came again, "I'm literally sitting still."
The complaint was automatic and expected, and yet you rolled your eyes, "You're glaring at me." That finally made you glance up. The look on his face was so genuinely offended that you almost laughed, "I can't help what my face looks like." The answer was delivered with enough sincerity to break through your irritation.
A laugh escaped before you could stop it. And there it was again, that thing. The thing that made conversations with Robby feel different from conversations with everyone else. The thing that somehow survived arguments, exhaustion, and impossible shifts. Even now, standing between his knees with blood staining your gloves and a half-finished trauma unfolding ten feet away, you could still feel it.
The awareness, the pull, the constant sense that there was always something sitting just beneath the surface between the two of you. Dangerous, annoying, impossible to ignore. For a while, neither of you spoke.
You focused on the wound while Robby watched you work, unusually quiet for someone who normally argued every instruction you gave him, when he finally broke the silence, his voice sounded different, softer, less defensive,"You still pissed at me?"
The question caught you off guard enough that you looked up immediately, only to see he wasn't smiling, wasn't teasing. For once, there wasn't a trace of sarcasm in sight, your grip on his arm tightened slightly, "You were awful to that resident." The words came out gentler than you'd intended. You expected an argument, expected him to defend himself.
Instead, Robby just nodded once, the movement was so small you almost missed it, "I know." The admission stopped you cold, for a second you just stared at him. Because that wasn't what you were prepared for. There was no irritation behind it, no attempt to justify what happened, no argument waiting around the corner. Just guilt, plain and simple.
Robby looked away first, his jaw tightening slightly as he stared toward the opposite wall. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter, "I know." The repetition somehow hit harder than the first admission. Your frustration faltered immediately.
Because underneath all the things that made Robby difficult; his temper, his impossible standards, his tendency to shoulder every responsibility within a fifty-foot radius, there had always been this guilt.
He carried it everywhere, rvery bad outcome, every missed diagnosis, every mistake (his own and everybody else's). Most people got angry because they didn't care, Robby got angry because he cared too much. About patients, about medicine, bout responsibility, bout getting things right.
And when the pressure became too much, when exhaustion and stress started piling up faster than he could process them, all that concern twisted itself into frustration instead. You'd seen it happen before, just never this badly, "You can't keep doing this to yourself."
The words hung between you, for a moment, he didn't answer. You continued cleaning the wound, carefully avoiding his eyes, partly because you were concentrating, partly because you weren't sure you wanted to see whatever expression was on his face right now. Eventually, you felt his gaze settle on you again. Steady, tired, "What exactly am I doing?"The question sounded genuine.
You shook your head slightly, "Acting like if you just work hard enough, eventually you'll stop being exhausted." Silence followed. Not uncomfortable, not argumentative, just quiet, the kind of silence that happened when somebody heard something they didn't want to hear because it was true.
When you finally looked up again, the fight seemed to have drained out of him completely. The tension was still there, buried deep in his shoulders and the tight set of his jaw, but whatever energy he'd been using to push everyone away all day was gone. For the first time since the shift started, Robby didn't look angry, he just looked tired.
The silence that followed settled more comfortably than you'd expected. A few minutes earlier, the two of you had been arguing in the middle of a patient room while half the department pretended not to watch. Now the fight seemed to have drained out of him entirely.
Or maybe he'd simply run out of energy to keep it going. You adjusted the fresh bandage around his forearm, shaking your head as another thought occurred to you, "Did you eat anything today?" The question earned an immediate look. Offended. Which, honestly, felt about right.
You already knew the answer, the fact that he looked personally attacked by the question only confirmed it, "I had lunch." The response came a little too quickly. You paused your work long enough to raise an eyebrow. Robby held your stare for approximately two seconds before looking away, "Coffee doesn't count."
A faint grimace crossed his face, the lack of a rebuttal told you everything. You couldn't help the small shake of your head, "That's what I thought."
The more you considered it, the more ridiculous it became. He'd spent the entire day sprinting from one crisis to another, surviving almost exclusively on caffeine and stubbornness, and somehow expected his body to keep cooperating. Honestly, it was impressive that he was still upright, "You've had what? Four coffees? Five?"
A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth despite himself, the expression was brief, but after the kind of day he'd been having, it felt almost startling, "There she is."
You immediately narrowed your eyes at his words the warmth that accompanied the comment was subtle, buried beneath layers of exhaustion, but you knew him well enough to recognize it. Unfortunately, that made it significantly more dangerous, "Don't do that." His expression shifted slightly as you spoke,"Do what?"
"You know exactly what." For a moment, he looked genuinely confused, then the realization hit. The smile deepened just enough to make your pulse annoyingly aware of itself, he hums, "Oh." The single syllable somehow sounded far too pleased.
You rolled your eyes and focused your attention back on the bandage, "You're not flirting your way out of this conversation." A soft huff of laughter escaped him, the sound was rough around the edges, worn thin by exhaustion, but it was there, "I wasn't flirting."
The lie would've been more convincing if he hadn't looked directly at your mouth halfway through saying it. You didn't point that out, mostly because you weren't interested in examining why you'd noticed.
A moment later, his voice returned, quieter this time, "Maybe a little." Heat flickered unexpectedly through your chest, which was quite frankly annoying. Particularly because this was objectively the least appropriate environment imaginable. The man was injured, you were standing in the middle of a patient room.
And yet somehow Robby still managed to look at you in a way that made it difficult to remember what you were saying. It wasn't just attraction, that would've been easier. There was always something more focused about his attention, more deliberate, like he noticed things he shouldn't.
And right now, exhausted and bleeding and looking more vulnerable than you'd ever seen him, he was doing it again; the realization made you look away first. Probably for self preservation, "You scare people when you get like this." The words slipped out before you could stop them.
Immediately, something softened in his expression, enough to make him look less like the intimidating attending everyone else knew and more like a man who hadn't slept properly in weeks. His gaze stayed fixed on you, "You scared?"
Your hands pause for a second, the question landed somewhere far more dangerous than it should have. Especially because he wasn't teasing, there was no arrogance behind it. It was pure curiosity. You cleared your throat and immediately returned your attention to the bandage, safer territory, "I'm considering sedating you personally."
The laugh that escaped him this time was real, clearly dragged from somewhere deep beneath layers of exhaustion, but it was real. And somehow that felt like a victory. The sound faded quickly, so did the smile. Almost immediately, the exhaustion returned, settling heavily across his features once again.
You watched it happen in real time; the way his shoulders slumped slightly, the way his eyes lost some of their focus, the way the weight of the shift seemed to settle back onto him all at once. For a few seconds, neither of you spoke.
Then his voice broke the silence, quieter than before, uncertain, almost, "Did I really go that hard on him?" The question caught you off guard, not because of what he asked, because of how he asked it. There was no defensiveness, no argument waiting behind it, no expectation that you'd tell him he was right. He just wanted the truth.
You studied him for a long moment, the sharp edges that usually made Robby intimidating seemed dulled somehow, worn down, stripped away by exhaustion. He didn't look angry anymore, didn't even look frustrated. Just tired, completely and utterly tired, "Yeah," you admitted softly. "You did."
His gaze dropped immediately, not to the floor, not to the patient, to your hands, to the blood stained gauze resting against his arm. For a long moment, he simply stared at it. The noise of the ER carried on around you, monitors beeping, phones ringing, voices echoing down the hallway, but somehow none of it seemed to reach him.
When he finally spoke again, his voice was barely above a murmur, "I'm tired." The confession was so quiet you almost missed it. No sarcasm, no deflection, no joke to soften it.
Just the truth, simple and devastating. And somehow that hit harder than every argument you'd had with him all day. Because for the first time, he wasn't trying to convince you he was fine. He wasn't trying to convince himself, either.
"We all are, Robby." Your voice came out gentler than you'd intended. Maybe because he looked so exhausted sitting ther, maybe because the anger you'd been carrying around all day had finally burned itself out. Whatever the reason, it was difficult to stay furious with him when he looked less like an attending physician and more like a man running on fumes, "But part of our job is dealing with that exhaustion without taking it out on everyone around us."
For a moment, he didn't answer, the bustling noise of the ER seemed distant somehow, drowned out by the weight of the conversation hanging between you. Robby's gaze dropped to the floor, his jaw tightening slightly as he absorbed the criticism without arguing for once.
That, more than anything, told you he knew you were right. You'd expected some sort of pushback; a sarcastic remark, an excuse. Instead, he just nodded. The movement was small enough that most people would've missed it, but you caught it immediately. And for the first time all night, he looked ashamed.
The realization made something uncomfortable twist in your chest. Because Robby was many things. Stubborn, difficult, occasionally impossible, but he genuinely cared. Sometimes too much, sometimes to the point that it consumed him.
That didn't excuse how he'd treated the resident, but it made it harder to stay angry. His eyes eventually lifted back to yours. There was still exhaustion written all over him, settled deep beneath his eyes and pulling at the corners of his mouth, but the fight seemed to be gone.
When he finally spoke again, his voice was quieter than before, "You staying mad at me?" The question should've been simple, instead, it sent an irritating little stumble through your heartbeat.
Because he wasn't talking about the resident anymore, and judging by the look he was giving you, he knew it. For a second, neither of you said anything, the air felt strangely charged despite the chaos unfolding everywhere around you. Then a monitor alarm sounded somewhere down the hallway, shattering whatever moment had been building between you.
Reality returned all at once; patients still needed to be seen, charts still needed to be finished. The shift wasn't over, not even close.
Unfortunately, the conversation seemed to leave its mark on Robby anyway. If anything, he got worse afterward, not louder; quieter. Which was somehow far more alarming.
For the next hour, he moved through the department with a detached sort of efficiency that immediately put you on edge. The sharp comments disappeared, the sarcasm vanished, even the frustrated muttering that usually followed him from room to room seemed to dry up entirely.
He simply worked. Patient after patient, room after room; methodical, mechanical. Like every emotion he'd been carrying around all day had been locked away somewhere deep inside him.
The change should've been an improvement. Instead, it felt wrong. You kept catching yourself watching him from across the department, waiting for the familiar signs of irritation to return. They never did.
And the longer it went on, the more unsettling it became. Because beneath the calm exterior, Robby looked exhausted enough to collapse. The anger had been masking it before. Without it, there was nothing left to hide how worn down he really was.
The sutures didn't go unnoticed. Dana spotted them almost immediately during a brief lull at the nurses' station, her eyes narrowing the second she caught sight of the fresh stitches peeking out beneath the edge of Robby's bandage.
For a moment, she simply stared at him, then she looked down at the chart in her hands before looking back at him again, as if double checking that what she was seeing was actually real. "You stitched that yourself?"
Robby's attention never left the computer screen. The response he offered amounted to little more than a distracted hum of acknowledgment, his fingers continuing to move across the keyboard as though self-surgery during a shift was a completely normal thing to do.
Dana looked horrified, "You know that's insane, right?" That finally earned a reaction, not much of one, just enough for Robby to glance up briefly. "I wore gloves." The answer was so absurdly sincere that Dana immediately turned toward you instead The look on her face suggested she expected you to intervene. You blinked, "What exactly would you like me to do? Tackle him?"
"You could sedate him." Honestly, she wasn't wrong. The conversation died there, mostly because Robby ignored both of you and returned his full attention to charting. For some reason, that irritated you more than if he'd actually argued.
The shift only got worse from there, every time it felt like things might settle down, another disaster rolled through the doors. A pediatric respiratory distress consumed nearly an hour of everyone's attention, not long after that came a stroke alert that turned the department upside down, then an elderly cardiac arrest hit the floor hard enough to leave even the most experienced staff emotionally drained afterward.
By 5PM, the entire ER felt exhausted, everyone moved a little slower. Conversations became shorter. The usual energy that carried people through difficult shifts had long since disappeared. Which was why finding Robby restocking supplies in an empty trauma bay nearly made you lose your mind.
You stopped in the doorway and simply stared at him for a moment, sure enough, he was reorganizing cabinets himself. As though he hadn't already spent the last seven hours running nonstop, as though there weren't techs whose entire job involved handling tasks exactly like this, "You know we have people for that, right?" Robby didn't turn around at your words, his attention remained fixed on the cabinet in front of him as he shoved a stack of gauze onto the shelf with considerably more force than necessary.
"They're busy." The answer came immediately, like he'd already anticipated the argument. You folded your arms and leaned against the doorway, "So are you."
That finally earned a pause. Not an acknowledgment, just enough hesitation to confirm he'd heard you. The silence that followed stretched for several seconds while you watched him continue working, or, attempting to.
The longer you looked, the more obvious it became that something was wrong, his movements lacked their usual precision. There was a stiffness to them now, a tension that seemed woven into every motion.
Then your eyes dropped to his arm, of course. A dark stain was beginning to spread through the edge of the bandage. You stared at it for a second before letting out a long, suffering exhale, of course he managed to reopen the wound, "You popped your stitches."
This time he did turn around, not because he seemed concerned, but because he seemed annoyed that you'd noticed. The expression alone made you want to throw something at him.
"I know." The casualness of the admission was almost impressive, it would've been if it was any other day. You rubbed a hand over your face, "You're unbelievable."
Now that he was facing you fully, it became impossible to ignore how awful he looked. The fluorescent lighting wasn't doing him any favors, his skin had taken on the pale, washed out appearance of someone operating entirely on caffeine and determination. Dark circles sat beneath bloodshot eyes, and his hair looked like he'd spent the entire shift dragging frustrated hands through it. More concerning was the exhaustion, the kind that settled into a person's bones and stayed there.
And somehow, despite looking like he was about ten minutes away from collapsing face-first into the supply cabinet, he still managed to be unfairly attractive.The realization annoyed you immediately, mostly because now felt like a ridiculous time to be noticing that. Robby caught you staring, one eyebrow lifted slightly.
The expression would've been more intimidating if he didn't look so exhausted, "You done analyzing me?" There wasn't much bite behind the question, just fatigue. Enough fatigue, actually, that for a second your irritation softened into concern before you could stop it. Which, frankly, was even more annoying.
You watched him shove another stack of supplies into the cabinet and immediately regretted it. Because seeing Robby exhausted was one thing, seeing him exhausted and trying to pretend he wasn't exhausted was significantly more irritating.
A fresh wave of frustration rolled through you, "You know, most people eventually stop trying to win arguments with their own bodies." The comment finally pulled his attention away from the cabinet, not much, just enough for him to glance over his shoulder. The look he gave you was dry enough to suggest he thought your concern was deeply unnecessary.
Unfortunately for him, you'd already committed to the argument. The corner of his mouth twitched faintly, not exactly a smile, but close enough, "You say that like medicine isn't built entirely on that basis."
The response earned an involuntary laugh, you hated that. Not because it wasn't funny, but because he looked entirely too pleased with himself afterward. For a brief second, some of the exhaustion lifted from his face, and there it is again, that funny feeling.
That familiar thing that always seemed to exist between the two of you; the pull, the awarenes, the constant undercurrent that somehow survived every argument, every stressful shift, and every attempt to ignore it. Most days it sat quietly beneath the surface, today it felt impossible to miss. Maybe exhaustion was stripping away everyone's ability to pretend, maybe neither of you had enough energy left for your usual defenses.
Whatever the reason, it felt sharper now, more obvious, at that, dangerously so. You looked away first, probably for self preservation, "You should go home and sleep after shift." The suggestion came out softer than you'd intended.
For a moment, Robby simply continued reorganizing the shelf in front of him, then he nodded once. The gesture seemed automatic, like he'd already had the conversation with himself and reached the same conclusion, "I will."
The answer should've reassured you, instead, it immediately set off alarm bells. You narrowed your eyes, the confidence wasn't convincing, not from someone who looked like he hadn't slept properly in a month, "That's a lie."
This time he actually laughed, a short breath of amusement escaped him before he lowered his head slightly, not denial, not even an argument. Just enough of a reaction to confirm you were right.
The silence that followed was all the answer you needed, you folded your arms, "When was the last time you got more than three hours of sleep?"
The question hung in the air between you, Robby didn't answer, didn't even attempt to. Instead, he turned back toward the cabinet, suddenly very interested in organizing supplies that had already been organized twice.
Your stomach sank, because his silence told you everything, the realization made your frustration flare right back to life, "Jesus Christ."
You scrubbed a hand down your face, the man was unbelievable, not because he was working hard. Everybody in the ER worked hard, not because he was tired, everybody was tired. The difference was that most people eventually acknowledged they were human. Robby seemed determined to prove otherwise.
A moment later, his voice drifted across the room, entirely unconvincing, "I'm fine." The words would've carried more weight if he didn't look seconds away from falling asleep standing up. You stared at him for a long moment, then shook your head, "No. You're functioning." The distinction felt important, because those two things weren't the same. Not even close.
For the first time, Robby actually stopped moving, the supplies in his hands remained exactly where they were. His shoulders stiffened slightly, not defensive or angry, just still. You took a few steps further into the room before continuing, the distance between you suddenly felt too large, "Robby. Your voice was quieter now.
The frustration was still there, but concern had started overtaking it, reluctantly. Because despite everything, seeing him like this was becoming genuinely difficult. His attention shifted back to you, the exhaustion in his eyes was impossible to miss now, "What?"
The single word came out rough around the edges. You held his gaze, for a moment, neither of you said anything. Then you exhaled, "You can't keep doing this forever."
The statement wasn't accusatory, at least not anymore. It sounded closer to a plea, it made something flickered across his face immediately.
Gone was the stubbornness and the annoyance. What remained looked painfully human. For the first time all day, he didn't seem interested in arguing. Didn't seem interested in defending himself, he just looked tired. The kind of tired that settled into a person's bones and stayed there, his gaze dropped briefly toward the floor before lifting back to yours.
And when he finally answered, his voice was so quiet you almost missed it. "Yeah." A pause, then with the weight of someone admitting a truth he'd been avoiding for a long time, "I know." The answer came so easily that it caught you off guard.
For a moment, you simply stared at him. Normally, getting Robby to admit he was wrong required the emotional equivalent of a hostage negotiation. He'd argue, deflect, and turn the entire conversation into a sarcastic joke before allowing it to get anywhere near the actual issue.
It was one of the most frustrating things about him. Right now, though, there was none of that, no attempt to redirect the conversation somewhere safer. He just looked tired. The realization settled uneasily in your chest, because suddenly all the irritation you'd been carrying around felt a little less satisfying, a little harder to justify. What replaced it wasn't much better, concern, the genuine kind. The kind that made your stomach twist every time you looked at him.
Before you could stop yourself, the words slipped out, "You scared me earlier." That got his attention immediately. Until now, he'd been half focused on the cabinet behind him, picking at a loose corner of tape on one of the supply bins. At your admission, his gaze snapped back to yours.
The shift in his expression was subtle. Not quite surprise, something closer to confusion. As if the possibility hadn't occurred to him. You swallowed before continuing, "Back in eighteen." For a second, neither of you spoke.
The shouting, the restraints, the blood running down his arm while he acted like nothing had happened. Even now, thinking about it made your pulse quicken, "You were injured and still trying to finish charting." The frustration lingered beneath the words, but it sounded different now. Softer, less angry, more honest.
Robby's mouth twitched faintly, not quite a smile. The expression looked almost familiar, like he was about to dismiss the whole thing as an overreaction. You knew him well enough to recognize the impulse before he even spoke. Unfortunately for him, you also knew exactly how ridiculous he had looked.
The memory of the blood trail alone was enough to make your point. A brief flash of amusement crossed his face, then it disappeared just as quickly. The moment stretched, neither of you looked away. Eventually, Robby exhaled and leaned back against the counter. For the first time all night, his shoulders seemed to drop.
The sight made something stupid in your chest tighten, because beneath the exhaustion and stubbornness, there was something else there. Regret. When he finally spoke again, his voice was quiet, "I know."
Two simple words, nohing defensive, nothing sarcastic, just an acknowledgmen, and somehow that was worse. Because suddenly it wasn't about the injury anymore, it wasn't even about the resident.
It was everything, the snapping, the temper, the impossible standards he held everyone to, including himself, the exhaustion he'd been dragging through the department all day and pretending wasn't there.
You heard all of it in those two words. Robby looked away first. The movement was small, but it felt strangely vulnerable coming from him. For once, he didn't seem interested in arguing, didn't even seem interested in convincing you he was fine.
The room fell quiet around you. Not literally, the ER was still alive outside the trauma bay; phones rang, monitors beeped, someone called for respiratory down the hall. But the noise felt distant somehow, muted.
Because for the first time all shift, it felt like the two of you were having an honest conversation. And judging by the exhausted look on Robby's face, honesty was costing him a lot more than the argument ever had.
You studied him for a moment. The more time you spent looking at him, the more obvious it became that he was running on fumes. His hair was a mess, there were shadows beneath his eyes, and he looked like someone who'd been surviving entirely on caffeine and bad decisions for at least a week.
A thought occurred to you, "When's the last time you ate something that didn't come out of a vending machine?"The question earned an immediate look of offense. Robby straightened slightly, as if preparing a legitimate defense.
"I had fries earlier." He says, as if he's flexing the statement. You stared at him, for a second, you genuinely wondered if he thought that answer helped his case. The silence stretched just long enough for him to realize it hadn'y, "That's not a meal." You say, bemused.
His expression remained completely serious, "It had potatoes." The fact that he sounded sincere made you drop your head briefly into your hand. "Oh my God."You sigh.
A tired laugh escaped him; the sound was rough around the edges, worn thin by exhaustion, but it was real. And there it was again, that warmth. That impossible thing that kept surfacing between the two of you at the worst possible moments. One second you were furious with him.
The next, he was making you laugh despite yourself. You hated how easily he could do that. Pushing the thought aside, you stepped closer and reached for his injured arm, the movement immediately drew his attention. A faint look of suspicion crossed his face, "I already took care of it."
The confidence would've been more convincing if he hadn't reopened the wound less than an hour after stitching it. You held out your hand expectantly, "Robby." The look he gave you suggested he knew exactly where this was going and didn't like it.
Unfortunately, he let you grab his arm anyway. You carefully began peeling back the bandage. As soon as the sutures came into view, irritation surged right back to the surface.
For a moment, you simply stared, then you looked up at him, he looked entirely too unconcerned. The expression alone was enough to raise your blood pressure, "Are you serious?"
Robby followed your gaze down to the wound before shrugging lightly, the movement was small, almost casual, as though the sight of several strained sutures wasn't remotely alarming. You pointed directly at the injury, "Half of these are pulling apart."
His eyes dropped toward the wound again. The assessment appeared to interest him for approximately two seconds, then he looked back up, still unimpressed, "They're still together." The answer was so ridiculous that you actually laughed.
Not because it was funny, but because it was either laugh or throw something at him, "You're annoying." The accusation didn't seem to bother him. If anything, it looked familiar, comfortable.
A corner of his mouth twitched slightly as he leaned back against the counter, "You say that like you just realized." Unfortunately, he had a point, which only made him more annoying.
You grabbed what you needed from the supply cabinet before he could find another excuse to leave; fresh gauze, saline, tape, and a pair of gloves. The entire time, Robby watched you with the resigned expression of someone who knew he wasn't winning this argument.
By the time you finished setting everything on the counter beside him, he'd given up pretending he was going anywher, not that he looked particularly happy about it. You slipped on a pair of gloves and reached for his arm again, "You really are terrible at following medical advice." The comment earned a faint twitch of his mouth.
You focused on cleaning the dried blood from his forearm, trying not to think too hard about how still he was sitting, or how closely he was watching you. A few minutes passed before he finally spoke, his voice was quieter now, less argumentative, almost curious, "You always get this bossy when you're worried about someone?"
Your hands paused for half a second, not long enough for him to notice (hopefully), you glanced up anyway. Immediately regretted it, Robby was looking at you again, not casually, not the way people normally looked at each other during conversations. There was too much focus in it, too much attention. Like he was trying to read every thought you hadn't said out loud.
Dangerous territory for you two. Especially after everything that had happened that shift. You dropped your gaze back to his arm, "Do you always flirt when you're actively injured?" The question seemed to amuse him, a tired sort of amusement, the kind that only reached one corner of his mouth.
You didn't need to look up to know it was there, the silence that followed was answer enough. Heat settled low in your chest despite your best efforts to ignore it. Particularly because exhaustion had stripped away most of his usual defenses today, everything felt more honest, less filtered. The flirtation included.
You busied yourself with replacing the bandage, focusing carefully on wrapping fresh gauze around his forearm, whhen you finally finished, your hands lingered for a moment longer than necessary. Just long enough to make you aware of it, just long enough to make him aware of it, too.
"Thank you." The words were unexpected, so was the sincerity behind them. You looked up automatically, only to see Robby's expression had softened slightly, the sharp edges seemed dulled somehow. Exhaustion probably had something to do with that. Still, hearing genuine gratitude from him caught you off guard, apparently enough that he noticed.
A faint look of amusement appeared almost immediately,"You look surprised." He huffs, you laugh softly, "Sorry. I'm not used to you having manners."
That earned a quiet laugh from him, and before you could scold yourself for it, the sound settled warmly somewhere in your chest before you could stop it. For a while neither of you spoke, but the silence felt different now. The kind that only existed between people who knew each other well. Eventually, Robby's attention drifted down toward your hands still resting lightly against his forearm.
When he spoke again, his voice was softer than before, almost hesitant, "You were worried for me earlier?" The question made your chest tighten unexpectedly, because he sounded like he genuinely wanted to know.
You think of walking into that room, seeing the blood, the torn sleeve, the way he'd kept working as if nothing was wrong, the mental image still made your stomach twist, "Yeah." The answer came immediately, because you had. You'd been scared.
And judging by the way his eyes lingered on your hands for another moment, he knew it, "You looked terrified." The observation was quiet, matter of fact. Like he'd been turning it over in his head ever since it happened.
Your pulse stumbled, because he wasn't wrong. You busied yourself gathering discarded packaging from the counter beside you, anything to avoid looking directly at him. "Yeah, well," Your voice came out softer than intended, "Watching somebody you care about bleed through their scrubs will do that."
The second the words left your mouth, you wished you could take them back, not because they weren't true, because you hadn't meant to say them out loud.
The room seemed to go strangely still, and for the first time in several minutes, Robby didn't have a response ready. Your brain finally caught up to your mouth. Shit. You immediately looked down at your hands, rhen the floor, then literally anywhere except him. A retreat felt like the smartest option available, unfortunately, you were too late.
The moment you started pulling away, warm fingers closed gently around your wrist, not enough to stop you by force, just enough to make it clear he didn't want you to leave yet. Your breath caught, but you looked up.
Robby was still sitting on the edge of the stretcher, still pale with exhaustion, still sporting a freshly bandaged arm and the general appearance of a man being held together by caffeine and spite. And somehow he was still looking at you like that, focused, intent, dangerously attentive.
His thumb shifted once against your pulse, the movement was tiny, the effect was not, "Someone you care about?" The question wasn't teasing, if anything, it sounded almost careful, like he wanted to hear you say it again.
Heat climbed immediately into your face, you hated that, particularly because his expression suggested he noticed, "This feels like a really bad conversation to be having during trauma shift." A corner of his mouth twitched.
"Yeah." The agreement came easily, almost distractedly, like he wasn't actually thinking about the shift anymore. Neither of you moved.
The space between you suddenly felt much smaller than it had five minutes ago. Outside the room, a monitor alarm sounded somewhere down the hall, an overhead page crackled through the speakers moments later.
Neither of you looked away. Robby's gaze dropped briefly to your hand still resting against his forearm before lifting back to your face. The silence stretched, the kind that made you hyperaware of every inch separating you.
When he finally spoke again, his voice was rough around the edges, exhaustion probably, maybe not entirely, "You got plans after our shift?"
Your stomach immediately flipped. The question sounded casual enough on paper, but absolutely wasn't casual, not with the way he was looking at you, not with his hand still around your wrist, not after everything that happened today, "Robby..."
For the first time all shift, he actually looked slightly uncertain, not nervous, just unusually honest, like he'd decided he was too tired to hide behind sarcasm anymore.
"I'm asking because I was thinking about stealing you for breakfast." Your heart nearly stopped, and the amusement that followed was subtle, settling briefly into the corner of his mouth.
You let out a quiet breath, "There are probably less concerning ways to phrase that." The smile deepened slightly as he nodded in agreement to your words, "Probably." His thumb brushed lightly against your wrist again, absentmindedly, "But you've spent the last ten minutes lecturing me about sleep, food, and basic self preservation."
His gaze held yours, "I figured maybe you should make sure I actually follow the advice." The implication hung between you immediately, and judging by the look in his eyes, he knew exactly what he was doing.
synopsisyou and Robby have always had an un-spoken understanding, that if you were two different people you'd fall in love. but he was a mess and refused to bring you down. so instead, fate threatens to take you away forever
warningsANGST. so much angst. stabbing. blood. near death. operations. typical hospital stuff but a happy ending
authornotethis is just completely ripped from that episode of ER when John Carter gets stabbed, like the medical talk is all from that. I also feel like this may be slight ooc robby cause I have struggle with how this man would be affectionate. i had a hell of a lot of fun writing this, angst is by far my favourite, i hope you like too
Pitt masterlist. Other Robby fic!
You weren't sure if it was the thumping in your head or the drum in your heart but you watched Robby closely. It could have been the injury to your head or the closeness of him that had your heart reacting in such a way.
You blamed it on the injury.
“Give it to me straight, Doc,” you joked. One of his gloved hands cupped your chin, nudging your gaze up. The other dabbed gently at the cut to your forehead. “Am I gonna make it?”
There was a line of displeasure in his lips. “Not funny,” he mumbled.
“Sure it is.”
“No, it's not.”
You rolled your eyes before going back to focusing on him.
It was rare you got to watch him in his concentration. Usually you were in the middle of a trauma when he pulled out the serious face and things were moving too fast for you to even catch a glimpse. Now- his focus was all on you. You could study the creases at his brows and the flecks of grey in his beard.
“You ever notice you have these deep lines between your eyebrows when you're concentrating?”
“It's called age,” he said but there was the smallest hint of a smile there.
“Aren't you twenty-seven?”
This time he couldn't stop the smirk of amusement and finally you won.
Robby dabbed away the blood at your cut, changing the gauze. “Don't think you're distracting me.”
You hummed as he tilted your head into the light. “Distracting you from what?”
“Reporting him.”
You grew silent and looked away.
It was Robby's turn to stare at you, eyes without warmth, stern in ways he was with patients that didn't want to listen to good advice. You may be sitting on a bed in exam room four and you may have a chart written up but you were not a patient. “He was scared and confused-”
“ - he pushed you.”
“And I was the one that tripped and bashed my head.”
“He threw you down!”
You winced at his snap and then winced at the pain your wincing brought you.
Robby sighed with some sort of regret. His fingertips brushed your skin as he finished cleaning the cut and you couldn't help but think it was a deliberate move. He'd been so careful not to touch or apply pressure but suddenly the callous of his fingers were there.. “If we don't take care of ourselves nobody else will do it.”
It was the same thing Dana had said to you when she saw the patient push you down and run out the room in distress, hospital gown slipping on his shoulders. She'd taken you under her arm, stirred you to a chair. She was firm in both checking you were okay and that you were going to report him for hurting you.
You look past Robby, trying to see through the glass door. The Pitt carried on it's usual bustle but Dana kept a close eye out on you in the room. “Where is he now?”
“None of your concern,” he said. “The cut's clean, looks like you won't need stitches.”
“You've restrained him haven't you?”
Robby frowned. His head shook slightly in disbelief- like he couldn't believe you. “He hurt you. Jesus- you think I was gonna just tuck him back in bed- you think Dana was!”
You were used to the rise in Robby's voice, as attending it was his job to command everyone. You just didn't like to hear it risen at you. “He woke up, confused and startled.”
The patient was brought in un-conscious at the side of the road, a gash in his arm. Nobody knew his name but you'd admitted him and ran some tests while he was semi-conscious. He'd woken up as you were checking his IV and the next thing you knew hard hands were pushing you away. You'd taken the tray down with you and smacked your head in the process. Then he'd ran and then Robby had you in his arms, willing to pick you up and carry you off if it weren't for your insistence to walk to an exam room.
Robby's body heaved in a sigh as he put his hands on his thighs. “He hurt you,” he repeated, looking up at you through his eyelashes.
You slowly met his gaze as he got closer on the stall in front of you. “I've had worse.”
It wasn't supposed to be a dig but as his eyes met yours in a haze of dark anxiety you figured it came off that way.
Really what happened between you and Robby was ancient history. A whole six months since you'd stopped seeing each other; if that's what it could be called. It was really only one stupid kiss and several flirts that created the thick tension between you two. Nothing had ever been done to encourage it further, yet nothing had also been done to squash it.
Whilst his gaze remained on you, Robby got out his penlight and checked your pupil reaction.
“Any pain?”
“Well, the light's a bit bright.”
He put it down and with his gloved hands he slowly pressed around the small cut on your forehead, hands cupping your face tenderly. “Any pain?”
“No, you've done all this twice now.”
“It's procedure for any patient.”
“It's special treatment,” you grumbled.
Robby grabbed a bandage from the tray. “You're a special patient.”
The heat crept up your cheeks before you stared at the bandage.
“Robby-”
In one hand he held a bandage, in the other a small spider-man plaster that he so obviously got from pedes.
You stared at him. “Really?”
His cheeks tilted in a small teasing grin. “All we have, I'm afraid.”
You seriously doubted it but tapped the spider-man plaster nonetheless. “I'm sure I could have done this myself, you know,” you said as he peeled away the plaster. “Or at least got one of the nurses to do it. I'm sure you're needed somewhere more important.”
He frowned again. “More important?”
“There's a guy that came in with a GSW to the chest ten minutes ago and you're saying you don't need to be there?”
Robby's hands fell to either side of your face, gently taking your cheeks. His thumb brushed the curve of your cheek bone. He could feign he was checking your pupils but you both knew better. “There's nowhere else I need to be.”
Six months ago you'd kissed in a bar ten minutes away from the Pitt. Every day since- you'd been fighting the urge to kiss him again.
At that moment, with his gentle touch and soft gaze, you wondered if he'd been fighting to.
“Look up,” Robby said with a clear of his throat.
You weren't sure what he was trying to check for anymore. Maybe he was just looking for an easy way out.
“I still want you to get a CT scan.”
“Now that's dramatic, I didn't expect that from you.”
“Any nasuea?”
You shook your head as Robby steadied you, sliding the plaster in place.
“Have you been drinking enough today?”
“Two cups of coffee count?”
Robby gave you a plain look as he yanked off the latex gloves, throwing them into a corner of the room. “Ten minutes rest, I'll bring you some food and water.”
You sighed dramatically. “Robby!”
He pushed himself up from his stool. “As you're attending I'm not asking, I'm-”
“Telling?” you guessed.
Robby hovered as you pushed yourself up back on the bed. You wouldn't say it but your head was hurting from the fall. Nothing more than a headache that some painkillers couldn't stop. If you told Robby that yes, you were in pain, you were sure he'd pull the curtain, change you into a gown and play doctor all day.
You lied back on the pillow as Robby plumped it and smoothed out the sheets under you. He was lingering and for a moment you thought of asking him to stay.
Your mouth had opened to ask when the door was nudged open.
“Robby, we got a car crash coming in five,” said Dana. She looked at you then, eyes crinkled in worry. “How you feeling, hun?”
“I'm fine, thanks Dana.”
She nodded once, offering you a small smile before leaving.
You looked up at Robby as his body lingered over yours, one arm stretched high above your head, the other lower. Your gaze flickered up and you could feel the warmth of his breath fan over you. “Ten minutes?” you asked.
“On the clock.”
“Then I'm free to go?”
His head tilted, a sly smirk playing around his thin beard. “I'm not keeping you a prisoner.”
You folded your arms over your chest, glancing away. “Feels like it.”
He chuckled lightly. For a moment his breath lingered over your forehead, closer than before.
When you glanced up he froze, hands clenched on the bed, his jaw taunt. It was as if you'd caught him in the act.
Suddenly you wished you hadn't looked up. You wished you'd let him do whatever he was going to do. Because once he'd been caught he straightened up and threw you an awkward thumbs up. “Ten minutes.”
You trace your finger over the plaster as you slowly left your room, creeping out like you were a teenager sneaking out of your parents to meet a guy. Except you were trying to avoid the guy.
“That was eight minutes!”
You looked up and found Robby at the nurses station, glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. “Were you timing me?”
Robby held up his phone, showing you the timer he had counting down as next to him, Dana snorted. “Have you had something to drink? Or eat?” he asked as you leant over the counter. He was still watching you eagerly, waiting for any sign you were in more pain then you let on so he could send you back to bed.
“Thought you were getting me a drink?”
He rolled his eyes before obliging, sliding away to get you a drink. He turned back only once. “Don't go near him!” he called, the both of you knowing who the he was.
You saluted him, watching him go before turning to Dana. “How is he?”
She peered at you over her glasses. “Terrible. He's been worried sick, was practically watching you through those windows. Didn't blink for a minute!”
“Not Robby, my patient. The John Doe.”
“Well that ain't your concern anymore," she said.
“I want to treat him.”
“He's awake now, we've restrained him in twelve but Robby wants you nowhere near him.”
“Robby is over-reacting,” you sighed.
Dana lifted her shoulders. “Of course he is, it's you. You think he's gonna react rationally?”
Nobody was supposed to know about you and Robby and the thing that lingered in the middle. But somehow, Dana always ended up knowing everything.
You backed away from the counter, assuring Robby was nowhere to be seen. “Twelve, you said right?”
Dana huffed but lucky for you there were a dozen more things she needed to do. “Fine! Go! But take security with you!”
You saluted and headed that way. Outside the door, Ahmed was already there.
“Hey, doc,” he greeted. “He's been asking about you, said he wants to apologise.”
You weren't scared like you thought you'd be, stepping into the room while Ahmed promised to stay outside, just a shout away of you needed him. Your heart wasn't pounding as you slowly moved the curtain, finding the patient lying on the bed, restraints around his wrists and tied down. He wasn't thrashing about. He was calm, clocking you as you walked in.
“You're the nurse?” he said.
“Doctor, actually,” you said, introducing yourself.
He smiled but it didn't reach his eyes or add colour to his face. There was nothing in his eyes anyhow. He was pale and the thin bandaging that had been done for his arm while he struggled was bleeding through. “I-I pushed you, I am so sorry.”
You were about to say it was fine, but it wasn't you shouldn't tell him it was. You could accept the apology but still acknowledge that whatever state he was in, you shouldn't have been hurt. “Do you know where you are?”
“The hospital?”
“That's right, PTMC. Can you tell me your name?”
He nodded, gulping. There was a thin layer of sweat over his skin. “David Brown.”
“And do you know what month it is?”
“M-March.”
“Okay, good,” you said, making a quick note of his name in his chart. You sat down on the stool, shuffling to the side of his bed. “Mr Brown-”
“David,” he corrected you.
“David,” you said. “You were brought in just under an hour ago with a pretty bad laceration to your lower right arm. You were found un-conscious. Do you remember anything?”
You watched the sweat bead at his forehead, his eyes scrunched as he tried to think. His breathing grew heavier, face morphed into pain as he tried to think. “It's okay if you don't.”
“I-I don't,” a stray tear fell down his cheek.
“That's okay,” you assured him. “I'm gonna order you a CT and a toxic screening just to rule out any drugs or alcohol in your system. Is that okay?”
David's head jerked in something like a nod before you door swung open, clattering on the other side of the wall.
Robby stood at the end of the bed, face red, hands at his hips. “What are you doing in here?” he snapped.
“Doctor Robby-”
He gave you no time to explain, jutting his head back. “Step outside please, doctor.”
You stood, slowly and walked out slower.
David called out after you. “I really am sorry!”
Robby looked back like he didn't believe him.
The two of you stepped out and you spoke before he could, beating him by a second. “I'm ordering him a CT and toxicity test. That gash on his arms needs to be cleaned and stitched up, it's bleeding out.”
Robby didn't care to hear it. He pulled the curtains over and closed the door as he followed you out. “What did you think you were doing in there?”
“Tending to my patient.”
“I told you to leave him.”
“He wanted to say sorry. Ahmed, didn't he want to apologise?” you said, looking to security for some help.
Ahmed held up his hands. “Oh- I want nothing in this!”
“If he wanted to apologise he could've wrote a letter. Told me to apologise to you,” he said, still holding onto his anger. “I told you to leave it, the guy attacked you!”
“Lightly shoved me from shock!”
“Have you seen what he did to your head?”
“Yeah, a small cut, doesn't even need stitches- that's what you said!”
“It's a wound! There was blood!” he yelled. “You are not to go anywhere near him from now on, do you understand?”
There was a new anger in Robby then, something you saw rarely in him. Dana had said he was worried about you but you saw none of that concern in him now, only anger. Anger because you hadn't listened to him not because of well fair.
“I'm a doctor, I'm supposed to be helping people,” you defended, your own anger not rising to his.
His hands balled into fists. “Help someone who's asking for it. I see you in with that guy again and you're on triage for a week, you understand?”
Where was that softness in his eyes? Where was that care he tended to you in the room all alone?
“You understand?” he snapped again when you didn't answer.
You knew if you turned there'd be several pairs of eyes on the pair of you. Watching, assessing, see how you reacted. Nobody had ever heard Robby speak to you like that because he'd never shouted at you before. “I understand, Doctor Robinavitch.”
“So you yelled at her.”
Robby thought he'd find solace on the roof, that with only him and the night sky he stood a chance at thinking things through logically, for once on the right side of the rail.
Then Jack's voice sounded behind him and the peace he was searching for fell further out of reach.
“Who told you?” he asked, head falling.
“Oh, you know,” he mumbled, shoes shuffling over the roof as he got closer to him. “Just everybody that was in attendance to your little show.”
Jack leant next to him on the rail, staring at him.
Robby could feel his eyes but looked out on the skyline that was more favourable to him. Jacks eyes felt like everybody else that watched him yell at you. He could call it worry- it didn't change the way your face dropped the louder his voice rose.
“You wanna talk about it?” asked Jack.
“No.”
“I heard she got attacked.”
“Or lightly pushed as she'd put it.”
“She's a soldier.”
Robby shook his head. “No, she's a doctor. Today she could have been neither if that man-” the words chocked in his throat. What if he had hurt you even more? Punched you? Strangled you? He'd seen it all in the ER and yes, you'd been hurt before but that didn't mean he needed to have you hurt again.
“I saw her when I was coming up, she seemed fine,” said Jack. “About to clock off, you sure you want to end the day on such a bad note.”
“She doesn't want to talk to me.”
“Come on, she always wants to talk to you,” said Jack. “And I only know that cause you always want to talk to her.”
Robby wished he could say that telling Jack about the kiss so many months ago was a mistake but he couldn't because that would mean kissing you was a mistake. The only mistake made with that kiss is that he hadn't pulled you back in, kissed you every day since. But he'd told Jack on one of those lonely nights when they'd each had one too many beers how much he missed you even if he saw you every day.
“I was so fucking scared, brother,” he admitted with a long exhale of breath. Robby slumped over the rail, catching himself. “Code hula-hoop was called and her name and I- I didn't know...”
Jack's hand was firm on his back. “I know.”
Robby nodded, head tucked down. He wouldn't cry, he wasn't sure how these days but he sure as hell felt like it. It had been a hell of day, worse when he couldn't join your side without you walking off.
“You were worried, you don't know what to do with that,” said Jack.
He could admit that much.
“You go home now, she goes home, you're carrying this weight to the next day and it'll continue,” he said, therapizing him. “You were scared you might have lost her?”
Robby glanced Jack's way. There was never any judgment, only a keen understanding he sometimes didn't like.
“You might lose her if you don't do something about it.”
“What am I supposed to do?”
Jack shrugged. “Apologise.”
Robby hesitated, the words 'I'm sorry' foreign on his tongue.
Jack chuckled low in his throat. “Is that really so hard for you?”
