Bucky Barnes x plus size reader (any gender). On the run and holed up in a Romanian safehouse, maybe?
"I feel safe when you're here" + "If you want me even half as much as I want you, it's going to be a long night"
Thanks for the request!
Bucky Barnes x gn!plus size reader (if I missed any gendered language let me know!
wc: 1.1k
The cold won’t leave your bones, Romanian winters are no joke, and the two of you had spent the past few hours hiking through the woodlands on the outskirts of the city center. James said he knew where he was going. That was the last word you heard from him. It’s been hours.
He’s not very talkative, nor are you, which creates ample opportunities for silence. He likes the silence, which makes it easier to listen. You just don’t have that much to talk about. The two of you fit together very well, you think. If only you knew what he thought. At all. Ever.
He stopped accepting your apologies a while ago, slowing him down was never your intention but you will be endlessly in debt to him for saving you from the lab you were raised in. You don’t know the full story and you never asked, but you will never forget the sight of him opening the door to your cell, dripping wet and bleeding from the forehead grabbing your hand in the gentlest grip you’ve ever felt and taking you away.
He keeps you safe, protects you even when it puts him in danger, and he keeps you with him even though you know it would be easier for him to set you up somewhere where nobody can reach you and leave to be on his own. Maybe that’s all you need to know.
The safe house isn’t very much of a house at all. Looks more like an old military outpost from a war fought a long time ago. It keeps the cold out, though which is what the two of you need at the moment. It’s routine at this point, he goes inside and looks from room to room, his gun drawn but facing down and when he deems it safe, he knocks twice on the door letting you know to come in. Then the two of you get to work, sifting through whatever drawers or cabinets there are, looking for food you can eat, clothes you can take or change into and if there's running water or electricity. Luckily for you both this outpost looks fully stocked with rations and there's even a tankless water heater that's still running. It will be nice, you decide, however long the two of you stay it will be nice while you're here.
You put together a quick meal and hand his to him sitting down on the dusty couch centered in the largest room, facing the fire that he made and taking a deep breath.
He nods to you in gratefulness for the meal but slides to the furthest end of the couch from you his shoulders are hunched in and he's avoiding eye contact. It would be annoying if it didn’t break your heart first.
You scoff and move to close the distance once more, maintaining some space but not letting him get away with whatever the hell he thinks he’s doing.
“I don’t know how many times I have to tell you,” you don’t raise your voice and you don’t even look at him, “I am not afraid of you. In fact, it's very much the opposite; I feel safe when you’re here.” At that part you try to catch his eye, in a desperate attempt to convince him of your truth. You feel safe with him, a safety you’ve never truly felt before.
He chuckles wryly but doesn’t move to pull away again, you’ll take the small victory you suppose but add this moment into the collection of similar ones that fuel the spark you have for him. He cares abut you, even if he won’t say it. You just wish you knew how much. Does he care for you like you care for him? Or does he feel obligated to keep you here? Does he pity you? You don’t think you could handle it if he pited you.
“It’s good- uh.” He stumbles over his words and you eyes shoot up out of your own bowl and land on his, “the food, it’s good, you’re good.” He nods once decisively and then stands, taking his bowl to the sink and rinsing it.
“Well it’s the least I can do,” you reply “You do pretty much everything else, so if throwing together something to eat will help I’m glad to do it.”
“Don’t do that.” He admonishes, “You do plenty, and it’s my job to protect you.”
“Your job?” You don’t do a good job disguising the hurt in your voice. At least you have your answer now. You stand with your own bowl moving to push past him and into the kitchen.
“No- I shit. I’m not good at this stuff just,” He grabs your arm to keep you from going too far, not harshly you don’t think he’s capable of being harsh with you and up until now you thought that meant something. “You’re not a job, that came out wrong.”
“Good to know,” you nod and move to pull away again.
He groans and runs his hand through his hair.
“I want you okay?” His tone is desperate and his words free you where you stand. “I don’t know a lot of things, I don’t know where I came from or who I really am, what my favorite color is or- or- anything but I do know that I want you. I want you safe, next to me at all times, I want to see you smile and I want to sit next to you and I want to hold you and it scares me.” His breathing is ragged and his shoulders echo the motion.
The silence in this moment is not comfortable, it feels taught like one move from either of you could snap it.
“I think that's the most words I’ve ever heard you say at one time.” You reply, not fully comprehending the words you say just noting the way they seem to put him at ease. His shoulders drop along with his head, his hair falling in front of his face.
“I said I wasn’t good at it.”
“I don’t know I think you did pretty good.” You move to place your hand on his cheek, lifting his head and pulling his hear behind his ear. You tilt your head to get a good look at him and smile. “If you want me even as half as much as I want you it’s going to be a long night.”