He nodded and Jack carried on laughing. By the end, even Robby was chuckling through watery eyes.
“Okay, okay, let's try,” said Jack, straightening up, encouraging him to do the same. “Repeat after me, I'm sorry.”
“Jesus-”
“Jesus, you can't even say it-listen we'll go slow, I'm-”
Robby's phone rung in his pocket, thankfully saving him from the embarrassment. “Dana-” he answered as he spotted Jack's phone going too.
“Get down here, now!”
“What's going on?” he asked, though his feet were already moving.
He didn't see the way Jack looked at him, he hardly heard how Dana said your name because when she did Robby dropped his phone and ran.
“Robby!” Jack called but he was off the roof and furiously pressing the elevator button. He managed to slide past the doors before they closed on him. “What did Dana say?”
But Robby couldn't speak. He heard Dana's voice re-play in his head again and again. That you had been attacked, that they needed him. He couldn't think beyond that. Beyond you and attacked there was nothing.
Jack was watching him closely. “Okay-” he must've known it was bad too. “Okay, Robby, we don't know what's going on down there but you gotta stay cool, okay? You gotta stay cool or leave us to it.”
He should've kept a closer eye on you, should've sent you home.
“Robby if you get in our way I'm taking you out of there, understand?”
The doors slid open and Robby ran out, Jack quick on his heels.
“Where?” he barked out. There were no faces around him he could figure out, no Dana, no Langdon- so everyone must have been in with you-
“Trauma one!”
Robby burst through the doors.
The chaos was everywhere and he paused. There were more bodies in the trauma room then he'd ever seen. In between them all a body that he could vaguely re-call as yours. Your trainers- usually white- were seeping in blood.
“Can you open your eyes?”
“No respond to command!”
“Two stab wounds to the left flank! First one L-two, second L-five.”
“Is it the spinal chord?” asked Whitaker.
“Can't tell it depends on the angle!” said Langdon. “Jesus- there's too much blood, I can't see a thing!”
You lied on the bed, blood splattered around your clothes, un-responsive to everyone around you. You were letting them prod, push and pull when you'd hardly let him asses your cut just hours ago.
Hours when you were teasing him and he was thinking about kissing you again.
What had happened.
If it was a papercut you'd be feigning death.
This was the closest you'd ever looked to dying and Robby couldn't feel his legs.
"Doctor Robby?" someone called in the room but it wasn't you. You weren't responding to anyone. “Doctor Robby!”
Jack moved past him, body knocking his. “I'm here!”
“BP seventy over fifty, pulse one-twenty.”
Jack moved around you, pressing the chest piece of the stethoscope to your chest. “Push in two litres of O-neg. Good breath sounds bilaterally.”
Robby's ears were ringing but he could feel himself shake his head. “She's not-she's not O-neg, she's B-positive,” he heard himself mumble.
There was a sharp beeping through the room and Robby thought it was a strange sound for his heart breaking.
“Pulse ox ninety-three!”
“Do we intubate?” asked Mohan.
Your body jerked and as if you were the puppet master tugging on his strings, Robby found his feet and moved to your side.
He moved around until he was the closest to you, replacing anyone else at your side. Others watched, un-sure if they should've told him to wait outside like he was family.
Jack gave them the nod and the room moved again.
“Give me ten by mask, no intubation. Send a trauma panel!” ordered Robby.
“We need X-ray for a chest!” yelled Jack.
“X-ray can come to us! I am not moving her!” he shouted. “Help me roll, let me see!”
The blood on the front of your scrubs was splashed but as they turned you, leaning you on your side Robby's body slumped, something like a chocked sob wracking through his body.
He couldn't see the puncture wounds through the blood that soaked you. Just as Langdon had said it was a mess. “Jesus chr- oh god.”
“Pressure's up to ninety palp!”
“Who did this?” he yelled out as they gently set you back.
“The guy who came in un-conscious earlier!”
Jack looked over at Robby.
Robby felt the muscles in his jaws work and he grunted. “I'll kill him,” he grumbled.
“Robby!” lectured Jack.
But he wasn't going to take back his words. “He's fucking dead.”
“He fled the hospital,” Langdon told him. “Left his knife in the room though, they'll find him.”
It couldn't have been a scalpel, it couldn't have been scissors. The guy came in, found a knife- or brought one from home- to harm you. If Robby ever saw him again he'd kill the guy and deal with the consequences that came.
“Toes are down going, no spinal injury,” said someone else in the room but he was losing all focus that wasn't you.
Garcia walked through the doors, joining the crowd of people around you.
“Tell me you've got an OR booked!” said Jack.
“With her name on it! How we doing in here?”
Santos pushed her way ahead, a small and un-characteristic tremble to her hands. There was another unit of blood pushed into your bloodstream and Robby was seconds away from hooking himself up and giving you his very blood. “Pressure's up!” she reported, lingering over you with a light. “Right pupil five millimetres and reactive -”
Suddenly your body jerked at the light. Your head thrashed side to side as you slowly returned to consciousness.
“Huh... I-wha-”
“Hey! Hey!” Robby pushed his way to you, looming over you and catching your eyes.
They were wild, looking around before settling on him.
“Robby?” you uttered, lips dry, dried blood at your neck. Your eyes were looking around like you couldn't quite see.
“Yeah- yeah it's me.” His hand flew to your hair, brushing it back as your eyes were going from him to around you, panic rising in your eyes. “Look at me, focus on me.”
“What-what?”
“You were stabbed,” he uttered.
Your eyes widened and he brushed back your hair again, doctors moving around the two of you. They could've been right on his back or a thousand miles away. All he focused on was you. Your hands waved around, getting in the way of tubes and the doctors.
Robby grabbed your hand, squeezing.
You focused on him and he tried to smile, tried to make himself convinced everything would be alright. He knew it was a grimace.
He'd never hated his medical training more. Because he knew this amount of blood loss was bad, he knew stabbing so close to the spinal chords was dangerous. He knew you were strong and hated staying still for too long and now you'd be forced to recover.
“My pressure?”
“It's up.” He watched as your eyes teared up, looking away from him again. “Good, that's good.”
Your hair sprawled out as you shook your head. “Am I gonna.... will I walk again?”
Robby hesitated. “Yeah- yeah we think it missed your spinal chord.”
Robby knew that but he couldn't help the tears that fell, couldn't help the small sob that ripped through his throat. You'd been calm at the cut with your head, damn right comedic. Now- you were quiet, whimpering and crying in pain and there wasn't anything he could do.
He was a doctor, he could help and check vitals and squeeze the bag of blood slow.
But he couldn't move from your side.
You nod before your back arched in pain and you yelled out.
“BP eighty palp!”
Robby got up, ignoring the ache in his knees as he loomed over you, trying to calm the pain. “Do something!”
“Robby!”
He looked.
You'd drained the blood dry.
“What?” you uttered, voice trembled in terror.
“Okay she needs to go up, now!” Jack called out.
“Let's get her moving!” yelled Garcia.
You groaned in pain. “What's going on?”
Robby didn't know what to do. It wasn't a conversation of telling a patient what was going on or what wasn't. It was telling you. He stuttered lamely, lost as another tear slid down his cheek. You hadn't even cried yet and he was close to blubbering.
His head bowed to you. He was mumbling, he thinks he was praying.
“Robby-” your hand waved out in front of him and he grabbed it, squeezing. “It hurts.”
“Okay, okay, we're gonna-” what was he gonna do? He pressed your hand to his lips, holding it there.
“Hey, honey,” Jack appeared at your other side and your eyes moved to see him but Robby didn't let go. “Hell of a way to get into the night shift.”
“Jack-” you winced.
Jack looked from you to Robby, the same way he looked at the family of unfortunate patients. “We're taking her up to the OR now.”
Your fingers wiggled in Robby's grasp and he looked back to you. “It's bad huh?”
“No, no,” said Robby smoothing back your hair again.
“Your losing a lot of blood, and your foley output is bright red,” said Jack. “But we're gonna sort it and you'll be fine. You trust me?”
Your breathing was shallow, hard breaths hardly coming out. Still, you tried to smile. “Do I- do I have a choice?” your voice came out through seethes of breath.
Robby closed his eyes tight, as if he could feel the own stabbing in his heart.
“Robb-Robby?”
He glanced at you, your eyes fluttering shut. The little hold you had on his hand weakening. He fumbled up, hands holding your cheeks. “Woah-woah- open your eyes! Look at me- look at me!”
You mumbled, head lulling.
“Going up!”
“Look at me, open your eyes!” he all but shouted at you as your eyes were still rolling to the back of his head, wavering between waking and whatever else was on the other side.
“Robby!”
Robby held onto the side of your bed as the team around you wheeled you away and through. There was a stutter of shock waving through the crowd, fear chocking them, shock eating at them. There was police around, all trying to get a look.
“Talk to her, Robinavitch!” said Garcia.
He didn't talk to patients, he evaluated them, stitched them up when he could.
Robby looked up at Jack, hoping for help. He looked grave, watching Robby un-sure but people came back from worse. You'd come back. “Hey, hey look at me,” he uttered and squeezed your hand. When that didn't work he pulled at your eyelids and finally you responded with a grumble.
The elevator doors slid open and you were hauled in, Robby squeezed in too.
“Wh-what?”
He got a flash of your eyes before they closed again.
Your lips were dry and chapped but Robby kissed you anyway, pressing his lips to yours soft, not pushing afraid he'd hurt you but he wanted you to know he was there.
He smiled. He'd never seen you first thing in the morning, he imagined this is what it was. Groggy eyes, words hardly there but with less pain and blood. Robby pulled back and ignored the blood drying in splatters on your neck. “Are you with me, honey?”
You blinked and groaned in pain. “I don't-I don't know.”
“You're with me, yeah you are, you're with me,” Robby mumbled. “You look very pretty, even covered in blood, you know that?” he mumbled, trying to say it so only you could hear.
There was a huff of a smile followed by pain.
“You can't flirt with me while I'm dying, Robinavitch.”
Your eyes fluttered shut.
Robby grabbed your face, smooching your cheek maybe a bit too harsh. “You're not going anywhere.”
“You've pushed four bags,” you whispered. “You're gonna push a five.”
There was a huff of laugh from Jack.
Robby sniffed. You were too good at your job sometimes, ignoring the ache in his back as he leant over you. “You shouldn't be counting.”
“What can I say I'm over-qualified,” your eyes shut again but your lips moved in mumbles.
“What is it? What are you saying?” he asked, a crack in his voice. “What? Tell me.... tell me.”
But you weren't really there anymore. You were incoherent, eyes not really there. None of you was really there. “Robby.... Rob.... please, Robby.”
“What? I'm here, I'm right here, okay? Okay, honey?” Robby felt his chest cave in. “What's taking this elevator so long?” he snapped.
“It's bad, I know,” you said, fingers drifting soft over his arm before it dropped. “I can't- I can't-”
The doors slid open, a team waited on the other side.
Garcia pushed you ahead into the team, spouting who she wanted to scrub in, telling them all who she wanted out front watching. Your condition was a perfect teaching sort.
You weren't for teaching. You were for saving!
Robby wanted to tell as much as the team wheeled you away and Jack's arm came out to stop him.
“You can't go in there man,” he said.
“Like hell I can't!”
“No, you can't!” said Jack.
Any other time Robby would have argued more but he had nothing to say. He needed to be there, he wanted to be there but as soon as they cut you open he'd break. As soon as he saw inside your body he'd tie himself to you.
He'd seen over a hundred bodies cut open in his time but yours might break him.
Robby nodded, hands going to the back of his head.
Someone in the room cried and it took him a moment to realise it was him.
“Hey-hey-” Jack embraced him and Robby couldn't reach to hug him back but he could let himself down. “I will go in, I will be there, you know I will do everything to save her. We will save her.”
To save your life, Robby let him go and stood alone. He looked down at his hand as if he could feel the ghost hold of you still there. When he looked down, all he saw was the hair on the back and the tremble of his fingers.
Robby- for the first time since he was a boy- learnt how to cry.
He tried- boy did he try- to get back into the swing of things. Robby walked into the Pitt with red, blotchy eyes and a waver in his voice. He looked at the board, picked up a sixty year old patient with migraines.
“Hello I'm Doctor Robinavitch, everyone calls me Robby. What seems to be the problem today?”
That was as far as he got before Dana walked in.
“No, no, no, no!” she said, putting the chart down and dragging him out. “I am so sorry Mrs Klepton, we'll get Doctor Shen with you in just a moment. Come with me.”
He was dragged out like a scolded child and shoved into the lounge.
“What do you think you're doing?” she'd snapped.
Robby had put himself in the corner, crowding himself in, arms over his head. What was he doing? Trying to be useful. You'd be up in the OR lord knew how long. If he sat and waited he'd go mad.
Dana leant on the counter. “What'd you think you're doing here, Robinavitch? Get outta here, go home! Better yet go wait for her.”
“I-I can't.”
“Robby.”
He could feel the tears start again. Didn't the human run out of tears eventually? They didn't teach that in med school. “I- I can't. I'm useful in-in here, I'm not- I'm not-”
“Right now there's only one person you can be useful to, so go to her.”
That's how he ended up in the OR waiting room, alone, not flicking through the magazines provided, not even watching the fish in the tank. He was just sitting.
Waiting.
At some point he'd taken the clock down to not watch the hands turn but eventually the sun rose and he was terrified like no other day.
It was going on 05:00 am when the door slowly pushed open. It wasn't with a rattle of relief or with a cheer, it was a slow push.
Robby thought his heart was broken before.
He was hunched over himself, elbows balanced on his knees as he hid his face in his hands and slowly rocked himself. “No... no... no...”
“Robby,” Jack said quietly. His steps were slow but he felt his hand on his back.
Robby flinched, shrinking into himself.
Where was the knife so he could stab himself?
“Robby- she's okay.”
There was a crack in his neck from how quick he looked up. It wasn't enough to convince him, his clinical trained mind wondering all the what would comes? Had it got into your spine? How much blood had you lost.
But Jack listed it off like he knew what Robby needed to hear first. It hadn't hit an aorta, it got an artery hence the bleeding but they'd stabilised it with more blood than they would have liked. But you were alive, though sleeping and they had no worries for you at the moment.
Robby nodded when Jack finished. He must have come right from the OR to tell him because he was still in scrubs and covered in blood. Your blood. “Can I see her?”
You didn't look peaceful. Robby had never thought how uncomfortable the hospital gowns must have been until he saw you lying in one. There was oxygen tube in your nose and an IV in your hand. There was some bruising he hadn't noticed before on your arms from the fall you took.
“What do I do now?” Robby mumbled. He was good at the saving lives part, he just wasn't sure what to do when they hung in limbo.
Jack patted his back, leading the way in the room. “For a doctor you're pretty clueless. You sit with her.”
Robby followed in, un-sure what to do with himself so he held onto either end of his stethoscope.
There was a chair already pulled up to your side as Jack busied himself on the other, checking your IV and BP- all looked good.
Robby had caught you napping at your desk once, fallen asleep while charting. He'd admired you for a moment before slowly waking you with a pen poked in your head. You'd looked so peaceful then- nothing like it now.
“Is she cold?”
“No- I don't think so.”
Robby slowly sank down in the chair and picked up your hand again. It stopped the trembling in his at once.
“I gotta get off, I'll cover the day, do something about the nights. Stay with her, call me if there's any changes,” said Jack.
“Thank you, brother,” said Robby.
There was a dull drumming in your head. Your back was aching and even moving your eyes hurt. Beyond all of that there was something else, something heavier.
Your eyes opened slowly and you found the lights ahead. They burned brighter than the sun, like every morning when you walked into PCMT. You tried to hide, to shield yourself with your hand but you couldn't move it.
Panic coursed through you. Why couldn't you move it? Why could you hardly feel your hand? Dear god-
“Hey,” a gentle voice greeted and you searched for them.
Jack stood over you, leaning at you bed.
Your mouth was parched as you tried to speak.
“You're okay,” said Jack in a whisper. “You remember what happened?”
Step by step you thought back. You were leaving, only checking on David once more before sharp pain hit you in the back and you were shoved. When you came too again faces blurred together and pain blinded you to them all.
There was Robby. Somewhere in all of that.
“I was... stabbed?”
Jack nodded, a small trembled in his chin. “Yeah you were. But you're gonna be okay, there was no injury to your spine.”
“I'll walk?”
“Twelve hours time we'll get you up.”
When you focused you could feel the ache in your arm as if someone was pulling it. There was something heavy at the end like someone was holding it, tight.
Robby was at your other side, lying on your arm and holding you down. His body was curved over, head turned away as his back moved in soft breaths.
“Thought I'd let him sleep. He's been up watching you since you came out the OR,” said Jack.
Robby. He'd stayed.
Had you asked him to? You'd wanted him to. Maybe he understood that.
“Thank you, Jack.”
Jack shook his head. There was no need to thank him, you knew that, but you were thanking him for the life you'd put in his hands and that he'd let Robby be at your side. “You want some time?”
You nodded stiff, feeling the ache in your back more and more. You knew you had months ahead of you of pain but you didn't want to dull it with drugs just yet.
Jack petted down your hair once before taking his hoodie off the back of the chair and leaving, closing the door gently.
In the silence you watched Robby a moment longer, matching your new breaths with his. The weight of him on your hand made you tingle as you slowly worked your fingertips back to life.
You tried to move your hand out from his weight but he stirred.
Groggily he turned and looked around the room, waking up more confused then you were.
“Robby?”
His eyes widened.
Robby moved up at once, looming over your bed as you tried to push yourself up. “Hey, hey, take it easy,” he fretted, eyes raking over your body like he was checking all of you were there. “Are you okay? Are you in pain?”
“Robby-” you tried to protest.
“BP is hundred over eighty.”
You tried to entertain him, just as you had with the cut on your head. If you let him go through the motions just might just end up holding his hand again. So you let him try your nerves, let him ask if you were in pain. You let him ask you to wiggle your fingers and toes. You let him lift one leg and the other as high as he could before you winced in pain.
“Can you stop being my doctor for a second and sit back down?”
Robby seemed startled but hid it quickly. He realised Jack was out the room. “He should've woke me, checked you over.”
“You were resting, he said you'd stayed.”
He looked at you, astonished you'd think he'd go anywhere else.
You watched him sink into his chair, clasping his hands together and wedging them between his knees. Your fingers ached to hold him but your body was weak even talking. “You look tired.”
He chuckled low and smiled. His face was pale, eyes red, hair a mess. His entire body was slumped. “I look tired?”
“A nice tired, a handsome tired.”
You focused on your hand, lifting it enough. You watched as Robby looked down and took it without hesitation, he held it tight, grasping it between his big hands and bringing it to his lips.
You felt him kiss your palm.
“I was stabbed?”
Robby nodded, slowly. “Two puncture wounds, missed the spinal chords, nicked an aorta, bled out. That was our biggest worry but-”
“But I'm okay now?”
Slowly, he nodded.
You groaned, shifting your head aside. You'd have rolled over to show your protest but you had a feeling you'd be putting as little pressure on your back for a while. “Is Mr Brown?”
“The police are looking for him,” said Robby, without letting you even work out just what it is you were trying to ask about.
You nodded slowly, looking down to where your hand disappeared in his. “I'll report him this time, I promise.”
Robby stared at you, eyes wide with something you couldn't name. “I just want you to focus on getting better. On coming back... coming back to me.”
You didn't think, even coming out of an op and the haze of pain, that you could ever be where he wasn't. You think, no matter how terrible it seemed, that it was meant to happen this way. The stabbing and scarring that would no doubt end up on your back might have been the best thing to ever happen to you.
“Robby,” you whispered.
He must have heard something in your voice as he slowly stood and hunched over you, a hand lying on the top of your head.
His eyes were watering with tears.
You could remember faint images of this happening before, as you were slowly lulled to sleep by drugs. His hand combing back your hair felt like it had always been doing it. Like you'd always woken to him.
“Did you kiss me?” You didn't know where the memory came from, or even if it was a memory. It could've been a dream.
To his credit Robby didn't startle or flinch. He slowly nodded, leaving room for objection. He leaned over close to you, another hand cradling your cheek. “Yeah.”
“Why?”
Robby inhaled sharply. “I wanted to. I wanted to kiss you months before I did. I wanted to kiss you last week and two minutes ago when you woke. I wanted to kiss you covered in blood and... I want to kiss you now.”
You smiled and it brought you no pain. “If my back wasn't in pain I'd be kissing you right now,” you chuckled and then the pain came.
Robby leant down to you, his eyes searching yours. Close enough you could see what was in his eyes, what he'd been hiding. Warmth. Admiration.
His large nose brushed yours as he kissed you slow with no rush of need. His hand was soft as he angled you so he could explore every line and curve if your lip.
Your own hand slowly wound up, around his head, stroking the back of his hair and resting there. He didn't mind the oxygen tube or that she couldn't reach up to meet him. In fact he kissed her like he'd planned it like this a hundred times.
When there was an alarming beep from the machines Robby pulled away quick, studdying them.
“It's just my heartrate,” you said. “Might have been beating a little faster there.”
He agreed but seemed solemn to do so.
You watched the crease between his brows appear again. “You know, if I knew I just needed to be stabbed to have you kiss me again I'd have-”
“Don't even think about finishing that sentence.”
For the sake of his nerves, you didn't.
“You know if I'd have known that it was just gonna take me getting stabbed for you to sell that motorbike, I'd have got stabbed a lot sooner,” you said teasingly as Robby pulled into his new designated parking space outside the ED.
It had been a month since the incident but you were still reaping the small benefits that came with it. Like Robby insisting you stay with him to get the best care, like him getting rid of his motorbike to get a better car that was more comfortable on your back.
Like having so much time with him.
Mornings where he dedicated time in messaging the sore spots of your back and spreading an oil that was going to help the scaring. Like the dinner times when you read him a recipe that he never followed to the t. Like the kisses you stole in the night when he'd watch you and kiss you without straining to go forward.
Robby parked the car and turned off the engine. “If I had a dollar every time you said that,” he grumbled, picking up his bag and exiting.
You were still moving slower, still kept a crutch with you to keep weight off your back. You were coming back to work with a much lighter work load and you were sure Robby would be glued to your side all day like he practically had the month you'd took to recover.
Even before you could open the door Robby was there doing it for you, your own bag in his hand.
“You think anyone's gonna want to see the cool scars I've got, they kind of look like stars,” you said as Robby stayed close by your side, walking in with you.
“You sent them all pictures,” he said, mildly irritated. You and everyone around you seemed to try to crack jokes about the thing. He felt sometimes he was the only one who saw the near death wound for what it was.
“Excuse me- most of them asked for pictures.”
“Completely inappropriate.”
A few ambulance workers saw you, greeting you with smiles you returned while Robby waited next to you, holding up a polite hand in greeting.
It dropped, grazed yours and picked it up, holding on as the two of you walked in.
Usually Robby liked to walk in through triage, get a feel of what was happening but he wasn't risking that many foreign bodies next to you even though they caught David Brown and he was being charged.
Robby had something to live for, had something to protect. Nothing was happening to it. To you.
“It's good to have you back,” said Lupe as the two of you passed her at the door.
“Do you think that was a pun?” you uttered to him, rewarded with the smallest tint of his lips as he pushed open the door.
Loud clapping greeted you with some cheap, paper, party poppers when you walked in. Thee was cheering to and a large banner was hooked up, saying 'welcome home!'.
A place that could have held such terrible memories was brightened up as you jumped from one smiling face, to another.
Next to you, Robby stepped back, blending into the admiring crowd and started to clap too with something more than fondness in his smile. Love. A word that had woven its way into your vocab since moving in with him to get help for your wounds.
A word that summed up so much of what you had.
“You did this for me?” you asked.
“It was all Robby's idea,” said Jack, leading the cheering.
You didn't have to even move. Like he knew what you wanted Robby stepped over to you and kissed you. He always kept his lips irritatingly light, encouraging you to stretch out muscles in your back to join meet him.
You grinned against his lips. “I should be stabbed more often.”
F - fluff S - smut A - angst
♡ - series ☆ - one shot ◇ - imagines and drabbles
yeri's favourites
last updated - 28/05/2026
⤷ fic count - 36
@annsfics ——————————
☆ time may forgive me | A.
⤷ feeling like he's slipping away from himself, robby pushes you away as well, thinking that he's saving you from an ugly fate at his side. being one who is unable to let go once you've fully committed, however, you both end up headed down a dangerous road when you discover exactly why he eventually purchases his bonneville.
☆ the right thing | F. A.
⤷ when you present to dr. robby with clear signs of domestic abuse, his efforts to try & convince you to report your abuser to law enforcement fall upon deaf ears. knowing that once you leave ptmc, you may wind up in a morgue next, he takes a drastic step to save you by offering you a room in his house.
@anxietyobsessedyetdepressed ——————————
☆ cruise | F. A.
⤷ what was supposed to start as the happiest day of your life ends with being the worst and to top things off you're stuck with your dad's good friend for a little over a week where understandings are made and a line is crossed, leaving you both to make a choice
@asxgard ——————————
☆ better than revenge | S.
⤷ maybe having sex with your ex’s boss isn’t the best way to move on, but you’d be lying if you said you weren’t enjoying every moment of it.
☆ bedside manner | F. A.
⤷ after ignoring your symptoms for far too long, michael is forced to bring you into the ER.
@bitchinbarzal ——————————
☆ kinship | F. A.
⤷ robby finds out his girlfriend is adopting baby jane doe.
☆ mother | F. A.
⤷ robby is going to be a dad. he doesn’t want to become his mom.
@drrobbywifey ——————————
♡ the space between us | F. S. A.
⤷ dr. eliza hart had always seen michael as a friend and someone she would never had a chance with. he was already well into his late fourties almost fifties and she was barely in her early-thirties. with their work and busy days, not to forget michael being in a relationship with noelle. but with them spending more hours and days, not to forget the slow end to his relationship, maybe they did have a chance afterall.
⤷ [ part 1 part 2 part 3 part 4 part 5 part 6 part 7 part 8 part 9 part 10 part 11 part 12 part 13 part 14 part 15 part 16 part 17 part 18 part 19 part 20 part 21 part 22 ... ]
♡ complications | F. S. A.
⤷ after a one-night stand with the man who had once been her attending-the one who taught her everything she knew about surviving the chaos of the emergency department-dr. valeria moreno and dr. michael robinavitch agreed to keep things simple. no expectations. no promises. just two colleagues blowing off steam between impossible shifts and messy personal lives. friends with benefits. nothing more. at least, that was the plan. but robby has never been good at letting people get too close. eventually, the emotionally guarded senior attending does what he always does best-he ends things, burying himself in work and pretending it never meant anything in the first place. valeria tries to move on. unfortunately, life has a funny way of complicating even the simplest arrangements.
⤷ [ part 1 part 2 part 3 part 4 part 5 part 6 part 7 part 8 part 9 ]
♡ hearts at war | F. A.
⤷ a new surgeon who specialized in many areas may have been good for the hospital, but it also meant something bad for the ED. mainly cause more money would be going to the departments of the new surgeon. not to mention, her distant and sometimes sassy attitude makes it even harder for everyone else to like her.
⤷ [ part 1 part 2 part 3 part 4 part 5 part 6 part 7 part 8 part 9 part 10 ]
@emeraldserenade ——————————
☆ be enough | F. A.
⤷ telling robby you loved him was for your closure, you didn't mean to save his life. but, damn, are you glad you did
@fanficwritinggirl ——————————
☆ no plausible deniability | F. A.
⤷ when a tense trauma consult leaves you and dr. robby trapped in a broken elevator together, three years of bickering, denial, and unresolved chemistry finally have nowhere left to hide.
@glitter-abbot ——————————
◇ practice that hr would definitely frown upon | S.
⤷ pervy!robby x nurse/doctor!reader
@holytrinityofsantos ——————————
☆ pittsburgh fight club | A.
⤷ a local bar fight packs out triage, and you unfortunately are the one that gets clocked. luckily your favourite attending is the one to patch you up.
@inkdippedquills ——————————
☆ cry if you need to | F. A.
⤷ literally just a story about robby finally having a breakdown in the arms of someone who cares about him
@itevilhag ——————————
☆ dad-da (whether you like it or not) | F.
⤷ a slice of life in the ED between the chief attending who becomes a part time babysitter, and the surgeon currently in search of a missing child.
@langdonsbracelets ——————————
☆ paternity | F.
⤷ the pitt’s quietest nurse is pregnant, and no one can figure out who the baby’s father is.
@medusasfics ——————————
☆ anchor | S. A.
⤷ after a breakdown due to the mass casualty event and being unable to save the girlfriend of the boy who was like a son to him, you make robby feel better.
@ofthepitt ——————————
☆ wear it. | F. A.
⤷ you hear the motorcycle engine before you even see him. that deep rumble that vibrates through the driveway and into the floorboards of the house. you’re standing at the door with your arms crossed, jaw tight, irritation bubbling in your chest like a teakettle close to whistling.
♡ mini-me robinavitch | F.
⤷ you should have realized it the moment she turned three, but it wasn’t until she reached five years old that it became undeniable: aria robinavitch was her father’s exact copy.
⤷ [ part 2 part 3 part 4 part 5 ]
@paigepie213 ——————————
☆ mom and dr. daddy | F. S.
⤷ if you’re the ER mom does that make robby…?
☆ birth of us | F.
⤷ robby supporting reader thru the birth
☆ the hostage | A.
☆ what are we doing? | F. A.
⤷ a scene early in robby & readers relationship about their first fight, maybe about Robby's difficulty opening up/talking about his feelings
☆ met his match | F. A.
⤷ a reverse competency kink from robby (meaning he is just so turned on and in love with how talented and fantastic his partner/crush is). i feel like it would be such a relief for him to feel like he can trust someone fully at the ER and get a break from having to watch over everyone.
@porchlightfairy ——————————
☆ me and your mama | F. A.
⤷ your husband dies in the pitt and the doctor that was trying to save his life becomes a part of your family. your kids love him and so do you. maybe even more than your dead husband.
@queensinxs ——————————
☆ his wife | F. S.
⤷ robby doesn't advertise his marriage. so when his wife shows up at ED to discuss their son, safe to say the residents were shocked. now they wonder how the two of you met. this throws him back to when he was a ms3.
@quicksilver21 ——————————
♡ a year, anyways | F. S. A.
⤷ robby left for his sabbatical without a thought and you’re left to pick up the pieces. but now he’s back at PTMC and trying desperately to reconnect. robby learns the truth of how long a year really is.
@redsakura101 ——————————
☆ life is sweeter when it's shared | F.
⤷ you slip on robby’s hoodie whilst at his home for a little comfort. shoving your hands into the pockets you discover little packets of…werther's originals?
@rr-after-dark ——————————
♡ yours | F. S. A.
⤷ when dr. robby returns from his extended sabbatical, he discovers that the girlfriend he thought would be waiting for him has a baby bump – and absolutely hates him for leaving.
⤷ [ part 2 ]
@rynwrites4fun ——————————
☆ baby fever | F.
⤷ michael has never rushed into the idea of having children. but after seeing you care for a child, he begins to imagine a family of his own.
@traumaone ——————————
☆ 49 | A.
⤷ robby doesn't like you, or maybe he does. you don't know.
☆ immature | A.
⤷ robby loses his temper on you, and you're not quick to forgive, then tragedy strikes, and robby's not answering his phone
☆ keys | F. S.
⤷ robby misses you, but lucky for him, you just so happened to leave your keys on his desk after your shift last night (or, you come by to pick up your keys and Robby feels you up in the ambulance bay)
@u-get-to-c-the-medical-stuff ——————————
◇ imagine if... wife!reader played a tiny prank of her sleep-deprived husband.
Summary: You loved Robby enough to build a life around him once. The kind of life you thought people only talked about. Then things changed slowly, and then all at once, until the man beside you no longer felt familiar. Time apart was supposed to make things easier. Instead, a series of circumstances forces the two of you back into the same room, where everything left unsaid is still waiting.
Pairing: Husband! Robby x Wife! reader
WC: 6.5k
Warnings: 18+, smut, stressful work life, mentions of depression, not accurate lmao, strained marriage, arguments, lying, toxic dynamics, inappropriate workplace behavior, jack and mckay are two of reader’s close friends, mentions of a previous miscarriage, mentions of langdon’s addiction, fade to black at the end.
(this was my first robby fic, i hope i captured him well lol)
Working in the Pitt was its own kind of hell, a hell where life was sucked out of you. No fun, no laughs, only stress.
Before Michael, all you knew was work, home, and the few hours of sleep that you allowed yourself after your shift.
It was a cliche thing to say, but you always swore that your life brightened some when he came into it. He had a way about him, a way about him that made you feel at ease.
How the hell your marriage ended up in a spot where you were heavily considering divorce was beyond you. It had been another night of you trying to be there for him, but it turned into a fight— it always did. Your words were always wrong and rotten, no matter how softly they were spoken or how sweet they were laced.
Robby was a ticking time bomb and you weren’t going to let him drag you down with him. It was so unfair, because he acted as if you didn’t struggle too— like you didn’t also have a lot on your plate at work. It was all about him and his feelings.
The thought of your marriage being at that point was foreign, ridiculous even. You loved him and he loved you, how could things sour when that mattered most? How could you give up on him?
Robby was the man that couldn’t see yourself without, the one that made you smile at work, the one that would drop anything to be there for you.
Why would you abandon him when he just needed help?
God, you felt so fucking guilty for even considering it. The guilt gnawed at you every time you thought about it, you were being unfair.
He just needed space, is what you told yourself— hoping that it would turn out differently.
When the two of you got together it was with the help of Jack, he kept giving hints about how you’d do well together and how you two were looking for the same thing. How both of you had been alone for quite some time.
You brushed him off, because you weren’t looking for anything or anyone. You were okay with being by yourself and you had been okay with that for a really long time.
When you finally caved and said yes to the “blind date”, Jack joked that it would be it — you’d never be single again. Robby would be the one for you, the one that would make you change your mind.
You would roll your eyes and mock him, but he was right.
“Fuck.” You whined, your ass bouncing on his cock.
He smacked your ass, biting his lip.
“There you go, sweetheart.” He coached.
It had been so long since you had been touched, Robby was only the second person that you had ever slept with. It felt so fucking good, but you’d told yourself beforehand that it wouldn’t go that far. You didn’t plan to fuck him after the third date, you just couldn’t help yourself— he was so charming.
“I’m gonna cum—“
“Fuck, Robby.” You rasped, your pussy clenching around his cock.
“That’s it baby.” He groaned, his tongue sliding into your mouth as he kissed you again.
You kept riding him, riding out your orgasm while his cock twitched inside you.
“I’m so fucking close.” He panted.
You loved this, every fucking moment of it. “You can cum inside me, I’m on the pill.”
He looked at you, “you sure?”
You nodded.
It didn’t take long before Robby’s deep, guttural groans filled the air— his cum coating your walls.
The two of you stayed in each other’s arms, falling asleep together and waking up together the next morning.
You knew then that Jack was right, Robby was it.
A year later the two of you were married, married at the cathedral that you’d picked out.
It was perfect in every way imaginable and you had smiled more than you ever had in your life. The way that Robby looked at you, held your hand through every moment, whispered cute things into your ear— he was your soulmate.
Your wedding wasn’t big, but it had everyone who mattered there. It was exactly what the two of you had envisioned and talked about on numerous occasions.
Shortly after the wedding, the two of you started house hunting. You both sold your houses and wanted a space that was picked by both of you, something where you could potentially start a family.
Having children was something that you never considered, something that you had written off years ago. I mean, the Pitt was your life— it was all that you had time for. However, experiencing love and being loved made you feel differently about it.
Before you got married, the two of you were also on opposite shifts—just barely able to spend time together. With a little persuasion, you joined the day shift, which made things ten times easier for both of you.
Years later…
You took the empty chair at the nurses station, wanting to rest your feet. The emergency room was buzzing with patients, talking, and machines beeping— you could barely hear yourself think.
“Don’t go to sleep on us.” Dana spoke, nudging you as you blinked slowly.
You wanted to cry internally and externally, “I couldn’t even if I tried.”
The entire day had been more non-stop than usual and you were exhausted, truthfully beyond exhausted.
You glanced at your watch and stood up from the chair, dragging yourself to the next task— going to the bathroom for peace and quiet. On the way to the bathroom, you caught Robby once again grilling Samira for being too slow.
You watched as she walked away, looking like a bit more of her confidence had been shaved off.
Robby walked out of the room, putting hand sanitizer on his hands.
Things between the two of you were already tense, but you were going to say something— you had to. Not just because he was your husband, but his behavior and attitude was getting ridiculous. The low point in your marriage was an all new low, lower than it had ever been. You believed that it was something every marriage went through, something your marriage would overcome— but as the nights passed your confidence dwindled. Your patience for his treatment of you and everyone else thinned.
His behavior at home had been carried with him at work, the one thing he always warned everyone about. It was downright embarrassing to you and him.
He was losing himself right before your eyes— snappy with everyone, sleeping less, and talking less. You were losing your husband and you couldn’t stop it. You wanted to guide him through it and be there for him, but he only pushed you farther away. It had gotten to the point where you drove your own car to work and that you could barely work with him, without arguing.
He was affecting you and your career, he was ruining you.
You walked beside him, “can we have a word?”
He scoffed, the lines near his eyes deepening.
“Here we go—“
“Again.” He muttered.
You walked in front of him, halting his steps and trying not to let his words make you angry.
“Robby, you cannot keep treating Samira that way.” You gently reminded him.
“Dr. Mohan.” He corrected you.
Your brows furrowed, a confused look on your face.
“What?”
He pressed his hands together in front of him, his lips pursed and brows slightly raised.
“She is Dr.Mohan. We are professionals and she is not your friend, she is Dr. Mohan.”
You scoffed, shaking your head in disbelief.
“We are professionals, you’re right— but that isn’t a lesson that I need.”
He pulled his shoulders back in offense, pointing his finger at himself.
“Are you trying to say that I need a fucking lesson in professionalism? That’s rich.”
“Robby.. what I’m saying is that—“
“Your treatment of her, constantly nagging and knocking her down a peg.. is unprofessional and comes off sexist.” You stammered.
He stared at you in disbelief.
“You, my lovely wife— are unbelievable.”
“I only say this out of concern, Michael. I love you, but—“
“Just because we are married does not mean that you can talk to me this way, I am still your superior. You need to remember your place and get back to work, we do not have time for bullshit.” He gritted.
You were admittedly startled by his tone, it sent shivers down your spine. The way that he so casually brushed you and your concern off, the way that he pulled the authority card.
It was as if the rose colored glasses that you had on and the excuses for him instantly vanished, that was it— the final straw. It wasn’t something big or catastrophic like you had imagined, it was that.
Your eyes watered as you stared at your husband, the eyes of your coworkers on both of you.
Robby stared at you and you didn’t even recognize him, his eyes no longer held the sanctuary that you used to get lost in.
You leaned close to him, making sure that he could hear you perfectly.
“I can’t do this anymore, Michael.. I thought that I could and that I could tolerate your cruelty, but I can’t.”
His brows raised, “my cruelty?”
“You need to get your shit out of the house and be gone by the time that I am at home.” You added.
Your words were sharp and short, no more apologies and excuses— just straight to the point.
He feigned a smile and nodded, walking away without saying anything.
You turned around to see everyone staring after, considering it was obvious the two of you were arguing.
“What the fuck is everyone looking at?” You yelled, tears finally falling from your eyes.
Dana stared at you a moment longer, before averting her gaze.
“She’s right people, this isn’t a zoo— get back to work!”
Although you appreciated her effort to keep eyes off of you and your failing marriage, everyone knew— it was obvious. Everyone noticed how things between the two of you seemed strained, how easily Robby snapped, or how it seemed like your light dimmed.
You loved him, but this was ridiculous and it just couldn’t continue— not this way.
After your shift, you went home and he was gone— along with his things. He didn’t even hesitate.
You stayed later for charting, hoping for anything from him— but there was nothing. You didn’t know what hurt worse, him not trying or him treating you that way.
When you got home, you realized that you still had a vial in your pocket and needed to return it. You drove back to the hospital, hoping to be in and out.
“Back so soon?” Dana questioned as she prepared to walk out of the door herself.
You held the vial in your hand, showing her. “I needed to return this.”
Dana stopped you in your tracks as you went to walk past her, her hand on your shoulder and her eyes giving you a look that you knew all too well.
“What was that with Robby earlier?”
You fidgeted with the vial, fighting back the tears that wanted to fall from your eyes again.
“He’s.. uh, just having a day— I guess.”
She leaned in closer to you, her brow slightly raised.
“He shouldn’t be like that with you, that isn’t okay and you don’t deserve it.”
You nodded, biting the inside of your lip.
“Tell me about it.”
Dana rubbed your shoulder and gave it a pat before she continued on her way while you continued on yours.
It was embarrassing, embarrassing that your marriage couldn’t even struggle in private— that everyone knew.
The emergency room had quieted some from earlier, but not by much. Dr. Abbott and Mateo were approaching the desk when you walked by, your mind completely focused on the task at hand and nothing else.
You were in the middle of returning the vial when Jack came to the side of you.
“What are you doing back here?” He asked.
You took a deep breath, your eyes red from crying and hands unable to stop shaking.
“I just brought back that vial, I realized I still had it in my pocket.”
He stared at you, his eyes raking over you and your appearance.
“Talk to me.”
Your brow raised, “about?”
He leaned against the wall, glancing around and making sure that the two of you were alone.
“I’ve heard about it, I mean everyone has— tell me what happened.”
You wiped your mouth, a sigh of defeat escaping your lips— your eyes sore from crying.
Jack grabbed your hand and guided you into a nearby empty room, shutting the door behind him.
“He’s just.. he’s slipping. I don’t know what’s going on, but nothing I say is right or okay. He’s an asshole most of the time, like I don’t even recognize him.. my own fucking husband.” You stammered.
Jack watched you, he watched how you also looked like you were falling apart and how you seemed completely alone.
“Why did he argue with you in front of people? What brought that about?”
You wiped your tears, shaking your head.
“He was scolding Dr. Mohan again. It’s like he’s always on her ass about one thing or another and she’s trying, she’s fucking trying.” You choked.
Jack tilted his head slightly and walked closer to you, pulling you into a hug.
“Hey, hey— it’s going to be okay. He’s going to be okay and so will you.”
“I’ll talk to him.”
You pulled away, sniffing.
“Don’t, this isn’t your mess to clean up and I don’t want him getting upset over this too.”
“I don’t like him treating you this way. I won’t tolerate it.”
“It’ll be fine, just trust me.” You pleaded.
He rubbed your arm, “are you positive?”
You nodded, pulling a paper towel from the dispenser to blow your nose.
“Have you—“
“Have you told him about the medical emergency that you had?”
You turned to Jack, your mind clouded by the hum of the light overhead and everything else.
“Oh, the miscarriage?”
He folded his arms, leaning against the counter— his brow raised.
“No.. no. I just didn’t think he’d handle it well—“
“You shouldn’t have had to go through that alone, that is not okay.” Jack interrupted.
You shrugged, your lips pursed.
“I didn’t go through it alone, I had you and McKay.”
“You needed your husband, not just us. He should’ve been there, he would’ve wanted to be there.”
“What was I supposed to do, Jack? Hmm?—“
“Tell my already suicidal husband that during his own meanness and selfish worries, I had a miscarriage. The baby that we once talked about, I lost?”
He nodded, “yes.”
You laughed in disagreement, “that totally would’ve gone well.”
“Maybe, it would’ve changed things for him— made him actually seek out help.”
“It would’ve just changed how soon he’d put a gun in his mouth.” You digressed.
“He will get through this, he will.” Jack spoke, his voice coming out softer for reassurance.
“I told him to pack his things after earlier.. I told him to be gone before I got home.”
“Well, was he gone?” Jack questioned.
“Yeah, most of his things were gone.” You sighed.
“Is that what you wanted?”