His eyes darken immediately; he takes the bowl from your hand and places it down somewhere you don’t care to notice and in a swift movement he pulls your body closer to his, the softness of your form against his hard one making the two of you fit together like a puzzle.
His lips claim yours with a hunger you didn’t know he possessed.
SUMMARY In which, Jake discovers that he loves having his hair played with and you discover that he has an 'off' button.
CONTENT fem reader (no use of Y/N), slightly suggestive, mostly just fluff, barely edited
WC 1.5k
A/N you know the drill: another reupload from my old account. this is inspired by a Fred Weasley fic I read awhile ago and thought was very cute. please enjoy!
Jake Seresin did not know how to take care of his hair. That was just a fact, a quintessential reality that rang true no matter the circumstances. Whether it was the 12 pounds of gel he put in his hair every morning—practically slicking the strands back with a cement mixture strong enough to withstand a tornado—or the fact that he didn’t really believe in conditioner, Jake Seresin’s hair had not felt love a day in its life.
“I bought you shampoo and conditioner,” you gesture to one of the bags sitting on the kitchen island as you begin unloading food into the fridge.
Jake grabs one of the bottles, flipping open the cap and giving it an unsure sniff before looking at you questioningly. “I have shampoo and conditioner.”
“Your two-in-one abomination to society doesn't count.”
He pouts, setting the bottle down and moving to help you. “I don’t see anything wrong with it.”
“Well, everyone else does,” you pull out a bottle of orange juice from the grocery bag. “And I cannot keep defending you when they say you don’t know how to shower.”
“Who’s saying that?” Jake scoffs. “I think you’re the only person who cares this much about my hair, angel.”
“I’m the one sticking up for you,” you protest. “Even Rooster thinks he has better hair than you.”
Jake wrinkles his nose at the thought. “That’s just not true. Pretty sure I saw him scream when Phoenix accidentally put her hairbrush in his locker.”
“See,” you elongate the vowel. “You gotta have better hair than Rooster, baby.”
He plucks the bag off the counter and hands it back to you. “I already do.”
“Please, Jake?” You pout at him softly. “I just want to be able to play with your hair.”
“I already let you play with my hair,” he argues.
“Yeah, but—,” you shudder, “—it’s all crusty and gross. It’s like running your hands through dried pasta.”
Jake lets out an offended squawk. “That’s so rude. This is why I don’t agree to do these things.”
“Baby,” you ignore him, trying a different approach as you wrap your arms around his neck. “To wash your hair, you need to shower.”
He furrows his brows. “Well, yeah angel, that’s kinda how it works.”
“And I wouldn’t want to shower with my clothes on.”
“Oh—Oh!” His eyes light up in realization. “You know, I’ve thought about it and I think you’re right. My hair could use a wash. So could your hair actually. And your boobs, now that I’m really thinking about it. And—,”
“Jake!” You let out a laugh, securing your grip on the grocery bag and making your way to the bathroom.
You don’t even have to look behind you to know that Jake is following you.
“There’s something different about Hangman.”
You turn to look at Penny, who’s sitting in a lawn chair close to your towel, watching the group of aviators who have begun a game of dogfight football.
“What do you mean?” You lift your sunglasses up to get a better look at your boyfriend.
“I don’t know…” Penny trails off. “He just looks—,”
“Oh!” You turn to her excitedly. “It’s his hair.”
“Yes, that’s what it is! It’s his hair.”
“Yeah,” you set your sunglasses back on the bridge of your nose, now feeling a smidge more proud of yourself. “I switched up his hair care routine.”
Penny laughs. “That bad, huh?”
Before you can tell her just how bad it was, Jake lets out a loud holler to grab your attention.
“Babe! Will you grab my shirt?”
The brief eclipse of clouds had passed, meaning the sun is beating down relentlessly and you yourself are grateful for the umbrella Jake had set up for you before he joined the rest of the group. You move to grab his shirt, shooting Maverick a smile as he jogs over to seemingly sneak off with Penny, getting up and making your way over to Jake.
“Seriously?” He gives you a look, holding up the light gray shirt—though now it’s more dark gray, you forgot you used it to dry off your hair after your dip in the ocean.
“Oh, did I accidentally use your shirt to dry my hair?” You look at him innocently. “My bad. I guess you’ll just have to walk around without a shirt. What a shame…”
Jake freezes, processing your words with a blink. “What are you doing?” He questions you slowly. “I’m the one who’s supposed to do things to try and get you naked, not you. Take it back.”
He lunges at you when you shake your head, only just missing you as you exclaim, “Jake Seresin, I wanna see your rippling pectorals every day of my life!”
“No, stop it!” Jake tries—and fails—to hold back his laugh. “And don’t say pectorals. What is wrong with you?”
You can’t hold back your giggles as you take off down the beach, Jake’s thundering steps sounding off behind you. You make it back to your towel before he catches up to you, wrapping his arm around your waist and setting you on your towel before falling on top of you. You let out a soft grunt, but relax as he makes himself more comfortable on your chest. Wrapping his arms around your waist, Jake lifts his head to look at you.
“How dare you objectify me like that,” he teases you.
“What do you mean?” You laugh quietly, happily threading your fingers through his now much softer hair. “Am I not allowed to love up on you?”
“I can think of other ways we can love up—Mmm.”
Your hands fumble in his hair and you look down at Jake in startled surprise. He hardly notices, his eyes closed in satisfaction. If Jake is anything, he’s a menace. For him to stop mid-innuendo? It’s unheard of. Testingly, you wrap a finger around a strand of his hair and pull it softly. He makes the noise again.
“Oh my god,” you breathe. “You do have an off button.”
If Jake’s aware of your teasing, he doesn’t react—yet another thing that Jake does not do—instead letting out a soft sigh as you scratch his scalp. You bite back a smile at the way his grip tightens on your waist, eyes closed and features looking so content as the only sounds that fall from his lips are soft noises of enjoyment. You hardly notice Rooster coming over to the two of you, Phoenix and Bob not far behind him.
“Did losing to our team really tire you out, Hangman?” Rooster teases and you feel slightly embarrassed at the intimate position they’ve all found you in, but no one else seems to mind—least of all Jake.
“Don’t know why you’re bragging about being faster on the ground than in—,”
Your fingers scratch lightly on his scalp as he moves to get up and Jake practically melts right into you again.
Rooster raises his eyebrows in surprise and you understand his alarm. Starting shit with Bradley is Jake’s favorite pastime. “What?”
“I said you’re fucking slow—,” To further test your hypothesis, you move your fingers to muscles of his neck, massaging them softly. Almost immediately, Jake’s face lights up in a blissful smile, whatever insult he was attempting to hurl at Rooster forgotten.
“What’s wrong with him? Phoenix whispers loudly to Bob and the WSO shrugs lightly in his own version of shock.
Rooster looks at you accusingly. “Did you tranquilize him?”
You raise your eyebrows at him.
“Leave my girl alone, Bradshaw,” Jake grumbles from on top of you. “It’s not her fault you have the voice of a ban—Mmm.”
His last word—banshee you assumed—gets lost in a soft hum as the pads of your fingers move to his temples.
Phoenix almost looks in awe of you. “Can we take you everywhere we have to be with him?”
You let out a soft laugh at the way Bob hastily nods next to her, Jake’s grip tightening around your waist.
“I agree. You should be with me all the time and never be away from me ever.”
“Okay, I’m gonna be sick,” Rooster lets out a melodramatic gag, turning to head back to the beach and away from whatever has happened to his sort-of-rival-sort-of-friend. “But thank you for your service, you’re stronger than the Marines.”
You laugh, rolling your eyes playfully at his antics, but when Jake looks up suddenly, eyes full of enamored love for you, suddenly everything else fades into irrelevance.
“See how nice it is when you take care of your hair?” You tease him softly.
Jake only smiles in agreement. “‘S nice.”
Then he’s relaxing back on your chest, closing his eyes as the shade of the umbrella, the sounds of the ocean, and your hands in his hair lull him. It’s quiet for a moment—long enough for you to think he might have fallen asleep.
“I have better hair than Rooster, right?”
Wrapping one of your fingers around another blond strand, you smile. “You have the best hair, baby.”
please don't copy, repost, or feed my work into ai, thanks!
summary: on your fourth big blockbuster working together, you find yourself scolding hollywood’s favorite, tom ryder. to much success, it manages to capture colt’s attention.
pairing: colt seavers x gn!reader
word count: 4.0k
tags: fluff and humor, coworkers to lovers, workplace relationship, mutual attraction, courting, flirty!colt, tom ryder being an asshole, brief gail meyer cameo, sexual humor, minor injury, kiss at the end, script supervisor!reader, gn!reader
cross-posted to ao3
“Solid chance for a reshoot,” you mutter under your breath, as soon as the director calls cut. It’s clearly too loud, because the lead actor for the film whips his head around to locate your voice. Tom Ryder looks like he’s about to throw a temper tantrum; the overly-tight business suit and cowboy hat he’s costumed in does nothing to help his case. You’re perched on your chair, script in-hand with one leg crossed over the other. You can only react with a raised brow.