You threw your hands up in defeat, “I don’t know. I don’t know what I want anymore, Jack. I am just tired of the back and forth, of this, of..”
You stopped yourself before you could finish your sentence, but both of you knew what it meant.
Mateo opened the door, interrupting the conversation.
“I need you right now.”
Jack looked at him and back at you, “I’ll be right back.”
Once he left, you took a few minutes to calm down before driving back home— but you left before he came back to the room. You were tired and wanted to go home. You needed to go home.
When you got home, you took a shower and practically collapsed. You didn’t have the mental capacity or energy to think about Robby. You barely had the capacity to think about yourself.
The next morning you had overslept and were running behind. You glanced at your phone as you rushed to get ready.
Two missed calls from Robby and three texts from him.
Is everything okay?
Where are you? They said that you didn’t call out.
If I don’t hear from you in the next twenty minutes, I’m leaving work and coming to the house.
You were more flustered about being late than anything else, so texting Robby back was the last thing on your mind at that moment.
You rushed in, your eyes still red and puffy— your voice hoarse.
“There she is! We were worried.” Dana smiled.
You set down your tumbler on the desk. “I overslept, I didn’t mean to.”
Langdon looked up from his chart, staring at you and how you looked. He wanted to ask if you were okay, but you were already walking away before he could.
You were walking to the bathroom, hoping to pee quickly before diving in. Robby appeared out of what seemed like thin air, leaning against the bathroom door in front of you.
“You were late.. an hour late, what happened?”
You scratched your brow, “I overslept.”
He bit his lip, “is that all? Or is there something that you’re not telling me?”
You rolled your eyes, signaling for him to move from in front of the door.
“For Christ sake, Michael l— I just overslept because I was exhausted. I was sad and exhausted, nothing more.”
Robby nodded and moved out of your way, walking back the other direction.
Dealing with him and the stress of what he was dealing with was making you snappy, making you act ugly towards other people. You weren’t being yourself.
When you came out of the bathroom, you bumped into Mckay.
“Are you okay?”
You scoffed, “what do you think?”
“That’s fair. If you’re interested, I need your assistance with this patient. She accidentally almost cut three fingers off.”
You agreed, putting hand sanitizer on your hand as the two of you approached the room.
After observing the wounds yourself and talking with the patient, you pulled your gloves off— standing up from the stool.
“Can you have Yoyo come check this out? I’m certain that it’s going to need more than just stitches.” You spoke to Cassie.
She nodded, picking the phone up from the hook on the wall near her.
You exited the room, putting on more hand sanitizer— your thoughts interrupted by Santos approaching.
“Can I talk to you?”
“Sure, what’s up?” You replied.
She glanced around, her hands in her pocket— “privately.”
The two of you went into an empty room and you didn’t know what to expect, quite frankly you were a little afraid.
Santos stood there, hesitant to open her mouth and tell you why she needed to talk.
“Everything okay?” You questioned, staring at her and her lost expression.
“I think that Langdon is stealing drugs from the hospital.” She blurted.
Her words threw you for a loop, like a prank was being played.
“Langdon?—“
“Frank?”
She slowly nodded, “yes.”
You crossed your arms, your eyes blinking more in that minute than they had since you’d woken up.
“What makes you say that? That’s a serious accusation, Santos.”
“There have been a few discrepancies with benzos on two cases of his.”
You pinched the bridge of your nose.
“You’re absolutely positive?”
“Yes.”
You sighed. “Okay, I’ll handle it from here—“
“Thank you for reporting it.”
She stood there a minute longer before exiting.
When she left, you started to laugh. It wasn’t due to anything being humorous— but it was the cherry on top. Robby’s star pupil was potentially stealing drugs from the hospital and you were going to tell him, it was the last thing that you needed.
Robby was busy, so you sat down and did the notes on a chart. You were so overwhelmed from the information that you could barely think straight.
Time passed with more people coming into the ER, so you had been too busy to talk to Robby— too busy to do anything.
You shook your head, walking from the last patient you had spoken to when you saw him. He glanced up from his iPad, staring at you.
“I need to talk to you.” You mouthed.
He put down the iPad, pulled off his glasses and walked towards you at the end of the hallway. The two of you hadn’t talked about what happened yesterday and he had hoped that you would, just maybe not at that moment.
“What’s going on?”
You leaned against the wall, taking a deep breath.
“Santos came to me earlier and made a troubling accusation—“
Robby sarcastically smiled, thinking that it would be nonsense.
“I can’t wait to hear this.”
“She accused Langdon of stealing drugs from the hospital.”
His smile dropped, “what the fuck are you talking about?”
“She said that on two occasions there have been clear and obvious discrepancies with benzos.”
“And she’s sure?” He questioned, gritting his teeth— his hands on his head.
“About as sure as she can be.”
Robby’s hand smacked the wall as he walked away from you and didn’t say anything else.
“Robby!” You yelled, calling after him to no avail.
Robby disappeared around the corner and you let him, you were just too tired to chase after him and try talking to him. It wasn’t worth the fight.
You made your way back over to the desk, rummaging through one of the drawers to find a report to fill out. Your task was interrupted as they always were, Whittaker asking for a hand.
The thoughts in your mind came and went at such a rampant speed that you couldn’t keep track. If you weren’t thinking or worried about your husband, you were thinking about how you felt inadequate and wanted to give up.
It was tiring.
You made quick work of helping Whittaker and returned to filling out the report. The report was tedious and exhaustingly long, you had finished most of it when you saw Robby again..
“I filled out the report, most of it anyway. I’ll just need your signature and get it sent to HR.” You mentioned, now walking beside Robby.
He rubbed hand sanitizer into his hands, “that won’t be necessary.”
You tilted your head in confusion, “what won’t be necessary?”
“The report, I handled it. Langdon is gone and it’s unnecessary.”
You stopped in your tracks, your feet squeaking slightly against the floor.
“You’re joking, right?”
He glanced at you, “nope.”
You grabbed his hand and forced him into the newly empty room that was closest to you. The smell of disinfectant lingering in the air.
“What Langdon did was a crime, it should be reported.”
He folded his arms in front of him.
“Santos reported it to you, you told me, and I handled it. There’s nothing more to it.”
You scoffed, shaking your head.
“He stole drugs and you’re trying to salvage his fucking career? Trying to help him out?”
Robby took a deep breath, holding his eyes shut for a moment.
“I am the senior attending, I don’t have to explain shit to you! I said it was handled and I meant that.”
You bit the inside of your lip, stepping closer to him and closing the gap between the two of you.
“You once again cut slack for Langdon, but you’d never do the same for me, or McKay, or Mohan— why is that?”
“We move just a little slower or become a step behind, take a small break, or make the wrong decision and you’re immediately riding our ass. Your precious pupil is a drug addict and you still spare him!”
Tears welled in your eyes, your lip beginning to quiver.
“I am doing my job and I don’t appreciate you taking me away from it, because you want to be emotional— because you can’t leave your self esteem issues at the door.” He hissed.
Your mouth was agape and it felt like your heart stilled in your chest for a moment.
“Wow.. just when I thought that you couldn’t get any lower.” You mumbled.
You stormed out of the room, Robby called your name and sounded remorseful— but you didn’t even bother.
The shift was the shift that kept on giving, no break in sight for you or anyone that day— especially after the pittfest nightmare.
You were so tired after that shift that you could barely keep your eyes open, you even fell asleep in the shower.
It was one of the hardest shifts that you had worked in a while, but nothing was harder than dealing with your husband— accepting how he was now.
After everything, you realized that you needed a break— you took off a week and simultaneously put in a transfer to another hospital. You couldn’t work with Robby anymore or just at that hospital in general.
You needed space and a lot of it.
Are you not coming in today?
Nevermind, I heard that you took time off. Take care of yourself.
Did you really put in a transfer request? You’re leaving the hospital, because of me?
I am sorry, baby.
Please, talk to me. I want to talk.
You ignored every text that Robby sent and reading them was like a knife twisting in your stomach. Things could have been so different.
All he had to do was accept your help, but even that was an unreasonable ask.
During your time off, you spent a lot of time lounging around your house—sorting things and watching a bit of some tv show.
It was odd being completely alone at home, Robby’s things being gone— his scent still lingering. You had been with Robby for years, made your life around him and now you were preparing for a life without him. A life without the man that you spent years loving and accepting.
You sat on the couch in your pajamas, scrolling through the options on Netflix— hoping to find something that would distract you.
Your phone dinged with a text from Jack.
Are you doing okay?
Your fingers hovered over the keyboard, because that was the million dollar question— were you okay?
You: I’m okay, as okay as I can possibly be lol. Thanks for checking in on me though!
He started typing, then stopped, and then started again.
I came in to fill in for you and Robby came to me shortly after our shift started.
You: Why? Was he okay?
He brought up what happened between the two of you, mentioned that he’d really fucked up.
You: I’m not sure what to say.
I didn’t know what to say either, I just hope this means that he’ll get the help he needs.
You: I hope so too, but we’ll see.
He misses you, I think more than he’s letting on.
You read Jack’s last text and didn’t respond, you weren’t sure what to say— not really.
It'd been two months since you left the Pitt, two months since you’d separated from Robby.
You had gotten used to the silence that lingered in your life now, used to not waking up beside Robby, used to the new hospital that you worked at.
At this hospital things were different, the unit wasn’t much of a “family” like you were at the Pitt. Each of you did your job and went home, that was it. Surprisingly, you didn’t mind it— not at much as you thought you would.
You sat in the lounge, mindlessly scrolling on your phone when a text came through from Robby.
I just want to warn you, I will be stopping by the house to grab something from the garage. I won’t be there long.
You: That’s fine, I’m not sure I’ll be there though. Do you still have your key?
Yes.
Things between you and Robby were stuck in limbo, they weren’t inherently improving nor were they getting worse.
It had been two months and you had cancelled three divorce consultations, unable to go through with it. The two of you barely talked and had been living separately, you couldn’t understand why you were hesitant.
He’d text you every now and then, checking in on you and letting you know that he missed you. Each text made your skin warm and made your stomach flutter, you still were in love with him— even when you shouldn’t have been.
You missed him— you missed seeing his face, feeling his arms around you, missed hearing his voice, and his snores in the bed beside you.
A text came through, this one from McKay.
Are you still coming over tonight? There’s so much that I have to tell you.
You: Can we do it tomorrow night, instead? I don’t feel well and there’s something that I need to handle.
Sure! No problem.
Thankfully, the work day didn’t drag on and was finished before you could even begin to complain. You wanted to go home, pour yourself a glass of wine, and fall asleep watching some shitty reality show.
When you got home, Robby wasn’t there— you had missed him. You did however find a bouquet of roses on the counter with a note attached.
These are for you, your favorite flower— but still nowhere as beautiful as you. I am sorry for how I treated you, what I ruined between us. I do hope that one day you’re able to forgive me. I love you more than anything. — Michael
You sat the card back onto the table, tears welling in your eyes. You picked up your phone, your finger hovering over the text thread between the two of you.
You: Thank you for the flowers.
You’re welcome, do you like them?
You: Yes.
You: Would you like to come over?
You held your breath after you sent that text, the feeling of regret already creeping into your stomach.
Everything okay? or do you want me over there for something else?
You: I just want to talk.
I’ll be there in thirty.
You liked his message and there was a lump in your throat, you were supposed to be keeping your distance from him— not inviting him over.
You turned off the lights, leaving only the lamp near the front door on— lighting the vanilla candle that also sat on the table.
While trying to process what you did, you took a hot shower— hoping that maybe you’d change your mind afterwards. The water rinsed over your skin, the steam filling the bathroom as you stood there deep in thought.
Could your marriage truly recover? Was this a mistake?
Once you were out of the shower, you threw on one of your baggy t-shirts and made your way back downstairs. You were going to tell Robby nevermind, but as soon your foot touched the last step— the doorbell rang.
Your heart raced as you walked to the door, your fingers sweating when you unlocked it and opened it.
Robby stood there, his eyes raking over your appearance— wet hair, his baggy college t-shirt, and no pants on.
“You wanted me to come over?” He asked, walking past you and down the hall.
You locked the door, your words hung in your throat as you followed him into the kitchen.
“Did you mean it—“
“Do you mean what you wrote on the notecard?” You mumbled.
He leaned against the kitchen counter.
“Every word of it.”
You held back the tears that threatened to leave your eyes.
“Why now? It’s been two months.”
“Two months of agony, two months of feeling like I cannot breathe, two months of feeling like the biggest asshole in the world.”
You bit your lip and just stood there, somehow he felt like your husband again— like the man that you’d fallen in love with years ago.
“You need help, Michael.. professional help that I cannot give.”
He nodded, a pained look on his face.
“I know.”
Somehow in the midst of talking, the two of you ended up closer than you should’ve been— his body against yours.
Robby titled his head, his eyes staring into yours while one his hands rested against your hip.
“I’m sorry for leaving you.” You muttered.
“You had to, baby. I don’t blame you one bit.” He replied softly.
His hand came up to your cheek, his thumb rubbing against it. You felt like you could melt into him, melt like you always did.
“I missed you.” He confessed.
“I missed you too.”
There was a silence, a heat between the two of your bodies.
He gently pressed his lips against yours, his hand cupping your face. He kissed you like he was scared he’d be punished for it, waiting for you to push him away— only you didn’t.
You kissed him back and you welcomed it.
The kiss deepened, your tongue sliding into his mouth.
“I missed you so much, baby.” He breathed in between kissing.
You pulled your lips from his, grabbing his hand and bringing him to the bedroom. As soon as you were in the room, his lips were back on yours.
He pulled off your t-shirt, leaving you completely naked.
“You look.. so beautiful.”
You pulled Robby’s shirt off, your fingers raking over his hairy stomach as he placed open mouthed kisses against your skin.
“I want you.” You whined.
He pulled off his pants, a wet spot on his boxers from precum.
You pulled down his boxers, wrapping your hand around his thick cock— slowly pumping it.
“Hmm, that feels good honey.”
He kissed you fiercely, full of hunger and need— guiding you back onto the bed.
You laid on your back, your legs spread open— watching as he came between your legs.
“Please, fuck me.”
He chuckled, his necklace dangling in your face.
He guided his cock to your entrance, his tub rubbing against your sensitive clit.
“You ready for me?”
You nodded, bringing your mouth to his.
He pushed inside you, a gasp leaving your mouth and a groan leaving his.
His cock filled you, every inch of him stretching you as you got used to him again.
“That’s it, baby.” He groaned, slowly thrusting in and out of you.
It felt good to feel him inside you again, to be close with him, and to feel love for him.
He was so deep inside you, it felt like he was in your stomach— taking your breath with every thrust.
Robby pushed your leg up slightly, his cock going even deeper.
“Fuck.” You whimpered.
Hearing you moan and watching you take every inch of him just about pushed him over the edge prematurely.
“That feels so good, Robby."
“Good, baby. I want to make you feel so good.” He breathed.
The intense feeling in your stomach began to build, your pussy already clenching around his cock.
“I’m so close, I’m so close.” You moaned.
He kissed you with a chuckle, his thrusts faster and messier.
“Me too—“
“Be a good girl and cum for me, honey.”
You loved hearing him talk to you like that, hearing him coach you through your orgasm.
Your orgasm washed over you like a violent tidal wave, his name spilling from your lips over and over again.
“Yeah, just like that, baby.”
Robby’s orgasm followed yours within seconds, his cock slamming into you one last time— his warm cum coating your walls.
Both of you laid there for a moment, reeling from the high that you rode— also now more confused than ever.
Robby pulled out of you, handing you his shirt.
“Do you want me to go?”
You pulled the shirt over your head, getting off the bed.
“You can stay, but you’ll have to leave in the morning.”
Robby stayed and you slept in his arms like you used to, some of the best sleep that you had gotten in a while. You knew that once the morning came, things would go back to how they were.
That night was a weak moment and it made what you said no less true, Robby needed help and the two of you couldn’t be together until he got it.
Weeks later..
Things between you and Robby had managed to somehow get worse, he hadn’t gotten help like he needed to and he was continuing to spiral.
You’d given up and just completely avoided him, even though it was painful. You really hoped that he would’ve taken your advice, that the time apart would have opened his eyes.
You sat on the couch, eating popcorn and decided to open a bottle of wine— a well needed drink.
This was your favorite wine, you’d often buy two bottles when you went to the store.
You glanced at the tv from the kitchen, watching the red wine pour into the glass.
The whiff of wine made your brows furrow, it smelled off. You brought the glass to your mouth, tasting it to be sure.
It tasted wrong and off like something had been done to it, you leaned over the sink spitting it out.
It wasn’t old and it hadn’t been opened, but it didn’t taste right and you couldn’t figure out why.
You stood at the sink, leaning against it and absentmindedly rinsing out the wine— your mind elsewhere.
That’s when it hit you, it felt like a shove to the chest. You grabbed your phone from the couch and pulled up your period app.
You were probably panicking, being ridiculous— there was no way that you were pregnant.
The app loaded and you were late, very fucking late.
“No, no, no.” You mumbled, rushing up the stairs to your bathroom.
You’d kept spare pregnancy tests in your bathroom and never got around to throwing them out once the two of you split.
The bathroom lights hummed as you stood there near the sink, staring at yourself in the mirror.
It was going to be negative, there’s no way it would be positive.
The timer on your phone went off and you took a deep breath, completely preparing for there to be another explanation.
You slowly turned over both pregnancy tests.
They were positive.
You held your head in defeat, tears falling from your eyes.
ㅤㅤ ㅤ⭑ pairing. widower!jack abbot x charge nurse!reader
ㅤㅤ ㅤ⭑ about.
you and jack have a tendencies of flirting, quite a lot. all the night shift has gotten used to it at this point, they are just waiting for the both of you to get it over with.
ㅤㅤ ㅤ.ᐟ warnings.
soft angst. eventual smut. age difference (eleven years). flirting. touched starved. blood. medical inaccuracies. canon medical procedures. canon gore details. car accidents. insecurities. chubby reader.
→ be sure to read each part's warnings.
ㅤㅤ ㅤᯓ main masterlist.
ㅤ⭑ complete.
a diptych ˎˊ˗
ㅤㅤ ㅤᯓ the terrible date
a terrible date, on your evening off, ends you up at the emergency service in a bad state. the very same emergency service you work at. (wc: 5.560)
ㅤㅤ ㅤᯓ the unexpected accident
after almost two weeks off, you came back for the night shift. however with your luck, it started as a terrible night—one you could only hope would get better. (wc: 13.400)
✶ pairing | jack abbot x f!reader
✶ word count | 5.2k
✶ warning(s) | 🔞 smut; fingering, biting, squirting, dry humping, mildly dubious consent, fwb, unrequited love but not really, idiots in love, hurt/comfort, mild angst with a happy ending, you attended college with jack who is older than you, unspecified age gap, pining, porn with plot, realization of feelings, pet names, jealous jack, possessive jack, praise kink, manhandling, simp jack abbot, miscommunication/misunderstandings
✶ summary | Loving Jack is the same as loving the ghost of a long-forgotten memory, and you are not content to warm yourself on hollow bones and cinders of affection.
✶ notes | un-betaed atm. i snuck in a reference to animal kingdom as well as some greek myths and a musical lmao 🤭 edit: OMFG i forgot to update the summary ffs. should be fixed now.
masterlist | ao3 | inbox | requests, taglist, submissions: open
The text comes through.
Blunt.
Biting.
No explanation offered or false platitudes found in the lifeless string of black letters. Simple and straight to the point - as expected from Jack Abbot himself. He wasn't known for his verbosity, and even less so for his love of texting.
Hell, it took years of pestering before he finally caved and switched from his dinosaur of a flip phone to something made within the last five years.
Whatever, it's fine.
Except as you chew on the fat of your cheek, re-reading it over and over again to glean some hidden meaning that isn't there, you admit to yourself (privately) there's no more avoiding the truth. It's been hovering over your shoulder for weeks like a shroud; an unwelcome guest no longer content to be ignored.
Jack's avoiding you. Has been for a while now, in fact.
Honestly, it was only a matter of time.
It shouldn't be surprising - shouldn't hurt. Maybe Robby's seven week itch finally rubbed off on him (though he never seemed capable of anything less than heart stopping loyalty).
But there's an ache that shouldn't be there roosted beneath your ribs, a rotten tangle of roots, and the backs of your eyes burn as you stare down at his text thread, the blinking cursor another insult to add to the injury.
This little arrangement is supposed to be casual.
A little fun between good, albeit lonely, friends. Nothing more, and nothing less. Besides, you've known Jack Abbot forever and a day; having met back in college. The pretty upperclassman with an infectious smile who made you laugh.
Your best friend once upon a time, and then he'd graduated.
Last you'd heard, he was a field medic while you roughed it in bumfuck Ohio - struggling to make ends meet as you tried to sort out your life after everything went sideways.
It wasn't until you'd moved back to Pittsburgh a lifetime later - a little older, wiser, and jaded - you ran into him by happenstance. Who knew the both of you were drawn to the same shitty little bar you used to haunt in your youth?
Almost like fate, you reconnected and it was as if no time had passed; slipping back into the same dynamic as one would slip into bed at night. Comfortable and easy.
Much had changed (the scars of war and the grief of a lost love leaving their scars), but beneath it all he was still the same Jack Abbot.
Nothing but a gangly boy whose future stretched its fingers out before him, limitless and undaunted. Who held your hand when you were scared, and took your first kiss when you asked.
But now...
This fucking sucks, you think.
A pit yawns into existence in the depths of your stomach, and you kiss your teeth. The night managed to be ruined before it even began. Truly a new record in a string of shitty luck. The only thing left is to decide how to respond.
While in the past, you used a plethora of options (each more inventive than the last), this time you're stumped. Bereft. Left standing on a foundation of shifting sand.
How do you correlate the sting of this offensive to the nature of your not-relationship — could you?
In the end, he owes you nothing.
You scrub a hand over your chest with a frown. This should be a non-issue, and yet... And yet.
What the hell's wrong with me?
Beside you, the bartender averts his gaze. Pretends the task of polishing smudged pint glasses is of the utmost importance while you suffer through an existential crisis.
You appreciate the curtesy, clumsy as it is.
Not like there's much else for him to do.
It's a slow night, the locals more interested in the newest blockbuster than sticky floors and cheap drinks with a heavy pour. The music's decent and the strobe lights they kick on after 10 PM aren't offensive enough to induce a migraine.
Moreover, it's quiet as far as bars go - one of the many reasons why it's a favorite meeting place of yours.
Because while its changed hands several times over the years, some things forever remain the same. Like the trashy, half-naked mermaids hanging from the rafters or the bright splashes of graffiti painting the walls in swaths of color... or the low booth crammed into the back corner; a hidden, tell-tale heart hosting an aged carving of yours and Jack's initials on the underside.
The lone vigil of a bygone life filled with coursework and exams, laughter shared over watered down lagers and the pressing clasp of warm palms.
Will we ever be like that again?
Nostalgia's a dangerous thing as you glance at your secret keeper. Makes it harder to avoid the lurch of your heart and the churn of your stomach; the tangled mess of strangleweed emotions threatening to steal the breath from your lungs.
You've been stood up.
Again.
Abandoned in a monument of your youth and surrounded by bittersweet reminders of a time when Jack cared. When he was tender and kind. When the distance between you didn't throb like an open wound.
This isn't the first time. It won't be the last.
Humiliation burns white-hot, sinks its fingers into the apples of your cheeks. It used to be so easy not to take his flakiness personally. He was a busy man with important things to do, even back in college.
When did that change? When did he stop saying sorry? When did he stop caring?
The desolation is much harder to shake off this time. You used to be so understanding but now it feels as if Jack's plunged a hand into your chest, scooped out any tender, soft thing he could find.
Goddamn it. What did you expect?
Jack Abbot is a screaming red flag.
He likes getting shot at for fun, plays cop by listening to a police scanner in his free time, flirts with death to a concerning degree, and bends the rules when it suits his needs.
A loose cannon, wild and untamed since his youth.
He reminds you of Icarus, constantly soaring to new heights. And like the boy with hope in his heart and wings made of wax, you live in fear of the day he'd get burned for flying too close to the sun.
However, you didn't expect to be plummiting towards the earth in his stead. And you don't share his knack for compartmentalization, instead thrown off-kilter by this recent disappointment in a long line of tragedy.
What’s going on with me, you think, regret bitter on your tongue. This is nothing new. Jack's doing what he's always done.
Hell, even after you fuck he never acts differently - as casual with you between the sheets as he is lounging on your couch with a carton of greasy Chinese food and beer.
It's been great.
It's been enough.
Why is now different?
Just the thought of going back to your empty apartment makes your skin crawl, knowing he'll swing by after his next shift with a half-assed apology and your favorite drink since you were a sleep deprived undergrad in hand.
Then he'll coax you into bed where you'll get lost in each other's bodies for hours.
He'll continue to take-take-take.
You'll continue to give-give-give.
On and on, a distant star orbiting a black hole - losing little bits of itself until there's nothing left but dust.
Then he'll leave your life.
First in inches, then in miles; a blurry after-image there and gone in the blink of an eye. You might be lucky if you get a check-up call once every three months.
After all, your lives went in separate directions before - what's stopping that from happening again?
Fuck, I - I can’t do this anymore, you realize, a shiver rattling down your spine, Because I —
An errant thought gains teeth.
Sinks deep and refuses to budge as an awful truth, one buried so well you forgot it was there - ever lurking in the shadows - rises to the forefront of your mind. Hysteria swells. A cold chill rakes gnarled fingers down the nobs of your spine.
Oh.
It’s because I love him. Because I’m in love with him. I always have been.
Suddenly it hurts to breathe, your lungs burning as you drown on the air itself. A steel band cinches around your ribs, threatens to crack you open. Your heart lurches. Despair follows on swift wings, and you have no one to blame except yourself.
Fuck, you scrub a hand over your face with a wane smile. How could I…
It'll never work.
Loving Jack is the same as loving the ghost of a long-forgotten memory, and you are not content to warm yourself on hollow bones and cinders of affection. Besides, there are too many hurts to soothe, and too many disappointments to name.
Should’ve known better — should’ve done a lot of things, I guess.
Now, you're in too deep.
Waiting without ever realizing you began to do so in the first place; a life on pause, surviving off of half-measures and maybe's, what-ifs, if-only's.
No more.
It's time to muster up some semblance of self, untangle the threads of connection so you can rediscover the pieces of your heart you left with him all those years ago. Relearn how to live without the taste of his kiss, the clench of his muscles, the thrust of his cock. Content yourself with his friendship and nothing more.
And it starts with a simple reply in the face of everything else you really want to say: Ok.
After, you grab the bartender's attention (not that it was ever on anyone else but you).
He pretends not to notice the tears brimming along your lash line."Ready to order?" he asks. "What'll ya have?"
"Uh, yeah - sorry, I was…"
The screen of your phone lights up with a notification. His mouth twitches. You waver, refuse to look. Everything is still too fresh, emotions scraped raw and tender.
A simple flick of your finger turns on DND, then you place the device face down where it'll remain until you call it a night. You're far too fragile - and sober - to think about reading Jack's reply.
“Vodka cranberry, double shot. Please.”
Maybe if you get drunk enough, you'll forget about the home he carved in your bones.
Bottoms up, bitch.
In hindsight, having this conversation with Jack face to face the day after you realized you've spent a significant chunk of your life in love with a man who'll never love you back isn’t the brightest idea.
But if last night showed you anything, it's that every choice you’ve made lately is a disaster waiting to happen. What’s another mistake to add to your long string of misfortune?
It doesn't matter if there's a tremor to your hands when you unlock the door to let him in. It doesn't matter if your stomach churns when he leans in for a kiss only for you to duck aside, his lips catching on the slope of your cheek. It doesn't matter even when he pauses and gives you a long, searching look before pro-offering the drink he picked up on the way.
It can't get any worse.
Right?
(It can. It does.)
When he heads towards your bedroom with a slanted quirk of his lips and a playful wink, his crow's feet crinkling, the hungry, molten mixture of rage and rebellion fueling you sputters before fizzling down to embers.
Your heart stutters.
In that moment, he reminds you so, so much of the fresh faced older boy you knew.
The one who dragged you out for pancakes at 3 AM after you crammed for an exam, soft eyes and tender hands. The one you explored your sexuality with, curled against his chest as you kissed and groped each other, lips clumsy and palms sweaty. The one who stole your heart before you realized how empty he'd leave you.
Anguish and despair nip at your heels when you follow him.
You step into the room. This is all you’ll ever be to him, you remind yourself. A fun time. Nothing serious. You have to break it off for the sake of your friendship.
“Did you have a good night?”
Any attempt at smiling falls flat; ill-fitting, the corners stretched too wide, teeth bared like a dog.
Jack shrugs and shifts his weight onto his good leg, glancing around at the decorations littering your dresser. “Nah, not really.” His gaze slides to you, traveling from your head to your bare toes in a slow once over. “I definitely would’ve had a better time with you.” He flashes you a smile. "Always do."
Swallowing roughly, you rub your hands over your arms and feel far too exposed in the light summer dress you haphazardly threw on, skin too sensitive for anything heavier.
“Hah,” you intone without humor, awkward and stilted. “Probably not. I was out by 11:30.”
Jack hums. “Mm, that’s not like you.” He steps forward, only stopping once he's in front of you. "You're acting weird."
Hands reach for your wrists, broad palms a heated brand as fingers encircle the bone like they're cradling precious china. A rough thumb strokes over your pulse point. Shivery sensation whispers at the touch, awareness dripping down your nerves.
"Is there anything you want to talk about, sweetheart?"
When you stitch together a chuckle, its mirthless.
Of course he'd notice.
“Nothing gets past you, huh?”
Jack grins, his eyes crinkling. "Nothing," he agrees.
With every inhale, your chests brush. The scant few inches between your bodies heats, electric. His torso is a tempting line of hardness begging to mold itself against you just like it has time and time again. It’s torture. It’s too intimate.
The glow of your overhead lamp highlights the glints of spun silver in his hair, the curling sweep of his lashes as he blinks slow and happy, his eyes the shade of kerosene and broken amber beer bottles. He's blinding - like looking at the sun.
Clearing your throat, you shrink back.
“Don’t do that. Where are you going?” He pleads with you to stay, his body curved towards you. A palm settles over your shoulder. “Stop hiding. You can talk to me about anything. Come on, I want to know what’s going on in that pretty head of yours.”
Oh, his expression is so open, so soft.
What a terrible thing to destroy.
If only this moment, this memory could last forever suspended on a string.
Maybe once you beat your feelings back into submission…
Better to be quick otherwise you fear the words will get stuck around the bend of your throat like a noose. Resolved, you inhale and muster your courage. Steel your heart and do your best to ignore the ginger stokes of his fingertips.
You exhale, "We need to stop."
The world grinds to a startling halt.
Silence descends but for the rigid exhale through his nose, and all you can do is watch as Jack's eyes darken, scalpal sharp in the dim overhead light. Even still, his half-smile never wanes. Of course, it wouldn't be that easy. He's always been a greedy man. Wants what he can't have, and destroys what he does.
"What do you mean?" Jack asks (but he knows, there's no way he doesn't). "You're gonna have to be a bit more specific than that, sweetie."
You sigh and rub the bridge of your nose. "Jack, you know what I mean."
"Do I?"
"I just - I can't do," your voice cracks, your free hand motioning helplessly at him, "this anymore."
A vein throbs on the side of his neck, his stubbled jaw working side to side. Muscles bunch and release with every grind of his teeth. Tension impregnates the air, crackling between you like bottled lightening. The calm before the storm.
"You gonna tell me why? Or are you just going to ditch me - act like we," he catches himself, and re-phrases his sentence, "like it didn't fuckin' mean anything?"
“Jack…”
There’s a certain grief that can’t be spoken, gnarled roots burrowing deep in your chest. You wish this wasn’t happening. You wish you could take it back but this pantomime of a relationship isn’t fair. Not to you. Not anymore.
Though while you knew this conversation wouldn’t be fun, Jack's staunch denial still manages to surprise you.
“It didn’t mean anything though,” you say.
At least, not to you, you think. To me, it meant the world.
— And that’s the problem.
You need to stop whatever this is between you from building. He’s already shown he doesn’t share your desire for more in a multitude of ways. He’s been avoiding you for a reason, whether he was consciously aware of your feelings or not.
Undoubtedly, you trust him with your life but not your heart.
As sweet as he is - has been - he won’t treat it gently. He can’t contain his own commitment issues let alone make room for yours.
No, it’s better this way.
Let's what you have - had - stay a memory unmarred by the ugliness of your hurt feelings and bitter disappointments. At least, that's what you thought.
Except Jack's shoulders draw up towards his ears and his hands fall away from you. His gaze is glacial as it pins you in place. There's a shadow that lurks in the depths of his eyes, his lips curled into a cruel smirk.
Everything about him looks weighted down, adding years to his face.
If you didn't know better, you'd think it was heartbreak.
"Well, is there? I mean, shit, I think I deserve a fuckin' answer after all the years we've known each other." He scoffs. "At the very least."
“I’m not done with you,” you say. “I would never do that, Jack. I just - I can’t be with you like that anymore. I need space but I’ll still be around, I promise.”
He glares, a snarl rumbling from the depths of his chest. “Cut the bullshit. Tell me the reason.”
"Why does that - I -"
Words fail you when you need them most. Left scrambling for a reason to give while Jack looks so… God, you want to reach out and comfort him (the urge so strong you have to shove your hands under your arms to stop yourself). And then it comes to you, unbidden.
At the beginning of this mess, you only had one rule.
If there's someone you're serious about, you stop fucking. While made for your benefit more than his - barring the few flings after the passing of his wife - it comes as a handy lie. A believable excuse that'll stop any further questioning and save you from incriminating yourself. The last thing you want to do in this moment is be honest, and if he doesn't relent soon, you fear you'll crack under the weight of your grief and the fury in his eyes.
“I think I - I think I want to start looking for a boyfriend again.”
An expression flashes across his face, there and gone in the blink of an eye. But there’s no doubt he recognizes this for the goodbye it’s supposed to be.
This is it, you think.
You can put what you had to rest and move on, a memory on a shelf you’ll dust off years down the line when the hurt isn’t so prevalent. And hopefully, with time, you can relearn how to be his friend. Though the strange gleam to his eyes sends a prickle of apprehension down your spine, and then you find yourself being manhandled as he snaps forward, a snake coiled to strike.
Air flees your lungs as Jack shoves you with a firm palm, your feet stumbling over themselves as you trip backwards into your bed frame. Wood knocks into the backs of your knees, and you fold like a stack of cards. The sheets puff out around you, the scent of your laundry detergent tickling your nose.
You blink at the textured ceiling, mouth agape as you try to process what happened. This was supposed to be an amenable end to a dubious affair. It's quickly turning into anything but.
How? Why?
The empty space above you doesn’t stay vacant.
Jack quickly crowds you into the mattress with his weight as he settles over top of your body. The softness of your body knows the hardness of his, every curve has a matching divot. He molds himself to your front, his firm hips slotting themselves between your thighs as broad palms skim your sides. Warm and calloused, they ruck up the skirt of your dress.
"So that's it, huh?
"What—"
Reaching beneath you to grasp at the soft globes of your ass, Jack yanks you into him. Your pelvises slot together in a harsh clash of friction. Before you can stop yourself, a whine breaks free. The heat of his body sinks into you, and your lashes flutter. A bolt of awareness slices through you as your body responds to his proximity, liquid desire a slow kindling fire behind your navel.
He feels like home - like you're right where you belong beneath him.
Senses overwhelmed as he surrounds you, the heady, pleasent scent of his cologne flooding your lungs with every stuttered inhale. When teeth scrape along the delicate skin of your throat, sharp pinpricks of pleasure-pain lighting sparking sudden and bright, you squirm.
Then he's speaking, low and husky, "My girl's going to leave me for someone else? Think again, sweetheart."
“I’m not your girl. Never was.”
He doesn't need to know how your heart aches at your reply, every beat thrumming in your ears, screaming: it's you, it's always been you, only you.
A cruel mouth latches onto the corner of your jaw, teeth worrying at the flesh as blunt nails dig into the soft fat of your ass. "That right?" Jack asks. His voice rumbles through your torso, your nipples pebbling as they drag over the plains of his chest. "You think you're not my girl?"
The line of his cock ruts into you, dragging wickedly over your swollen clit. It's almost enough to make you swallow your tongue, retract every hasty word and beg for his forgiveness. "I know I'm not your girl," you bite out.
"Ah, so if you're not my girl," he grinds into the cradle of your hips taunting - teasing, "tell me what's got your pretty little pussy so fucking wet, sweetie. C'mon, let's hear it - I'm curious."
"Jack!"
Keening, you rock up into the firm pressure of his shaft. The angle's just right, spreads your folds beneath the thin cotton of your panties to expose your soaked core to the chill of your room. Mortification hooks behind your navel, a warm flush creeping from your crown down to the tips of your toes.
"Don't you know it's rude not to respond when someone asks a question." Jack presses a sloppy kiss to the side of your neck, following up with a stinging nip. His stubble drags over your skin, a path of raw tenderness left in the wake of his attention. "Should I take a guess?"
"I can't — ffuck!"
Blood thrums through your veins, rabbit fast. You're steadily losing all sense of control and rationality, the aborted rolls of your hips increasing in frequency the longer Jack keeps himself pressed against your pussy.
"Do you think some nobody can fuck you better than me?" A hand slaps the outside of your thigh. "Answer me."
A sharp burst of copper floods your mouth, your skin splitting open with how hard you’re chewing on it. Blood clings to the swell of your bottom lip, a ruby red bead you lick away with a nervous tongue.
Sweat dapples your brow, and it’s getting harder and harder to ignore the molten desire curdling your stomach.
“Shit, Jack, please,” you beg, hands tangling in the sheets by your head. “I don’t know what you want from me.”
You’re not sure what you’re asking for but at the same time, you’re not sure how you ended up here.
Again.
“I want you to tell me who your pussy belongs to.”
Fingers inch down to tease along the soft flesh of your inner thighs and play with the elastic of your panties. You tremble, gooseflesh dimpling the exposed skin of your arms as knuckles brush over the length of your soaked pussy. Your clit pulses, the pressure enough to tease.
“Come on, sweetheart,” Jack coaxes, working his way beneath the fabric clinging to your dripping folds, “tell me you’re my girl - always have been ever since college.”
His cock nestles into the crook of your hip, hot and heavy through his jeans as a darkened patch blooms across the denim crotch. The sticky wetness of his pre-cum smearing into your skin as arousal swells. A brief flicker of worry for his leg snakes through you before being knocked loose by the harsh rut of his hips.
“You just have to say it - say you’re my girl and I’ll be so, so good to you.” His breath warms the shell of your ear. “All you have to do is say it, and I’ll make you cum so hard you see stars."
Jack doesn’t give you a chance to cobble together a response, sliding a thick finger through your sticky folds and into your needy pussy just as your lips part to reply. All words leave you, your mind wiped clean as a low, broken cry echoes out into the room. Swallowed up by the sounds of city life outside your apartment as he works to stretch silken flesh open.
You clamp down at the sudden fullness, walls tight and puffy as they flutter around his finger. You can't help but wish it was his cock fucking in so deep the tip kissed your cervix with every thrust, hitting that spot just right to make you cum so hard you soak the bed.
“Fuck,” he groans. “Always so soft n wet n pretty for me.”
Whining in agreement, you give up any pretense of resistance, letting primal desire chase away the despair, the guilt that threatens to choke you. Wiping your mind clean of any thoughts until the only thing that remains is the stretch of his fingers and the ache in your cunt.
Your hands slip, scrambling for purchase with sweaty palms. “J-Jack!”
Your knees tremble where they dig into his sides, air rushing from you in heavy pants as the space between your bodies heats up. You know you won’t last long, already hanging on the edge.
Never in a million years did you expect to be so turned on by Jack's rough behavior. He usually treats you like something delicate.
Though he holds no such compunction now, raw in his desperate desire to make you cum.
Jack peppers kisses onto whatever skin he can reach, spreading your thighs wider with his torso. His knuckles strain against the fabric of your panties, stretching out the cotton and ruining them forevermore as he slips another finger into you.
Then his head bows, catching your gaze, and he says, “Hold on.”
Barely seconds after you anchor yourself to his shoulders, he starts finger fucking you to within an inch of your life. His forearm ripples with strength, the movements of his fingers pressing and rubbing against all the right spots. Curling up to massage at your g-spot until you’re shaking beneath him with hitched breaths.
“Shit, shit,” you gasp, eyes rolling back as your toes flex against his side, “Jack, baby, please don’t stop.”
He huffs a laugh, dark and amused. “Wouldn’t ever do that to you, sweetie.”
“S’good - I - I’m close.”
You sob, tears brimming along your lash line. The sloppy, squelching sounds of him fucking your pussy ring in your ears, as embarrassing as it is arousing. He’s making you gush, slick wetting your inner thighs, dribbling down your ass to stain the sheets.
“So close, gonna - hnnng - gonna cum.”
“Yeah, that’s it. Just like that, baby. Give me that squirt.”
You shake your head. “I can’t - I can’t!”
If you could, you’d suspend time so this moment never ends. The finality of your arrangement hovering just on the other side of pleasure. In the back of your mind, you know Jack's only behaving this way because he’s jealous. Angry.
He doesn’t mean it, and this is a mistake.
It’ll only hurt you in the long run but you’ll take what you can get.
After all, this is the last time you’ll be together like this.
“No,” he shushes, dropping a kiss to your sweaty brow, “No, don’t lie. I know you can. I’ll make you.”
There’s no escape.
He refuses to let you escape, using his weight to keep you pinned as he spreads his fingers open inside you, twisting and fucking so deep you feel a twinge behind your navel. And then you’re right there, crashing over the edge as the bubble of pleasure bursts, crackling through your limbs.
You cum harder than you ever have before. Nails sinking into his shoulders with a hiss as a wounded, broken wail scrapes its way out of your throat. Your pussy throbs, gummy walls sucking him deeper as a rush of cum gushes from you in spurts. Your ears ring with white noise, and you’re vaguely aware of the fact your hands have gone numb.
For several long moments, you float with a head full of cotton, only rejoining the atmosphere when warmth dribbles down your ass in sticky rivulets of squirt.
Jack's arm is curled around your waist, holding you close as his nose nuzzles into the side of your head. Tender lips dust kisses over your crown. His cock is still a heavy weight digging into your hip but he doesn’t seem to be in any rush to relieve himself.
“Jack,” you sigh, a wave of fatigue crashing over you. Your eyes sting when you close them, a lump building in your throat. You ache all over pleasantly, satisfaction settling deep into your bones. In spite of that, a rift opens in your heart. “Jack, I--”
He kisses your shoulder, shushing you. “Don’t ruin it. Just let me hold you for a little while longer… please.”
The tears are almost impossible to stop. “It’s already hard enough, don’t make me -- I can’t just…”
Jack squeezes you gently. “I love you,” he says, “but I swear to god you can be so fucking stupid sometimes.”
You jolt, eyes swinging up to meet his, wide and disbelieving. “What did you just - I - I don’t. ..Jack?”
“How could I not feel the same?” he asks rhetorically, tone resigned and wary. “Have since... since college - it just took me a little longer to realize it, that's all. Honestly scared the shit out of me.”
Me too, you think softly as something unfurls in your chest. Lighter than air; ridiculously buoyant with happiness - with hope.
Oh, how stupid.
He averts his gaze. “I almost fucked everything up too, but Robby helped me get my head on straight.”
“We're idiots, huh?”