“That doesn’t make any damn sense. I nailed it. My foot’s on the tape,” Ryder protests, arms flailing down to point at the gaff tape under his left shoe. He isn’t wrong, per say; his foot is most definitely on the spike. But, there’s a very clear issue.
“You’re faced in the—” Uncooperative, you remind yourself. There’s no point in arguing with Ryder head-on. You turn to the director, pen tapping against the stapled script in your hand. “He’s faced in the wrong direction.” You can’t imagine that you’re the only one who’s spotted this, but the vast majority of the crew want to keep their jobs—and someone as fiery as Tom Ryder isn’t the safest to correct.
It’s your fourth big blockbuster with him as lead and it still astounds you how much they let him improv his scenes. It’s difficult to tell if he’s playing different characters or just slightly different versions of himself. You can tell that half the set wants to throw in the towel by this point—with your observations and Ryder’s fussing. He clearly doesn’t want to admit that he’s clearly overlooked the simple detail. “So, Seavers can just reshoot the stunt to match the shot.” Classic.
You don’t even know where Colt is right now. Probably taking a nap in his trailer, or grabbing a bite to eat off-set. You can’t think about that now, because you need to focus on talking over Ryder. “That’s insane,” you counter. “It’s too expensive to reshoot the stunt, and it’s already perfect as-is. It doesn’t take a whole lot of work to recreate the scene you just did.” It’s really not. All he has to do is wave his stupid prop-gun around and run his mouth.
“Pain in the fuckin’ ass,” Ryder mutters indiscreetly. You can only scribble away on your script, unamused. The makeup artist that comes to touch up the highlighter on his cheeks looks half-scared to death. You can tell that she’s in a quick rush to dab the brush at his face and scurry away as fast as possible.
“Tom, bear with us for a minute. We’ve got this scene left, and then it’s press time. You love the press,” the director exclaims, all too sporadically. “We’ll redo the scene really quick, bud. Just go with the flow.”
—
You’ve been keeping your eye on Colt for the last week and a half of production. It’s not that you can control it. Whenever he’s substituting in for Ryder for the fight scenes or the pyro or the vehicular stunts, he’s always front and center. You’ve got to keep your eye on the script and Colt simultaneously; it’s your job—tracking the consistency. In any case, you’d have to do just the same for Ryder. Except, when Colt’s not needed for the shot, you, on occasion, still keep your eye on him.
So, you might have an inkling of a crush on the senior stunt double on your set. The reason, you’ve tried to deduce, is that he’s relatively much nicer than Ryder, which means you’re so much more likely to like him. And you’d be lying if you said you weren’t attracted to him, with his blonde highlights and all the movie quotes he spews out between takes.
Usually, you’ll find him at the catering table, on his third cup of your shared fourteen-hour day. It’s under these usual circumstances that he comes to thank you. You feel a tap on your shoulder—and Colt’s there, right beside you, mug in hand. You give him a nod and a smile, trying not to come off too jumpy. He still has his costume on, grayish blue suit and a slightly darker tie to match—topped with a brimmed cowboy hat. It’s the same as Ryder’s. You drop your thermos down on the folding table, trying to figure out what pastry might tie you over for the rest of the day.
“So, I heard you did me a big favor,” Colt murmurs. Word travels fast on-set, clearly. He takes the white little espresso mug up to his lips, taking a sip of the hot brew as he leans back against the catering table. He lowers it just a little to say, “You should’ve just let him make us reshoot.”
You shake your head, picking a scone off one of the trays and placing it onto your flimsy styrofoam tray. “It’s good to get him worked up early during production, so he might ease off the bitching later. It’s like an advanced payment.”
Colt snorts. “Nice,” he says, “I’m pretty sure he’s trying to get Gail to get you fired. Obviously, you didn’t hear it from me.” It barely fazes you. Ryder’s always dying to get somebody fired, and it alternates based on his particular moods. His targeting you is no different than usual.
“She can’t fire me,” you chuckle. After four blockbuster films of you on script with the bigwigs, you’re convinced that you’re invincible. It’s naive, maybe, but you’re good at what you do. You’re credible. And, on this particular contemporary Western at least—with crunch time now, in the middle of spring—you’re safe. You digress, “I know the film inside out, and it’d be a killer to replace me at this point in production.”
“Right,” Colt nods. He doesn’t seem to believe you too much, but it is what it is. He seems to lower his voice as crew, largely lighting and sound in all-black, whizz past you to set up for the next scene. Intently, he tells you, “I wouldn’t mind reshooting if it means Ryder won’t give you as hard of a time.”
Your eyebrows crease. It’s not that you don’t appreciate his efforts to make your life easier. It’s just so simple the way Colt thinks he can be tossed around; you wish he’d be more careful with himself. “Kind offer. Thanks.” You’re brushing him off; he can tell.
“Even if you won’t take me up on it,” Colt tilts his head, “I’m around whenever you need me. What is this, our third film together?” He’s flashing you a grin, back to the table. He must think he’s real cool; you hate that it’s working on you.
“Fourth,” you correct. You’re not sure if it comes out short or timid; regrettably, it feels more like the latter. Colt lowers his mug down onto the table, faltering just slightly.
Briskly, he repeats, “Fourth.” Colt makes an extended effort to turn around and pick your thermos up off the table. You have to suppress a yelped “hey.” Despite your protests, thermos his hand, Colt practically bodyguards the whole setup—the Keurig and the metal basket of espresso pods adjacent to it. Your hip bumps against his as he puts his forearm to fend you off. You’d try to grab for it if you weren’t at work, PAs and DPs flitting around you both. “You don’t have to—”
And, like a flash, Colt tosses your thermos onto the bottom plate, whips the pod into the canister, punches the lid down, and clicks double-shot. “My first installment for you screwing over Ryder on my behalf.” While you’re both waiting for the machine to pour down coffee, he’s humming something like ABBA. “How pissed was he to reshoot?”
“Practically frothing at the mouth,” you tell him, “I’m surprised they didn’t prep a bib.” Colt’s perfectly satisfied with this answer, nodding curtly. Respect. Not many people are capable of talking down on Ryder so openly.
The thermos gets filled halfway, and Colt offers it back up to you, “Here.” You take the thermos back, in steady avoidance of his callused fingertips. He admits, “I don’t know how you like your coffee yet.” Yet? You narrow your eyes. You’re not sure that Colt has ever been so attentive talking to you, and you’re trying not to feel the way your breath hitches in your chest in response.
If there’s anything you’re able to bond about with Colt, it’s the damn on-set coffee. He’s practically running on the stuff, probably ten times worse than you are. His little mug finds its way back into his hands again. Colt fails to speak for a moment, too occupied by… something on your face. You’re trying not to crumple beneath his observation, but Colt’s smiling and he’s searching over your features for something.
Finally, after a few seconds, he lets up. “I’ll get your order down sometime this week. I’m, uh, quick to learn,” he tells you. Then, he raises up his little cup toward you. “Cheers. To you disturbing the peace.” You raise your thermos, and Colt’s ceramic clinks against your metal. A little victory.
—
You could care less about Ryder’s peace, really; but, you’re partially grateful in the fact that it’s allowed you to catch Colt’s attention. Colt sticks to his word about the coffee, because he seems to keep his attention fixed whenever you’re at that catering table with him. And when you’re not at the catering table, he’s still somehow around, holding open doors for you and keeping spare pencils tucked on his person for you to use to mark scripts. You don’t want to mistake it for anything that it’s not, but it feels almost vaguely like Colt Seavers is trying to court you.
All the fuss that he’s been making to please you culminates into a really unnecessary scene on-set. You’re right off camera, next to the director, camera op, Gail, and… Colt. It’s one of those classic getaway car scenes, set in a downtown street; they’ve got Ryder in the motions of hopping into a great Oldsmobile Toronado, while two security guards are trying to hop and skip after him in the facade of a nameless bank. All the action—Ryder yelling “Really, it ain’t personal,” in a vaguely East Coast accent—culminates into him jumping down a set of stairs and whipping the door open. He clambers in, slams the door shut, and throws a big duffel into the backseat. The open zipper of the bag makes for a great effect of bills being scattered all in the closed containment of the car.
The director yells cut and the crew runs round to reset. Ryder runs his nails into his scalp, pushing back his curls; it all comes very easily to him, these things. As terrible as he is a person, he still can’t help but be great at his craft. It’s insufferable. One of the PAs guides him out of the car and off-camera to a tall chair with a glass of water and a tray of fruit. He pops a green grape into his mouth, before staring off in your direction, bored. “Can somebody tell Colt to stop eye-fucking the scripty?”
The notes that you’re taking down in red ink have to wait. You slap your script down onto your lap. “He’s not,” you spit out, gawking most of all at the choice of words. In front of the entire set—oh, you want to kill Ryder; there’s nothing in the world you’d want more.
“I’m not—” Colt scoffs. “I’m trying to gauge if the camera needs to get pulled back. It’s gonna be a killer if I crack the lens.” You look over your shoulder to check Colt’s conviction. There’s zero of it. He’s looking down at you and back at Ryder, hands propped on his hips. You can see his chest rise and fall. Colt wants to look tough, and his composure is doing absolutely to help you.