Jack hums noncommittally, a boyish gleam to his eyes and a sheepish smile on his lips. “You said it, sweetheart.”
wc: 22.5k
content: 18+ mdni, sexually explicit content, no age gap, reader in her mid to late forties, rivals to lovers, med student flash backs, parental death, suicide, suicidal ideation, cat dad!robby, sabbatical!robby, biker!robby, motorcycle accident (minor injuries), whump, angst with happy ending, hurt/comfort, so much domestic fluff, discussions of mental health, complicated parental relationship, like literally so much domesticity it's sickening, robby nicknamed reader bambi back in med school, mostly used in flashbacks, reader has a tattoo
synopsis: michael robinavitch was practically your sworn enemy in med school. your sworn enemy that you'd slept with, regretably, once. then twenty years passed and back in pittsburgh, you see one michael robinavitch on hinge. ever the hopeless romantic, you can't help the curiosity that leads you to match with him. unfortunately for you, he doesn't remember you.
a/n: this one is for all my fellow hopeless romantics. it's so romantic and dramatic it borders on cringe but whatever. i had a ton of fun writing all my deepest romantic and domestic fantasies. welcome to my dream house, i tried to paint it as cozy as possible. <3 -syd
Your favorite part of being called in to the hospital on a Saturday was the peace and quiet of the lab. Doubly so today, because you were called in during the night shift.
Pathology didn't really have "night shifts" or even weekend shifts so the lab was completely empty when you arrived. Immediately, you set up your space, your speaker, pulled out the iced coffee you'd made at home, unscrewing the cap on the Ball jar.
Originally, you'd planned to spend the night on the couch with your tabby cat, Brutus (named in such a way so when he inevitably destroyed your furniture or knocked your favorite mug off the table you could at least find some whimsy in crying "Et tu, Brute?" theatrically), and a movie that you'd heard would make you cry. You'd been meaning to cry for a while now, but hadn't been able to find the time. You supposed you could push it to another night, depending on how long you ended up being in the hospital tonight.
You hummed along to the playlist you'd started on your speaker as you prepared a blood smear from the sample you'd been called in for.
Jack Abbot was the attending on shift in the ED this evening. You had only met him in person once or twice, but you were glad it was him and not Michael. Or, Robby, it seemed he was going by these days. You hadn't yet run into him since being back at PTMC, but you were not eager to reminisce with him, especially since it was becoming more and more clear that he had no recollection of you.
It shouldn't have bothered you so much. It had been two med school rotations and one extremely disappointing hookup when you'd both gotten too drunk after shift. But he had been instrumental in you picking pathology for residency. At the time, the decision had been full of complicated emotions, resentment, a complete misunderstanding of who you were and what you wanted. But now, well, you thought maybe you owed him your gratitude.
Your phone pinged while you were prepping your slides and you eyed it and found it was a notification from Hinge.
From Robby.
You inhaled slowly and looked away as your screen went dark. You had no idea what the fuck you were doing, chatting with Robby on a dating site. You told yourself you just were curious when your thumb tapped the heart on his profile. Middle aged looked really really good on him, you wouldn't deny that, but you still saw the baby faced, skinny rod of a med student when you looked at him. And when he'd first initiated the chat, you realized very quickly he didn't remember you.
You found yourself preening under his attention, how he complimented your photos and your mind through conversations. The both of you established early on that you didn't want to discuss work beyond confirming that you were both doctors working in PTMC. But you repeatedly dodged his attempts to meet up and grab a drink. You weren't sure how long you could keep it all up without admitting that you knew him already. Intimately, even.
You suspected soon enough, he'd get tired of trying to get you to meet up with him and move on to the next thing. But thus far, he'd been persistent, going on weeks now.
But you didn't have time for him right now so you turned your attention back to your slides. Slipping one beneath the microscope, you focused the knobs slowly, letting your world narrow to the blood sample, the blood cells.
This was why you loved your job. How easy it was to slip outside yourself and into whatever sample you were looking at. There was always a clear answer hiding in the shape of the cells, just beneath the surface. There was always a clear path to diagnosis, to treatment, to healing. Everything made perfect sense under the light of a microscope.
And this sample, as always, made perfect sense after just a few minutes. You sighed, "Shit."
You couldn't risk just sending this back via the online portal for whenever the doctor deigned to check the chart next so you picked up the phone. It rang and rang and rang.
You shook your head and put the phone back on the receiver. As quickly as possible, you documented the chart, still trying to get ahold of someone, but no one was picking up the phone. What the fuck was going on down there?
Impatient, you decided to head down yourself after saving your changes in the chart. You walked briskly towards the elevators, rocked on your heels as you waited.
The second the elevator doors opened you were knocked practically on your ass by the noise and the chaos of the ED. It was rare you came down here at all and every time you did it felt like being thrown back to med school rotations. Suddenly you were again the floundering med student constantly being expected to be on the lookout for the daggers of the other students as well as practice medicine efficiently.
But you were an adult now, not the twenty year old naive kid genius walking around on wobbly legs. Pushing your shoulders back, you shook it off and headed for the hub. Luckily, Dr. Abbot was right there.
"Your phones not working down here or something?" You asked without preamble, hands on your hips.
Abbot looked up at you slowly and then over to the phone. You followed his gaze and saw that the phone was lying off the receiver, "Ah, shit, sorry." He put the receiver back on the hook, "What could be so urgent it coaxes path from the comforts of the cave upstairs?"
You smirked, "Your patient has TTP."
He sighed and picked up an iPad, "Fuck," he muttered when he pulled up the chart you'd just updated, "Okay, um," He shook his head, "I don't think we have the resources down here to start TPE."
You frowned, "Okay… Admit to ICU, then."
He laughed, "Yeah, right. Good luck getting the charge to agree to admit a patient on a Saturday night."
You bit your lip, and then sighed, "Alright, give me… fifteen minutes and I'll be back down here with an apheresis machine, I'll run it."
He raised his eyebrows, "Really? You'd do that?"
You shrugged, "I could run apheresis in my sleep."
Slowly Abbot nodded and smirked at you, "Alright, great. Thank you."
Later, you sat in the hub of the emergency department after setting up the patient for TPE and finally opened your messages from Michael—Robby, you corrected yourself.
What's my favorite homebody up to this evening? Any way I can convince you to grab a drink?
You stifled a smirk and typed back, I'm on call tonight. Sorry, cowboy.
"Hey," You looked up to see Abbot leaning over the counter to look at you, "Seriously, thank you for staying."
"No problem," You eyed the chaos around you, "Seemed like you guys could use the help."
"Always." He laughed and nodded, "Listen, some of us in the ED are getting together for a poker night next Friday, would you… be interested in coming?"
You blinked up at him, unsure of what to make of the offer. Was he flirting or just being nice? You'd heard that Jack Abbot flirted with everyone, so likely he didn't mean anything by it at all. While you were trying to figure it out, your phone pinged again. Robby. You flipped your phone facedown on the workstation desk.
"Why not?" You said and smiled up at him.
"Great," He unlocked his phone and handed it to you, "Here, put your number in and I'll text you the details."
Having entered your information, you returned his phone to him and then he was off. Sighing, you turned back to your phone to open Robby's latest message.
They're working you too hard. I thought path was supposed to be easy?
You rolled your eyes at this, but were unsurprised. For as much as you remembered him complaining about surgeons during your rotations, that they had a superiority complex, he had the same issues. And so had you, once upon a time, but you had grown out of it.
Having a work-life balance doesn't make the whole specialty "easy."
Almost immediately, a reply was on your phone: Sorry, I didn't mean to diminish your specialty. The ED would cease to function without collaboration from path, I know that. And your diagnoses have saved our asses on multiple occasions when we were busy chasing zebras.
Well. That was new. An apology without hesitation that seemed to drip through with humility and sincerity.
Though, it also was not lost on you that he had incentive to be nicer to you in the context of a dating app considering he'd been trying to fuck you for the last few weeks.
Apology accepted, you texted back, I know your true frustration lies with the inability to have your way with me tonight. You stifled a smile after hitting send. It reminded you of being in college, the casual flirtation. You hadn't had time for this sort of thing in med school or residency, doing your best to just survive. Then, when you were finally an attending, you were so burnt out you remembered practically sleep walking through the first couple of years. By the time that was all over, you felt so out of practice you'd mostly isolated yourself until now.
You'd had a few one night stands since creating a Hinge profile, but since you and Robby had begun chatting he had taken up all of your mental space. This irritated you greatly on top of the fact that he didn't seem to remember you.
And here I thought I was doing an excellent job at concealing my desperation.
You huffed a laugh and shook your head, Could you show me just how desperate you are for me?
You fidgeted with your fingers anxiously as you waited for his response, wondering for just a few moments if you had been too brazen, too forward—The phone pinged.
You slid open your phone and felt lightheaded as you took in the photo he'd sent you. His fist was wrapped around the considerable length of his very erect cock, dark tufts of hair at the base of his fist. You had both been pretty drunk the time you'd hooked up in the darkness of Robby's messy studio apartment and as he'd had trouble maintaining an erection that night, you'd never gotten a good look at it. Not like this.
There was a lump in your throat and you swallowed hard as another message came through: The photos you sent in that pretty lingerie set will have to do for tonight.
You felt your cheeks heat and blinked the steamy feeling from your eyes. Locking your phone, you placed it face down in front of you and stared off into the distance for a while.
And after a minute or so of this, when your galloping heart slowed and lucid thinking began to ease its way behind your eyes again, you had only a single thought:
Oh, no.
***
An unseasonable heat wave had domed around Pittsburgh the last couple of days and so when Robby headed to Jack's place for poker night that Friday, the sun had gone down, but the residual heat warmed him enough that he didn't need a jacket.
He had been waffling back and forth on whether or not to skip the night all together. The week had been crushing him, slowly, a boulder rolling incremently into a brick wall, an unstoppable force.
There had been a few patients they'd lost that really stuck with him this week. They'd been short on residents which meant he'd had to do a bit more hands on care than usual.
And more and more when he found things growing particularly dark, he'd reach for you. You, with your gorgeous smile and silly cat and constant, almost oppressive optimism.
He'd tease you about it, but really he admired it. How no matter how bleak of a day you had, he had, you'd find a way to turn it on its head.
Sure, you'd had to stage the breast cancer of a woman in her thirties and the news wasn't good, but you'd gotten to hold her hand and tell her about all the ground breaking treatment that was available to her. Sure, you'd cried about her for days later, but she'd sent you a card the next week thanking you for the simple act of holding her hand. Of showing her kindness. And maybe you'd get to see her through to remission as you'd done for countless others.
That was your favorite part, you'd tell him. Diagnosing sucked, but treatment plans and seeing people through to the other side, sliding biopsies under your microscope to see healthy tissue. Remission.
"That's why you're so miserable down there," You'd told him, "You mostly see people on their worst days, you don't get to celebrate with them when they make it to recovery. You don't get to see the returns."
He craved your perspective, wanted desperately to have it himself. But he wasn't sure it was possible for him the way it was for you. With your nine to five and weekends off and time to date—though apparently, not time for him.
He had thought at first that you were simply waiting him out, waiting to see if he'd lose interest. You'd been open about the fact that your time on dating apps had largely led you to become disillusioned with the possibility of a real, fulfilling relationship. He felt the same, mostly. The only thing the apps had ever been good for was a night or two to fill the oppressive silence of his house.
But he continued trying with you, which had led to the two of you sexting and him being as open as he could remember being in recent years about how badly he wanted someone. Still, you avoided him.
He'd texted you earlier to see if you were around tonight and you had left him on read, so begrudgingly, he'd be going to poker night instead. Anything other than being alone with his thoughts tonight after they'd lost a woman with eclampsia and her baby.
But when he walked into Jack's living room, a beer in hand, he was stunned to see you sitting on the couch, immersed in conversation with Mckay and Al Hashimi.
Your eyes darted to his and then quickly away, but he saw the way your eyes widened and your chest swelled. You didn't know he was going to be there.
"Hey man, you made it," Jack clapped Robby on the shoulder, "Glad you came."
But Robby couldn't tear his eyes off you, "You invited path?"
Jack followed his gaze, "Oh, yeah, she helped us out last weekend with a TTP patient. Figured it was only polite. Honestly, I didn't think she'd come. Why, do you know her?"
With effort, Robby tore his eyes away from you, "Wha—? Oh, no. No more than you do, you know, the rare occasion path comes down."
Jack narrowed his eyes at Robby, "Right," he said slowly, "Okay. Well, can I interest you in a round of Blackjack?"
Robby chuckled and shook his head, "No thank you, learned my lesson years ago not to play cards with you."
Jack smirked and watched as Robby's gaze flitted back to you, "I think she's too well adjusted for you."
Robby's head whipped back around, a hot flush crawling up his neck, "Excuse me?" He said through nervous laughter.
Jack shrugged, "I'm just saying, she seems like she wouldn't tolerate your bullshit and you'd probably get bored at how… normal she is."
Robby blinked at him, "Who said I'm interested?"
Jack rolled his eyes, "Please, don't insult me, brother. The last time I saw you look at a woman like that was the first time you met Heather. And you'll recall she also was unwilling to put up with your bullshit."
He knew Jack was mostly being playful, but it stung nonetheless, the thought that someone else besides himself thought he was incapable of being in a healthy and loving relationship. That no one in their right mind could want to stay with him.
For just a second he was eight years old again wondering if he was such a terrible, rotten son that it'd pushed his mother to end her own life—The thought rushed up against the dam in his brain and just as quickly receded. He wouldn't think about that. Not now. Not here.
He forced a smile for Jack, "You don't need to remind me. I remember."
After a moment Jack squeezed his shoulders, "But what do I know, hm? Go shoot your shot."
Robby rolled his eyes, "You have far too many Gen Z staff on your shift."
But still, Robby wandered over to you eventually, surprised to find that he was a bit nervous, "Is this why you didn't answer my text earlier?" He asked quietly as he sat down.
You turned just a bit towards him, "I didn't think you'd be here, honestly. It doesn't seem like your scene."
He laughed, "Meaning?"
"Meaning it's too… jovial," You teased.
He ran a hand over the back of his head, "Well, I'm glad I came. It's nice to finally meet you in person."
You grimaced, "Yeah, we've met before, Michael."
He frowned and turned fully to you, "What're you—? No we haven't."
You nodded slowly, "We have, yeah. We went to med school together. Did rotations together."
For a moment he paused and tilted his head, turned your name over in his head, "No… No, you're too young to have gone to med school with me—" His eyes caught on your wrist as your fingers tapped lightly against the glass of your beer bottle. A tattoo in looping scroll that read As you wish. With a dagger beneath the words. The feeling of nostalgia almost violently overtook him. There was only one other woman he'd ever met who had that tattoo of a quote from The Princess Bride in that exact spot.
"Bambi?" He asked, sounding almost breathless.
You wrinkled your nose and turned away from him, "I always hated that nickname."
But Robby couldn't tear his eyes off you. There were a million thoughts running through his head as suddenly images flashed behind his eyes, the two of you twenty years younger and constantly at each other's throats, desperate to prove you were better than the other. But the first thought that he blurted out of his mouth was, "You went into pathology?"
You laughed and shook your head, "I knew you didn't mean it when you said you respected my specialty—"
"That's not what I meant—"
"What else could you have meant by the condescension dripping from your tone right now?"
He opened and closed his mouth before hanging his head, "I'm just… Surprised, is all. You were… a force in the ER. You could have had your pick of any emergency medicine residency in the country, surely."
You stared ahead for a few moments, tightlipped and eyes glossy, "Emergency medicine nearly burned me out just at rotations, I imagine I would have been… a shell of myself had I stayed. And at the time, you certainly agreed."
He huffed in indignation, "That is categorically false, I thought you were brilliant."
"Well you sure had a funny way of showing it. Talking over me, talking down to me in front of attendings, basically celebrating every mistake I made—"
"Everyone else practically worshiped you. I was just trying to make sure I wasn't overlooked. You know how cutthroat it was down there—"
"Exactly," You nodded, "Which is why I'm actually grateful for the way you treated me. It wore me down enough that I knew if I couldn't get through even a rotation or two, there was no way I'd make it through a residency. Not in that environment."
He pressed his lips together and looked down at his hands, "Look, I'm… I apologize… For how I spoke to you back then, I was a stupid kid, I was just trying to survive as best I knew how. It's not an excuse, I just. I'm sorry."
You didn't seem upset as you looked at him, eyes gently passing over his face. You lifted the beer bottle to your lips and he watched the lights refract off the glass.
"It's fine," You said eventually, "You were far from the only reason I went into path."
"Why didn't you say anything? When we—When we started talking? Why didn't you tell me?"
You shrugged, "I thought maybe you'd forgotten me altogether. Or worse, that remembering me would mean you'd no longer be interested."
You carefully avoided looking at him when you said this, but screwed your mouth down to the side as you chewed your cheek.
Robby sat back and took a sip from his own beer, "It seems like I should have been the one to worry about that. Since I was the one who treated you so horribly."
You cleared your throat and turned back towards him. He was struck again by a sense of nostalgia at the intensity in your gaze. He had nicknamed you Bambi all those years ago because of your skittishness, the way that everything seemed to terrify you. Despite how smart you were and how clearly gifted a doctor you would become, you were easily startled and easily overwhelmed by the din of the emergency room. It hadn't been all that uncommon to find you in the ambulance bay after a hard case, slouched on the ground against the wall, hands trembling as they cradled your face.
But it had also been the intensity in your eyes, how every emotion was always so clearly reflected in their glossy pools, that had been the real inspiration behind the nickname. He had never intended it to be cruel, though it appeared that's how you'd interpreted it. It was something he had admired about you, the ease with which you'd connected with your patients because the empathy was so clear on your face. Of course, he had never told you that. Afraid to let on to any perceived weakness around you.
He suspected, though, that you hated the nickname because he had also used it as a weapon against your naivete. He remembered the ways he'd called attention to your age and when the Bambi nickname had spread there had been no way for you to escape it.
Now, though, your eyes were glossy again and he felt bowled over by the way you stared at him, a wistfulness in your expression, "Are you actually sorry or is it just that you think I'm hot now?"
He was so surprised by your question, he gave out a short laugh, "Please, I thought you were hot then, too."
You snorted, "Well, now I know you're lying."
"The nickname Bambi, if nothing else, implies that I found you adorable at the very least."
You rolled your eyes, "Even if I agreed with that assessment—which I don't—it was very clear from that one time we slept together that you were uninterested—"
"Woah—woah—woah— back up. When we slept together?"
You looked at him blankly for a few moments, "Oh my God," You said quickly, seemingly embarrassed as you looked away from him, "You don't remember. It was so bad you don't even remember."
Robby's brain was still working overtime to catch up with you, "Hold on—I would remember sleeping with you."
You stood up from the couch, and he remembered this about you—You had been spooked, you were about to dart back into the woods, never to be seen again. But he stood at the same time, towering above you, "Don't go," he said quietly, "whatever happened was twenty something years ago, it doesn't mean anything—"
"It does to me." You said firmly, "Excuse me," And you forced your way past him.
Robby watched you walk away for a moment, then turned his head to see Jack shaking his head, a slight smirk on his face. A very blatant I told you so if Robby'd ever seen one.
"Shit," Robby muttered under his breath and hung his head.
***
TWENTY SOMETHING YEARS AGO
Michael was being very touchy that evening and overly kind, paying for your drinks and wrapping an arm around you in the booth. It was making you shy. Despite the way he talked to you, at you, over you, there were cases every now and then when you caught him looking at you with what looked like awe or reverence. But just as quickly, it'd dissipate and you'd be left wondering if you'd imagined it.
"Let me walk you home," he said, slurring only a little, his words just slightly stumbling into one another like dominos. He wrapped your jacket around your shoulders as he spoke.
"I'm fine," You smiled at him, "I think you're the one who needs to be walked home."
He held up his hands in mock surrender, a boyish grin on his face, "You got me. I do need to be chaperoned home if you would be so kind."
You rolled your eyes, but secretly you were pleased. You wanted to be his friend, wanted him to respect you so you didn't have to keep having panic attacks alone in the bathroom. You were still very much like a scared little kid in that way, just wanting at least one other person to just see you, truly.
So you allowed Michael to swing his arm around your shoulders as he directed you towards his place. It was just a couple of blocks from the hospital, but when you got to the building, a rundown, brutalist slab of concrete, you frowned, "You live here?"
"Now, don't sound so disgusted, princess," he teased and pulled you along behind him inside the building, "Not all of us have wealthy parents to fund our gorgeous apartments in buildings that have doormen."
You felt your cheeks heat, "That's not—That's not entirely true." He looked at you dubiously, eyebrows raised, and you furrowed yours, "I pay for my utilities," You grumbled.
He chuckled and ran a hand over his jaw before sliding his key into his door.
"If it's not too revolting to you," He said softly as he pushed the door open, "You're welcome to come inside for a drink."
Something changed in the tone of his voice and as you tried to place it, you saw the way his eyes roved down your body.
You had never had sex with anyone before, had never had the time. You were in college by the time you were fifteen and because you were so young no one really wanted to hang out with you. You didn't get invited to parties or study sessions (unless someone was trying to inadvertently get you to do their homework). Once you got to medical school, you were still only seventeen, still too young for any of your peers to show much interest.
When you turned twenty one, the shift had been subtle. But suddenly, you were being included to go out for drinks. Then people raised their eyebrows less when you said you were in med school. The stares lingered longer and traveled farther.
And now Michael was looking at you like that, too.
Maybe you should've thought it over more, said goodnight and gone straight home. But you were so painfully lonely. You should've hated him for the way he'd treated you, but it only spurred you on. You were used to having to compete for scraps of love from people who seemed to not like you much. Had been doing it since you learned to talk.
So you followed him inside.
It was freezing inside his apartment. So cold, in fact, your breath was beginning to cloud in front of you.
"Jesus Christ, Michael, is your heat broken or something?"
"Uh, no," He said from the kitchen. You heard the sound of glasses and bottles clinking before he reappeared, a bottle of whiskey in one hand and two glasses in the other, "Just… trying to conserve. But we can turn the heat on for you, princess." He said with a wink.
You sat on his couch with your arms crossed and felt your lip jut out in a pout, "I'm not spoiled, you know. I just—It's just as cold outside as it is in here. Can't be good for you. Or the pipes."
"Many of us," He said as he poured you each a glass, amber liquid sloshing up the sides, "Had to learn to live without. I didn't grow up in a mansion like you."
You scoffed, "I'm not the sort of rich you think I am, I grew up in the suburbs. My parents still have to work for a living. Yes, it was comfortable, but we're not fucking millionaires. We don't have, like, a fucking second house in the Hamptons."
He nodded, "Still seems pretty rich to me."
You rolled your eyes, "Well, what do your parents do then?"
That insufferable smirk finally fell from his face and for a second you felt vindicated.
"If you must know," He started, staring intently at the liquor in his glass, "I don't know who my father is, never met him. And my mother killed herself when I was eight. I found her swinging from the rafters one day when I got home from school."
You stared at him, stunned, while he knocked back the rest of his whiskey and poured himself another, "My grandparents took me in after that and then when I was sixteen, my grandfather died. When I was twenty, my grandmother joined him. So now it's just me."
He raised his glass, forced smile on his face, "May their memories be a blessing." He said, and tossed back the entirety of his drink in one go.
"Michael," you said softly, reaching for him when he began to pour more whiskey, "I'm sorry, I didn't—"
Not unkindly, he pushed your hand away, "You know, I've been thinking that I want people to start calling me Robby."
You frowned, thrown by the change in subject, "What?"
"Yeah, I just, people have trouble with Robinavitch. And Adamson asked me, if he could call me Robby. And I—I really like him and I want him to like me so I think—I think I'm just gonna have everyone call me Robby. It sounds friendlier, don't you think? Once I become a doctor? Doctor Robby."
You felt a sort of tenderness towards him now, after he'd revealed so much of himself to you. You had the distinct urge to hold him, cradle him to you, tell him it was all going to be okay.
"I like Michael," You said quietly, "If it's alright with you."
Finally he met your gaze again and his eyes softened just slightly. Slowly, as if afraid to scare you off, he reached a hand out to cup your cheek. When you leaned into his palm, he stroked his thumb against your cheek bone.
"Sure, Bambi. You can still call me Michael."
You couldn't say which of you closed the distance first, just that the next thing you remembered, his warm, wet mouth was on yours.
At first, the kisses were slow and hesitant. You remembered it was you who deepened it, a whine clamoring out of your throat and into his mouth.
Before you knew it, you had climbed into his lap and pushed him down into the couch. You felt him harden against you and it felt instinctual, the way your hips ground down against him, chasing the friction.
"Fuck," he breathed into your mouth, his hand cradling the back of your neck, "This good?"
You nodded fervently, "Do you have a condom?"
He raised his eyebrows, "Are you sure?"
You nodded again and so he pushed his hand between you, pushing his hand into the pocket of his jeans to pull out a foil packet.
You blinked, "Were you… planning this?"
"No," He said and teared the packet open with his teeth, "But I like to be prepared just in case."
Rolling your eyes, you pulled back to allow him to push his jeans and boxers down. His cock sprung up between you and you felt your breaths grow shallow as you watched him work the condom on.
Carefully, you hiked your dress up to your hips, hoping he didn't notice the way your hands shook. His eyes stayed on yours as you shifted your underwear to the side and slowly lowered yourself onto him.
"Oh, God." He sighed, sounding just a breathless as you felt at the stretch of him. It burned for just a moment, almost pleasantly, "Look at me," He said and your eyes locked back on his.
You leaned your forehead against his as you slowly moved your hips along the length of him, "Is this—Is it good?" You asked, your voice small and uncertain.
"Yeah," He said quickly, pushed his mouth up into yours, "So good," he whispered into your mouth.
But less than a minute later, the sensation changed. It was difficult to move against him, in fact, you weren't even sure he was inside you anymore, "Did you—I mean—Are you—soft?" You could hear your own panic and desperation in your voice as your hips slowed.
A scarlet flush was creeping up his throat and he squeezed his eyes shut, as if to avoid your gaze, "Yeah, I—I think so. S'probably whiskey dick." He finally opened his eyes and maybe sensed your impending humiliation, "Hey—hey—it's not you," He cupped your cheeks with both hands, "It's not you, I swear, you're perfect."
He pulled your face down to his again and you allowed yourself to get lost in the taste of him again, "It's me," he murmured between kisses, "I'm fuckin' defective, it's my fault."
"Michael—"
"Come up here, sit on my face," He said abruptly.
You raised your eyebrows, "Wh—what?"
"Please," He said, sounding desperate, "Please, I wanna taste you. Lemme take care of you."
You sighed and hid your face in your hands, "You don't have to, like, make it up to me—"
"I want to," he said again, "If you do, too. Please."
You couldn't deny that the idea of it had embers of arousal stirring in your belly. You hadn't prepared for the possibility of someone's mouth on you like that, but you didn't want to admit that to him. You didn't want to have to explain the depth of your inexperience lest it kill whatever remained of his desire.
So, you swallowed and moved your way up his body, let him position you, his arms wrapped around your thighs and pulling you to his mouth.
You were immediately overwhelmed by the sensation, gasping and whimpering when he moaned against you, your whole body twitching as it reverberated through your core.
But again, it wasn't long before things slowed, and then—stopped completely. Blinking, you looked down and saw that Michael had fallen asleep.
No, he couldn't have—could he? You leaned in a bit closer, leaning back to fully pull yourself off his face. Oh my God, was that drool on the corner of his mouth?
Mortified, and at a loss for what else to do, you carefully and quietly climbed off him, grabbed your things, and slipped out of his apartment. Heels in hand, you paused outside of his door and exhaled in relief.
You left his apartment feeling even more conflicted about him than before and also feeling a bit dejected. This was the guy who had once tripped you up in a trauma and then said "Don't worry Bambi, it's normal to be a bit wobbly on your legs when you're still just a fawn."
It shouldn't have surprised you at all that he found you unattractive, that obviously he had only allowed you to initiate because you were sat in front of him, willing and able. Like an idiot. Like the naive little kid he had told everyone you were.
You felt stupid and humiliated. And God knew you didn't believe in the fucking patriarchal construct of virginity, but you couldn't deny it made you feel a bit bitter that you had wasted it on Michael Robinavitch. You wouldn't make such an idiotic decision ever again.
He could say a lot about you, but you'd never made the same mistake twice. You didn't intend to start now.
***
Robby watched you through the glass, leaned over Jack's balcony with your arms wrapped around yourself.
This had to be a new record of how quickly he could fuck things up with a potential romantic partner. Once he'd recognized you, he'd felt stupid that he hadn't recognized you immediately when he saw your profile. And maybe there had been some familiarity there, something he'd mistaken for instant attraction and chemistry.
That said, he had wracked his brain and the two of you sleeping together he was near positive had never happened. Or at least, for the life of him, he couldn't remember it. And yes it was true he'd always given you a hard time, but he had also always been enamored by you. Honestly, he'd thought it'd been obvious, especially towards the end of M4.
So he found it hard to believe that he wouldn't remember that. But he also didn't think that you were a liar.
Carefully, he slid the glass door open and stepped outside. The night had cooled significantly since his arrival and as he got closer to you, he saw goosebumps along your arms. You didn't startle when he came up next to you and positioned himself at such an angle as to shield you from the breeze.
"I'm sorry that I don't remember," He said softly after a few moments, "But I'd like you to tell me about it, if you're up for it."
You shook your head, "It's not your fault. It was really horrible, I don't blame you for not remembering."
He groaned, "You know, you could say a lot of shit about me and I wouldn't blink, but hearing I'm bad in bed is a new one for me and I'm not a fan."
You laughed and turned to him, "Oh yeah? You've become something of a casanova in your old age?"
He winced, "Not that old."
You hummed and turned back towards the treeline, "What was it? That made you finally remember me tonight?"
"The Princess Bride tattoo."
You looked at your wrist, "Huh. I would've thought this was one of the things you picked on me for behind my back. Called it childish."
He shook his head, "Nah, The Princess Bride's a classic. I actually always really liked it, thought it was romantic."
You rolled your eyes at that, as if you didn't quite believe him, but didn't comment further. After a moment you sighed, "It was during MS4. We were almost done with our last rotation in the ER and some of the residents invited us out for drinks."
"Oh," Robby said, frowning, "I do remember that. I got really drunk and you walked me back to my apartment."
You nodded, "Right."
"But we didn't… I invited you in for a drink and…" He trailed off. He was drawing a blank, "Did you come inside? I just thought… You never liked me, I thought for sure you declined. I don't remember anything after that."
You narrowed your eyes at him and then sighed, "Well, you did down something like three fingers of whiskey in quick succession once we got in your apartment so I guess it's possible you blacked out."
"You always made me nervous so it's no surprise I drank so much."
You opened and closed your mouth for a moment, but then shook your head quickly, "Yeah, I guess that was it."
"Then what happened?"
You sighed, "We really don't have to rehash this—"
"Please," he pushed his hands into the pockets of his hoodie, "I want to know."
You shook your head and then shrugged, "Fine. About a minute after you put it in, I was riding you and you went soft. So then you… you asked me to sit on your face instead. Which I did. And a minute or two later you… fell asleep."
Robby was silent for a moment as he processed what you'd said. You were deliberately looking away from him, running a hand nervously over the back of your neck.
"Wow," He said finally, "And you still liked my Hinge profile decades later?"
You gave a short laugh, "I was curious if anything had changed, I guess."
He hummed, "A lot has changed, I would say." He ran a finger lightly over the back of your arm and watched as goosebumps spread—But you didn't move away, not even when he bent to your ear and said lowly, "I'd like a chance to make it up to you."
You swallowed and then turned to face him, your faces impossibly close, "Have you ever been married, Michael?"
He frowned and pulled away marginally, "Um… no? Have you?"
You shook your head and looked off into the distance over his shoulder, wistfully, "I got close, once." You sighed, "Listen, I'm too old to be doing this… friends with benefits, situationship, whatever, bullshit. Sex is great, but I have plenty of vibrators that do the job just fine and without the emotional turmoil. So I'm not interested in casual sex. I'm looking for a partner, not a dildo. If you want me you'll have to romance me and mean it."
Robby's eyes roved over your face. Maybe it was your shared memories or the fact that you knew him before he was broken beyond repair, but he felt a tender ache in his chest looking into your eyes. Just as warm and inviting as he remembered.
There were few people these days who could entice him to commit to anything. A real relationship meant having to open himself up to someone else. Allowing them to see the ugliest parts of himself and hope they didn't leave. It usually ended in him lashing out instead so at least he had some semblence of control over the end of the relationship.
Or at least, that was the hypothesis of his last therapist, who he still wasn't entirely sure wasn't full of shit.
But either way, when he thought about pursuing a real, full relationship with you, he didn't feel his usual urge to run. Instead, he felt a curiosity. The need to take you apart, to learn you like he would a medical procedure.
Maybe he wasn't broken after all. Maybe he could have full, healthy relationships like everyone else.
He brought one of his hands up to your neck, watched how you tried to stifle the urge to lean into his touch—Good, you were touch starved, just like him—and his thumb lightly toyed with one of the hoops hanging from your ear.
"'As you wish'." He said softly, a smirk on his face. You rolled your eyes, but the corner of your mouth tugged upward.
"What? You don't believe me?" He tilted his head downward to force eye contact with you, "I've been the one begging you to go on a date with me for weeks."
"A date?" You raised your eyebrows, "They're calling a drink at the bar before taking someone to bed a date now, are they?"
He scoffed, "What, so you want a string quartet and a night out at the ballet?"
You furrowed your brow, "And so what if I did?"
He stared at you for a moment and then chuckled, "Then I'd tell you to wear your favorite dress."
You narrowed your eyes, but then shook your head, "Just dinner would be more than enough."
He nodded, "I can do that. Would you allow me to cook for you?"
You smirked and ran your hands up his forearms, "Sure, but it has to be at my place."
He grinned, ran his thumb back and forth across the skin just below your ear, "Friday night?"
You tilted your head a bit, "You're serious about this?"
"Yeah," He said softly, eyes heavy lidded from both alcohol and desire as he looked into your face, "Are you?"
Your tongue darted out to wet your lips as your eyes darted back and forth between his eyes, assessing. You still didn't quite believe him, he could tell. You had always been distrustful, convinced everyone was out to hurt you to a nearly paranoid level. The decades it seemed had done nothing to smooth that over.
But still, you nodded and leaned forward, pressing a warm kiss to his cheek, "See you Friday, Michael."
He watched as you walked back inside, conscious of the heat that pulsed against the skin where your lips had been just moments before.
***
"What do you think, Brutus?" You asked, your cat sidling between your legs as you looked at yourself in your floor length mirror. You had chosen form fitting, but simple clothes. A ribbed black sweater and your favorite pair of jeans. "Do you think he'll like it?"
Brutus trilled and stood up on his hind legs, stretching his front paws against your legs, a very clear request to be picked up. You looked down at him and smirked, "You're gonna get cat hair all over my sweater."
He mewled again, claws gently pricking at your jeans before quickly receding. You sighed, already defeated. You could never say no to him. You bent to scoop him up to your chest, pressing your nose into his face as he immediately began purring, "I know you don't like guests, but you have to be on your best behavior tonight, okay? No knocking glassware over if I'm not paying attention to you," You peppered kisses all over his head, "It's not polite."
The doorbell rang and you quickly lowered Brutus back down, running your hands over your sweater in an attempt to brush off the cat hair.
Sliding across the hardwood in your socked feet, you took one deep breath before pulling your front door open.
There in your doorway stood Michael Robinavitch in a button down and jeans, one hand holding a thermal bag you assumed was full of groceries, the other a bottle of wine.
He grinned when you opened the door, his eyes trailing lazily down your body, giving you a once over before meeting your eyes again.
"Hi," You said and stepped to the side, "Come in."
You watched him take in your home as he walked in, kicking off his shoes by the door without you having to ask.
Without a partner to appease or children you'd spent a lot of time creating a calming, beautiful space just for yourself. It resulted in a lot of warm lighting and soothing colors. Lots of windows and cozy nooks. The kitchen was big and open with huge bay windows looking into your backyard behind the sink. As you padded gently behind Robby, you watched him take stock of the sun setting through those windows.
"This is gorgeous." He said, eyes on the fresh tulips that sat in a vase on the island.
"Thank you," You said, and took the wine bottle from his hand, "It's my favorite place in the whole world."
He smirked as he placed the groceries on the counter, "Now I understand why it's so hard to get you to leave."
You took wine glasses down from your cabinet and opened the wine he'd brought, pouring you each a glass and bringing his over to him as he began unpacking the groceries he'd brought.
"What're you making?"
He pulled out a loaf of Challah bread and offered you a piece as he spread everything else out in front of him, "Um, some salad, roast chicken, and potato kugel."
You hummed, "Where'd you learn that?"
He began prepping the veggies and you watched his hands. You remembered from med school you had always been enamored by watching skilled hands at work, especially in the ED. Watching him now you had that same feeling as the wine began to warm you from the inside out.
"They're my grandma's recipes. She used to make this every Friday for Shabbos dinner."
Your mouth fell open slightly in surprise and immediately, you felt touched, "That's… really lovely, Michael. I'm honored that you'd share them with me."
He looked up at you for a moment, smiling, but shrugged his shoulders, "It's the only meal I really know how to cook well because she taught me. I don't do much cooking these days."
You tried not to let his dismissiveness disappoint you, "Do you still… I mean, are you observing Shabbos this weekend?"
He shook his head, "No, no, if I was I'd already have broken the rules," He jerked his head towards the bay windows, where the sky was beginning to bruise, "No cooking after sundown. I don't really practice anymore, but I sometimes go to synagogue on High Holidays."
You let a few moments pass in silence before speaking again, "Can I help?"
He shook his head, "No, you just sit there and look pretty."
The two of you made small talk about work, discussing funny patients or over eager med students, until he put his dishes in the oven.
"Do you want to sit on the porch?" You asked as he washed his hands.
"That sounds lovely," He said, drying his hands on your dish towel before following you outside with his glass of wine.
You tucked your legs underneath yourself as you sat on the love seat, the chill of the spring night had you reaching for the throw blanket. But Robby got there first, gently draping it over your legs and then his own lap. You pretended not to be flustered when he pulled your feet into his lap, tenderly kneading his fingers into the arch of your foot as he sipped his wine.
Over the years, you'd brought men to your place many times. You'd even had the occasional relationship that grew to the point of your partner moving into your place, because it was a nonstarter for any partner to suggest you sell your house, something you were always clear about at the start of the relationship. Maybe it would be the reason you never had a lifelong partner, but you had put an enormous amount of work into this house to create a sanctuary of sorts. It was where you were happiest. You had no desire to live anywhere else. You doubted you'd ever love anyone as much as you loved this house.
But Robby being here, it felt different than it had felt with all others. It felt natural to have him here, like this, cooking dinner in your kitchen, sitting on the porch with you while you told him about the study you'd just been awarded a grant to start. After residency, you'd sworn off dating doctors all together. But there was something refreshing about discussing renal cell carcinoma with Robby and him asking follow up questions that were more complex than "what's a renal cell?"
It felt like he fit here with you, like he could slot into your life effortlessly. But you supposed that could just be the forlorn romantic in you desperate for anyone to desire you again.
"Where'd you go for your residency?" Robby asked.
"Chicago," You said, "Northwestern Memorial. What about you?"
"New Orleans. Big Charity Hospital."
You opened and closed your mouth, thinking silently for a few moments. Trying to remember what years the two of you had gone off to residency and when you would have finished. And the realization of when had your stomach slowly sinking. "Wasn't… Wasn't Katrina during residency?"
He wasn't looking at you, staring off into the darkness of the trees behind your house. His face was partially lit by the candles you'd brought outside. When he nodded, you couldn't get a good read on his expression, but it suddenly felt very cold around you. As if the ghosts had lowered around his shoulders.
"That must have sucked," You said softly, "I'm sorry."
He cleared his throat and looked down at his wine glass, "It was a long time ago."
One thing that had changed about Robby was his openness. Years ago, in med school, you only needed to get him a single beer deep before he was pouring out his most intimate thoughts. Obviously, the time you'd slept together, that had been the most he'd ever revealed to you. About his parents and grandparents. But even before that, he'd opened up to you about his insecurities as a doctor and even when he was having trouble with significant others.
Now, he seemed to be dismissive of his troubles. Never wanting the focus on him for too long. He used to be what your mother would call a peacock, charming to an almost offensive degree. He was impossible to dislike and had everyone thinking they were his best friend. That had all changed. You could feel the barrier he'd put up between you. What had happened to him between then and now to have changed him so drastically?
Likely, you supposed, it started with Katrina.
Another reason you had decided against going into emergency medicine had been that you knew you were too soft for it. Just the rotations had been so detrimental to your well being. You had thought you loved it while you were in it, but the second you were out of it, you realized you had been in survival mode the entire time. Outside of it, you cried for weeks straight, grieving every person you'd watched die and especially the ones that had died on your watch. The heaviness of that responsibility was too much. A lifetime of it would've broken you.
It would break anyone, you imagined. And as you watched Robby curiously, you realized for the first time since reuniting with him just how haunted he had become. You had thought with his easy charm and smile that he was still the same kid, but he had changed. The years had slowly eroded him, smoothed some edges and sharpened others.
A timer went off a few moments later and Robby flashed you a quick smile, carefully removing your feet from his lap, "You hungry?"
"Starved," You said, allowing him to take your hand and gently pull you to standing.
The food was delicious. You caught Robby staring at you more than once over the candles when you licked your fingers or groaned in pleasure, mischief in his eyes.
You had to fight him to let you do the dishes, insisting it was only fair since he had cooked. He protested for a bit until you sternly repeated that you'd be doing the dishes and since he was a guest here, you demanded he relax on the couch while you cleaned up. Eventually, he gave up, sighing heavily and pressing a sweet kiss to your cheek, "Thank you," he murmured, sounding bone tired.
When the last dish was loaded in the dish washer, the cookware washed, the counters wiped down, you found Robby nearly fast asleep, stretched out on your couch. Brutus had come out for the first time since he'd arrived and was now hesitantly sniffing at his hand which hung over the edge of the couch.
"What d'you think, Brutus?" You whispered, "Is he good enough to eat?"
A chuckle rumbled deep in Robby's chest and Brutus scampered off, sufficiently frightened by the sudden movement. Robby cracked an eye open to look up at you, reaching with both arms towards you, "C'mere before I eat you."
You hesitated for just a moment before crawling over him, sighing contentedly as his arms wrapped tightly around you, your ear pressed to his chest.
You were reminded again of that one night with him decades ago, you atop him not unlike this, trying to warm yourself with his body in the frigid apartment.
"It's strange," you said softly, "I don't really know you anymore, but I feel like I understand you more now than I did then."
He hummed, "That's funny. You're still just as much a mystery to me as you were twenty years ago."
You lifted your head from his chest so you could see his face and felt his breath fan your cheeks, "I'm an open book, you just have to ask."
"Why pathology?"
You pursed your lips, brow furrowed in thought, "I liked the simplicity of it. That there were rules and structures and always a correct answer. There's always a clear path to and from diagnosis."
He shook his head, "I know you applied to the emergency medicine residency at Big Charity. I was the second choice, they wanted you."
You felt your cheeks heat, "I—It was so long ago, it doesn't matter—"
"No, you're right, it doesn't matter anymore," He ran a soothing hand down the back of your head to your neck, "It certainly mattered to me then. I was so pissed off at you those first few weeks of intern year when I found out. I tried calling every emergency medicine department in the country I could think of to find you."
You smirked, "You looked for me?"
He nodded, "Never crossed my mind that you would've gone into a different specialty. And pathology even? I never would have guessed. You were so good in the emergency room. A natural. I bet if I threw you in my ED now you'd do just as good as most of my residents."
You gave a short laugh, "Absolutely not, I don't even remember most of my rotations. Honestly, they were so hard for me I think part of my brain blacked it out."
He narrowed his eyes, "Yeah, they're hard for everyone, it's the emergency department."
You nodded, "I know. And I didn't want the rest of my life to look like that."
"Look like what?"
You opened your mouth for a moment and then sighed, "Like I was struggling to stay afloat in a sea of constant compounding grief."