Ryder laughs, really guffaws. He makes sure to crunch down another green grape, before he shoos the whole arrangement away with a “Thanks, honey.” The PA by Ryder’s side makes sure to make themselves sparse, taking away the fruit and leaving him with the water. Ryder keeps his eye locked on Colt, already quite entertained. “You’re a shitty liar, dude.”
“There’s a reason why one’s the lead and the other’s the double,” Gail says heartily, smacking her gum with a shrug. When she finds that you haven’t agreed with her, or at least laughed alongside the two of them, she gives you an eyeroll under her wide glasses. It’s all wide and clear: Gail thinks you’re no fun. She should really adjust her priorities.
The director groans, “Jesus, Colt, just go get in the car.” The talk is getting you all further behind schedule. Colt’s meant to crash into a storefront window. Amidst the arguing, everything’s all in place—an Oldsmobile replica driven up in place of the real deal, door open for Colt to jump in. You can feel him hand tap the back of your chair as he straightens out his costume and grabs for his crash helmet. A wordless sorry. You try not to jump at the feeling of Colt’s suit brushing against your shoulder as he passes by you.
“You got it, boss,” Colt calls out, exclamation muffled. He throws out a big thumbs up as he makes it over to the car. You have a feeling that Colt is going to grovel later about Ryder making a scene of the two of you, but really, it isn’t the worst thing in the world—at least, until Colt slams the car door shut and Ryder decides to speak up again.
Leaned over in his tall chair, he asks slovenly, “Seriously, are you sleeping with Seavers? If it’s because he’s my stuntman and it’s a power thing—”
“No! No, I’m not sleeping with Colt and even if I was, you would have absolutely nothing to do with you,” you hiss. The ego on Ryder makes your head thrum. You try to keep to your script—taking up the clipboard in your lap to write notes down on your log on the last couple of shots.
“It would make sense ‘cause he looks like me, you hate my guts. It’s like that psychosexual shit that Freud talks about… uh…” Ryder taps his fingers on the armrest of his chair, then clicks his fingers: “Displacement.” Smartass. He probably only knows the term having prepped it for an interview on one of his psychological thrillers. Ryder is about to continue harping on about how flattered he is, but the 1st AD calls quiet on set; he shuts it.
—
You’re stationed at your new spot on the opposite side of the backlot, five feet behind the secondary camera setup—where Colt is meant to swing the car through a large glass window. Luckily, Ryder and Gail have decided amongst themselves to depart elsewhere to talk about the next big film. This way, you’ll be able to worry about this stunt in peace.
At action, the Oldsmobile revs. Colt is making sure to kick up some smoke. You can tell now that this is going to be a good take—just from the way he’s handling the car. If you’re not mistaken, you think that he might even be driving with a bit of extra force. The car starts barreling down the set raucously. You’re trying not to grip your script too hard at the sight of him speeding down the road. As Colt’s car approaches, you’re unable to see his expression past the tinted helmet. The flash that you do catch is of his gloved hands gripping the wheel—and the most that you can do is cross your fingers.
The collision is hard. You can’t help but flinch at the sight of him tearing the car through the pane. It shatters loudly, and you can see the motion of the Oldsmobile hitting the crash pad. The director makes sure to hold, so SFX can machine-pump a bit of fog out of the fictitious storefront and make the scene look a little prettier. Then, they call “Cut.” There’s a whole lot of movement towards the car—first, with brooms to sweep away the stray glass, and second, to check on Colt.
The door of the Oldsmobile whips open, and Colt shoots out a thumbs up. You sigh. He’s fine. As soon as he gets out of the car, though, you can’t help but notice that he’s gripping his shoulder and trying to stretch it back. He takes a moment to tug off his helmet and mess with his hair just a bit. The nearest on-set medic tries to approach him with a “If it hurts, I can take a look at it,” but you hear him deny it with an insistent “All good. Don’t worry about it.” The director runs up to give Colt praises—“The shot was perfect, man. Good job.”—calls a thirty-minute break to the crew, and then rushes away.
By the time Colt gets over to you, you’re still locked into your seat trying to look busy. Your fingers are clasping around your script and logs, trying to straighten out the stack as you tap it atop your knee a few times. He comes up and leans one hand on your armrest. As casual as he tries to make it look, Colt’s trying to keep himself steady. You suck in a breath and look straight up at him. “You screwed your shoulder up, didn’t you?”
His brows furrow. “No. I stepped on the gas harder than I should’ve so it’s just a residual, you know, body reaction,” Colt says, coming off your armrest. For once, Ryder’s right: Colt is a shitty liar. “I would know if I screwed my shoulder up,” he says dismissively.
“You,” you say, index fingers pointed up and towards Colt’s chest, “are going to let me take a look at it, and if it’s bad, I’m going to tell them to send you home early.”
He scoffs. “I still have two more stunts tonight.” But somehow, he’s still bending to your whim—because as soon as you hop off your chair and begin to walk off in the opposite direction, Colt’s right on your tail. “It’s my job to get dinged up,” he says, eyes still tracking your expression. He’s trying to tell whether or not you’re mad at him. You aren’t mad, per say—but you’re not very pleased, either.
His trailer is in sight pretty quickly, tucked away in a corner of the exterior set. It’s really just a giant metal box, identical to the rest. “Okay, yes, you’re supposed to get dinged up, but not recklessly,” you tell him, approaching the front door of the trailer. “Or more than you have to. Quality over quantity, Colt.” When you look over, Colt is trying not to wince. You can’t help but frown at him.
“I’m used to it,” he tells you, shaking his head, “I have Extra Strength Advil in there. It’ll work like a miracle—just watch.”
—
You already know that Colt screwed up his shoulder, because he can’t even take the suit jacket off himself. You have to come up behind him and help him shrug it off, trying to pay no mind to the shaky breaths and heavy groans that come with the movement. The pale blue dress shirt he has on is tight around the arms; it’s not your first time seeing how much muscle Colt has on him, but it’s still just as jarring. So, you’ve got to ignore that, too. The tie is easy for Colt to pull off and toss away. Though, he’s having trouble with the buttons on the shirt—too much pull on his shoulder. You swat his hand aside and begin the motions of unbuttoning it for him.
“Okay. I shouldn’t have driven as fast as I did,” Colt admits to you, “It’s on me, obviously—but it’s also on Ryder.” You get to the bottom button slowly but surely, trying to pay close attention to his words. This feels… close. Considering you’d offered the check-up purely out of worry, this is all more intimate than you’d expected.
You tilt your head. “Because he was saying all that stuff about the…”
“Eyefucking, yeah. And I’m sure it was uncomfortable for both of us to get a load of that in front of all of our coworkers. I didn’t wanna make it a thing, so I just… I was driving angry, which is never a good thing,” Colt says, “He has no class.”
“It’s Ryder, you know? It’s not like his words really ever carry any weight,” you say. Your priority still is to make sure Colt’s shoulder isn’t too screwed up, but it also doesn’t hurt to test the waters. You pop the last button off and try to help him shrug off his dress shirt. It’s difficult not to feel a little shifty in your abdomen when your fingertips slide down against Colt’s bicep; you make sure to fold up the shirt semi-nicely before tossing it down with the tie.
When you turn, Colt in his undershirt and the dress pants looks almost boyishly guilty. You narrow your eyes, “Okay, turn around. Lemme see it.” And Colt does as you say, spinning around to show you his back. His shoulder is splotched purple and green, pigmented all across his shoulder blade. “Fuck, Colt.”
“It always looks worse than it actually is. Stunts 101.” He’s trying to make you laugh, but you’re much too focused on the bruising. He steps away as soon as you ghost your fingers over his skin. Colt’s grabbing an ice pack from his mini fridge and bringing it over his shoulder. “And I should probably use right now as an opportunity to reassure you that I wasn’t trying to eye-fuck you,” Colt says. It’s a contradiction: you can see his eyes flashing down and back up. “Unless, obviously, you wanted me to. Then, it’d be a whole different story. But—”
You kiss Colt, crashing your lips against his, and he practically hurls the ice pack away to hug his arms around your waist. Given the chance, he would’ve gone through a whole spiel of telling you that he respects maintaining a professional relationship. But, now, you’re really laying it all out on the table. Your hands are coming up greedily to cup his face, and he’s sliding his hands up and down your lower back. He tastes like spearmint gum, and his face is burning up the longer you’re close to him.
Colt pulls back only for a moment to look at you; his pupils are dilated beyond repair. “Okay,” he murmurs, “Ryder caught me staring. Good on him for calling me on it.”
“I figured. You’re so easy to read,” you laugh, unable to stifle your amusement. Colt’s not offended at all—only leaning in closer to you. Everything about him seems a little bit lighter after you’ve kissed; he’s standing up straighter, and his hands are coming up to your head. Colt has his nimble, calloused fingers brushing through your hair. It’s a soothing, gentle motion—possibly a distraction—but it’s also romantic enough to placate you. You have to shuffle away a little bit, still locked into Colt’s grasp. “So, can I put in a word with somebody to see if you can get tonight off?”
He drops his hands back down to your waist—the workaholic he is. “If it pleases you, yes. And if it works out, I’ll nap here while you close out, ice my shoulder, and then I can take you out to dinner very, very far away from set. You choose, I pay,” Colt decides, “And we can make out a bit more after dessert. Does that sound good?” He really doesn’t waste any time.