He shook his head slowly, "I remember those rotations, you helped save a lot of people."
You nodded, "At the expense of my sanity, yeah."
"You don't think it would be worth it?"
You tilted your head slightly, "To martyr myself? Do you?"
He sighed and looked away from you, "I used to think so, yeah."
Robby used to come alive in the emergency department, as you recalled it. You knew he was empathetic and had his own struggles because he'd told you on occasion and because you'd seen it. Maybe he hadn't broken down visibly as often as you, but you recalled finding him at least a couple of times out in the ambulance bay, eyes red rimmed and wet.
But you had never doubted that he would thrive in the emergency room. You had been so busy feeling like an imposter yourself and he had made everything look so easy, it had never crossed your mind that maybe he had been struggling the same as you. He just hid it better, even from himself.
"You've lost a lot," You said softly, "the last twenty years, haven't you? Not just patients."
His eyes floated slowly back to yours and it didn't matter what he said, it was sitting there in his eyes as he looked at you. All the ghosts that haunted him, clawing to get out just behind his eyes. He looked tired. He looked shattered.
After a few moments he brought a hand up to your face, brushed the backs of his knuckles across your cheek, "I don't want to talk about that tonight." When he spoke, his voice hitched just slightly, but you politely acted as if you hadn't noticed.
It was a first date, after all. He didn't need to crack open his chest for you tonight, though part of you wished he would. You had never been one for small talk and you were always all in long before anyone else was. You were used to this, being the one kept at the perimeter, debating whether to ignore the Beware of Dog sign and hop the fence.
But he looked so tired and sad. You could be patient for now. Maybe befriend the dog while you waited, tossing treats through the hole in the fence, whistling gently on the wind.
"Okay," You pushed yourself up so your face was closer to his, "We don't have to talk."
A moment passed, two. Your eyes stared longingly at his mouth until his hand slipped to the back of your neck and pulled you to him, mouths crashing together.
You sighed at the feel of his lips on yours, simultaneously soft and rough from the scratch of his beard. It chafed against your chin, but still you pushed yourself closer, the new, but still somehow familiar taste of him intoxicating.
He still kissed the same, teeth digging desperately into your lower lip, tongue stroking against yours almost sweetly. But it was more refined, somehow. Like he'd perfected the art of kissing over the decades.
You'd had many lovers over the years, but few who would make out with you like this for very long without it quickly escalating. Robby's hands, hot and needy, worked their way beneath your shirt, thumbs stroking just below your breasts. Then, one of his hands slid down until it was on your ass, squeezing and groping over your jeans. It was at this point that he whimpered into your mouth and you felt yourself clench instinctually around nothing at the sound.
It had been a long time since you'd been touched like this and longer since you had enjoyed it this much. Usually, it was other partners that acted impatient, that were already tugging at your pants when you were nowhere near warmed up yet, but now it was you who had started grinding on his thigh, searching for friction. You who was frantically pulling at the buttons on his shirt, trying to get it off. You who was now fumbling for his belt when Robby finally stopped you.
"Mmm—Hold on—Wait." Easily, he secured your wrists in his hands and pinned them to his chest which was rising and falling rapidly as you both attempted to catch your breath.
"Are you—Are you sure? I don't want you to think—I'm happy to just end the night like this. I can go home right now—"
You pressed your mouth to his again, kissing him deeply before playfully nipping at his lip, "Do I seem unsure to you?" You asked, nudging your nose against his.
He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head, "No," He said and kissed you again, fervently.
"Do I… need to beg you to fuck me?" You asked, sucking lightly on his neck as you spoke, "Because I can do that."
Robby sighed and gripped your ass tighter, "Fuck."
You dragged your center across his thigh, "Not an answer."
His hand gripped the back of your neck, forcing you to meet his gaze, "You would beg for me?"
You weren't exactly thinking straight as you looked at him, wild with want. You would have done anything he asked in that moment, you were sure of it. But still, looking at him now, you were dragged back twenty years to his icy apartment. To the way he'd opened up to you and then swiftly rejected you. He denied it now, chalked it up to alcohol, but somewhere in you was still that dejected girl, begging for any scrap of affection.
It'd been a while since you felt her, small and weak, at the edges of your consciousness. She'd been shortsighted and easy, pan handling for love on the side of the road. You still loathed her, felt she was pathetic. Robby could still pull her out of you. It felt easy to slip into her and her wants. You remembered insisting to yourself after that night with him that you'd never let him that close again.
And yet you found yourself tangled in him yet again. You were different, you assured yourself, lied to yourself. In reality, he already had you wrapped around his fingers. He could break you with a single word, a change of expression.
You pushed all that out of your mind, suffocating it with your mouth on his, his all consuming taste in your mouth, "Is that what you want?"
"I want," He said, hand still firm on your neck, kissing you between his words, "Whatever you want. Just want to make you feel good."
You sighed, "Then take me to bed."
Quickly, he sat up, keeping you in his lap. He kissed up the column of your throat to your earlobe, sending chills down your spine, "Lead the way, sweetheart."
On your bed, he undressed you carefully, taking his time in a way you weren't used to. After the way you'd been talking over texts and swapping photos back and forth, you thought he'd be ravenous. And he was, you could tell from his groans and whimpers, but still, he remained steady and patient.
Once you were topless, both of you kneeling across from each other on the bed, you reached to unbuckle his pants before he could get to yours. Robby had been competitive as you remembered it, but in bed it seemed he was fine with handing over the reins. He watched you with heat in his eyes as you spat in your hand and reached down his pants to fist his cock.
As your hand stroked his shaft down to his balls, his eyes rolled back and he swore. You were on fire watching him, his desire seemingly contagious.
"Please," He whimpered after a minute of so of this, "Please, can I… Can I suck on your tits?"
Your belly somersaulted at the thought and immediately you were nodding, scooting closer to him.
As his lips puckered and pulled at your nipple, he was whining more loudly than you were with each stroke of your hand. He muttered praises and pleas into your breasts, heat bubbling up at the sound from your belly to your chest to your neck.
Looking down at his cock in your hand, you noticed the small amount of precum beginning to leak. You leaned down to lick it off, but Robby stopped you before you could.
"No—Wait. Need to take care of you. Please." He was breathless and flushed pink. Needy and desperate to please. You weren't sure that anyone had ever been this desperate to please you.
You gave him a short nod and released him. Immediately, he kissed you, the momentum pushing you flat against the mattress.
As he crawled over you, you opened your eyes to look up at him. There had been times when you were students that he had been vulnerable with you, but that had only been under the heavy influence of alcohol. Mostly, he had been very guarded. And still, earlier this evening you'd sensed the same guard up, though it had been reinforced throughout the decades.
But now he was looking at you with a gentle, almost tender look on his face. Before you could fully digest what that meant, he had leaned back down to kiss along your jaw, rough fingers gently grasping your chin to kiss down your neck.
He kissed all the way down your body, looking up at you occasionally through heavy lids whenever you made a noise he particularly liked.
Down at your waist now, he carefully unbuttoned your jeans and wriggled them down, you lifting up your hips to assist.
In just your panties now, you watched the rapid rise and fall of his chest as he looked at you, ran his rough hands over your soft thighs, kissing and nipping gently at your hips, "So, so pretty for me." He murmured into your skin.
The man in front of you now so at odds with the boy you had imagined was revolted by you. Now he worshiped your body with lips and tongue and teeth. He kissed you now over the fabric of your panties, slowly and methodically, until you felt the fabric begin to soak, both from his saliva and your arousal.
You whined and tried to lift your hips, but he quickly braces an arm over your thighs, "Michael, please." You whimpered.
He groaned against your cunt, sending shockwaves through your body.
"Sorry, baby," He murmured and began tugging your panties down your hips as well, "You need my mouth on you properly, is that it? Need my tongue inside you?"
You nodded, a burning in your eyes from embarrassment or pure desperation, you weren't sure.
Panties out of the way, he ran a finger down your slick folds to separate them. As he sighed, your eyes rolled back, jaw going slack.
"Gorgeous," he murmured, fingers running slowly and gently around your entrance.
It didn't feel like teasing, but admiring. Your hips jumped when he pressed a chase kiss to your puffy clit. You had barely begun to whine again when he licked, long and slow, from the bottom of your entrance up to circle your clit.
The sensation was dizzying as he continued to repeat the motion, moving faster and applying slightly more pressure each time.
"Okay, sweetheart," He said breathlessly, your juices glistening all over his beard, slowly, he slipped his middle finger inside you, stroking the spot deep inside you that had your abdomen tightening in anticipation, "Think you can finish for me?"
Unable to form coherent words, you writhed against him, whining until he relented and lowered his mouth back down to your clit.
It was over quickly after that, though his tongue kept working you until you lightly tugged at his hair, pulling him off you. He wiped his mouth on the back of his forearm and crawled back up to you, pressing kisses all over your sweaty face.
Without preamble, you reached for his cock with the intention of lining it up with your entrance, but he pulled away, "Not yet." He said mildly, propped up on one elbow as he looked at you, his free hand stroking the backs of his knuckles gently against your cheek, "I'm not done with you yet."
You were still a bit dumb from the aftershocks of your orgasm and you blinked blankly at him, "What?"
"I figure I owe you at least three orgasms before I get to cum, that should wipe the previous horrendous encounter from your memory, no?"
A slow, sleepy smile spread across your face and he traced his thumb across your lips, "It's gonna take a while for me to cum again, never mind twice more."
He nodded, "That's why I'm giving you a break, sweet girl."
Flustered, you looked away from him. Who would have thought one man had the potential to be both your best and worst sex?
***
TWENTY SOMETHING YEARS AGO
Your eyelid was twitching as you sat at central, a phone receiver pressed to your ear as you listened to your mother drone on. As she spoke, your eyes drifted to a fresh blood stain on your white sneakers from the man who'd died maybe an hour or two ago from several gunshot wounds to the chest.
"I hear you, I just—" You tried and failed to scrub the bloodstain out with a wet wipe from behind the desk. The grueling twelve hour shift had ended something like forty five minutes ago with you crying into your hands in the ambulance bay. You were exhausted. "I just don't think now is the time for this conversation—"
"Well," Your mother huffed, "Maybe if you ever answered your phone at home we wouldn't need to have this discussion now."
You ground your teeth together, "I appreciate all the support you and dad have given me—"
"You know, I don't think you do. We clawed our way through law school with no help from our families, started our own firm, saved thousands just so you could be as educated as you wanted without having to struggle like we did—"
"—And I'm immensely grateful for that privilege—"
"Then why would you throw it back in our faces by choosing pathology, essentially a glorified lab technician—"
"That's not what it is at all—"
"You should be in neurosurgery."
You had had this argument what felt like a thousand times over the last few weeks when you had first admitted interest in applying to path residencies. Your mother's insistent argument that she knew best and neurosurgery would provide you with the best career and would utilize your strengths—an excruciating attention to detail and laser-like focus—in a way no other specialty could.
But you disagreed. And what you could never admit to your mother was that your emergency medicine rotations had proven to you that you would crumble under that sort of pressure.
"Hey, Bambi," Michael leaned over your desk, "Get off the phone and glove up, incoming MVA in two minutes."
You gave him an incredulous look, "Our shift ended almost an hour ago."
"Okay…" He said slowly, pulling on a clean pair of gloves, "So you're gonna let me just take this one myself? What if it requires intubation? You're gonna pass up that opportunity? You still haven't done one by yourself."
You were so burnt out and frustrated and once again on the verge of bursting into tears, you didn't have the energy for this, "So, what, you're keeping tabs on my procedure log now?"
He pretended to think about it, furrow between his brow, "Yeah, guess I am."
Neither of you had spoken about the night you'd slept together—if you could even call it that—and Michael had been acting like it never happened. Occasionally he'd reference the night it happened, but always before you went home with him. This was fine with you, it saved you from the embarrassment. Though, sometimes, it had you wondering if maybe you'd somehow hallucinated the entire thing.
"Who are you talking to?" Came your mom's tinny voice in your ear.
You hurriedly said that you had to go and hung up the phone, knowing it would lead to more phone calls later, but you had taken to leaving your phone off the hook when she began calling repeatedly like that. Which was often. It was the only way to ensure you got enough sleep.
Normally, you would jump at any opportunity to try to show up Michael in a trauma, but you were barely holding it together right now. The thought of watching another person die on the table today had you fighting back the instinct to dry heave.
You rested your elbows on the table in front of you and kneaded lightly at your temples, "You can have the MVA, I'm going home."
"That your mom on the phone?" Michael asked, leaning forward and apparently ignoring what you'd just said, "Is she waiting at home for you with a fresh meal and a warm bath?" He taunted, "Bambi needs to be pampered? The ER is too rough for the princess?"
Slowly, you tilted your face up to look at him, "You jealous that I still have a mother who takes care of me, Robinavitch?"
If you weren't as tired, you wouldn't have said it. As it was, your stomach churned when the smile melted off his face. Yes, he had taunted you and teased you and tortured you for most of both MS3 and 4, but you shouldn't have sank to his level. Really, you had sunk below his level, you thought. Even with how cruel he could be, he'd never mocked you when he found you crying out in the ambulance bay. On occasion he'd actually silently stood next to you or offered you a cigarette.
Your relationship was strange as he could be downright abusive in front of attendings or other colleagues, but when it was just the two of you it was like being on hallowed ground. He had only ever been nice to you when it was just the two of you with no one else around to hear. Something you struggled to reconcile. And now you had weaponized one of the only times he had opened up to you.
He shook his head, but otherwise didn't say anything, ducking away from you, "Michael—Wait—"
"It's fine, Bambi," He called over his shoulder, "Go home. As you've so astutely pointed out, not all of us have one of those."
Later, after you'd crawled into bed and couldn't sleep despite your exhaustion for the guilt that wracked you, you picked up the phone next to your bed and dialed Michael.
It rang for a while and you thought he might let it go to voicemail, but when he finally picked up his voice was rough with sleep.
"Hello?"
You hesitated, then breathed softly, "Hi."
A moment of silence passed, "Bambi?"
"Yeah."
"It's… late."
You sighed, "Yeah, um, sorry. Did I wake you?"
You heard him stifle a yawn, "You did, yeah." Silence again, but for the sound of both your breathing, "Um, did you need something?"
"I—Yeah, I, um… I couldn't sleep."
"Okay," He drew out the word, long and smooth, "Have you tried… Counting sheep?"
You huffed a laugh, "No, I—I can't sleep because I feel horrible about what I said to you earlier. About—about your mom. I'm so, so sorry, Michael. It was awful and—and it was unacceptable and unprofessional."
He was quiet for a moment, then, "It's alright, Bambi. I've said worse to you. You didn't know about—It was just a lucky shot."
Your mouth fell open slightly, confusion clouding your brain, "What?"
"You—What you said earlier hit a nerve, but you couldn't have known. I've—I've never spoken about my mother to anyone."
You stared at the popcorn ceiling of your apartment, mouth still agape. Did he not remember?
And you were nothing if not a coward, so you kept quiet. Didn't correct him. The fact was, what you said was so much worse knowing what you knew. And he didn't even know you knew.
"Right," You said, swallowing, "Well either way, it was a really shitty thing for me to say. So I'm sorry."
"I appreciate it and I'm sorry for pushing you earlier."
You exhaled slowly and closed your eyes, "Thank you."
"Think you can sleep now, princess?" Despite the nickname, his tone was playful, almost gentle in your ear. You had the insane thought that you'd like to hear him talk you to sleep.
"Yeah. Goodnight, Michael."
"Goodnight, Bambi."
***
Robby shot up in bed, his skin tacky with sweat and his chest heaving, lungs struggling to fill. Nightmares were common for him, but what was so disorienting this night was that at first, he wasn't sure where he was. The bed sheets were unfamiliar to him where they stuck to his skin. They felt more expensive than what he had at home, reminded him of hotel sheets. The mattress was softer as well.
And then there was the soft sigh the came from the pillow next to him. His eyes followed the noise and he saw you laying beside him, fast asleep. At the sight of you, his panic began to recede just slightly. He was in your bed. Had shared a lovely dinner with you and slept with you and spoke in hushed whispers across pillows until you'd fallen asleep.
When he had nightmares at home, he would often get out of bed, crack open a beer or smoke a cigarette, unable to properly fall back asleep. But looking down at you, he feared he'd wake you if he did that. The last however many hours he'd spent with you had been the most at peace he'd felt in recent memory. Even with the nightmare, he already felt his heart rate slowing, just watching the even rise and fall of your chest.
He sank back down into the mattress and laid his head down on the pillow, his forehead nearly touching yours.
Unable to help himself, he rested his hand against your neck and ran his thumb over your cheekbone. You mewled and then your eyes began to blink open.
"Sorry," He said immediately when your eyes opened into his, "Didn't mean to wake you."
You gave him a sleepy smile and nudged your nose against his, "S'okay… It's almost nice to wake up in the middle of the night when there's someone else here."
Lying close to you, he allowed himself to believe that he deserved love like this. That he deserved a life like this. That you could love him and stay despite the ugly parts of him he'd try like hell to keep from you.
He kissed you then, to avoid thinking about all the ways in which he was bound to disappoint you if this continued. And you kissed him back, pulled him closer, your hand at the nape of his neck and he catalogued it—the feeling of your gentle fingers stroking the back of his head.
"Mmm," You hummed and pulled away from him slightly, your brow furrowed, "Is it raining?"
Sure enough, as both of you stilled, there was the sound of rain tapping against the windows, "Sounds like it."
You grinned at him, "Would you like to drink tea and watch the rain from the porch?"
You seemed already giddy by the idea so he couldn't say no, not that he wanted to. It was so simple, really, the act of watching the rain. But you stood outside wrapped in a throw blanket, your hands warming a mug of tea, and looking out into your yard with awe as the sun started to stretch over the horizon, lighting up the storm clouds from behind.
He wanted to see the world like that. To be enamored by simple pleasures, the way you were.
"You seem so happy," He said into your ear.
You hummed, "I am."
"Is this what it's like being you? In this stunning house? Just a cup of tea while it rains can bring joy?"
You turned slightly in his arms to see his face and he recognized it when you scanned his face: You were trying to gauge if he was making fun of you. Old habits died hard, he supposed.
Seemingly satisfied that he wasn't mocking you, you turned back toward the rain, "It's a lot nicer when there's someone to share it all with."
You said it casually, but he heard the note of sadness in your tone, "You've been alone for a while?" You nodded, "What about family? Your parents?"
You stiffened in his embrace and he almost regretted it. He knew what happened when you got like this, if someone moved too quickly or suddenly—you bolted.
But after a moment, you softened, "We don't really talk much anymore."
"Oh," He said softly in surprise, "Sorry, I thought—You always seemed close when we were in school."
"You mistook financial support as love. And even if it was, they promptly cut that off the second I moved to Chicago."
He frowned, "You haven't spoken since residency? Why?" In the silence that followed, he sensed your hesitancy, "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to."
"I don't mind," You said softly, "I just haven't thought about it in a while. We have talked since, but sporadically. It's mostly just happy birthday texts now." You sighed heavily, "The short answer is that they wanted me to go into neurosurgery and treated me going into pathology as some personal affront to them. It felt like they only ever saw me as some sort of investment instead of their kid."
Robby had been guilty of assuming that you had it all. After thinking it over more, he'd come to the conclusion the way he treated you had had more to do with jealousy than anything else. You always seemed so put off by talking to your parents, your parents who took care of everything for you. What he would have done to have anyone like that in his corner when he was in his twenties. He felt you were ungrateful.
But now, having done a lot of growing up himself and watching residents with all sorts of parental issues come and go through his ER, he understood that just throwing money at a kid was no way to raise them.
"I'm sorry," He said again and leaned down slightly to kiss the back of your neck, "You deserved better than that."
You turned in his arms to face him, "Do you really believe that? That what I do is just as important as what you do? Or neurosurgery?"
"Yes," He said immediately, "If it was me I might be… bored out of my mind, but we need pathologists. The ED needs them, surgery needs them, oncology needs them, hematology needs them, you're absolutely vital to all of us. But that's not what I meant. I meant that you deserved better parents."
Though you had changed over the years, not so skittish and quiet, there were things about you that remained. Your anxious state, bordering on paranoia the way you worried that others would betray you. Your quiet but desperate need of approval—of love. Your empathy, the way you felt everything so deeply and openly, even when you tried to hide it.
Right now, you were scared. Of him, of his ability to hurt you. He was also scared of his ability to hurt you. Terrified, really.
But still, you swallowed and looked away from him, "Thank you," you said quietly and tugged his arms tighter around you.
Bambi—his fawn—now stable on your own two feet. It'd be you that would have to keep him steady now, keep him from running.
***
When Robby was at work now, when the shifts got bad, he excused himself for just a moment and closed his eyes. He'd conjure your home in his head, your cat Brutus, the sound of your laugh, watching rain from your covered porch while drinking coffee, waking up to the smell of your shampoo on the pillow, movie nights on your couch, long showers and your hands on his skin.
It had been weeks now since your first date and things had moved quickly. It hadn't been discussed explicitly, but Robby spent most nights at your house now. The simple domesticity of it, of having someone to come home to, had felt nearly life changing. You often asked if he wanted you to stay at his place for a change to which he always turned down.
He loved everything about your place, from the way it always smelt like something delicious, to the fact that Brutus was always there, to just how lived in it felt. Just last weekend the two of you had spent entire days digging up the garden beds so you could start planting vegetables and fruits and herbs. You talked about cucumber salads and fresh baked pies and it all felt so… domestic. Mundane. And it was the only place he felt peace.
Today's shift had been horrible. And so after calling time of death on a patient that he'd worked on for far longer than was clinically appropriate, he told Dana he'd be outside for a few minutes. In the ambulance bay, with silent tears streaming down his cheeks, he tried to slow his breathing. In through his nose, out through his mouth.
Closing his eyes, he willed the images of the woman away, of her child. Instead, he pictured you, the sleepy smile on your face when he woke up first in the morning, whispered in your ear that he was going to make pancakes. He pictured you fast asleep on your couch, a paperback abandoned in your hand and Brutus snuggled up on your chest. He pictured you spinning around your backyard in the rain, green rain boots up to your knees and your wild laughter.
As his breathing slowed, the sound of the ambulance bay doors sliding open had him turning his attention to the doors to see Abbot walking toward him.
Silently, Jack stood next to Robby and crossed his arms, "Your girlfriend's down here looking for you."
Robby sighed and ran his hand over the back of his neck, "She's not my girlfriend."
"Sorry, your pathologist."
Robby huffed a laugh, "I guess she is sort of my girlfriend."
"Well, you better watch out because I hear all the nurses warning her about your… 'seven week itch' I think they're calling it."
He shook his head, "She's not the type to listen to rumors."
Jack hummed, "She might start if you keep her waiting much longer."
"Alright, alright," He sighed and pushed himself off the wall, "I'll go find her."
"'Atta boy," Jack said and clapped him over the shoulder, the two of them walking back into the Pitt.
Robby's eyes found you almost immediately, talking to Dana, and you, as if sensing his gaze, looked up to meet his. There was concern all over your face and Robby didn't even have the time to properly wonder if Dana had filled you in about the terrible shift they'd had before you were marching over to him.
You were apparently so intently focused on him, you didn't notice the puddle of water on the floor and before Robby could warn you, you'd slipped.
Your feet went up over your head and your back hit the ground—hard.
Instantly, Robby was there, a hand on your shoulder to stop you as you tried to sit up— "Hey, don't move, don't move."
"Ow," you groaned and tried to push him out of your way, "I'm fine, Michael."
"Did you hit your head?" His penlight was already out, ready to assess.
You sighed, "I don't know, I don't think so."
"Dana," he called over his shoulder, "What's open?"
"Central 11."
"I just wanna go home," You said softly, "I'm fine, I swear."
But seeing you fall like that after the shift he'd had, he couldn't seem to slow the spiral he was beginning to fall down. What if you had a concussion? A brain bleed? Untreated one could lead to irreparable brain damage and the other, death.
"It'll be quick," He said, "Promise. Just… Please, it'll make me feel better."
You tilted your head slightly, doe eyes out in full force. Like you were concerned about him. But you nodded anyway, conceded to him, even when he insisted on a wheelchair to transport you.
When it was just the two of you and he had started your exam, you continued to watch him carefully.
"Did something happen today?" You asked softly, "During shift?"
He hummed in question, gently turning your head this way and that, "What d'you mean?"
"You're being… hypervigilant. I'm just wondering if something happened today to trigger that."
The two of you had discussed covid and Adamson. You had been back in Pittsburgh at that point, but at Westbridge. Robby had felt a pang of resentment at first, thinking that you likely hadn't had to be on the front lines like he had.
But then you told him about the autopsies. How there were so many bodies that you, who had built a career off studying cancers and blood, had had to assist with autopsies. You told him how you hadn't really done an autopsy since residency, but now with how many you'd had to do during the pandemic, you could do them with your eyes closed.
"It fucked with me," You'd told him, "I saw those bodies everywhere, even if I wasn't in the hospital. I could smell them no matter how many candles I lit at home. I dreamt about them for weeks after. I cried for months."
And when you'd divulged that, the flood gates had opened for him. He told you everything, from covid to PittFest. When he got choked up, he found himself instinctually reaching for your hand, needing you to anchor him. Without hesitation, you practically pulled him into your lap, cradled his head to your chest and whispered soothing words in his ear.
So then it shouldn't have surprised him that you would catch on so quickly. For being so young when you went through med school, he had assumed upon first meeting you that you'd have no idea about anything. But it had struck him immediately how emotionally intelligent you were, how you had from the very beginning been able to read even the most closed off of patients.
Still, he felt himself recoil at your assessment, "You fell," He said, "I'm just making sure you're alright."
"Well I'm also a doctor and I'm telling you, I'm fine. There's no tenderness at the back of my head, no nausea, no dizziness—"
"I'm ordering you a head CT."
Your mouth fell open, indignation in the tug of your lips. After a moment, you scoffed, "I don't want that so please get me the AMA forms to sign, if you don't mind."
He raised his eyebrows and finally met your eyes, "Really?"
"You're exposing me to unnecessary radiation when I have zero symptoms—"
"You don't remember if you hit your head—"
"Robby?" He whipped his head around to see Dana in the doorway, "The cops are here, they wanna talk to you about the boy and his mother who—"
"Yeah, okay, I'll be there in a minute."
Dana left and he hung his head, braced his hands against his legs, hoping they didn't shake, "I would really appreciate it… if you could please stay for a CT."
He felt your gaze even as he avoided it, "Why are the cops here?"
He sighed, "A kid's here with no parental guardian."
There was a pause, then, "What happened to his mother?"
"I really can't talk about this right now—"
"Then I'd like the AMA forms, please."
He made an exasperated groan and looked up at you, tried pleading with his eyes, but you stayed firm, expectant, until he sighed, "A woman was brought in today with her ten year old son who'd found her unresponsive in the bathtub when he came home from school today. She'd slashed her own wrists. We couldn't get a pulse back." He ran a hand along the back of his neck, "The kid doesn't have anyone else."
In a moment, you were on your knees in front of him, his hands clasped in yours, "You worked the resuscitation?"
He nodded, and to his surprise salty tears fell onto your clasped hands. Embarrassed, he tried for nonchalant as he spoke, "It's uh—It's been a long day, but that happened almost first thing this morning. I don't know why I can't shake it."
"Well… That's unsurprising." You said slowly, "Considering your childhood."
His entire body stiffened and he pulled away, "What'd you say?"
You opened and closed your mouth, still lowered to the ground in front of him. He watched as you seemed to calculate your misstep too late and then rush to correct, "I just, um, I remember you telling me once that… that your parents weren't really… present in your life."
Robby shook his head, "I never told you about that."
You bit your lip for a moment and then shrugged, "You told me… everything, Michael. The night we slept together in med school. You were very drunk."
He bristled and scoffed, "Right, we got drunk, I told you that my mother killed herself, and then we fucked?"
It seemed absurd. The truth that he was so ashamed of, that he'd held so close to his chest, that he hadn't allowed anyone to know, he had told you. His grandparents had been the only other people to know and when they died they took it with them. He had assumed he would do the same. But here you were, this contradiction to the one fundamental truth he'd had. That no one would ever need to know the ugly truth that the single person on this Earth who was supposed to love him unconditionally had abandoned him with such violent permanence.
You seemed a bit embarrassed at his hostility, lifting yourself back up to your feet again, "Look, you don't have to try to humiliate me just because you don't believe me. I'm sorry I brought it up, I was just trying to let you know that I understand why that case was difficult for you."
"Yeah, well, it's not your fucking place."
He thought he saw you flinch, but just as quickly, you became stoic, "I think it's time for me to go and I'd prefer it if you stayed at your own place tonight."
You left without waiting for him to respond and immediately, the anger left him in a rush, replaced with shame. When he walked back towards central, you were gone, Dana looking at him now with a question in her eyes, "Your girl left in a rush, I thought you were leaving with her?"
He sighed, ran both hands over his face, "Where's the kid?"
"BH1," She said and leaned closer to him, "It's her birthday today and you let her leave here without you?"
Fuck. "It's her birthday?"
Dana nodded, "You don't know your own girl's birthday?"
"She's not—How do you know it's her birthday?"
"She told me about ten minutes ago."
Unbelievable.
"Well," He said, fingers interlaced at the back of his neck, "I don't think she'll want to spend it with me now."
Dana watched him for a moment, "Tell you what, Baran's still here, I'm sure she wouldn't mind handling the police. You should go. Get her a cake and flowers and apologize. You had a hard day, she'll understand."
You had understood, but he thought you'd likely be heaps and bounds less understanding now.
But hadn't he promised himself, when he first agreed to date you, seriously, that he'd be different this time? That he wouldn't fall back into old habits? That he wouldn't push people away when they got too close?
You already knew the worst of him, apparently. Had known it for decades it seemed and still, you wanted him. And as always, he'd hurt you anyway.
So, he was really prepared to grovel when he finally got to your place, a bouquet of tulips and white bakery box in hand. He knocked gently on the door and waited until he heard the twist of the doorknob, and then saw you. You were in sweats and a tank top and you crossed your arms over your chest when you saw him.
"Hi," he said softly.
"I thought I asked you not to come here tonight."
"I know, and I'll go, I just, Dana mentioned that it was your birthday so I got you a cake and some flowers and I just wanted to say that I'm—I'm really sorry. I just, I've never told… anyone about her, or so I thought, and it just caught me off guard. But, I shouldn't have spoken to you that way, you were only trying to help."
You stared at him for a few moments, mouth twisted to the side and bounced on the balls of your feet, "You got me a birthday cake?"
His mouth twitched into a smirk, but he fought it, "Yeah, but I didn't know what sort of cake you like so I—I got you funfetti cake. It reminded me of you."
Now it was you fighting a smirk, "Funfetti cake reminds you of me?"
He nodded, "Yeah, you're bright, colorful, pretty, happy—You're everything. Funfetti."
You uncrossed your arms and interlocked them behind your back instead, "You can come inside."
Ten minutes later, you both sat on the couch with a slice of cake, "No one's ever gotten me a birthday cake before."
Robby balked, "What?"
You shrugged, "My parents were always too busy to celebrate my birthday. I think they forgot most years. And I didn't have many friends growing up. And then when I got to be an adult I just… stopped telling people when my birthday was. To avoid being disappointed."
He felt an ache in his chest for the child he saw in his head, the kid he used to know. How lonely you must've been. "Why'd you tell Dana?"
"One of my students is a bit of a kiss ass and found out it was my birthday from the internet. Got the whole class to sign a card for me. Dana just happened to see it."
He sighed, "I'm really sorry if I contributed to your day being shitty."
You shook your head, "I really don't even think about it much anymore, truly. And anyway, it sounded like you had a much harder day than I did."
"That's not an excuse."
You put your plate on the coffee table and turned your attention fully to Robby, taking his face gently in your hands, "You came here and you apologized," You said softly, "And I've forgiven you. So enough with the self flagellation, hm?" You stroked your thumbs gently over his cheekbones, "And why don't you tell me about the mother that came in today."
Again, he felt the involuntary raise of his hackles at the suggestion that he discuss today. But there was warmth and tenderness in your eyes. Your fingers ran through his hair and scratched at his scalp gently, and his eyes fluttered closed, hackles falling.
And so the words flowed out of him. He recounted the horror and fear that reverberated through him as the woman was rolled in, her son shaking and sobbing at her side. How difficult it was for him to focus on anything other than this boy, this baby, now alone in the world. It was frightening, really, to come face to face with the boy he used to be. How young he was when his mother had passed, something he'd been unable to appreciate at the time.
He'd done a lot of work to forgive her for leaving. Had studied up on suicidality and bipolar depression. In his career he met many people who reminded him of his mother and his empathy had stretched and grown and while he'd thought he'd forgiven her, there was still just a kernel of bitterness deep in his chest.
He had never been confronted with himself, with the child he used to be, until today. How his heart bled for that child. He could recall every memory of that day, every smell, every sound, every touch. The world had fractured and reassembled for that boy today, much like it had for him so many years ago. And he'd had to listen to his colleagues all day, talk about that boy as if he was the one who had died and it pissed him off. That they could so easily written off that kid's future because of a single day, because of the choices his mother had made.
But then came the small, nagging voice at the back of his head, But wasn't it true? Aren't you broken beyond repair? Isn't that the one truth you've been running from all this time?
"You're not broken," You said softly to him when he'd finished speaking, still holding him tightly to you, now with one hand beneath his shirt and running your nails soothingly up and down his back.
You repeated it to him like a mantra until he leaned up, captured your soft, warm mouth with his. And whenever he opened his eyes to look into yours, he knew you didn't believe your own words. Walls that you had begun to deconstruct over the last few weeks were now built back up. Now, barbed wire adorned the walls like vines.
He had the distinct feeling that you'd never allow him to see over the walls again.
***
"Well I heard from Edith who heard from Sam who sometimes has lunch with Dana that Robby's been staying late and picking up more shifts again, since he bought that motorcycle… You know what that means."
"The seven week itch has struck again. That motorcycle's a breakup motorcycle if I've ever seen one."
You sighed heavily as you adjusted your microscope, "You guys are not being as quiet as you think you are."
Your students giggled at your admonishment, "Sorry, the drama is just way more fascinating in the Pitt than it is up here."
You were silent after that and their whispers died down, but never completely. You had never paid much attention to rumors around the hospital until you and Robby started seeing each other. The women in the hospital loved gossiping about him. And more and more it ate away at you.
Things hadn't been quite right between you since your birthday. You had forgiven him for how he'd acted, but still there was a cold dread in your stomach that seemed to intensify every time you saw him. You felt yourself overcompensating, looking for reassurance. You had convincingly kept up the illusion of confidence, but now it waned.
You had the feeling he had sussed it out, how desperate you were. Before, for any companionship. Now, specifically, for his. You were frightened by the way your heart squeezed when you woke up to him beside you in the morning. The way he had slipped into your routine so effortlessly. Helping you out in the garden on the weekends. Putting the kettle on at exactly 9PM for tea before bed. Trying all your desserts even after insisting he needed to watch what he ate. Recently, he'd began reading your well-worn, tattered copy of The Princess Bride aloud to you, using character voices that got more and more ridiculous until you were crying with laughter. More and more regularly, he fell asleep on the couch, glasses askew and Brutus on his chest.
It was terrifying how easily he slotted into your life. This was what you'd wanted, what you'd always wanted, had wanted so badly at times you'd forced relationships you knew would never work.
And you kept waiting, day after day, for him to leave and not come back. The day he'd been short with you in the ER, you'd been flung back to an earlier relationship. Remembered in vivid details the ugly fights you'd had.
"You're not listening to me!"
"Maybe I just don't like the sound of your voice."
It didn't matter how he apologized after, the words had burrowed deep in your head. They stuck with you from relationship to relationship and you'd heard similar disdain from Robby that day.
So with all of this, you were already struggling before the rumors and before the motorcycle. You felt him pulling away from you inch by inch and you clung to him harder, certain if you just enticed him the correct way he'd want to stay.
And for a while, you thought it was working, until dinner one day on the porch. The vibrant strawberry sky was beginning to bruise with dusk as you each sat in silent after cleaning your plates.
Then Robby cleared his throat, "You know how I've been fixing up the motorcycle with Duke?"
You nodded. You knew the fact that you were jealous of a sixty year old biker spending time with your boyfriend was not healthy. You were glad he had picked up a hobby outside of the ER, it was good for him. And still, you couldn't help the way dread curdled in your gut every time he spoke about it. What it really felt like was an escape plan. No matter how you tried to convince yourself it wasn't, you couldn't stop the constant spirals. The souring of your mood whenever he stated he was going to Duke's or he couldn't make it tonight because he stayed too late at Duke's so he'd just sleep at his own place. You knew he noticed the shift in energy whenever the motorcycle was brought up, but he never commented on it.
"It's finished," He gave you a wry smile, "It's rideable now, in really good shape."
"Oh," You said, "That's… great."
Again, he ignored the uneasiness in your tone. Or maybe he truly was oblivious. Because next he said, "I was thinking about taking some time off from work and doing a cross country ride."
"Oh," You said again, feeling dumb at your sudden lack of vocabulary, "For how long?"
"I don't know," He avoided looking at you as he said, "Three months?"
The pain in your chest was spectacular. Again and again you were reminded of how unlovable you were. You tried so hard and it was never enough, not for your parents, not for friends, not for every other partner who left quickly and quietly. Your eyes burned as you pushed back from the table and picked up your plate, "You don't have to flee across the country to get rid of me, you could just break up with me like a mature, grown man." You said bitterly and walked back inside.
Assumedly shocked at your outburst, it took him a minute before following you back inside, "This is not about us," He said quietly over your shoulder as you dropped the dirty dishes unceremoniously into your sink.
"Frankly, it doesn't matter if it isn't," You said turning to face him, "If you leave for three months our relationship is effectively dead. And you know this."
He scoffed, "Three months is not that long—"
"Three months is not that long when you've been in a relationship for a decade, it's everything when you've barely even been together that long."
He watched you and slowly shook his head, "It doesn't have to be. You could come with me."
You laughed and pushed past him, "What, and bring Brutus as well? Let my garden wither away? You don't really want me to come, you're just offering out of guilt."
"That's not true, I—I want to be here with you, being with you is the only thing that feels right in my life right now. I don't want to lose that."
"Then why are you running away?" You asked, exasperated and humiliated when tears began to blur your vision.
You were sitting on the couch now and he crouched in front of you, looked at you with his big wet, brown cow eyes. Eyes you adored, crow's feet you wished to sink into, freckles you'd counted and memorized over many nights.
"I feel like…" He said slowly, "Like… if I don't get out of that hospital, of this city soon that I'm a ticking time bomb."
You nodded and sniffed, pushed the heels of your hands into your eyes, "And I feel like if you leave I'm never gonna see you again."
He tilted his head to the side, eyebrow furrowed and watery eyes studying you. You waited and waited for him to say it wasn't true, but he obviously couldn't. Instead he cupped your cheeks in his hands and gently brushed away your tears, "C'mon sweetheart, don't cry. It's okay. I've got you."
Leaning in, he gently kissed your forehead, the tops of your cheeks, your nose, then your mouth, his beard scratching the soft skin of your face. Stifling the cries that attempted to crawl up your throat, you kissed him back fiercely, wondering if it would be the last time you got to do so. He matched your fervor, groaning into your mouth as you deepened the kiss—and then his hands were everywhere.
He hoisted you up and around his waist and walked you to the bedroom, a path he knew well at this point, could do it with his eyes closed. He placed you down and then crawled over you, arms bracketing your head as he kissed your lips swollen and raw. The smell of him, the taste of him, had become so comforting to you it was agony to imagine a time when you couldn't have them whenever you wanted. That he would be so far away from you, your house lonely and empty once again. And it was this thought that had you burst promptly into tears.
"Wh—What's wrong? Sweetheart—Do you wanna stop? We can stop—"
"No, no," You said quickly through hiccuping sobs and opened your eyes into his, "Please—Please don't stop, Michael, please—"
"Okay," He kissed all over your face again as your sobs began to quiet, "Okay, baby. I'm right here—" In response to his words, you pulled him closer until his weight was almost fully on you, "I'm right here." He repeated.
When your tears dried, he slowly undressed you, his kisses painfully tender and eyes that melted you. It took everything in you not to rush him along. The need to have him inside you, to fill you up, felt almost primal. You needed to be close to him, as close as you could be. Soon he'd be gone and all you'd have was the ghost of a feeling.
He leaned his forehead against yours as he slowly pushed inside you, both of you sighing into one another, "So perfect," He murmured and kissed you, "Feel so perfect, baby."
"Please," You kept saying over and over as he pushed himself in and out of you. You weren't quite sure what you were begging for, for him to fuck you? For him to stay? For him to love you?
Pulling out of you, he turned you onto your stomach, positioned your hips until you felt him press into you again, his belly against the small of your back and the cold chain around his neck falling against your shoulders, sending a chill down your spine.
The feel of him inside you was exquisite, like nothing else you'd experienced before. He pushed his hand beneath your belly until his fingers found your swollen clit and this coupled with the way he filled you up was too much, the sensation overwhelming. You were coming before you even had the chance to warn him, unraveling as he moaned and kissed the back of your neck when he felt your walls pulse around him.
The pleasure was so overwhelming and the feel of him so stifling, it was almost involuntary when you blurted out, "I love you, Michael, I love you."
With your face partially obscured by the mattress, you hoped he hadn't heard it. But his hips stuttered for a second and panic seized in your chest until— "Oh, God, fuck—" he came inside you.
His skin stuck to yours as he caught his breath, still inside you as he softened. You laid like that for a while in silence, spooning in your bed. The sun had still cast shadows in your room when you first came in here, but now it was nearly pitch black.
"You're still leaving?" You asked, voice steadier than you felt, unwilling to hope.
He was quiet for long enough that you wondered if he'd fallen asleep. But then came the soft, "Yes," in your ear.
You said nothing else that night. Neither of you spoke about what you'd confessed during sex and when you woke in the morning, he had left. There was no trace of him left in the house. He'd taken his toothbrush, his beard trimmer, his duffel of clothes and other toiletries. All gone.
He left a single t-shirt—by accident or not, you couldn't say—draped over your hamper. When you picked it up and brought it to your face, it smelt like him.
You sank to the floor of your closet like a child and cried.
***
Robby saw you everywhere and in everything. He thought about you most mornings when he put on a pair of pants and noticed how they were a bit too snug—Having regular meals most days at your place had meant he'd put on a few pounds while dating you. He thought about you and Brutus whenever Trinity showed him pictures of her new kittens. Whenever he had a cookie or a slice of blueberry pie, he remembered the sweet buttery smell of your house whenever you were baking.
He missed you with a devotion that felt almost religious, but he never picked up the phone. After having made you cry and then hearing you admit that you were in love with him, he'd been absolutely certain he couldn't have you. He'd thought in the beginning, he'd been able to delude himself that he could have someone like you. That he deserved someone like you, so sweet and gentle and loving. But despite his precautions, you'd still crumbled to dust in his hands.
He was terrified that if he didn't leave he'd repeat his mother's mistakes and leave you even more devastated than you were now.
But when you looked at him and said you didn't think you'd ever see him again, he'd wondered if you'd understood. If you'd understood his fears and instead worried that if he did leave he'd become his mother.
He didn't want to think about that and so as he packed up his gear and clothes and whatever else he thought he might need onto his bike, he tried and failed to stop thinking about you.
As he left town, he rode by your house knowing you'd be at work. He rolled slowly, memorized every detail he could of the house, the only place he'd ever felt at home besides his grandparents' house. In a last minute decision, he pulled out his phone and took a quick photo.
This was when he saw Brutus in the window, watching him, tail swishing back and forth. He'd miss that little rascal, too, even if he had broken his favorite mug. He gave a quick salute to Brutus and then he left before he could change his mind.