You hum in agreement, hand flattening against Colt’s abs, just under the white wifebeater he’s got on. You can feel his stomach tighten just slightly. Sensitive. “You have me for ten more minutes, and then I’ve gotta go find an AD.”
And cockily, Colt replies, “I’m pretty sure you and I can get a lot done in ten. Don’t you?”
I thought the beginning of The Sheep Detectives was so silly and overly simplistic, then at the end of an emotional roller coaster, I realized we as the audience were put on the same level as the sheep.
We were children looking up to our Shepherd. We believed our little world was perfect and nothing bad could happen to us. Then something rocks our world and we must take the bad, difficult things and learn to cope. We had the realization that not everyone has the best intentions for us. We learned that grief can be a powerful tool, that pain doesn’t need to stop us from doing what is right. We learned we couldn’t do everything on our own, and that everyone has value if you let them play to their strengths. That first impressions and bias can lead us down the wrong path. That religion is full of contradictions but faith rooted in love, justice and acceptance can offer peace.
it’s so embarrassing to want romantic love for myself like ohhh you want someone to care about you? you want to be someone’s favourite person? their first pick?? fuck off
"Just the Way It Is" - Dr. Brendon "The Shark" Park x Reader
Summary: When a new HR assistant director introduces a hospital-wide weight loss program, the last person you expect to be your ally is Park the Shark, an ortho jock you've never really gotten to know.
Tags: fat!reader (mentioned as being over 200 pounds but no other physical description given), pediatric emergency attending!reader, i made kingdon her residents and donnie her nurse bc why not they felt the most pediatrics-oriented to me, kingdon crumbs, pining brendon, protective brendon, slow burn, flirting, first date, SMUT, face sitting, piv (unprotected)
Content Warnings: both direct and indirect fatphobia, discussion of orthorexia, diet/intentional weight loss culture
Author's Note: this beast of a fic has been finished for @genevievedarcygranger as part of my birthday fundraiser, which will continue taking donations through july 31st; thank you so so much for your contribution!!
Word Count: 11.6k
You’re suspicious of the new HR assistant director the moment you meet her.
It’s not that she’s skinny. Not really. Obviously, in health care, you mainly work with thin people; the field is fatphobic as hell, even the doctors who are doing their best not to be. You have maybe two other plus-size coworkers you know, but none in the Pitt. People question your presence all the time in silent moments (and sometimes verbal ones). So it’s not that she’s skinny. But the green smoothie clutched in her manicured hand, the office siren aesthetic designed to show off her itty-bitty waist, the expensive blonde highlights, and the bleached smile raise alarm bells in your brain. And, let’s be honest: Her name is Candice, but she goes by Candi. It’s difficult for you to imagine a more ironic, biting choice than that.
Your initial suspicion turns to straight-up disdain – maybe even hate on your less charitable days – when she announces her very first hospital-wide initiative. She gathers all the attendings and charge nurses into the largest conference room at shift change and launches into a slide show. The very first slide, there’s a photo of a bashful, adorable fat girl, maybe twelve years old, wearing a sparkly pink dress as she holds hands with her dad.
“That was me right before my first father-daughter dance. You might not believe it looking at the woman standing before you today, but I was heavyset most of my life.” Candi goes on, “With a lot of hard work, I was able to lose the weight and keep it off. Now, working in HR, I know that a thinner workplace is a healthier one, which means lower insurance rates for everyone. To promote health and wellness for our staff, we’ll be ringing in the New Year with a Corporate Weight Loss Journey! We can all accomplish our New Year’s Goals together and get some benefits for our teams.”
You shrink in your seat. Objectively, you know that nobody’s staring at you, but it feels like it. In a room where almost everyone’s below 200 pounds, you’re naked and Candi’s just grown devil horns to shine a spotlight on your stretch marks and rolls.
While you yearn for a total building collapse, for the next half hour, she goes over the rules. “The hospital will offer complimentary fitness classes twice a week and a healthier slate of meal options in the cafeteria to encourage the program, but those perks are far from the best part. For every percent of weight lost, individuals will receive tiered rewards. And, if your entire department achieves 10% weight loss on average, there’s a big prize in store to reward everyone for their hard work.” Then she flips to a slide with lots of happy before-and-after photos where all the ‘before’ sides look a lot like you. With that magazine-ready smile, she announces, “Lastly, to incentivize our staff members who need it most, whoever loses the most total pounds will win an all-expense-paid three-day vacation to a US-based resort of their choosing! Isn’t that incredible?”
There’s a light smattering of claps, most of the attendings bored but prepared to accept whatever initiatives HR wants to foist upon them. You definitely notice a handful of more excited claps and whoops, though, and you work to quickly memorize who they come from as a shorthand ‘to avoid’