For a while, being on the road felt as freeing as he hoped it would. Everyone before he left seemed so worried he was about to kill himself, but honestly, with new air in his lungs, he felt great. For around four hundred miles.
He was a few days into the trip, having only driven something like a hundred miles each day, and closing in on Chicago when the fatigue really began to set in. Every part of his body ached. He had been very careful not to let his mind wander to you since he'd left, but it wandered anyhow. Now he thought of the Epsom salt baths you insisted on whenever he had aches and pains. He wished more than anything that you'd be there in Chicago, waiting by the hot bath, pretending to resist when he coaxed you in with him. You'd sit between his legs, back to his chest as you told him about your day as he gently kneaded your shoulders with his thumbs. You'd talk about the study you were working on. Or, since it was a Saturday, maybe you'd spent time in the garden, pulling weeds as you listened to an audiobook for a new mystery novel.
Robby was so immersed in the fantasy, he didn't register the oncoming headlights until it was already too late. Still, as the car crossed the double yellow line into his lane, on instinct, he jerked the bike away from the oncoming collision.
He was able to avoid the car, but lost control of the bike, skidding off the road and into a guardrail. He felt it when the gravel tore through his pants, then his skin, the weight of his bike pinning him to the ground as he came to a complete stop.
Robby was so used to watching other people die, he thought he knew what it'd be like when his time came. Stupidly, he thought he'd made his peace with his own mortality, his inevitable demise. But in the split second it took for him to see the oncoming headlights and jerk his bike out of the way, he understood immediately and with complete clarity that he didn't want to die.
As he felt his skin being torn up and his leg being crushed, time slowed, and he saw your face. Heard your voice tell him you loved him. The sound of your laugh. The smell of your shampoo.
And just as quickly as it happened, it was over, and the pain exploded throughout his body.
Pain, glorious pain, and as he categorized it all he understood it meant he was alive and he laughed, wildly. The paramedics that showed up afterwards and told him how lucky he was likely thought him insane as he laughed and laughed.
He was alive. He was fucking alive. And the realization filled him with indescribable joy. Logically he knew most of this was due to the adrenaline rush, but he couldn't help but feel like this had to have been some divine intervention. And soon enough, as the adrenaline fled him and the pain meds kicked in, he couldn't stop crying.
The nurses and doctors looked at him with sympathy and one nurse, Angela, asked gently, "Is there anyone we can call?"
The only person he wanted to call right now was you. His bike was totaled and he found he didn't even care. He just wanted to go home. He wanted to play chess on your porch while it rained. He wanted to play hide and seek with Brutus while you giggled from the sofa, watching him. He wanted to let you pick a movie for movie night only to have you unceremoniously fall asleep in his arms less than ten minutes in. He wanted to beg your forgiveness. He wanted to tell you he loved you, was in love with you, like he should have before he left. He wanted to go home.
But he shook his head, wiped his eyes and asked if he could have his phone. He would be waiting a while for imaging on his leg. The thought for sure something was broken and based on what he felt when he went down, he concurred with that opinion. He thought it possible he might even need surgery, though they hadn't said as much yet.
Angela returned with his phone and a smile, repeated as he looked at his cracked screen that she'd be happy to call, but he thanked her and waved her off.
His phone seemed to be working fine and he immediately scrolled over to his photo album where he pulled up photos of you. Photos of the two of you together, you making a silly face at the camera and him with a toothy smile on his face as he looked down at you. Happy.
He felt suddenly very stupid for how he'd handled everything. Wished he'd listened to you when you asked him why he seemed to be sabotaging the one good thing in his life.
The answer was that he didn't think he deserved anything good, least of all, you. He was destined to a miserable life and a miserable death and he had no desire to bring you down with him.
But looking at this photo, it was becoming more and more clear to him that you had changed him. He thought he was destined for tragedy, but you'd rewritten his ending. Only he'd been much too stupid to see it.
Eventually, he worked up the courage to call you, not expecting you to answer. As the phone rang he could picture you in your pajama set, sleepytime tea on your nightstand and Brutus curled up in your lap as you stared at the caller ID with rage in your eyes.
But you surprised him. You picked up after just three rings.
"Hello?" You sounded a bit breathless and a lot confused.
"Hi."
"Michael?" He closed his eyes at the sound of his name, always so sweet from your mouth, "What's wrong? Where are you?"
"Why are you assuming something's wrong?"
"Because I haven't heard from you in weeks," You said bitterly, "And I can hear beeping monitors in the background and I know you're not at work because Abbot told me you left for your sabbatical days ago."
"So you've been asking about me?" He said, teasing lilt to his voice.
You sighed, "Michael, so help me, I will hang up this phone—"
"Alright, okay, sorry, sorry, you're right," He ran a hand over his face, "I'm sorry—I—I'm in an emergency room in Chicago and I just wanted to hear your voice."
"Why are you in an emergency room?" He could tell you were fighting to keep your voice level from how slowly you asked the question.
"I totaled the bike," He scratched at his beard, "I was driving too late and I was tired and a car drifted into my lane and I swerved and went into a guardrail."
"Oh my God—Fuck—Are you—Are you alright?"
"Yeah, I have some pretty bad road rash and think maybe my leg's broken—" He heard movement on the other end of the phone, "What're you doing?"
"Packing." You said matter of factly, "If I leave now I should get to Chicago by morning."
He felt his eyes burn immediately. That after everything you'd still go to him without hesitation. Again, he felt that pang in his chest, that overwhelming ache that said he didn't deserve you.
"You shouldn't drive this late," Was all he said, swallowing past the lump in his throat.
"Please," You said dismissively, "Do you need anything from your house? I can stop on my way."
"Sweetheart, I'm—I'm so sorry for leaving. You were right, you're the only thing that matters and I thought I didn't deserve it—Deserve you and so I ran away. I'm a coward. And I don't expect you to forgive me, but I'll beg for it anyway. I love you so much and I just want to be with you, if you'll still have me."
There was silence on the other line and then a soft sigh, "You're on so many drugs right now, aren't you?"
"What? No—Well, yes, but that's not why—"
"We can talk about it in a few days when you're not high out of your mind. Do you need anything from your house?" You repeated it like you were talking to a petulant toddler and he felt stupid again. He hadn't considered what this would look like to you. And yes, his accident had forced him to confront what he was actually doing and feeling, but that didn't make it less true. He'd known he loved you long before he left, long before you even said it. He thought he'd likely been a little bit in love with you since med school.
Your caution was understandable, though, so he wouldn't push.
"No," He said finally, "No, thanks. But would you mind sharing your location with me since you insist on driving through the night? Would make me feel better if I can follow along."
"Sure," you said, and he heard the way your voice softened at his concern, "Goodnight, Michael."
For a moment, time seemed to crunch like an accordian and he was back in med school, your voice in his ear in the middle of the night, asking for his forgiveness. He felt a bit fuzzy at the edges.
"Goodnight, Bambi." He murmured and his phone slipped from his hand.
***
Michael was asleep when you got to the hospital and had been admitted to Ortho upstairs for surgery.
Your emotions were all over the place, but seeing him in a hospital bed, a bit bloodied up and hooked up to monitors, you felt your defenses falling. You wanted to be angry with him, but how could you be? When you had been so close to losing him for good?
As you got closer, you noted that he'd let his beard and hair grow out a bit longer since the last you saw him. It made him appear softer. You had been pleased before he left when his cheeks began to fill out a bit having made him eat properly since you began dating. That weight was still there, if not as obvious as before.
The rush of affection that filled you upon seeing him was nearly suffocating.
As you pulled up a chair to his bedside, he began to wake and you smiled at him with watery eyes, "Hi."
He smiled back and reached a hand out for you which you immediately took and brought to your lips.
"I'm sorry," He said immediately, but you dismissed him with a shake of your head.
"What did the doctor say? Why do you need surgery?"
"It's… shattered. The bike fell on it, crushed my leg. Have to screw it all back together."
You frowned as he grimaced, "Are you in pain? Let me go get a nurse—"
You stood to go, but he wrapped a hand around your wrist, "No, no, don't. I asked them to… take me off the meds."
You stared at him, mouth agape, "Why would you do something like that?"
"So that I could tell you how in love with you I am with a clear head."
You nearly laughed, "Michael Robinavitch, have you lost your goddamn mind?"
"You said we should wait," He shook his head, "I don't want you to go another second thinking that I don't love you."
Your eyes watered, but you shook your head, "It's gonna take a lot longer than you saying it once for me to trust you again."
"I know that," He grimaced again, "I just wanted to say it now."
You brought a hand to his cheek and scratched lightly along his jaw, "Can I go grab a nurse now if you're done with the dramatics?"
He smirked and nodded and you hid a grin as you stood and walked from the room.
It was a day or two after surgery that Robby was finally cleared to go home with you. On the way home, high on pain meds, Robby read The Princess Bride to you in his silly voices to keep you entertained.
At home, you set him up in bed with strict instructions to Brutus to keep him company while you made him food.
And slowly, the two of you settled back into the usual rhthym. He told you he loved you many times a day. Even when he didn't say it, he'd run his fingers over the tattoo on your wrist, or say something just to make you laugh. He watched you with an expression on his face that you'd never seen before and when you asked if something was wrong, he shook his head, said "Everything's perfect."
As he got back on his feet, you took slow walks to and from the park, fed the birds. Robby even downloaded an app on his phone that could identify the birds by thsid song. His face would light up with joy whenever the app told him a bird he didn't recognize was around.
Life was quiet and peaceful and love found a way to fill every crack and crevice in each of your hearts.
A year later, when Robby's leg had healed entirely, when the only pain was used to predict the rain, was when he asked you.
"Sweetheart?" Your head was in his lap on the sofa, you watching TV while he did a crossword. You hummed in response so he knew you were listening, "I've been thinking and I think it's time I put my house up for sale."
You sat up slowly and looked at him. Your eyes instantly scanning for deception.
Robby was a great roommate. He was pretty handy and so could usually fix most minor wear and tear problems without having to call in an expert. He took care of Brutus and the plants. He loved gardening with you. He never let the chores go too long without being done. Always washed the toilet because he knew it was your least favorite chore.
You had no qualms about living with him. But you always assumed, even though most of you had grown to trust him again, that he'd keep his house as a backup plan. It was realistic, you told yourself. Relationships all had expiration dates.
"Really?"
He nodded, "The last year I've only ever gone home to to make sure nobody's broken in. I've moved everything I use here already. My clothes, my toiletries, my tools, my books, my records—everything's here. It's a waste, don't you think?"
You opened and closed your mouth, ran your fingers absently over the tattoo on your wrist, "What if… What if we fight and you want space?"
He shrugged, "I don't think that would happen, but I could always get a hotel for a night. I still have the cabin in the mountains."
You swallowed and looked down at your hands, "If we break up you'll hate me because you sold your house."
You felt the couch shift as he sat up and took your hands, "If we broke up, I could never hate you. Besides, this is my decision. You didn't pressure me into it. I also figured this way it was only fair that I start helping out with the bills here. Now, if me permanently moving in feels like too big of a step to you—"
"No," You said quickly, "No, I want you to. I love having you here, it's been…" You shook your head, "It's been the best year of my life."
He smiled and brought your hands up to his lips, "Mine too."
And as the two of you talked over a bottle of wine about the logistics of moving the remainder of his things into your house and calling realtors and what you should do with the extra money (Should you travel? Put it into retirement?) it was like the final piece of your previously shattered heart was glued back into place.
Before Michael, you often wondered if you were too picky. If your standards were too high as your mother loved to tell you and that's why you'd end up a spinster. Alone and bitter, always denied the one thing you wanted and craved most in the world: love and companionship.
But as you and Michael talked late into the night and fell asleep in each other's arms, you knew you'd been right to wait.
You couldn't rush soulmates and you would've waited forever and a day if it meant you got to know love like this. Luckily for you, you'd only had to wait twenty something years for Robby to realize he was in love with you. In the face of forever, it was a blink of an eye. And for that, you'd thank the sun and the moon and all the stars every day for the rest of your life.
summary: the new nurse in the pitt has caught jacks attention.
content: fluff, hurt/comfort, yearning, protective jack, age gap, miscommunication, slow burn, he snaps at you, descriptions of reader injury/blood, mentions of abuse (patient)
wc: 10.5k
note: this is my first fic, enjoy :))
masterlists
You desperately wanted to make a good first impression on your first shift at PTMC.
The universe had a different idea, with your plan actively unravelling.
You’re new to Pittsburgh, and unfamiliar with the notorious unreliability of the public transport system, causing you to be 45 minutes late and frantically running from the nearest bus stop into the emergency department.
This is your worst nightmare. You picture everyone looking at you as you walk in, silently judging. Hating the feeling of eyes on you. You’re definitely flushed red in the face, your bag being packed to the brim with items you certainly do not need weighing you down, cursing yourself for packing so heavy.
While running through the entrance of the ER, you’re barely looking where you’re going and end up colliding with a chest, solid and unmoving you almost mistake him for a wall. You stumble a little, losing your footing and almost fall backwards over your own feet.
Warm hands on your shoulder steady you, preventing the horrific embarrassment.
“Oh fuck, I’m so sorry– I didn’t even see you,” your voice is frantic and apologetic, worried you’ve already made an enemy and you hadn’t even started your shift.
A deep, gravelly voice cuts through to you, grounding your panicked state.
“Hey, kid– easy, easy. You’re okay.” His voice is instantly calming. “You our new nurse?” he asks gently, while his hands slip to your arms, fully stabilising you.
You settle down quickly, gathering yourself and finally looking up at him, nodding after a while realising he asked you a question.
He’s incredibly attractive.
The first thing that you notice about him is how big he is. He’s taller than you and so broad, forming a literal wall between you and the ER in this moment, no wonder you crashed into him. He stands so close to you that you have to lift your head to look up at him as he towers over you with a gentle, concerned look. Butterflies twist in your stomach.
You swallow thickly, nerves returning as you realise you probably fucked this impression up by remaining silent and gawking at this man.
Collecting yourself, “Uh– yes! That’s me–” you stumble over your words internally cringing, “I’m so sorry about being late, it won't happen again.”
He chuckles quietly, finding your flustered state incredibly cute, and extends a hand to you.
You notice the size of his arms, his veins, his hands– oh, you’ve got to stop thinking like this. You’re so fucked.
“Dr. Abbot, nice to meet ya, kid.” His voice is low and gravelly, stirring your stomach. “But don’t let it happen again.” His voice is firm, making your insides flip and guilt rises within you.
“No, no of course not. I promise. I’ll be 45 minutes early every day!” Your voice is laced with guilt and you avoid his eyes, whilst shaking his hand, feeling like you’ve already failed before starting.
“Jesus, kid, breathe.” He chuckles, mouth twitching in amusement. “You’re apologising like you hit me with your car.” He soothes, smirking a little at how easily his teasing had gotten to you.
He watches your face fall in relief, and you let out a small, shy laugh. Still holding onto your hand a second longer, it's hard for him not to notice how incredibly soft your hands are in his, how untouched by cruelty, unlike his rough, calloused hands. Something protective stirs in Jack, confusing him, but a drive to keep you safe, keep you soft takes root in him. He needs to ensure this place doesn’t ruin you, doesn’t cause you to burn out like he's seen time-and-time again with nurses and doctors.
“I’m really not usually this much of a disaster– well, most of the time.” You laugh shakily.
You notice his intense stare, like he’s studying you, makes you squirm under his gaze. Your eyes flick down where your hands are still joined, you notice the sheer size difference, how his hand completely engulfs yours. You go to pull away, when he brings a second hand to cup your hand, completely engulfing it, before he pulls away entirely. Your breath hitches, trying to stave off any completely inappropriate thoughts,
Dr. Abbot tilts his head towards central, signalling to meet him there once you’re settled.
“Oh– and, kid?” He drawls, eying your bag as you head towards the lockers.
“We do have supplies here, I promise.” he teases, but his voice is soft and amused, referring to your massively overpacked bag, watching heat flood your face and you nod, completely embarrassed.
Jack watches you scuttle away, shaking his head and chuckling to himself, but his mind is elsewhere, how you were looking at him so shyly, your wide doe eyes ingrained in his mind. Imagining your eyes after kissing you, those eyes looking up at him when– Fuck. This is so unlike him.
Approaching central, he sees Lena and Shen talking in hushed voices. He chooses not to entertain their shenanigans, just crossing his arms and staring up at the patient board, but he catches Lena’s fierce stare in his periphery, alongside Shen’s smirk.
“Stay away from my nurses, Abbot. She’s clearly a good kid.” She scolds, her tone firm and motherly. He can feel her eyes shooting daggers at him.
Jack doesn’t look away from the board, smirking a little.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” His voice is low and equally amused, shaking his head gently. “Just being friendly.”
Shen scoffs, “Yeah? Friendly? You look like you wanted to eat her.”
Jack tenses a little going to defend himself before Lena’s sweet voice interrupts him. She walks past Jack making her way towards you where you had emerged from the lockers and placing a protective hand on your shoulder.
“There ya are, honey. I’m Lena, your charge nurse. C’mon, let us give ya a tour, get a lay of the land, yeah?”
During the tour, you notice Abbot seems to never stray too far from you. Always directly behind you, his hand hovering over the small of your back whenever the halls get crowded, ready to move you if needed.
Surely it's just friendly, you tell yourself.
You hope otherwise.
───────
True to your words, you’re never late again.
Always early to every shift, settled down and working by the time Jack clocks in. But he notices since you’re starting to be early, you get closer and closer with Robby, and it wouldn’t bother him, if you’d at least show the same fondness for him.
Every shift, you avoid interacting with Dr. Abbot at all. You tell yourself it's necessary, you can’t let yourself fall for an attending, despite how flustered, frankly, just warm all over, he makes you feel. You love watching him work, his competency and confidence as he works allures you. Especially in trauma cases, when he barks orders to his residents, you imagine him telling you what to do, when to do it, how to do it, guiding you.
However, during a particular trauma, you were meant to be in the background, watching and learning. But you couldn’t stop watching Abbot’s hands work with such fine precision, the way they flex, the veins popping out. You get lost in your head staring at how big they are, how they’d feel cupping your face, your neck, inside you–
That’s when you decided, for your own well being, but most importantly your work, you couldn’t be around him.
From then on, if you needed anything, you went to anyone and everyone, to avoid speaking to Abbot. Even if he was right there, and asking if you needed anything, you’d go quiet, and your quiet, meek voice dismisses him, “Oh, uh, I’m okay, thank you.” Before you turn and scuttle off in the complete opposite direction, towards Shen.
It bugs him.
How you avoid him, how easily you laugh and joke with Robby, or how you always go to Shen for questions or help.
Jack watches right now, as you laugh freely with Robby, gazing up at him as if you’re hanging on to every word. Gazing at him like he hung the moon. He feels an ugly feeling crawling up his throat, and doesn't want to admit jealousy. He’s not jealous. He’s not. He simply wishes you'd talk to him, with those wide, round doe eyes, smiling shyly and getting you to fall apart with the simplest of words and touches.
He’s so lost in his own head, he doesn’t notice Robby walking by ready to leave for the day.
“You got a good one there, brother, might steal her from the dark side if you’re not careful.” Robby jokes in passing, leaving Jack completely stunned. His eye twitches and his breath stops.
No.
His gaze flickers up to you across the ER, your sweet laugh cutting through the air.
You’re his.
───────
Admittedly, you’re making it very hard to make you his.
You’re almost too polite with him. A small, “good evening,” greeting when he comes in, a simple, “see you tomorrow, boss,” whenever you head out. You’re impossible to get time alone with.
Every time he catches you walking down the hall, jogging to catch up to you, asking you how your night is, you get all quiet. You don’t even look at him beyond a polite glance, your smile is tight and professional. Nodding before dipping into the closest room to get away.
He sighs, thinking you could be so focused on your work you may not want to entertain small talk. But he knows that’s not it, seeing how you laugh every time Shen or Ellis make jokes as you walk with them in the hallway.
So he tries to talk to you when you’re not as busy, just charting.
Jack’s leaning against the counter at central, pretending to be looking at the patient board, but his eyes keep drifting over to you, thinking of ways to get you to talk to him.
He watches the way you pout while charting, your brows pulled tight in concentration, and has the sudden urge to smooth the crease between them with his thumb. He wants to gently scold you for mindlessly chewing at the tip of your pen whilst you work, to take his hand and brush the hair covering your face behind your ear–
His body takes him over to your desk before his mind catches up with him, a seemingly magnetic pull driving him to your side.
He slots himself beside you, a hand over the back of your chair, leaning down to look at your screen.
“Oh– Dr. Abbot!” you startle, being caught off guard.
Your mouth dries and your heart rate ticks like a rabbit, having him so close. His face is so close to yours, you don’t turn your head, you can’t. You can hear his breathing, can smell his cologne at this distance. Your mind reels.
He can smell you too. Caramel and vanilla.
The proximity alone has your stomach flipping, his hand behind you becoming an oddly domestic, claiming gesture. Placing a hand on your back, his voice is gentle, low when he speaks.
“This is good stuff, kid, keep it up.”
His praise sends a jolt down your spine and your face reddens instantly. He can feel you twitch under his hand.
You dip your head, hiding your red face and mumble a quick, breathless, “Uh– thank you, Dr. Abbot.”
He watches you fidget, uncomfortable from the praise. Laughing quietly, before removing his hand.
You’re so shy. Shy with him. Oh.
But then you flee, almost running in the opposite direction, and his mind reels. Maybe he’s read this all wrong.
───────
He concludes after a few more nights of avoidance that maybe you just want nothing to do with him at all.
He keeps his distance, returning your polite greetings, but he hates it. The night shift is supposed to flow, be light and less stressful. Jack's spent so long cultivating an environment where people feel free to laugh, ask questions, not be afraid of getting things wrong.
Now you’re here and he’s all confused. He wants you to enter the stream but it feels like wading against a river trying to figure out what to do differently for you.
He decides to just ask. He approaches you during your break one night.
You’re sat in the break room scrolling mindlessly whilst poking at your food.
His quiet, tired voice cuts through.
“S’alright if I join ya?”
You’d been too tired, too into your phone you hadn’t noticed him come in. Nodding fervently you allow him to sit opposite you, his tone of voice sounding different than it does most nights, almost resigned. You actually look at him properly, concerned.
“Listen, kid. I just wanna apologise if I’ve ever done anything to make ya uncomfortable, yeah?” His eyes meet yours, intense and serious.
You pause.
Uncomfortable?
Fuck.
You were avoiding him so much he thought you didn't like him, made you uncomfortable. Your eyes widen in panic, head shaking rapidly putting your phone and fork down immediately.
“No, god, no. You’ve never– that’s not it–” Stop rambling, you tell yourself. Swallowing, taking a deep breath, you realise you need to get over yourself. “M’sorry for the way I’ve been acting. It's not you.” Your voice is quiet, avoiding his eyes.
He tilts his head down to try and meet yours again, concern on his face. His voice is so soft, when he says,
“You sure, kid? You can tell me–”
You shake your head again, cutting him off.
“You make me nervous.” You blurt out in one panicked breath. You squeeze your eyes shut in embarrassment and literally bring your head to the table, groaning.
Abbot lets out a quiet chuckle, amused.
“Honey, hey, look at me.” He coaxes trying to get you to stop wallowing in embarrassment. “Please?”
You lift your head slightly, hands covering your face, peeking at him through your fingers. He’s smiling, like this is funny to him, like you didn’t completely ruin everything–
“S’okay.” His expression softens, voice gentler now. “You never gotta be nervous around me, you hear me?”
Oh.
He misunderstood, thinking you mean nervous of his authority. You can work with that, you haven’t entirely humiliated yourself.
Your hands drop from your face, blush still evident on your cheeks and a shy smile creeps up. You nod in affirmation to his words letting out a deep breath.
“I want you to come to me as well, for anything. Not just Shen, Lena, or Robby. Me.” His inflection on Robby’s name confuses you and makes you giggle a little.
The sound awakens something within Jack, without thinking, he leans over placing a hand over yours where it rests on the table.
“I mean it. Anything.”
───────
He notices how you don’t run from him anymore, don’t push him away, let him exist within your space.
You’re still nervous most of the time, but you push it away, and he’s proud. He wants you to come out of your shell with him.
One evening, Lena calls you into North 7 for a debridement, knowing how much you love mindless, repetitive tasks. It unwinds your brain, picking out thousands of tiny pieces of gravel and debris from a patient's leg, letting you let go and not have to worry about doing something wrong.
You’re about halfway through, the only thing heard in the room is the slow hum of the patient's monitor, and Lena tidying up a cart nearby, when you hear the door open.
You frown, not enjoying having been disturbed and the loud, chaos sound of the ER filters through the door. You keep your attention laser focused onto the patient, until you hear his familiar, gentle voice, checking in.
“All good in here?”
You hesitate, stopping your motions for the first time since you started, before lifting your head up and looking at Dr. Abbot, leaning against the doorframe. Your breath hitches as you make eye contact, his focus entirely on you, not the patient. His head is tilted, and his eye contact is intense, making you nervous.
Lena scoffs to herself. Checking in, my ass.
“Mhm.” Your sweet voice hums in affirmation, the only thing you can manage to verbalise at the moment.
Lena pauses from tidying up the cart, turning raising an eyebrow at you, oh god not you too.
“Good. Can always count on ya to keep things moving smoothly, can’t I, sweetheart?” His voice is sweet, almost cooing.
You’re starstruck. Sweetheart.
You blink, unable to respond, but he’s already leaving with a smug, self-assured smile like he accomplished his goal. You swallow, unable to stop the smile spreading on your face, ducking your head to hide your flushed, red face from Lena.
Walking down the hall, he recalls how much the praise got to you when he complimented your charting, and watching you now?
The knowledge that praise gets to you so much?
Wrecks him.
He feels a sense of power, knowing how much he can get you to fall apart from a few words.
───────
The closer he gets, the more he observes your interactions with everyone else. You’re just as shy and nervous with everyone too. A quiet little thing.
During shift change over one morning, a few night shift and day shift nurses and doctors are gathered gossiping about a particularly rowdy patient you had that night.
You’re off to the side, included, but just about. He notices that's always the position you take, included just enough, but never in the centre, never leading, and never actively involved. He thinks maybe you just like to listen, observe, feeling more comfortable for you like that knowing how shy you are.
He frowns, because the rowdy patient they’re on about? You were the only nurse working with him. He wasn’t dangerous by any means, he was strapped to the bed. Jack would never let you in a room with a patient that’s a danger to your safety.
But the group were already feeding the rumour mill, exaggerating the patients words and actions. He watches you from the corner of his eye where he’s leaning against the counter with a pen in hand, stopping his writing to watch.
He wants you to speak up, correct them, and join in.
He watches your eyes dart around the group, you lick your lips, breathing becoming shallower. You’re assessing for the right time to jump in. You’re so nervous to speak up, his heart aches.
And when you try? You’re so quiet, no one even noticed. Immediately you were cut off.
He watches you blink, swallowing in embarrassment before collecting yourself as if you hadn’t even spoken, smiling along.
His heart breaks.
You’re used to this, being spoken over always happens, you’re just too quiet sometimes, better at one-on-one interactions, not groups. Though you’re a little stung, you push it away, familiar with the feeling. Sighing, you slip into your coat before silently taking your leave.
Just before you can head through the exit doors, he catches up with you.
“Hold up, kid.” You hear him jogging slowly behind you.
You turn, smiling at him, he can see the tiredness and hurt in your eyes even if you’re trying to hide it.
“You leaving without saying goodbye?” he teases lightly, his expression incredibly soft.
You dip your head shyly,
“Didn’t think anyone would notice.” You mumble, trying to laugh it off.
His brows scrunch, a displeased look on his face, almost offended.
“I notice.”
His words are so final, so real. You just stare at him with a vulnerable expression. His words heal something deep, knowing someone cares about your presence. You’re speechless.
He places a hand on your back guiding you outside, noticing your hesitance.
“C’mon. Let me walk ya to your bus stop, you can tell me about the rowdy patient, yeah?”
You nod shyly, trying not to let your eyes well up from his care. It’s a short distance, the sky brightening as you both walk. He’s silent and attentive, actively listening to every word you tell him, like they’re the most important words ever.
When you reach the stop you turn to thank him, but before you can he speaks first.
“Hey. M’proud of ya, for speaking up in there.”
You give him a little confused look shaking your head.
“It didn’t really feel like I did.” You laugh awkwardly, embarrassed to revisit the moment knowing he was watching.
“You did. I’ll always listen, whatever you wanna talk about, yeah?” Your chest tightens painfully at the sincerity in his voice. You can only nod, suddenly too affected to trust your own voice.
“G’night, sweetheart” He drapes an arm around your shoulder squeezing you before letting you board.
On the way home, your head mulls over his words, settling on one detail.
He’s proud.
───────
Being around Abbot so much recently is fucking with you, to say the least.
His constant praise at your actions, you begin expecting and waiting for it. Every time he’s within your vicinity, you wait for his gentle but ragged voice ushering praise.
“Good catch, sweetheart.”
“Don’t know what I’d do without ya.”
“Jesus, you really make my life easier, y’know that?”
And he always delivers.
Aside from the praise, he’s incredibly attentive and observant, knowing what you need exactly when you need it. Encouraging breaks any time he sees you get overwhelmed during the night, telling you to drink water, take a breather.
But he’s also so patient with you, like no one's ever been. With him, you begin to unlearn your fear of being judged for saying the wrong thing, acting the wrong way, because he never judges.
Tonight is no different.
You’re in central 7 with Dr. Ellis, with a very panicked, frantic mother and her daughter. Her child is only around 6 years old, clearly withdrawn and quiet. Her mother explains to Dr. Ellis how she’d been bathing her daughter that evening, when she found a large bruise on the daughter’s back and legs, suspecting her husband’s abusing her.
You immediately make eye contact with Ellis, silently signalling that you’ll call Kiara, the hospital social worker. But before you can step out to do so, a large, loud and drunk man barges through the door, angry.
He’s unsteady on his feet, eyes directly narrowing onto his wife, before pushing past you and immediately going to yell at her.
“You bitch! You have NO right bringing our daughter here without my permission–” He yells spit flying out of his mouth, alcohol clearly on his breath
“Sir–” Ellis tries to calm him down, placing a hand on his shoulder which he shrugs off.
“No!” He shrugs her off
“Your permission?” The mother yells back, cutting him off in disbelief. “You’re laying your fucking hands on my kid and you think I’m gonna let you be near her?” She’s defensive, shrill, adrenaline thrumming through her.
The yelling gets to you admittedly, you’re never good whenever patients of their families raise their voices. They carry on, Ellis begging for them to keep it civil or he will be removed by security
The door opens swiftly with Dr. Abbot and a night shift security guard filtering through to de-escalate.
Drowning it all out, trying to not let it affect you, you turn your attention to the little girl on the bed, all hunched up scared of her parents yelling. You turn her towards you telling her to focus on you. You just try to distract her in any way possible, asking her questions about school, her friends, her hobbies. It works a little, her tiny voice whispering over her parents yells.
The father is finally removed, and the air to the room returns, silence taking over.
“It’s alright, you’re okay.” You comfort the girl placing a comforting hand on her shoulder, testing it beforehand to see if she pulls away.
Jack turns to you then, really looking at you. The way you’re so gentle with the girl, how your focus was on her comfort during her parents screaming match. God, he admires you. But he also picks up on your tense shoulders, the way your breathing is unsettled, your face is tighter than normal.
You step back once the mother sits by the daughter’s side comforting her, you don't realise you walk back into Jack’s hand, which now rests on the small of your back. He leans closer to you dipping down to speak into your ear,
“Go take a breather, yeah?” His voice is soft, gentle.
You look up at him to convince him you’re fine, you don’t need a break. But the look in his eyes is stern, pleading: do not fight me on this.
───
Jack finds you around 5 minutes later in the stairwell, you seem to just be sitting there lost in your own head.
He approaches slowly, groaning as he sits next to you on the stairs, your shoulders touching. He speaks first,
“You did really well there – with the girl.” He nudges your leg with his as he praises you, trying to cheer you up. You can tell he’s looking at you from the corner of your eye but you keep your eyes on your lap. Pedes cases always got to you.
“She shouldn’t have had to hear that.” Your voice is quiet, unsteady. Swallowing down the lump in your throat, but the tears build in your eyes anyways. You dip your head down further trying to hide.
“Hey, sweetheart.” His voice softens, his hand settling on your knee. “Talk to me?” His voice is begging.
You lift your head to look at him, drying your eyes. “It’s stupid, really.” You shake your head quickly, trying to laugh through it. “I just don’t handle yelling very well.”
“Yeah. I thought so, honey.” His thumb rubs back and forth over your knee, comforting you. “That’s not on you.” His voice is gentler now.
“I feel ridiculous.” You wipe quickly under your eyes. “I should be able to handle it better by now.” Insecurity laces your words at breaking down like this in front of an attending.
“No.” His response is immediate, firm but gentle. “Don’t start thinkin’ the answer is makin’ yourself colder.” He aches at the prospect of you removing the brightest parts of yourself, to dim your light to handle the harshness of the world. Absolutely not. He wants to shield you, be the barrier between people's cruelty and your soft, gentle heart.
Your shiny eyes meet his, vulnerability flashing through them. Without even thinking he brings his thumb to brush a stray tear from your cheek. He watches your eyes flutter close and your breath hitching at the gesture, his heart leaping.
“Take as much time as ya need. Come find me at the end of the day, I’ll take you home, yeah?” His voice grumbles, sending a jolt through you.
Your eyes open ready to protest, you can’t possible accept a ride from him, thats asking too much–
“Ah, ah, I’m not taking no for an answer.” He smirks before standing and heading back out to the ER.
───
Before your shift ended that same day, you had asked Lena to show you how to work the medicine cabinet as you’d had trouble returning a vial earlier in your shift.
The day shift starts to filter through whilst Lena is describing the steps to take, making you distracted.
You see Dr. Abbot in your periphery down the hall, talking to another nurse, one you had never seen before, most likely on the day shift.
She’s gorgeous.
She stands tall, confident and makes him laugh. Nothing like you.
Your heart aches, as you stare unapologetically, completely drowning out Lena’s voice. You watch as he also dips his head to catch her eyes, how he touches her arm, how charming he is.
It feels like your heart gave out and fell into an endless pit. Eyes flickering away slowly, realising your hope that the way he treated you was special, is just his charm. His naturally flirtatious personality.
God you’re so stupid.
Lena sighs, shaking her head before closing the cabinet and turning to you, sensing your distraction and sadness.
“Hun, you don’t wanna go down that route.” Her voice is firm, but motherly. Like she’s truly trying to protect you, not wanting you to get hurt.
Your head snaps over to her wide eyed and panicked having been caught.
“Oh– no it’s not like that.” you laugh awkwardly, embarrassed but your excuse is weak and she sees through it instantly. Placing a hand on your back and directing you away from the hallway before you get in your head any longer.
“Trust me, hun. I’ve been around long enough to know, men like him don’t realise the effect they have on girls like you.”
Your brows furrow at her words, girls like me? You reach the lockers before she hits the final blow.
“You’re young, go on dates. Don’t pine over old men like him, you’ll only get hurt.”
She walks off, leaving you speechless. You gather your things, mulling over her words. Is she right? Have you been misreading everything, pining over a man who’s naturally charming and kind to everyone?
You’d completely forgotten Dr. Abbots offer to take you home by the time you’re walking out of the doors. Your mind is only repeating her words and reevaluating all of Abbot’s actions towards you, trying to search for when you’d started to misinterpret things.
Jack frowns watching your hunched up form walking out of the ER from where he stands and talks to Ruby. He excuses himself from the conversation, trying to catch up with you before you leave, but you’re already down the street by the time he’s at the door.
───────
Just as he thought he was making progress, the rug is pulled from under him, and you’re colder than ever.
You’re distant with everyone, clipped greetings and polite words the only things you mutter during your shifts. He watches how you avoid groups, but more importantly, how much harder you’ve been working.
You’ve doubled your workload, trying to forget your feelings by distracting yourself. Always with a patient, never sitting down and charting, avoiding your colleagues asking you what’s wrong. Or, avoiding where Dr. Abbot could find you and make you fall for him all over again.
He notices how you’re no longer early to your shifts, just right on time, jumping straight into cases. Whenever he tries to coax you into slowing down and taking breaks, you brush him off, refusing to admit you need them. But he notices the bags under your eyes, you’re pushing yourself too much and he hates it, he can’t help and it’s hurting him.
But he also notices how late you stay. As you no longer chart during the day, you spend 3 to 4 hours overtime during the day shift charting. Robby allows it, sensing something going on with you but doesn’t want to overstep. Occasionally, you ask to work doubles, staying to around 1-3pm during the day shifts. It’s completely wrecking your body, but you don’t want to think about anything else except work.
One evening, during shift change before you got to work, Robby pulls Jack aside.
“Hey, brother, I gotta ask.” Robby glances over his shoulder towards the door, checking you hadn’t arrived yet, before lowering his voice. “Somethin’ going on with her lately?”
Jack’s brows furrow instantly, worry clenching at his heart. “Why?”
“She’s running herself into the ground, to put it mildly.” Robby sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “She’s working through till the afternoon, then coming back to do it all again at night. Girl can’t be getting more than a couple hours of sleep.” His expression tightens. “M’worried about her.”
Jack goes still, his stomach dropping.
He noticed, of course he noticed. He just hadn’t realised how bad it’d gotten.
His jaw tightens, hand dragging tiredly across it as he sighs.
“Fuck.” The word leaves him quietly.
“I’ll talk to her.”
───
Later that night, Jack came to find you during a particularly quiet lull around 11pm. He assumes you’d be with a patient, checking with Lena before heading towards south 16. He’s rehearsing his speech to you, over and over.
When he approaches the room, his body stops. He hears you laugh. It’s beautiful, and he doesn’t realise how much it hurt him not hearing you laugh recently.
Rounding the corner he sees you through the glass stitching up a man’s forehead, and you’re blushing. You have that bashed, shy smile as you work, the type that was reserved for Jack. You're standing close to the man from where he sits on the edge of the bed, and he’s looking up at you with desire in his eyes, clearly flirting with you.
He shouldn’t feel jealous, but he does, insecurity clawing at his heart. The man you’re stitching up, he’s definitely closer in age to you than Jack is. He hates the way that fact digs under his skin, the sudden awareness of the years between you two. You’re still soft, bright, and untouched by the world in ways he hasn’t been for too long. He can’t take his eyes off the easy smile you give the man, bitterness twisting low in his chest.
He knows he should leave, but he can’t bring himself to move. Which is why when you turn, putting down the sutures, you see him outside watching you, and your body stills. He watches your face fall, and it hurts him how you’re no longer happy to be around him.
Jack sighs ready to turn and leave, but you excuse yourself from your patient and head outside to catch him.
“Hey–” Your voice is gentle and cautious, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear nervously at Abbot’s expression. “Did you need something?”
Jack’s jaw tightens as he hears your voice, trying to steady himself. This is the first time you’ve chosen to speak to him in ages, and he hates how relieved and conflicted he is right now.
His eyes flicker behind you, to the man in the room sprawled out on the bed scrolling through his phone, and his chest tightens. Possessiveness and insecurity battle within his heart, and he doesn’t even think when he blurts out a cold comment to you.
“Didn’t realise we were entertainin’ patients now.” His voice is clipped, and he regrets it as soon as he says it.
He watches your face fall. Fuck.
Your head shakes rapidly, apologetically.
“I-I’m sorry–” Your voice is meek, he can’t bear that he caused this.
“Just don’t let it happen again.” Jack’s voice is firm, as he walks off. He needs to leave, clearly not in his right mind, he’s hurting you and he’s completely out of line.
───
The way he spoke to you eats him all night, distracting him. He’s completely unfocused during cases, Shen telling him to take a breather during a trauma, get his head right. How is he supposed to make sure you’re okay if he’s also driving you away.
He decides to start small. Around 1am he watches you exit a patient's room, pausing outside leaning against the wall. He can tell you’re exhausted by the way you hold yourself.
He slows as he approaches you, wanting to get you to slow down, take a break. Up close he can see the way your shoulders sag like the weight of the wall is the only thing keeping you together, your undereyes heavy with exhaustion. He can’t remember the last time you sat down.
“Hey– hold up.” His tone is softer, contrasting the way he spoke to you earlier. “You eaten yet?
Your eyes flick towards him briefly, before looking away again.
“M’fine.” You’re short, a little dismissive.
Jack nods awkwardly, he knows he doesn’t deserve your kindness right now.
“It’s quiet, you should take your break–” He tries but you cut him off.
“I said I’m okay.” Though your tone has little real bite behind it, it’s still harsher than he’s ever heard it.
He stills, letting out a deep sigh. The silence between you both hangs in the air thickly. You won’t look at him.
Jack nods, accepting his defeat watching you walk off.
What he doesn’t see is the guilt flooding your face.
───
You need to apologise. He’s your attending and it was extremely unprofessional of you, a nurse, to speak to him that way. Guilt is clawing at your throat and you can’t get rid of it.
You decide that after you finish organising the supply room with Lena, you’ll find him. Explain yourself.
You’re standing on a stepping stool as Lena passes you supplies to restock the shelves with.
“That guy– from earlier? He was a real hottie, hun.” She says while passing you a box of nitrile gloves. Your face scrunches in amusement as you let out a breathy laugh
“That guy who got his head smashed with a beer bottle? Yeah, right. Like I need that kind of trouble in my life right now.” You joke back with Lena about the flirty guy.
“C’mon, you’re young. Live a little! He’s insanely hot, god knows if I was 20 years younger I’d jump his bones–” you cut her off with a real, chesty laugh.
“Lena! You’re married!” You turn towards her with a wide smile.
“I can appreciate beauty when I see it, hun.” She smirks before continuing. “What’s the harm? He’s still here isn’t he? Go get his number, go on dates, have mind blowing sex– just do something to get you outta this slump, y’hear me?”
You sigh whilst organising the top shelf. You don’t want that guy. You want Abbot.
What you didn’t realise was Jack was walking past and heard snippets of the conversation, well, particularly Lena’s grand speech about having mind-blowing sex with the man. He falters in his steps, realising who she’s talking to, who she’s talking about. The ugly, possessive feeling rears within him again. He peeks through the door, watching your face. You’re smiling, like you’re considering it. He can’t handle it. He storms off, childishly slamming the door of the next room he enters, blaming it on the draft.
You jolt at the sudden noise and frown before continuing. “I dunno, Lena.” Your voice is almost sad. “He’s not who I want.”
“You’re still hung up on him, aren’t you, honey?” Her voice is soft, pitying. She watches your sad smile when you nod in affirmation. “M’sorry, hun. It’ll pass, I promise.”
You don’t want it to pass.
───
You can’t seem to find Abbot for the rest of the night, until a trauma comes in around 5:30am forcing you both into the room together.
The EMTs roll the patient in on a gurney as you jog over to Trauma 1, reading off his vitals. Fuck, it’s a kid.
“Pediatric MVC, eight-year-old male, unrestrained passenger. Vehicle rolled twice after being T-boned at a high speed. Drunk driver.” The EMT scoffs.
You begin to glove up as you walk alongside the stretcher, Jack on the other side, his eyes land on you as he actively listens to the EMT, his gaze feels as if he was assessing you.
“Initial GCS was 10 on scene, refrained from intubation. BP 80/52, heart rate 145, satting 92 percent on non-rebreather.”
You watch Abbot nod, cutting through the patient's clothes as Ellis and Shen check current vitals and assess internal injuries. You end up stationed directly behind him, ready to hand him what he needs. But him in action is making you nervous, like he doesn’t want you here.
The EMT cuts in. “Father pronounced dead on scene, mother inbound, no obvious injuries.”
“Decreased breath sounds on the left side, significant bruising across the abdomen and chest. Patient increasingly lethargic.” Abbot begins his assessment. But is being drowned out by an increasingly loud scream from the floor outside the room, his mother arriving.
She rushes to the doors, doctors encourage her to wait outside but she barges in regardless. Her sobs and yells for the doctors to save her son cut through the room, loud and distracting. You take a deep breath at the sound trying to focus, remain unaffected by the scene, present.
Abbot’s jaw tightens as the room erupts around him. The mother’s wailing to his right, monitors beeping rapidly as the boy gets worse, the blood coating his gloves as he presses harder against the kid’s abdomen.
“Pressure’s dropping.”
“BP 78/40.”
“We’re losing him, Abbot.”
Fuck. Each sound and sensation cramming for dominance within his skull, overriding his focus.
And then he glances behind at you, where the station is set up ready for you to hand him things. But you’re spaced out, wide-eyed and pale, clearly overwhelmed by the sounds of the boy crying in pain and grief for his father, the mother’s wailing. Jack’s chest twitches violently. One thing at a time. Save the boy.
“Get her out!” He yells across the room, his voice loud and booming, a couple nurses urge for the mother to wait outside.
But he can’t focus with you standing there looking wrecked, your hands shaking. His focus should be on the boy, not you.
“Gauze.” He commands, a hand outstretched towards you.
Nothing.
The gauze finally hits his hand, a few seconds delayed.
His pulse spikes, the room suddenly feeling too loud. Your presence pressing against the back of his skull.
He snaps.
“I can’t afford hesitation right now.” Jack’s voice cuts sharply across the room, eyes snapping to yours. “If you can’t keep up, leave.”
You feel like you’ve stopped breathing. The room goes painfully quiet, heat rushing to your face instantly at the humiliation.
Your chest feels like it’s caving, shame burning beneath your skin. You swallow hard, blinking rapidly, staving off tears.
You nod once, unable to trust your voice, before stripping off your gloves with trembling fingers backing away from the table.
Another nurse takes over flawlessly, the room continuing like normal around you. You exit the room, tears burning your eyes and threatening to fall.
Lena sees your shaken state from across the room, beginning to make her way over to you. But you duck, scuttling away to lock yourself in the toilet. Needing to break down in private.
You sink against the wall, sliding down until your head rests on your knees.
You know he’s right, you shouldn’t have hesitated. Your throat tightens.
The boy could’ve died because you froze. He still might. For what? Because Abbot didn’t want you near him anymore? Because the sounds of the boys’ mother screaming cracked something open inside of you?
Abbot’s words replay over and over in your head as self-punishment, as you sob into your hands.
───
Jack regrets the words as soon as they leave his mouth.
He watches your face crumple in devastation and it almost knocks the breath from his lungs.
Your teary eyes flicker away, avoiding his fiery gaze. He hates that he’s the one who put those tears there, made you cry. He never wants to be the reason for your pain.
He watches you nod, so meekly it hurts his heart, the tremble in your hands when you pull off your gloves. Every instinct in him screams to go after you. He can’t. He turns back to the table, continuing to work on the boy even more distracted than he was before.
───
You manage to gather yourself not long after, exiting the bathroom and ignoring Lena’s concerned looks, just searching for a simple case to get your mind off what happened. You can hear the chaos continuing in Trauma 1, still working on the boy.
Lena assigns you to a wound debridement, a simple task to recalibrate and gather your thoughts.
You set up your tool table beside you, and you’re lucky your patient isn’t a chatty one. His arm rests on the bed, skin burnt red and white.
You’re utterly exhausted, emotionally spent. Too in your own head to notice how cramped your fingers get around the scalpel.
You try to reposition your grip, but the blade unexpectedly slips from your grasp, falling and slicing a clean gash from your hand down your arm. Pain slices hot and immediate.
“Shit–”
The scalpel clatters into the tray as blood begins to well. Your vision blurs for half a second, before you jerk back sharply, hissing from the sudden pain
“Oh shit you okay, lady?” You hear the patient ask, but you’re already halfway out the room, asking Matteo to finish your case before entering an empty room to sort yourself out.
“God fucking damn it, piece of shit–” You curse violently, voice breaking, trying to hold back tears yet again, whilst setting up the equipment you need to clean your cut.
Your heart beats violently, embarrassed at fucking up yet another thing. Abbot cannot know, he cannot have another thing to chew you out over.
You’re not that lucky.
“Hey, listen, I wanted to say that– what the fuck?” Jack’s voice is shocked when he glances down at your bleeding arm from where he stands at the door.
Your head whips around immediately, eyes wide and panicked but you don’t speak or move. Fear wraps around your heart knowing you’re going to get scolded for being distracted, getting yourself hurt, or creating unnecessary paperwork for the hospital.
The sight of your bleeding arm disturbs him. But what hurts more is the way you look at him, wrecked and terrified, like a child that just got caught for doing something wrong, more worried about his reaction than the fact you’re hurt. He shakes his head stepping inside fully making his way to you.
“Sit.” He commands, his voice tight, clipped.
Your breath hitches at his tone, interpreting it as annoyance for having to deal with this, but you do as he says, not wanting to make things worse.
“You don’t have to–” You attempt to say you’re fine, you don’t need help, it’s a small cut. But when you look into his eyes, you pause, there’s something softer behind them, concern.
“Yeah. I do.” His voice is gentle and strained like it pains him you’re trying to hide your hurt.
You watch his face as he washes out your cut and stops the bleeding. You can’t read him. He avoids your eyes, focusing solely on your injury, you watch as he clenches his jaw and swallows.
He can’t look into your eyes again, the broken teary look you’re adorning right now would completely break him. He feels your pulse thrumming from where he holds your wrist, shaky breaths like you’re trying not to cry in front of him.
“This’ll sting–” He warns gently before bringing a cold disinfectant wipe to your cut. He cleans it so gently, so carefully, you realise how much you’ve missed him. His touch, his care, his smell.
You hiss slightly at the alcohol stinging, and he quickly retracts, gaze flicking to meet yours worried.
“I’ve got you.” He coos, rubbing a thumb back and forth against your hand, avoiding your injury. “You’re alright, sweetheart.”
His soft tone breaks the flood gate, tears flowing freely and you sob. Hard.
“M’so sorry.” Your voice breaks, blurting out apologies, as you try to catch your breath. “I’m sorry, please–”
His heart shatters at the sound, immediately setting the wipes down and cupping your face.
“Hey– No. No, honey. Don’t.” His warm hands ground you, wiping the tears as they fall. He can’t stand the sight of you falling apart in front of him.
You shake your head. “I keep fucking up–” you whisper brokenly, your expression apologetic.
“God, c’mere.” He coos bringing your head to his chest rubbing his hand on your back. “You got nothin’ to apologise for, y’hear me?
His chest aches at your cries, knowing he led you to this, knowing he hurt such a sweet girl. His sweet girl.
“I shoulda never yelled at ya, it weren’t right.” His voice vibrates through your body against him, sniffling into his chest. “You get that? You did nothing wrong, baby.”
Baby.
He pulls back cupping your face again, eyes intense and searching. Searching for something in your eyes that tells him you understand him, that you know you didn’t do anything wrong.
“Is he– is the kid–” You choke out, genuinely terrified that your slip-up had cost the kid his life, and had cost the mother losing both loves of her lives on the same night.
Jack shakes his head quickly, dismissing your worry. “He’s good, he’s stable. Dontcha worry about that. I let shit get to me, yeah? Not on you.”
You sniffle, breathing jagged as you settle down. The kid will be okay. Abbot isn’t mad at you. His hand lifts from your cheek to smooth down your hair on your forehead, tucking it backwards. Looking at you like you're precious.
Unexpectedly, he brings his forehead to rest on yours, whispering:
“I never wanna make you feel like that.” His voice wavers slightly, but you notice. “Never again.”
You stop breathing at his proximity. Realisation crashing down at how stupid you’d been to avoid him all this time, to let insecurity overrun your thoughts. His lips are so close to yours.
“Jack–” You practically whimper his name.
His breath hitches, searching your eyes before leaning in slowly.
He presses a small kiss to the corner of your mouth, testing.
Instinctively, you turn your head towards his lips.
You both pause, staring at each other and breathing heavily. He watches as you dart your tongue out, licking your lips nervously, and he breaks.
He crashes his lips to yours.
It’s hungry, full of apology, and devotion. He brings a hand to cup the back of your head, deepening the kiss. Electric sparks fly down your spine, your mind turning to mush. The emotional toll of the day mixing with the high of finally kissing Jack, you melt.
He finally pulls away, after needing to catch his breath, not because he wants to stop kissing you. He’d kiss you for the rest of the night, if he could.
He takes in your flushed state, catching your breath and looking at him with so much trust. Your red cheeks, dazed and glossy eyes, and plump red lips and he lets a sound akin to a growl out. The look wrecks him.
He shakes his head, pressing a short, quick kiss to your hair before physically stepping back before going too far with you.
“I didn’t– I convinced myself you didn’t want me like that.” Your whisper breaks the silence. “I couldn’t be around you, it hurt too much.”
Oh.
He swallows the lump in his throat before nodding. He understands. Why you avoided him all this time, you must have been going crazy. Hell, you’d affected him so much tonight he snapped. He can’t imagine what living like that for so long would do to you.
“You don’t gotta explain, sweetheart.” He brings the chair to sit in front of you on the bed, and he takes your hands in his, bringing a small kiss to your knuckles. “But you scared me, doll. You gotta take care of yourself.”
Your gaze flickers downwards a little embarrassed, nodding
He turns your injured hand over in his, nodding his head towards it before gently asking.
“How’d this happen?” He refocuses on cleaning and assessing if it’s deep enough for a bandage or stitches.
“Wasn’t–” You pause, recalling how he scolded you last time for being distracted, shaking off your fear, you continue. “Wasn’t paying attention, cutting off patients' dead skin. Hand cramped n’ tried to fix it, blade slipped.”
He takes in a deep breath hearing your shaky explanation.
“Why didn’t ya tell someone, hmm?” He speaks softly, his attention focused on placing small little butterfly bandages along the cut.
You shrug. “Wasn’t thinking straight. Was overwhelmed, on the verge of crying again. Just needed to be alone.”
Crying, again. He hates the recollection that he made you cry that night. That after you had left the trauma room, you’d broken down alone.
He places the last bandage on, setting down the equipment and turning to you once more, placing a hand on your thigh.
“You always come to me when you’re hurting, yeah? I hate that I didn’t know, baby. Hate you were hurt and you tried to deal with this alone.” He begs, squeezing your thigh.
He sighs in relief as he sees your small nod. “Good.”
He places a small, gentle kiss over your cut. “There we go, all fixed up, my sweet girl.”
You flush red, a shy smile taking over your face before you can stop it, letting out a small laugh of disbelief.
“There she is.” He coos at your smile.
───────
After a few months of dating, Jack took a sabbatical, and asked you to go with him.
It was his way of an apology, for snapping at his sweet girl, taking you away from the place that you’d been running yourself into the ground for.
He didn’t tell you much, just to pack your cutest dresses. You obeyed mindlessly, trusting him completely. Truthfully, he couldn’t get enough of seeing you in sundresses after one particular picnic date where he couldn’t keep his eyes off you, or hands. Needless to say, the date ended early, with Jack driving you back to his place to tear off the sundress.
You’re leaning against Jack in his truck as he drives through the country. He had specifically chosen to bring this truck due to its bench seats, needing a hand on you at all times.
The warm breeze filters through the truck windows, and you hum gently along to the faint country rock playing through the truck radio, Jack tapping his fingers against the wheel along with the beat.
Everything felt perfect, domestic, calm.
Until you get deeper into country backroads.
You frown the first time you drive by a small animal on the side of the road, clearly roadkill. It disturbs something in your stomach, seeing the bloody mangled animal alone. You try to push it down, focus on Jack, the trip.
Until you seem to keep passing more animals.
Deer.
Squirrels.
Rabbits.
Foxes.
Every animal seems to twist your heart more and more, saddening you so deeply, wishing you could protect the babies that died alone.
Jack, observant as he is, feels you go quiet against his shoulder. No longer humming or drumming your feet with the music, just looking straight ahead into the dashboard, stiff. Something had set his girl off. He brings his hand that rested on the gear stick onto your thigh, giving it a firm squeeze, checking in on you.
His hand is warm where it rests on your thigh, grounding, as he coos, “Talk to me, sweetheart.” He glances over briefly before looking back at the road. “What’s got my pretty girl all quiet, hmm?” he says, softly.
Your stomach flips, of course he notices. He’s so in tune with your tells by now, you couldn’t even hide it if you tried. You whine a little embarrassed, turning to hide your face into his side.
His heart aches at the small, sweet noise you make and his grip tightens protectively on your thigh. Sensing your shyness, his thumb starts rubbing back and forth on your leg.
“Don’t hide from me, my sweet girl,” his voice is gentle and sweet, the tone he uses when he knows something is bothering you. Gentle fingers tip your chin upwards to meet his eyes momentarily, your stomach twisting as he brushes the hair behind your ear, a silent plea: tell me.
Hesitating, feeling shy and not wanting to ruin the trip you tell him, “It’s nothing, really, It’s the animals–”, your breath hitches as Jack drives by another dead deer on the side of the road. Your voice breaks before continuing, “It hurts”, you whisper sadly whilst immediately ducking your head to not look out the window for too long, the scene disturbing you.
Oh. Realisation floods Jack’s face and his heart clenches, oh, his sweet, sensitive baby.
You hear Jack breathe out a small sigh, before dipping his head and placing a small gentle kiss to your forehead.
“Yeah? That’s what’s gotten my girl all upset?” his voice soothing and rubs his hand up and down your thigh in comfort. Your stomach twists at his sigh, unsure if he’s silently judging.
“They might have had family or friends waiting for them!’’ your voice is whiny, desperate for him to understand as deeply as you do why you’re upset. You sniffle a little, trying not to let tears fall.
Jack blinks, trying not to laugh at his sensitive girl, knowing it’ll upset you more. He doesn’t mean to find it amusing, but your true devastation over deer and squirrels having family and friends, he can’t help but let out a low chuckle.
“You’re right baby, m’sure they’re sat around the dinner table, waiting for ‘im to come home.” He teases gently a smirk playing at his lips.
“Jaaaaack! It’s not funny,” you pout petulantly, hurt. You shift away from his side, scooting over to the other side of the truck, feeling dismissed.
Jack shushes you quickly, grabbing you by your shoulders before you move away, hating the way you curl in on yourself so easily. He pulls you back into his side, coaxing an apology.
“M’sorry, baby, c’mere.” He’s still smirking a little, but knowing he may have teased too much in your sensitive state, he needs to calm you down.
You feel him pepper quick kisses to your forehead, whilst rubbing the back of your neck gently. Your body relaxes instantly at the touch.
You sniffle a little calming down, wrapping your arms around his middle.
“Shh, baby, I know, I know.” He says, his voice softer now, before continuing. “I was so mean for teasing my delicate girl, yeah?” His inflection rises at the end of his question, like he was comforting a small kitten.
Sniffling, you nod at his comfort. “You know I love how my sweet baby feels everything deeply.” he croons, and you feel him run his fingers at the nape of your neck into your hair, petting you.
“You just keep your eyes on me, yeah? Focus on me for the rest of the trip.” He commands gently, shielding you away from the hurt of the world.
The low music continues to hum in the car, yours and Jack’s breathing matching as you sit quietly soaking the evening breeze.
Gravel crunches as you pull up to the cabin, you notice he doesn’t make a move to exit the truck yet. You frown, worried, is something wrong? Before you can even ask him, Jack breaks the silence, with such a soft tone it's unexpected.
“S’why you’re my favourite nurse, baby”. You falter, his words stirring something in your stomach, his praise making you shy. You feel him draping his arm around your waist and tugging you into his lap, straddling him.
Unable to avoid his intense eye contact, you duck your head shyly, quietly asking, “What is?”
For the life of you, you can’t figure out what he means. He ducks his head following yours to look into your eyes, cupping your face.
His voice is low, serious, when he speaks. “Your sensitivity, compassion, empathy.”
You swallow the lump in your throat, uneasy by the intensity of his praise. Tucking your head into his neck to hide your shyness, you quip– “It’s not the sex?”
You hear him chuckle, the vibration running through your body.
“You were my favourite before the sex smartass– no, you have a big heart, biggest I’ve ever known, you care deeply.” You feel him guide your head out of his neck, needing to see your face, his thumbs brush against your cheeks as he watches your wide, doe eyes trying to accept the praise.
“Plenty of other nurses and doctors are empathetic.” You begin shyly, trying to brush the compliment off, uneasy by how seen he was making you feel. Always having been told your sensitivity is a curse, especially in this field, and it’ll wear you down.
Jack immediately interjects, not enjoying how quick you are to self deprecate, diminish yourself.
“Not like you, baby.” His voice is stern, as are his hands gripping your face. Desperate for you to see yourself the way he does.
Those three simple words cut deep, your eyes watering from so much care. He wipes the tears before they fall and watches a shy smile tugging at your lips, hitting him like a punch to the chest.
“You hear me, baby? Hmm?” he coos gently while pressing a kiss against your temple. You nod in his hold, cheeks flushed from receiving so much affection, never having been treated so carefully before.
“You’re m’favourite attending.” You mumble shyly fidgeting with your hands in your lap.
Jack laughs deeply, he knows, of course he knows. He just hadn’t expected that to be what you said. He finds your tone so cute, like you're too shy to admit it.
“Oh yeah? S’not Robby?” He teases, pushing a strand of hair behind your ear, laughing again at your scrunched up face, like the idea is ridiculous to you.
“I know, sweetheart.” He calms you, presses a final, soft kiss to your temple and brings you closer to his embrace.
Outside, the sun sets as crickets chirp around you, the air gets cooler but neither of you rushes to leave the car yet, this moment meaning something so deep to the both of you.
─
Jack is setting down the last of the bags in the bedroom when he hears you yelp from the bathroom. Before he can even ask if you’re okay, you call out for him, your voice startled and afraid.
“Jack!”
His heart jumps, and his mind immediately rushes to the worst idea, that you’re hurt somehow.
Jack runs to the bathroom panicked, “Baby, what’s–” he calls out in fear, until he enters the room, and pauses, blinking.
You’re crouching on the toilet seat like the floor is lava, with one shoe off, in your hand, looking around the floor terrified. You meet his eyes, genuine fear behind them,
“I swear, it's taunting me! It looked me right in the eyes!” you whisper urgently pointing at the small bug in the corner of the room.
Jack laughs for real this time, tilting his head affectionately, “baby, what are you doing?”
You screech as you watch the tiny dark bug scuttle along the bathroom floor and chuck your shoe at it, completely missing it.
“Please– kill it, quick!” you beg him
He smirks at you from where he leans against the bathroom door frame, crossing his arms, and taunts you, “What if his family is waiting for him to come home, hmm?”
You groan as Jack points out your hypocrisy, squealing again as you watch it come towards you. “Jack, I swear to god–”
He hangs his head in, a shit-eating grin spreading across his face before he walks over and stomps on it. He picks you up into his arms and mumbles into your hair.
“Yeah, you’re not lasting ten minutes out here, sweetheart.”
SUMMARY: Jack Abbot is not an overly-neighborly person. He has secret nicknames in his head for most of the people on his floor and actively avoids any and all types of neighbor politics. However, he can’t deny his growing fondness for the single mom and toddler in apartment seventeen. (Nor his burning hatred for your baby daddy).
WARNINGS: this series includes a very chaotic reader with an even more chaotic toddler, mentions of abandonment, parent death, Jack's inability to consider anything good and worthwhile for himself, eventual smut, friends to lovers, mentions of previous abusive relationships, mentions of mental health struggles, miscommunication, age gap (reader is around 27 and Jack is in his 40's), medical inaccuracies and more.
A/N: I am very very excited to share this series and bring it to life. It started as a very random idea that quickly transpired into a huge story in my head within a matter of minutes. It does touch on some potentially triggering topics but warnings will be given in each chapter!
PAIRING: Jack Abbot x Single Mom!Reader
STATUS: Ongoing
─── ⋆ CHAPTERS ⋆
PART ONE 𖤓♡ — Jack Abbot values his routine and structure. Work, SWAT, gym... and for the past six weeks, spending his Sunday mornings admiring the enigmatic single mom who's apartment balcony sits across from his. [3k]
PART TWO 𖤓♡ — A scuffle in the hall causes Jack to accidentally take Phoebe’s wallet to work instead of his. He gains himself a new nickname amongst the Pitt and finally learns a thing or two about you and your daughter. [7.3k]
PART THREE 𖤓 — A trip to the ED, a retirement meal, and a phone call with Robby. One leaves you up close and personal with your neighbor, one has Phoebe spilling secrets like it's an Olympic sport, and another has Jack realizing he's got a fucking crush on the single mom in apartment seventeen. [7.1k]
PART FOUR — June 1st
PART FIVE — June 4th
PART SIX — June 9th
More chapters TBD
#APT.17 (a tag for anything related to this series)
Tag list for this series has grown way too big for me to keep up with so it’s unfortunately CLOSED. You can however follow the #apt.17 tag instead for updates on the series!
supercut of us (a jack abbot college au fic coming soon!)
OR: the one where jack accidentally knocks up robby's little (step)sister in his final year of college
"You'll just make it weird," You huff, crossing your arms over yourself, as if that's going to do anything to hide the bump. With the right clothing you can pass it off, but Jack knows better, much to your chagrin.
"Jesus Christ, kid - I can't fix anything if you don't tell me what's wrong."
You bite your lip, and find an incredibly interesting part of the ceiling to fix your gaze on. "I tried to have sex the other day, and had a panic attack."
You miss the way Jack's expression falls for just a second, before he schools it back to neutrality. But he can't hide the ticking muscle in his jaw. "You just trying to brag, or does this have something to do with me?"
"I'm not ready for people to see the bump. But uh... second trimester has brought some... hormonal imbalances," You swallow heavily, hoping the ground will open up and put you out of your misery. "I want you to fuck me."
"You want to recreate the thing that got us into this mess?" You can hear the amusement in his voice, and you hate every second of it.
"It's not like you can knock me up twice," You grumble.
The slightest Southern drawl is clear in Jack's voice when he speaks again. "It's a really touching offer, truly. I love being a last resort."
You decide that this is definitely not worth the effort, and grab your bag, embarrassment flaring at his rejection. "Nevermind, I can handle it myself-"
A hand curls around your wrist and spins you back into him, so he can crowd you against the door. "I didn't say I wouldn't do it," He hums, lips ghosting across your jaw. "Just think you look hot when you're flustered."
"Fuck you."
He crooks a thigh between your own, and a gasp escapes. It's pathetic, really. One ounce of contact, and you're putty in his hands. "Thought that was what you were here for, princess?"
summary: jack's been avoidant lately, and boy do you notice
pairing: jack abbot x popstar! reader
warnings: angst, cursing, avoidant jack, not proofread, fangirl shen ofc
word count: 3.5k
author's note: EEK HERES THE ANGST U WANTED !!! sorry if it sucks i have been taking forever to write based on my finals this week 😭 maybe some bonus content of the song being released may come soon if yall enjoy ?! idk i hate having to put our happy couple through this but my babies requested it so ! love u all!
part 1 part 2 part 3 part 4 part 5
There's not a day that goes by without the PTMC being flooded in and out with patients. You know this, that's why you pull your hoodie down a little further to shield your face from any prying eyes in the waiting room.
You step towards the service desk, flashing your sunglasses down to say hi to Lupe at the front. As simple as it sounds to just walk in without being noticed, there's a rather large gift bag in your possession that's catching some stares.
"Just dropping off a surprise, don't tell Jack."
Lupe smiles knowingly, turning to press the E.D doors open.
You whisper a quiet thanks before moving to enter the fluorescent lit room. It smells just like it did the first time you came here, only now it's not a medical emergency. A hint of metal hides underneath the pungent anti-septic cleaner. It reminds you to watch where you step, or you might ruin your new Uggs.
As you round the corner to the nurses station, you shrug off your hood and raise your sunglasses to lay snugly against your hair. Immediately, you're met with a familiar face.
Shen chokes on his coffee, coughing out your name in between coughs. The tips of his ears glow red as he smacks at his chest. He's still getting used to the whole Abbot-dating-a-pop-star thing.
"What are you doing here?" He tries, and fails, to act as nonchalant as possible. "Need me to grab Jack?" He's halfway on his feet before you urge him to pause.
"Actually, no. You're just the person I was looking for."
He points a finger at himself in disbelief, "Me? Me as in John Shen?"
"Is there another Dunkin' Donuts lover in the PTMC that I'm not aware of? Because I only brought a gift for one and I really don't need the bad publi—oh my god!"
Shen wraps his arms around you tightly before you can wheeze out the rest of your sentence. "Are you for real? Am I being Punk'd?" His eyes dart around the room frantically checking to make sure there isn't a hidden camera crew in Trauma 2.
Shaking your head, you separate from his grasp to lean down and retrieve a comically large kiss-shaped container from the white paper gift bag you brought in. From a patient's perspective, it looks like Shen is being handed the keys to the city by the way he's covering his mouth. For Shen, it just about feels like that, too.
"I had some PR for my new drink come in and while it's adorable, I don't think Jack would appreciate this as much as you would," you explain. Shen opens the container like it contains buried treasure. You almost expect a golden light to shine from the package. "It's nothing too crazy, just a cup and a collectible cocktail shaker."
"I'm protecting this with my life," He promises seriously. Shen closes the box and holds it close to his chest whispering, "God, I'm so glad you fell and Jack had to perform a hip reduction," almost in prayer.
"I'm gonna take that as a thank you..?"
Dana, who is currently updating bed assignments, chuckles from her station a few feet away. Her blue eyes hold a tired weight in them as her claw clip is barely hanging on for dear life.
Considering it's 3 hours past day shift she looks better than you would expect someone after a now 15 hour shift.
"What are we thanking Shen for?" A gruff voice cuts in from behind you.
A smile forms before you can help it, a bubbling excitement forming in the pit of your stomach at the sound of his voice. John barely has the time to wipe the tears forming in his eyes before composing himself in front of his colleague. Slowly, you turn around to face your boyfriend like you just got caught with your hand in the cookie jar.
Jack's eyebrows raise slightly, head flinching backwards as his brain catches up to the sight of you. By the looks of it, it's been one hell of a shift, and he's only on hour three. Jack's grip around the stethoscope tightens as he takes a cautious step forward. His eyes travel up and down your frame as he searches for any reason why you need to be in the ED.
"Surprise? I was just here to drop off a PR gift for John." You gesture to where Shen should be, only to find him gone. Somewhere in the distance you hear him call out for Ellis to stay away from his gift. "Also to bring the _nightcrawler_s some treats. I baked some banana bread muffins after my shoot this morning."
Reaching back into the white bag, you pull out a plastic container decorated in an assortment of stickers. The aroma is already wafting through the air from where you crack open the lid to offer Jack a good look. You offer the container to him, hoping to watch him try one before you leave.
Jack's lips press into a tight smile, taking the muffins from your hands before placing them next to him on the counter. "I'll have one later."
Oh.
Out of the comer of your eye, you watch as Perlah and Princess exchange side eyed glances. You feel yourself deflate at his rejection, eyes switching between the abandoned container and Jack's uneasy stance.
He can't keep still, his weight shifting from one foot to the other. You know his leg must be killing him, the ED being an endless pit of patients that have him running from case to case. A part of you feels relieved that maybe his attitude right now isn't because of you.
"Abbot, motorcycle accident incoming in 3," Dana interrupts. Her voice slices through the tension like a warm knife through butter.
Jack nods, "Okay let's get ready in Trauma 1." Before he can get too far he pauses, and almost as an afterthought, he leans down to give you the chastest of cheek kisses. "Gotta go, I'll text you later okay?"
You bounce on your heels to shake off the feeling of embarrassment as you watch your boyfriend join Mateo by the ambulance bay. You watch as he gives him a fist bump as they wait for the incoming patient, energy already 50% more than what he was sparing you.
Dana gives you a sidelong glance before sliding the container towards herself, "Abbot doesn't want one now but I do. You came at the right time hon, I haven't had real food since 3 pm." Unceremoniously, she pulls the pink wrapper off before biting out a large chunk.
You smile, grateful that some of your pride was saved from having to walk out of the ED without enjoying your gesture. Dana hums in delight as she finishes her other half, neatly folding the wrapper together before throwing it in the mini trash can beside her.
"10/10. No notes, doll," she praises. "Abbot will be lucky to have one if they're not all gone in an hour."
You wave off her comment with a soft smile, "There's more at my place. I'm a little selfish when it comes to banana bread." Popping the hood back over your head, you slide the sunglasses back down before saying goodbye.
It's not until you're seated back in your car that you let the heat crawl up your neck. Should you have called him before coming in? Is it embarrassing to have your girlfriend come in to drop off muffins like a PTA mom?
At least Shen and Dana were happy to see me. John damn near spun me around.
You chalk up Jack's weird mood to him entering the ED to a frenzied mess after day shift had to deal with a five car pileup. You watch the news while baking, okay? You tell yourself he's just being kind, that his silence is him not wanting to air out his frustrations on you.
You check your phone for any notifications, exhaling when you read one from your manager, Sophie.
What did lover boy have to say about your world famous banana bread muffins?
You shut off your phone, trying to save at least a fraction of the good mood you were in earlier.
It stings only a little.
You tell yourself it's going to be a good day.
No studio time today, no meetings, no festival prep. Just you, your iced coffee, and your dinner plans with Jack later.
You had your schedule blocked off specifically for tonight. It's been exactly 6 months since you two started dating seriously. Everything has been almost perfect—aside from the small muffin hiccup that happened a week ago.
You totally let that go.
Okay, maybe you're still kinda bitter about it. But when he came to yours after his shift the next morning, he obliged when you offered to feed him one before he crashed in bed. The only thing keeping you from holding a grudge was the fact that he basically moaned when he finally tried one.
And that he ate 4 more when he woke up.
So now, you're sat on your bathroom counter top attempting to draw on a winged liner without screwing up and starting over. Your speaker in the corner fills the bathroom with r&b music, causing you to harmonize throughout the process.
Glancing down to where your phone rests near its charger, you frown when you realize Jack still hasn't responded. You texted him 30 minutes ago if he was on his way from the PTMC—his shift as a SWAT medic turning into a surprise day shift at the hospital after a shooting took place nearby. Your green text looking back at you as it failed to deliver regularly.
That was the last update he sent you before his phone died. You had a minor panic attack when he said he was in a shooting and got grazed by a fucking bullet, but there wasn't much you could do until seeing him in person.
You tell yourself not to panic as the time draws closer for you to leave.
He's a man. He could come back 30 min before your reservation and all he would need to do is shower and rub some pomade through his hair before he's ready— so sick and twisted now that you think of that.
It's just unlike him. He runs a tight program in and out of the hospital, not keen on being late to anything ever since he left the military. There's an itch to call Robby and ask if Jack's alright or if you need to come over there and patch him up yourself. You're not that close to him, only having his number 'in case of an emergency' like Jack said.
Before you can talk yourself out of it, you pause your music and press on his contact. It rings for what feels like forever before finally connecting, a low sniffle breaking through the static before Robby clears his throat.
"What's up?" His voice is raw—like he swallowed gravel.
Concerned more than ever you sit up further, "I think I should be asking you that, is everything good?"
A humorless laugh cuts through, "You don't wanna fucking know, kid. It's been a shit show."
"No kidding. Is Jack there with you?" By the sound of it, maybe Jack should be there for Robby. You can almost picture him pacing an empty room as you talk to him.
"He left an hour ago. Went to grab a beer with his cop buddies before going home." There's a pregnant pause as the line goes quiet. "…Is there something wrong?"
You bite your lip hard—so hard that it leaves a metallic taste on your tongue. "Nope. I just hadn't heard word from him and—you know what? I actually have to go Robby but thanks for answering."
You end the call with a click before Robby can respond, letting the phone clatter beside you on the counter. Silently, you toss your makeup back into your travel case as you clean up the bathroom.
It's so stupid, you think. You should have seen it coming. The longer time in between texts, the going back to his own place instead of yours after a shift, the way he keeps you arms length from his close circle at the PTMC.
He didn't mind when you followed back Shen, Ellis, even Whitaker_, the man who saves edits of you on his phone_, on Instagram. But God forbid you joke about going on a double date with Robby and his new girlfriend. Jack physically cringed at the suggestion, laughing it off like you suggested going down to visit the Titanic.
You thought it would be different this time. That these past 6 months proved that not every relationship you publicize will burn in a fiery blaze.
Changing into an old college tee and sweats, you debate on going to the kitchen and drinking straight out of the wine bottle or rotting in bed. You feel restless, like if you don't scream or run around your house you might combust.
Your phone lights up on the nightstand, Sophie's face taking over your screen. Not the best time for a business call. You answer regardless, knowing she's probably tracking your location and wondering why you're still at home.
"What do you want, Soph."
She hisses on the other side, "Ouch. Not even a hello, how are you?" When you don't respond, she presses further. "I saw you haven't left for your reservation, everything okay?" Right on the money.
"Consider it cancelled. Jack apparently went out with his SWAT friends without telling me after getting grazed by a bullet." You laugh bitterly, "I guess I'm not exciting enough."
"Don't say that about yourself. If anything he's just old and had a lapse in memory," she chastises.
It earns a chuckle from you before you disagree, "First they're too young and immature to take me seriously and now they're too old to remember me. I really know how to pick 'em."
"Hush, do you need me to come over there and beat his ass when he gets back?" Sophie offers. She's joking of course, but something tells you she would do it if you asked. "Or we can watch 50 Shades of Grey and take a drink each time we cringe? I just don't want you to be alone."
"I don't feel like getting plastered tonight. And don't worry about me, I'll find something to do." Your eyes fall onto the keyboard piano in the corner of your room. "I'll call you later, love you Soph." You end the call after she reluctantly answers back a goodbye.
Now, you're no Shakespeare, but sometimes a song comes to mind and you just need to put it out there before it leaves your mind. Whipping out your notebook and pen, you start playing with chords. Your voice leads the lyrics—your pen following behind to write down hurriedly like they might get lost.
You finish the song in 20 minutes . Admittedly, it's a lighthearted song. One that not only draws from your experience with Jack, but also from the many failed boyfriends before him. Emotions you thought you were done feeling.
Sophie texts you for an update, and it kills you that every time your phone dings you're expecting it to be him. With a defeated sigh, you shut it off completely.
You're halfway into a shitty Lean Cuisine when your front door opens with a harsh whoosh. You don't bother looking up when frantic footsteps approach the kitchen, choosing to lazily blow on the steaming lasagna in front of you.
As the heavy footsteps get closer, they slow— like how Steve Irwin would approach a crocodile. You don't face him when he says your name, finding the bottom of the plastic tray quite interesting.
"Hope your little 'guys night' was fun," you remark listlessly. You jab at a piece of lasagna with your fork.
"Baby I—"
You cut him off sharply.
"Strangely enough, I let it go when you told me to drop the idea of you being in my music video, I thought you were embarrassed to act or— whatever the issue was."
Your grip tights around the fork.
"I let the double date thing go, too. Thought you just hated spending time with Robby outside of work." You finally look at him for the first time today, "… But that's not it, is it?"
You take in his appearance, how his face is a bit flushed and how there's sweat staining the arms of his shirt. No doubt he's had a bad night, and you hate to have to have this conversation after today's events. But if you go to bed pretending it's alright you think you might completely break in two.
"Do I— are you embarrassed of me?" You spit the words out like they burn.
Jack stills like you knocked the air out of him. “…You think I’m embarrassed of you?” he repeats after you—like he’s trying to hear it the way you do.
You huff out a humorless laugh, pushing your barely-touched tray away. “I mean, I think bailing on a date to go drink beers with your cop friends after being shot at says a lot about where your priorities are."
Shoving the bar stool back, you move to stand in front of him. "If this," you point between the two of you, "isn't fun for you anymore, then tell me Jack. Because I'm sick and tired of being led on again and again."
You go to shove past him before his hand reaches to grab your wrist gently. "I'm sorry—my phone died and I—," he shakes his head as if he knows that it sounds like bullshit to your ears, "I know tonight was inexcusable. I know that."
His jaw tightens as he tries to work the lump in his throat down. "And I know it's not just tonight. The video, Robby, the— I've been keeping you away from everything and I told myself I'm helping you—"
"Helping me with what?"
"—with when one day you wake up and realize that you don't want this," he chokes out, voice going hoarse as he drops your hand to run his own over his face.
You falter backwards— his admission piercing your chest like a scalpel. You watch as he takes a second to find his words before continuing.
"I don't know how to do this," he says, and he sounds genuinely lost in a way that Jack never lets himself sound. "I don't know how to be with someone like you and not—" He exhales hard through his nose. "I love you. And I love you too much to let you waste your time with someone like me so I just—"
"You pushed me away," your heart is like a pounding drum in your ears. "How am I supposed to know how you feel if you don't tell me."
"Yeah." His voice drops. "And I'm not sure how I can make it up to you, but I'll spend the rest of my life trying if I have to." His eyes follow as yours avoid him at all costs.
A beat goes by. Then two. And after the silence has hung in the air too long, Jack is contemplating on whether to turn away and leave before he has to watch you ask him to. It might actually kill him.
Looking up at the ceiling, you exhale loudly. Tears line your eyes—a complete juxtaposition to the tired laugh you give. "You have such a funny way of showing it." You walk closer, hand coming to direct his gaze to you.
"I know," he says quietly, "my therapist says I'm a piece of work." His hand comes up to cover yours where it rests on his jaw. "I'm sorry."
You let out a wry laugh as you search his face for a long moment — the tension in his brow, the way his hair looks like he's ran through it a million times. You feel bad, but also at ease to know he wasn't acting this way because he didn't care.
"You're such an idiot," you whisper. A tear escapes before you can stop it. "I love you too, you know. I wish I could have told you under better circumstances."
Something in his face breaks open. Like he's been holding his breath for six months and just now remembered how to let it go.
He pulls you in before you can say anything else, one hand cradling the back of your head and the other wrapping around your waist like he's afraid you might take it back. You feel his exhale warm against your hair.
"I know," he murmurs. "I'm sorry I let you feel like you aren't a priority. And for everything else I've done earlier. "
You press your face into his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. "Don't do it again."
His lips find your forehead and stay there. "Never, I promise."
summary you can't help it as you get closer with the night shift attending. and after a day in court, you welcome the chance for a night out with drinks and darts with the doctors.
tags/warnings age gap (mid 20s / mid 40s), workplace romance, slow burn, flirty/tension, hospital setting+legal stuff, bar night, darts + betting, drinking, r. smokes, nicknames, “pinkie pie”, girly/femme reader (skirts, heels, pink everything), dorky/amy santiago energy/she loves pens? u suck at darts sorry x i do too
wc 9.2k words (?? wtf?? it goes by quickly tho)
could read as stand alone, part one (linger) here, part two (strawberry) here, part three (optics) here
“Hey, Pinkie Pie,” Santos says, like it’s your legal name. “Wanna get wasted?”
You blink at her. Once. “I—sorry?”
Behind you, your colleagues, Jane and Charles—composed, senior, deeply invested in whatever clause they were dissecting—look up in quiet, collective confusion. Lovely people. Truly. Also deeply, fundamentally not built for whatever this is.
And, unfortunately, you are, in fact, the Pinkie Pie in question.
You’d gotten to become friends with Trinity Santos in your time there. Turns out, her somewhat lacking bedside manners invited a good amount of legal threats.
“What do you mean you told a guy you’d put his IV up his ass if he asked for a lemonade again?!”
“You weren’t there.”
“He’s trying to sue for ten grand.”
“...I stand by it.”
Santos was a good amount different to you, a bit rougher around the edges, but well-meaning at her core. She’d thrown around many nicknames for you. That has unfortunately also spread around the ER now.
One time, Robby called you Princess Bubblegum. You didn’t know he even knew who that was.
Another time, Langdon threw around Kirby. That made Mel snicker every time.
McKay loved calling you Lotso when you weren’t in a great mood. “Get it? You’re pink, and soft, but you can also be scary. You’ve seen Toy Story 3, right? That’s Harrison’s favourite. I raised a kid with taste, honestly.” McKay explained once.
Jack was nice enough to hold back from nicknames like that. Well, you didn’t think he knew of them, and you were happy to keep it that way.
You stand from your desk, giving lovely Jane and Charles a polite nod as you quickly walk out into the hallway with Santos, gently closing the door behind you.
Santos gives you a look.
You’re dressed particularly formal today, black fitted dress with black tights, and minimal jewellery, your hair done well, black stilettos.
“What’s with you?” She wonders. “Hot date? Funeral?
“What? No,” You say like it’s ridiculous. “Court.”
“Ah, troublemaker.”
“I’m… I’m a lawyer, you know this.” You remind, confused.
“Yeah, I’m messing with you,” she rolls her eyes. “Though you are severely lacking in pink. This is weird. I don’t recognise you. You okay? Want me to book you for a neuro CT? Purely recreational. Discounted.”
You had also received a comment from, shockingly, Jane, in the morning before going into court. “I kind of miss the pink, but the black is a good choice. Makes you look more serious.” She’d said, casually.
You move on quickly. “What were you saying? Drinks?”
“Right.” Santos rolls her eyes like you’ve personally disappointed her. “Wasted. Bar. Drinks. People. You. There. Tonight.”
“Right. Yeah. That—sounds good.” A beat. “Who else is going?”
“Most of day and some night shift,” she shrugs. “You’ll know ’em. Nobody you haven’t worked with.” Then, with a look—“Pretty sure your boyfriend’ll be there.”
You press your tongue into your cheek, giving her a flat look.
“You know,” she goes on, enjoying herself now. “Old. Bit short. Not that charming, really.”
You don’t even dignify that with a proper response.
“Honestly,” she adds, “reminds me of my grandad.”
“Mm,” you hum. “Very funny. Time and place?”
“Tom’s. Down the road. Can’t miss it.” She jerks her chin. “Anytime after seven. Show up, don’t show up—I don’t care.” Then she nods past you, to your office. “What’s with the suits in there? They wanna join?”
“They have families to get back to,” you say, a little defensive despite yourself. “And normal sleep schedules.”
“Boring,” Santos grins. “...You alright? You seem wound up.”
“I’m fine. Long day.” You answer. “Court is a bitch.”
“That’s what I say about my ex-girlfriend, Courtney,” Santos agrees. “See you there, Kirby.” She shoves your shoulder lightly on the way out like that settles it.
You turn slightly, watching her go. “…That’s it?”
“Oh—and a pay rise!” she calls over her shoulder.
You sigh. “Not how it works—”
But she’s already gone.
You stand there for a second, caught between fluorescent quiet and whatever she just presented into your night.
You’ve been here a few months now—long enough that it’s stopped feeling like something to prove and started feeling like something you just do. The edges have worn down.
The language, the hospital, these staff, there’s a rhythm to it now. Contracts, consults, reviewing medical records, internal investigations, employment agreements, do it all over again. And you find as the sun goes down and your colleagues leave the office, it gets quieter, lonelier — it’s an inevitable drift for you to go to the ED.
You tell yourself it’s balanced, but with how you can’t help the preference you held for the night hours. You did try to rationalise it, but gave up after a while. You were well suited to the night shift curfew.
And no shit, it came down to the night shift attending.
You couldn’t really help it—liking him, enjoying him, letting yourself fall into the ease of it. Not when he was… like that.
The Winnipeg case, a five-point-seven million dollar suit against the ED, doesn’t blow up the way it threatens to.
For a while, it looks like it might—demand letter aggressive, numbers inflated enough to make everyone sit a little straighter in meetings. You’re pulled in early, mostly to observe at first, notebook open, listening as your seniors map out exposure and strategy.
It never makes it anywhere near court.
Negotiations take over. Back-and-forth. Offers shaved down, reframed, pushed again. You sit in on most of it, watch the way language shifts depending on who’s in the room.
It settles. Not five-point-seven million. Not even close. A quiet resolution. No admission of liability. Just enough money to make it disappear without anyone having to say they were wrong.
The kind of ending hospitals prefer.
You told Jack as soon as you could leave the meeting and settle down in the ED, like it’s nothing.
Set up at the nurses’ station like you belong there—files spread, laptop open. The ER moves around you in that constant, controlled chaos, but you’ve stopped noticing it as anything more than background, annotating a contract, pen’s ink running dry as you write and finish explaining it.
“They take your approach?” Jack had asked.
He’s leaned against the counter, forearms braced, looking down at you like you’re something he’s still working out. You wore a soft pink skirt that night—something that moves when you do, matches your nails, even your water bottle, the quiet consistency of you.
You nod, a little pleased despite yourself, turning your pen between your fingers. “More or less. I wanted a full dismissal, but…” you shrug, glancing up, “settlement’s better than nothing. No court, at least.”
Jack hums, but he’s not really listening to the words anymore. His eyes drift over you—brief, but not unintentional.
“You in court…” he starts, almost to himself. “God, don’t tell me you wear those shoes as well.”
Your mouth tips into a smile as you glance down at them, a relatively sane four inch wedge heel.
“Oh, I’ve worn worse,” you admit.
He huffs, sceptical. “You’re kidding.”
You shake your head, tapping your pen against the paper. “Eight inch corset heels once. They took me more seriously the taller I was, it was my first year out of law school. You know, I knew a girl who showed up in full on pleasers once.”
He frowns. “In what?”
You look up at him, deadpan. “Stripper heels.”
There’s a beat. Then—
“…Right,” he nods slowly, recalibrating.
You bite back a laugh, ducking your head slightly. “I don’t dress like this for court, though. Judges like presentation.”
“Well, judges like pretty girls,” he says.
It’s casual, and you still, smiling a bit. You tilt your head up at him, pen pausing mid-spin between your fingers. “Aw, you think I’m pretty?”
“Think you’re the prettiest damn thing in this ER,” He says, voice low.
You held his gaze for a second too long, something quieter threading through the space between you. Then you look down, like you’ve decided not to touch that.
Your pen taps back against the page. “Presentation is half the argument in court. That’s my theory, anyway.”
“Mm,” he hums, not disagreeing.
He pushes off the counter then, glancing up at the board. The moment shifts, but not completely—something of it lingers, low and steady.
“Alright,” he says. “I gotta make sure none of my residents are killing anyone.”
You nod, already back in your notes, but there’s a faint smile still there. “Have fun.”
He’s already halfway across the floor, but you catch the quiet chuckle he doesn’t bother hiding. And, annoyingly, you feel it linger longer than it should.
Every once and a while he throws a flirt like that out and you can’t tell if he’s just teasing you or being earnest. You think he just likes making you nervous, and it works.
It doesn’t help.
He leaves himself exits—always does—but he never seems in a rush to take them. And there’s something about the way he watches you after, like he’s waiting. Curious, maybe. Measuring.
He likes when you throw something back. Likes when you don’t and you flush under his gaze. A cadence builds out of it. Not in the obvious moments, but in the quieter ones.
The way your day keeps ending in his car, like it’s not even a decision anymore. Like of course he’d drive you home. Like of course you’d let him. You always do.
It gets easy enough that he starts asking questions like—
“You prefer mint or pine?”
You look up from the nurses’ station, watching him click through charts.
“…Pine,” you say. “Mint makes my nose itch. Why?”
“Got a…. This is gonna sound stupid now that I say it out loud — I got a new car scent, thingy,” he sighs. “And I couldn’t decide which one. Didn’t want you to… I don’t know, not like the smell of my car or something.”
“Your car smells fine.” You shrug, fixing your notes, pen ink dying slowly as you adjust. “Smells like a guy’s car.”
“...Right.” He murmurs, now uncaring for his charts. “In- Is that a good thing?”
You don’t answer, humming to yourself as you make the note look pretty.
He knew your coffee order without asking. Remembered it. Adjusted it when it got colder—less ice, a different milk, something warmer pressed into your hands before you even realised you wanted it.
You weren’t supposed to have favourites.
Not in your line of work. Not in his, either. You’re trained out of it—trained to flatten instinct into objectivity, to treat every person, every problem, with the same measured distance.
And you were good at that. You still are.
You got along with everyone—that was part of it. Being friendly with the physicians and staff to better represent them. And there were some of the obvious examples.
Santos with her relentless nicknames and worse bedside manner, who liked you in a way she’d never admit outright.
Parker, easy and sharp, sending you song recommendations mid-shift like it was as essential as charting.
Shen, who trusted you enough to accept whatever experimental caffeine disaster you handed him.
“...You got him a what?” Jack had said, staring at the drink like it might bite.
“It’s called a Dark Vader,” you’d said, completely serious. “Three shots of espresso, cola, condensed milk, whipped cream. Iced.”
Across the floor, Shen moved like a man possessed—fast, erratic, unstoppable.
“The guy’s basically taken twenty lines of coke.” Jack clearly held back a smile, entertained, and nodded. “This is gonna be fun.”
You’d watched Shen nearly clip a trolley at speed, wincing slightly.
Robby, dry and cutting and occasionally kinder than he let himself be.
Mel, still a little wary of you in that specific way people are when they’ve been burned by lawyers before.
Langdon, steady.
The nurses—Lena on nights, Dana on days, Princess and Perlah whispering in Tagalog over charts, Donnie trying to juggle competence with new fatherhood, Jesse, Emma—all of them.
You fit in.
More than that—you were trusted. They came to you before things escalated. You knew how they worked, how they thought, how to protect them without suffocating them in policy. You weren’t just the lawyer they called when something went wrong—you were already there.
That mattered. It meant you couldn’t afford favourites.
And you didn’t, really. You liked them all. In different ways. For different reasons, professional and personal. Lawyers had to keep their wits and stay objective.
But you let it slip here.
Not because of the flirting.
Not because of the rides home, or the coffees that appeared beside your things without announcement.
Not even because of the way he looked at you sometimes—like he was mid-calculation and didn’t like where it landed.
It was the pens.
“No fucking way—”
It bursts out of you before you can stop it, loud and bright and completely out of place at the nurses’ station. Heads turn. You clamp a hand over your mouth, eyes wide.
“Sorry—sorry,” you rush, already laughing under your breath as you look back down.
Because—Jesus.
“Jack,” you lower your voice, but not your awe, “Oh my god, I wanted these so bad.”
They sit in your hands like something ceremonial. Weighty. Intentional. A matched pair—Montegrappa and Visconti—lacquered in soft pinks and florals that catch the fluorescent light in quiet, expensive ways. Not loud, not tacky—delicate.
Accents that mirror the rings you wear, the little details you build yourself out of every morning. The kind of pens you don’t just use—you research and choose.
You turn one between your fingers, thumb brushing over the barrel, feeling the balance of it, the way it settles. You remember the video you watched—how smoothly it glided, how the nib flexed just slightly under pressure, how the ink laid down like silk.
“They’re—” you exhale, shaking your head a little. “The grip on these is insane, the 23k nib—Jack, these are—this is ridiculous.”
Across from you, he’s watching. Not the pens. You. There’s something quieter in his expression than usual—something almost careful, like he’s braced for you to laugh it off, to not get it. But you’re you. Of course you get it. His shoulders ease, just a fraction.
“Yeah,” he says, like it’s nothing. Like it wasn’t deliberate. “I know. You had that… wishlist thing open last week. On your iPad.” A small shrug. “And you talked about them the whole drive back.”
You blink up at him.
He shrugs. “You also said your current ones were running dry. Figured it was time. No problem.”
Time. Like this is practical. Necessary. Like he didn’t just buy you something you absolutely did not need but wanted in that specific way that feels almost worse.
You look back down at them, turning one in your hand again, slower now. The metal catches the light, soft and warm. You didn’t even know they made them in pink.
“I—these are…” you trail, then laugh a little, breathless. “God, I feel bad. I didn’t get you anything.”
That earns you a look. Not annoyed. Not exactly. Just firm. Maybe offended if you didn’t know he was also fond of you, and these pens were evidence of that.
“When have I ever asked for anything in return, sweetheart?”
It lands easy, like it always does. Casual. Practiced.
You swallow, nodding once, softer now. “Thank you. Really.”
Something shifts in his face at that. Small. Satisfied, maybe. Like that was the part he wanted. He nods it off, leaning back against the counter, slipping back into something looser.
“Well,” he adds, glancing at the pens in your hand, “you know, someone’s gotta make sure the hospital lawyer isn’t signing off on contracts with a dying Bic.”
You huff a quiet laugh. “God forbid. Liability nightmare.”
“Exactly.”
There’s a beat where neither of you move. You’re still holding them. He’s still looking at you.
Then—
“Trauma incoming!”
Everything snaps back into place. Noise, movement, urgency flooding in like it never left. Jack straightens instantly, already turning—then pauses mid-step, hand coming up to his chest.
You’re already reaching for it. His stethoscope sits abandoned beside your notebook, exactly where he left it. You pick it up, step forward, and hold it out.
He takes it from you—fingers brushing yours, brief and warm and grounding in a way that feels disproportionate to what it is.
“'m glad you like ‘em,” he says, already moving.
But he lingers just long enough to glance down—at the pens still in your hand, at the way you’re still half-smiling to yourself.
Something unreadable passes over his face. Gone just as quickly.
Then he’s turning, stepping into the chaos, voice shifting into something sharper, more commanding as he calls out orders.
And just like that, he’s back where he belongs.
You stand there a second longer, the noise rising around you, the weight of the pens still settling in your hands. Careful, you think, turning one once more between your fingers.
★★★
Half the ER is here—sprawled across mismatched tables shoved together like an afterthought, drinks sweating through thin napkins, voices stacking over each other until it’s just noise.
Someone’s already laughing too loud at something that wasn’t that funny to begin with. It’s messy, loud, alive in a way the hospital never quite lets itself be.
It’s your first time out with them like this, and they’re… exactly what you’d expect. Tight-knit, loud, a little unhinged. Easier, somehow, without the constant hum of consequence in the background.
You hold onto your messenger bag tight, nonetheless, hoping whatever leftover nerves and pent up frustration from your day in court has run its course.
Your feet ache, somewhat unusual considering how often you find yourself wearing heels, but a full day of court in stilettos has it pinching at your toes in a way that only court does to you. You ignore it. You need to just… relax. People. Drinks. Whatever Santos said.
You make your rounds—names you know, faces you’ve seen across desks and hallways, now loosened by alcohol and time off. It’s… nice. Strange, but nice.
“No pink?” McKay chuckles as she’s sipping a mocktail, Javadi awkwardly by her side with a sprite.
You sigh. God, does everybody just… notice that you like pink? “Nope.”
“You know, if you ever wanted to try medicine, peades has some cute pink scrubs,” McKay tells.
“Noted. How are you finding the updated contract?” You check. “Gloria was up my ass about it.”
“Fuck Gloria,” She scoffs. “Respectfully, of course. The contract's great. Finally get a few days to Harrison or…. Literally anything else. Considering a spa day.”
“It’s well deserved.” You shrug, fidgety. “I’ll send you a link to my favourite spa place in the city. I worked with the firm that represented them, they send me great discounts.”
McKay scoffs a laugh at that, blowing out air and nodding. “That would… be amazing, thanks. Get a drink, relax.”
You smile at her. You wander the bar.
You drift toward the bar, weaving past bodies and noise until it thins just enough to breathe. Mel’s there—perched neatly on a stool, posture a little too precise for a place like this, ginger ale in hand like it’s been deliberately chosen.
“Hi, Mel,” you say, sliding in beside her. “I really like your shirt.”
She glances down at it, like she has to confirm what she’s wearing. A faded Donnie Darko print, soft with age.
“Thank you, Counselor,” she says, a small nod. Then, after a beat—“You know, you’ve helped with my fear of lawyers.”
You blink, a little thrown. “Oh. That’s good. Your deposition didn’t exactly sell us well, I’m guessing.”
“Not at all,” Mel says, matter-of-fact. “You can be very cruel.”
A pause. She registers it, just a fraction late.
“Not you,” she adds, correcting cleanly. “Lawyers. Structurally.”
You huff a quiet laugh, leaning your elbow against the bar. “Yeah. No, that tracks. Sorry you had to deal with the worst version of it.”
She shrugs—acceptance, not dismissal. Then her eyes settle on you properly, scanning once, quick but thorough.
“…No pink?”
You click your tongue, getting a little irritated. Not at Mel, never at Mel, but god, you did wear other colours. Right? “Nope, no pink tonight.”
Mel nods, processing that like new information being filed. “You’re usually quite pink.”
“I am,” you admit. “This is… a deviation. I don’t just wear pink, by the way. I love… red.”
Another small nod. Filed away. “...That’s like… a variation of pink, but yes. Sure.”
The bartender’s a few seats down, mid-conversation with Santos—who’s leaning in, smiling in a way that makes the outcome obvious. You watch as a napkin gets turned, a pen appears.
Mel follows your line of sight, equally observant, if less invested.
“They’re flirting,” she says.
“Mm,” you hum. “She’s winning, too.”
The bartender laughs at something Santos says, already writing something down.
Mel takes a sip of her drink. “Efficient.”
You snort softly. “I’m gonna give it a minute before I try my luck for a drink. Feels like I’d be interrupting a… negotiation.”
Mel considers that. “Yes. That would be disruptive.”
You glance at her, amused. “You okay here?”
“Yes,” she says simply. Then, after a second—“I like observing.”
“That checks out,” you smile. “See you around.”
She nods once, already half-turned back to the room.
You leave her there, steady in the noise, as you slip back into it.
Jack’s at the dartboard when you find him—Robby beside him, both mid-game. He doesn’t notice you at first. Focused. Brows drawn, shoulders set, that same quiet precision he brings to everything.
The dart hits a good few inches off bullseye.
He exhales through his nose—low, annoyed.
Robby claps once. Smug. “Tragic.”
You slide in at the edge of the high-top, nudging aside a couple of their empty bottles with your wrist, settling there like you’ve always been part of it. Jack takes a sip of his beer, still studying the board like it personally offended him.
Then—without looking fully at you—
“Where’s your pink?” Jack says, like that’s the only detail that matters.
“I don’t exclusively wear pink,” you continue, a little more worked up than you meant to be. It’s been all day—comments in corridors, in court, even Charles of all people raising a brow like you’d shown up in costume. “I wear other colours. I have range. I wore yellow once. People loved it.”
“Yeah, but,” he shrugs, shooting you a knowing look, “you’re Pinkie Pie.”
You close your eyes. The nicknames have reached him. You want to dump ice over your head. “Not you too.”
There’s a flicker at the corner of his mouth—gone before it fully forms. He throws again.
Better. Much closer. Close enough that Robby lets out an annoyed huff and rolls his eyes like he’s been personally wronged by the improvement.
“You do wear a lot of pink,” Jack adds, almost as an afterthought, already reaching for another dart.
You open your eyes, fixing him with a look. “So do toddlers. Doesn’t make it a defining personality trait.”
“Hm.”
He adjusts his stance—subtle, practiced. Weight shifting cleanly, compensating without thinking. His right leg plants steady, the movement so natural it only really registers if you’re looking for it—balanced, controlled, deliberate.
He throws again.
Closer still. Not quite there.
Robby scoffs. “Getting warmer, grandpa.”
Jack ignores him completely. His gaze flicks to you instead, quick, assessing—like he’s recalibrating something that has nothing to do with darts.
“Funeral?” he asks, nodding at your outfit.
You glance down at the black. Smooth it once over your thigh. “Court.”
“I can feel the joy from here.”
You glance at him. “Have you ever argued in front of a judge who already hates you?”
He doesn’t even look up. “Every day, sweetheart. Different setting.”
You huff a laugh.
Robby steps up, takes his shot—misses by a fraction and swears under his breath. “I blame the beer.”
“Sure you do,” Jack mutters, already holding out a dart toward you without looking. “You wanna play?”
You take one look at the board, then back at him. “No. I have the coordination of a drunk deer.”
“I’d pay to see that.”
Robby snorts.
And Jack—finally—looks at you properly. Not just the outfit, not just the absence of pink. You. Tired edges, sharp mouth, still buzzing from a day that clearly didn’t go your way.
A minute later, Robby excuses himself—something about another round—leaving without making a thing of it. Like he’s done this before. Like he knows exactly when to disappear.
You and Jack don’t acknowledge it.
“You alright there?” he asks after a second. Quieter now.
You glance down at yourself, smoothing your dress. “Mhm. You?”
He looks at you properly then. Not the quick, clinical scan he gives everyone. Not distracted. This is slower. Intentional. It lingers. “I'm doing a lot better now,” he says.
Your brow lifts, curious. “That so?”
“Mm.”
“You wanna elaborate, or—”
There’s the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. He shrugs. “Haven’t had enough beers.”
“Right,” you hum.
You glance toward the bar—Robby taking his time, very deliberately not looking over, then immediately looking over when he thinks you won’t notice.
“He left,” you point out.
“He did,” Jack says, following your gaze, then back to you. “Very convenient timing.”
“You think he did that on purpose?”
“Definitely. Guy’s got a sixth sense for when to disappear.”
“Good for him.”
“Bad for me,” Jack mutters.
You catch it. “Oh?”
He takes a sip of his beer—finally—like he needs something to do with his hands. “Means I’m stuck making conversation.”
“You’re doing alright so far.”
“Yeah?” he glances at you. “Thought I was bombing.”
“Mm. Strong start. Called me a children’s cartoon character within thirty seconds.”
He nods. “Some would say Little Pony is a universal cartoon.”
“It’s My Little Pony,” you correct.
“Alright, no one’s taking it from you—”
“No, it’s— that’s the cartoon. It’s called My Little Pony. I watched it as a kid,” you insist, smiling despite yourself. “Generational difference. What’d you watch?”
“Other than the gold rush?” he shoots back. “Scooby Doo.”
You nod, amused. “Great show.”
He throws, stance even and steady.
Dead centre.
A sharp, satisfied clap—more to himself than anything—before he looks back at you.
“Nice hit,” you admit.
“First bullseye all night,” he says, then, like it’s an afterthought—“Why don’t you like court?”
You glance at him.
“Isn’t that kind of the cool part of being a lawyer,” he goes on, casual but not careless. “Chatting up a judge, all the stops.”
You glance at him, exhaling. “I don’t mind court,” you say, after a beat. “I just… don’t love what it means.”
He doesn’t look away from the board. “Go ahead.”
You fold your arms loosely. “It’s like—” you hesitate, searching, then find it in his language instead of yours. “You’ve been nursing a patient all night. Stabilising them. Watching vitals, adjusting, talking to them, keeping things from escalating. Maybe a few dips, but nothing you can’t manage.”
He stills, just slightly.
“You’re not trying to send them to surgery,” you continue. “You only do that if you absolutely have to. If everything else fails.”
A small nod from him. Go on.
“That’s law,” you say. “Or… good law. You negotiate, mediate, settle. You keep things controlled. Court is—” you huff a quiet breath, “—something’s already gone wrong. It’s last resort. It’s expensive and takes up peoples time.”
He considers that.
“Well,” he says, finally. “Fair enough.”
You glance at him. “Thank you.”
“But,” he adds, picking up another dart, “that doesn’t explain why you look like you want to set yourself on fire.”
You laugh under your breath, a little helpless. “Because—” you gesture vaguely at yourself—“the AC was broken. I wore stilettos like an idiot. I couldn’t even wear my favourite colour because I was trying to be taken seriously.”
He glances at your heels, then back up.
“And,” you add, more annoyed now that you’ve started, words picking up pace, “I broke one of the gorgeous pens you got me—like an idiot—I dropped it mid-submission, and it hit the edge of the lectern nib-first. Fully snapped it. Just—” you make a small, defeated gesture with your hand, “—gone. In front of everyone.”
You exhale, shaking your head. “So I had to use one of Jane’s shitty office pens that kept cutting out every three words, like it had a personal vendetta against me. I’m trying to make a coherent argument and it’s just—stop, start, stop—like I’m glitching in real time.”
A breath, then you push on, because now it’s all coming out.
“And the client wouldn’t shut up,” you add, incredulous. “Like she just kept going—interrupting, adding things, contradicting herself—just constant commentary. I swear, people talk so much when it is the worst possible time to talk.”
He throws.
Bullseye. Again.
You scoff, genuinely impressed now. “Okay—what the hell.”
He glances at you, a little smug. “Sweetheart, I think you’re my good luck charm.”
You shake your head, overwhelmed, tired. “I doubt that.”
Then he sets the dart down. Finishes his beer. Decides something, a glint of realisation and mischief. “You broke one of the pens?”
“It was an accident! Stop, I've had such a…” You begin.
Then he steps toward you, it’s close enough that it cuts through the noise in your head. You go quiet without meaning to. He doesn’t crowd you—just enough that you feel him there. Solid. Grounding. His brows raise up at you, a small smile twitching at the edge of his lips.
“Relax,” he says, softer. “Messing with you, kid.”
Your breath catches a little, the proximity doing something unhelpful to your pulse.
“Y’had a long day,” he adds, gentler now, brows lifting slightly as he looks down at you. “Get something to drink. Then I’ll teach you darts.”
There’s a beat where you just look at him. At the steadiness of him. The ease.
The way the day starts to loosen, just slightly.
You press your teeth briefly into your bottom lip, trying to collect yourself. “...Sounds good.”
“Doesn’t it?” he says, already stepping back, like he didn’t just shift the entire axis of your evening.
You exhale, finally.
You needed the night out more than you realised.
It settles into you slowly—the noise first, then the warmth, then the way your shoulders finally start to drop from somewhere near your ears. No one’s watching you the way they do in court. No one’s waiting for you to slip. Here, everything’s louder, messier, allowed to be.
You end up orbiting the dartboard with Jack and Robby, the two of them taking turns trying—badly—to teach you.
“Stop throwing it like that,” Robby tries. “You’re not lobbing a grenade.”
“I don’t know how to throw a grenade,” you shoot back.
“I can tell.”
Jack huffs something like a laugh beside you. “Ignore him.”
You throw. It barely makes it halfway.
There’s a pause.
“Jesus,” Jack mutters.
“I told you,” you say, turning to him with a helpless little lift of your hands. “Drunk deer.”
“I’ve seen better coordination from elderly, blind patients,” he says, already stepping in.
This time, he doesn’t talk you through it from a distance. He closes the space—one hand around your wrist, adjusting your grip, the other settling lightly at your elbow.
“Two fingers on the barrel. Not the tip—you’re choking it. Light grip.”
His hand closes around your fingers, adjusting them, precise. His other hand taps your elbow up slightly.
“Elbow stays up. You’re dropping it. And don’t throw—just extend. Straight line.”
It’s unfair, really—decades of muscle memory, steady hands from years in surgery and chaos. He makes it sound simple.
“Eyes on the triple twenty,” he adds. “Even if you don’t hit it.”
“I’m absolutely not hitting that.”
“Didn’t ask you to.”
His fingers linger a second longer than necessary before he lets go. “Try again.”
You do. It hits the board. Not well—but enough.
You grin. “Oh, I’m incredible.”
“Don’t let it go to your head,” Robby says. “That was luck.”
“Let her have it,” Jack says, already reaching for his own dart—but his eyes flick to you again, quick, assessing, like he’s clocking the way you’re smiling.
It doesn’t stay just the three of you for long.
The game grows.
People drift in. Someone suggests betting—because of course they do—and suddenly there’s a loose ring of doctors and nurses, drinks in hand, money out, rules half-agreed on and immediately ignored.
Parker takes over without asking.
“Alright—ten in,” she says, already collecting. “Closest to bullseye takes the pot. No crying, no technicalities.”
“You’re literally creating technicalities,” McKay mutters, fishing out a twenty.
“That sounds like a you problem.”
You end up on the edge of it, drink in hand, watching the chaos build—Whitaker overthinking every throw, Dana cheering like it’s a contact sport, Santos heckling from the sidelines.
Jack plays like he works — precise, confident and controlled. Robby tapped out when more money started to get involved. Langdon makes it decently far.
Parker? Unfairly good.
The final round tightens—Jack, Parker, Shen, who is visibly riding whatever unholy mix of caffeine and tequila he’s been subjected to.
There’s a loose semicircle now. People leaning in. Money already spent in their heads.
Shen steps up first, wobbling just slightly as he toes the line.
“Don’t rush it,” someone calls.
“Don’t listen to them,” someone else adds.
He throws.
It lands in the inner single—respectable, a few inches off the bull. The crowd gives him a half-cheer, half-pity clap.
Jack steps up next. The noise dips—not fully quiet, but it shifts. People expect something from him.
He plants his stance. One foot just behind the other, balanced. Rolls his shoulder once. Dart held clean between his fingers.
You watch his breathing even out. He squints slightly—
“Wait.”
Immediate groans. Booing.
“Come on, man—”
“Don’t be that guy—”
He ignores all of it, already turning his head, scanning until he finds you.
You’re half-hidden behind Santos, drink in hand, amused.
He points. Crooks his finger.
“You—c’mere. Need you here. C’mon.”
“Absolutely not,” Dana cuts in. “No coaching.”
“As if,” Jack mutters. Then, louder—“She’s my lucky charm. Get over here, Pinkie.”
There’s a ripple of chuckles as you step forward, shaking your head, slipping through the crowd.
“What am I doing?” you ask, stopping beside him.
He leans in just slightly—close enough that no one else catches it.
“You stand there,” he says, low, casual, “and you look pretty like you always do, think you can do that for me?”
You nod, because you don’t trust your voice for a second, a warmth in your chest that has nothing to do with the vodka. He chews slightly at his inner cheek, before clearing his throat. Maybe he doesn’t trust his voice either.
You take your place beside him.
You can feel the attention shift again, curious—not to the board, but to the two of you, the shape of it. He resets. Shoulders looser now. Grip easier.
Throws.
The dart lands just kissing the edge of the inner bull—half in, half out, riding the red wire. It's the best hit yet.
A sharp inhale from the crowd—then clapping, louder this time. A few impressed whistles.
“Fuck off,” someone mutters.
“Lucky,” Robby adds, but there’s a grin there.
Jack exhales through his nose, a flicker of irritation anyway—because it’s not clean. He glances at the board like it personally disappointed him.
Parker steps up last.
Jack’s hand finds your arm without thinking—light at first, then firmer as he shifts you both back, guiding you out of her line. It’s absent-minded, almost automatic, but he doesn’t drop it immediately.
You end up with your back near the edge of a booth, him just in front of you, close enough that you feel the heat of him through the space.
Neither of you comment on it.
Parker doesn’t take long.
No theatrics. No reset.
She barely lines it up—just a quick sight, a small adjustment of her stance—
Throws.
Bullseye.
Clean. Dead centre.
There’s a beat—like the room needs a second to register it—
Then chaos.
“Pay up, bitches!” she grins, already downing a shot as a chorus of groans follows.
McKay digs into her wallet like she’s being personally victimised. “This is financial abuse.”
“You agreed to the terms,” Parker shoots back.
“Under duress!”
Jack hands over a hundred like it offends him on principle.
“Extortion,” he mutters.
“Voluntary participation,” Parker corrects.
“Actually,” Donnie cuts in, pointing vaguely in your direction, “we have legal counsel present. Can she weigh in?”
There’s a shift—heads turning, attention snapping to you with sudden, collective interest.
You blink once. “Oh, no—don’t drag me into this.”
“Too late,” Santos calls. “Lotso, is this legal or not?”
You take a slow sip of your drink, considering them over the rim. “Okay, well, I mean— You’ve all entered into an informal wagering agreement with clear terms and voluntary participation—so yes, it’s enforceable in the sense that none of you can suddenly decide you don’t want to pay.”
A few groans.
“But,” you add, lifting a finger, “depending on jurisdiction, private betting like this could fall into a grey area if someone really wanted to push it. So maybe don’t document it and submit it to administration... Just to entertain the actual legality of it.”
“That feels targeted,” Parker says.
“You’re holding the cash,” you point out.
“Hypothetically,” Shen jumps in, still wired, “if I refuse to pay—”
“Then you’re an asshole,” you cut in lightly. “And also potentially in breach of a verbal contract.”
“Jesus,” McKay mutters. “Remind me to never bet against you.”
“Smart,” you nod.
They break apart into smaller clusters—arguments over scores, money changing hands, Parker being insufferable about it. The noise swells again, but it no longer feels like it’s pressing in on you.
You stay where you are.
Jack doesn’t move either.
You’re both half-leaning against the edge of the table, shoulders almost brushing, angled toward the room but not really part of it anymore. There’s a pocket of quiet between you that doesn’t belong to anyone else.
You feel his warmth before you properly look at him.
When you do, it’s quick—meant to be quick—but it lingers anyway.
White t-shirt, sleeves worn just enough to show where the sun’s caught him unevenly—faint tan line cutting across the top of his bicep. His arms are braced against the table behind him, weight settled back, forearms flexing slightly as his hands hook under the edge. There’s a network of veins there you hadn’t noticed before. Or maybe you had and just hadn’t let yourself look.
Freckles, too—scattered across his skin, inconsistent, easy to miss unless you’re close enough.
You are.
The bar lighting softens everything—warmer, less clinical than the hospital, less sharp. It makes him look… different. Not smaller, not softer, exactly—just more real. Less like someone constantly in motion, constantly needed.
Just a man, standing beside you, breathing easy for once.
“Good to know we’ve got legal oversight for our gambling ring,” he says quietly, not looking at you yet.
You drag your gaze back up, like you weren’t just cataloguing details you shouldn’t be noticing.
“Happy to provide my services,” you murmur, lifting your drink. “My rates are very reasonable.”
“Yeah?” He turns his head then, properly, eyes settling on you. There’s something slower in it now. Less distracted. “What do you charge?”
You tilt your head, considering. “Depends. What’re you offering?”
A flicker—quick, sharp.
He opens his mouth, then shuts it. You watch him hold back, the thoughts going through his mind, one by one before he settles. “How about anything you want?”
You click your tongue. You pretend to think, unable to hide the dumb smile that spreads across your cheeks. “I guess that’ll work.”
“Yeah? It’ll work? Tolerable offer?” He wonders, sarcastic and teasing as ever.
“Yeah, tolerable. We can work with that.” You nod.
A beat lingers there—long enough to feel it.
Then Parker shouts something about a rematch, the group pulling back into noise and movement again.
Jack doesn’t move away.
You don’t move away when your shoulder brushes his again. He doesn’t move when your knee knocks lightly into his as you shift your weight.
★★★
Over the next few hours, the bar stretches and softens around the edges—music louder, laughter easier, conversations blurring into one another. At some point, it gets too much in the way good things do. Too many bodies, too much heat, the kind of noise that sits behind your eyes.
You slip out the back without making a thing of it.
The alley is quieter. Cooler. The door thuds shut behind you, muffling everything into a distant, dull thrum. A single overhead light flickers, casting everything in that washed-out yellow that makes the world feel briefly paused.
You lean back against the brick, cigarette between your fingers, phone lighting your face as you scroll without really reading anything.
It’s quiet enough that you hear him before he speaks—footsteps, slower, heavier, familiar.
“You know, those are bad for you.”
You glance up.
Robby stands a few feet away, like he’s not entirely sure how he ended up out here either. There’s a faint crease between his brows, not judgment exactly—more curiosity, maybe a touch of something softer than he’d ever admit.
You smile, flicking your screen off, the glow disappearing. “They give you all doctors the same script, then?”
“Yeah,” he says, easy, stepping in to lean against the opposite wall. “We had a meeting about it.”
A beat settles. Easier than inside. Less performative.
He watches you for a second longer than necessary—not in the way Jack does, not sharp or searching. Robby’s gaze is rougher around the edges, like he’s piecing things together without fully committing to the picture.
“You having a good time?” he asks.
You nod, exhaling smoke slow into the cool air. “Yeah. I needed it after today.”
“Tough one?”
You huff a quiet laugh. “Client from hell. AC broken. Judge in a mood. I wore heels like an idiot. Pen broke. Whole thing felt like a setup.”
“Mm,” he grunts. “Sounds about right.”
You glance at him. “You?”
“Good,” he says, like it’s enough. Then, with a small, crooked smile—“Didn’t lose a hundred bucks to Parker, so that’s a win.”
You smile back, softer. “Who would you have betted on?”
He exhales through his nose, tipping his head back briefly against the brick. “Well. I wanna say Jack. Loyalty, solidarity, all that shit—”
“—Parker,” you both say at the same time.
A shared nod. Easy.
You tap ash to the ground, something quieter settling in.
He studies you again—more openly this time. Takes in the cigarette, the dress, the fact that you’re out here at all.
“You don’t strike me as a smoker,” he says.
“I’m not,” you admit. “Not really. Just… sometimes.”
“Bad days,” he guesses.
You glance at him, a little surprised. “That obvious?”
“Mm.” He shifts his weight, folding his arms.
You look away for a second, out toward the dim alley mouth. Silence again—but not awkward. Just… shared.
Then, after a beat—
"You're good for him, you know. Jack, I mean." Robby suddenly says, maybe surprising himself a bit as he scratches slightly at his beard.
Your fingers tighten slightly around the cigarette. “I don’t—”
“I’ve known him a long time,” Robby cuts in, not unkind. “Long enough to know when something shifts.”
You don’t answer straight away. There isn’t a clean answer to give.
He doesn’t push. Just lets it sit, watching you think.
“But you definitely are lucky to him,” he adds after a beat, lighter now, like he’s taking some of the weight back. “I think. Not that I put much stock in that stuff.”
You let out a small, disbelieving laugh. “You think so?”
“Mm.” He tilts his head. “You should’ve seen him before you walked up to that dartboard.”
You raise a brow. “What—missing?”
“Worse,” Robby says. “Overcorrecting. Thinking too much.” A beat. “Then you show up and suddenly he’s back to muscle memory.”
That earns a real laugh from you.
He smiles at that—brief, but genuine, remembers something.
“Guy’s got a tell,” Robby continues. He gestures vaguely, like he’s mapping it out in the air. “You’ll notice it now. His stance. When he’s tired or pushing too hard, he’ll compensate—puts more weight through the left side, shortens his step. Not dramatic. It's just… there. Years of it.”
You picture it before you realise you are—how Jack stands at the board, at the nurses’ station, in hallways. The subtle shift of weight. The way he settles.
“But when he’s… calmer,” Robby continues, “not in his own head so much—he evens out. Gait’s cleaner. Less guarding.” A small shrug. “Closer to neutral. Thinks he’s subtle.” A beat. “He’s not.”
You look down at your cigarette, then back up. “And you are?”
Robby huffs. “God, no.”
Another quiet stretch passes.
The door behind you opens—light spilling out for a second, laughter cutting through before it shuts again.
Robby pushes off the wall first, rolling his shoulders like he’s resetting himself.
“You coming back in?” he asks.
“In a minute,” you say.
He nods once, already moving toward the door. Then he’s gone—door swinging shut behind him, noise swallowing him back up.
You’re left in the quiet again, cigarette burning low between your fingers, his words settling somewhere you don’t quite want to look at too closely.
From inside, you can hear Jack’s laugh—low, familiar, cutting through the rest of it.
You don’t stub the cigarette out right away.
★★★
The night winds down in pieces.
People peel off in twos and threes—Dana half-carrying an overly enthusiastic intern, Parker victorious and loud, counting crumpled notes like she’s just robbed a bank, Shen still vibrating faintly from whatever chemical warfare he put in his system earlier.
There are hugs, sloppy goodbyes, promises to never drink again that nobody means. It softens, slowly, into something quieter. Smaller.
By the time you step out onto the street, the air feels cooler than it should.
Santos and Whitaker stumble out just behind you.
“Do not tell me you two are driving,” Santos says immediately, pointing between you and Jack like she’s personally offended by the concept.
“What?” Jack deadpans. “I see double. Means I can drive twice as good.”
You snort.
“Course not,” he adds, nodding toward you. “Gonna grab her a cab.”
“You could share with ours,” Whitaker offers, already swaying a little, like the suggestion might stabilise him. “Cheaper.”
Jack shakes his head, easy. “Don’t really have to worry about that.”
Whitaker nods like that tracks, like he’s suddenly remembering his own bank account.
“Whatever, we get it, moneybags,” Santos sighs, looping her arm through Whitaker’s. “Come on, Huckleberry. We’ll take one of the poor taxis.” She throws you a grin. “Night, Pinkie.”
They disappear down the street in a mess of laughter.
And then it’s just you and him.
The quiet lands differently now—no buffer of people, no noise to hide behind. Just the two of you under a streetlight that flickers every few seconds like it can’t quite decide if it wants to stay on.
Jack rolls his neck, working out the last of the tension, then glances down at you. “Uber should be here soon.”
You nod, slower this time, the alcohol softening the edges of everything. “Thank you.” A small pause. "'m sorry I wasn't so lucky for your gambling ring."
He shakes his head, quieter than you expect. No quip, no easy deflection. “You’re still lucky.”
You huff, looking down at the pavement, scuffing the toe of your heel against it. “I don’t feel that way. Not most of the time.” A beat. “Today really… set that in stone.”
He watches you for a second—properly this time, not the quick glances he usually allows himself. There’s something steadier in it, less amused, more… considering.
“Bad days don’t get to rewrite the whole thing,” he says.
You let out a small laugh. “That sounds like something you tell patients. Or your residents.”
“Yeah,” he shrugs. “Because it’s true.”
You glance up at him. “You believe that all the time?”
“No,” he says, easy. “But I say it anyway. Sometimes you catch up to it.”
It lands. You don’t brush it off. A car passes, headlights briefly washing over the two of you before the street settles back into that dim, flickering quiet.
You fold your arms loosely, tilting your head. “So what, I’m... I'm lucky because I exist? That’s your medical opinion?”
He huffs a quiet breath, something like a smile pulling at it. “No.” A beat, like he’s choosing the words instead of defaulting to something easy. “You’re lucky because you give a shit. And you’re… tough about it. You don’t fold—you adjust. Get smarter. Compromise.”
You blink at him, a little thrown. “I think that’s just stubbornness.”
“Same difference.”
“Not really.”
“Mm,” he hums, unconvinced. Then, softer—“You showed up tonight anyway.”
You shrug, but it doesn’t quite land casual. “I needed a drink.”
“Yeah,” he nods. “And you came to us.” A small pause. “To me, some might say.”
There’s something in the way he says it—dry, almost throwaway, but it sits heavier than that.
You glance at him, a crooked little smile pulling at your mouth. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.”
“Too late,” he says, dry. “Already built a whole narrative.”
The quiet settles again, but it’s different now—closer. You can feel the heat of him beside you despite the cold, the way you’re both standing just a little inside each other’s space without acknowledging it.
He shifts, weight evening out, one hand dropping from his hip. His gaze drifts—slow, not subtle anymore. Your dress, your tights, the slight tear near your thigh, the way you keep tugging it down without realising.
“You might not... feel lucky,” he says, circling back, quieter. “But you are.”
You meet his eyes. “Because I’m your good luck charm?”
“Partly,” he admits. “Selfishly.”
You raise a brow. “Honest.”
“Sometimes.”
“Better.”
That small smile again—real this time, sitting easier on him.
A car turns the corner, headlights slower now—your Uber—but neither of you moves yet.
“You ever think,” you start, then hesitate, the alcohol making you just honest enough to say it anyway, “that maybe I just like being around you guys because it’s… easier?”
He watches you. Doesn’t interrupt.
“Like,” you go on, quieter, eyes dropping for a second, “at work it’s all liability and contracts and people who’ve been screwed over trying to screw the system back. Everyone’s defensive. Or waiting for you to mess up so they can use it.”
You glance back up at him.
“With you— with all of you,” you correct, but it lands a little pointed anyway, “it feels… normal. Human. No one’s talking down to me. No one’s waiting for me to trip.” A small breath. “You trust me. That’s—” you shrug, softer, “—rare.”
He takes that in properly. You can see it.
“So yeah,” you add, a faint smile returning, “that’s why I bother you all the time.”
“That’s a generous read,” he says.
“You know what I mean.”
“Yeah,” he nods. “I do.”
A pause. The engine of the Uber idles somewhere behind you now, unnoticed.
“Goes both ways,” he adds.
You tilt your head. “What does that mean?”
He pauses—long enough that you think he might dodge it. You can see the instinct there, the easy out.
Then he exhales, like he’s too tired to be anything but honest.
“You’re easy to be around,” he says. It lands quieter, but heavier. “Things get lighter when you’re there.”
You don’t look away.
“Even when you’re not,” he adds, glancing off for a second like he’s already annoyed at himself for saying it. “People are… better. I’m better.”
You let out a small breath, almost a laugh. “That feels like a lot to pin on one person.”
“Yeah,” he nods. “It is.” A beat. “Doesn’t make it wrong.”
Your fingers tighten slightly around your messenger bag, something in your chest pulling in a way you don’t quite want to name.
“I think you’re romanticising me,” you say, softer now.
“Kid,” he huffs, a faint smile tugging at his mouth, “I’m old enough to know when something’s actually making my life easier.”
You glance up at him through your lashes. “How so?”
“Quieter in my head. Less… noise.” A small shrug. “Doesn’t happen much.”
That lands somewhere deeper than it should.
The Uber pulls up properly this time, engine idling.
He glances at it, then back at you. “That’s you. I’d come with, but I’m making sure Robby gets back safe. He’s somewhere across the park, last I checked.”
“Okay,” you say—but you don’t move.
You’re standing close enough now that it would be easy to close the gap. Easy to do something about the way he’s looking at you, the way your hand keeps brushing his arm when you shift.
Your lips press to his, warm, a little tentative at first. He stills—caught for half a beat—a hand pulling yours against him by his bicep, and he leans into it, answering you properly. It’s brief, but it’s not nothing. There’s weight in it. Recognition.
You pull back first—quicker than you meant to.
He almost follows. You feel it—the way he leans in a fraction before stopping himself, jaw tightening slightly like he’s reining it in.
“For luck,” you murmur, a little breathless despite yourself, your hand still resting on his forearm. “With Robby. He seems like a confused drunk.”
A corner of his mouth pulls, but his eyes stay on you—darker now, steadier.
“Mm,” he nods, voice rougher than before. His gaze drops briefly to where your fingers rest against his arm—nails brushing the cotton material of his t-shirt, dragging down over his skin. “Could’ve used that a couple hours ago against Parker. I'd be a hundred dollars richer.”
You snicker softly, the tension not quite breaking.
Neither of you moves.
Your hand slides down from his forearm slower this time, not quite ready to let go. You try to ignore how your heart might fall out of its chest, how he watches you with such intensity and curiosity.
“You’ll call me?” you ask, like it’s casual. Like it doesn’t matter.
“Yeah,” he says, immediate. Certain. “I will.”
You nod, like that’s enough. Like you believe him.
He steps forward first this time, opening the door for you, his hand settling at your back—warm, steady, guiding you in. It lingers a second longer than necessary, just enough to make your breath catch again before you sit.
“Get home safe,” he says.
“You too,” you murmur.
You look up at him once more before the door closes—him under the flickering streetlight, a little rumpled, a little tired, still watching you like he’s not quite done with this moment yet.
The door shuts.
And as the car pulls away, you catch him in the side mirror—still standing there, shoulders set, hand flexing once at his side before he drags it back through his silver curls, exhales, and finally turns toward the park.
part one | linger + part two | strawberry + part three | optics + part five | orbit
a/n: guys idk if this is that good im feeling iffy about it. but yk what we can always edit it, come back to it another time. just didnt wanna keep yall waiting any longer
guys! ive been so !!! agh. school. uni. work. life. whatnot. burns!! sorry for the time on this. actually im not, i kinda just wanna post when i wanna post, and im really trying to work on a few wips at once. but yeah anyway hopefully i can pump out another one of these in the next week or so, idk how many i'll do of these, its a cute fun little dynamic, but im rlly curious about you guys and ur thoughts on where it could go, if theres anything we could explore here
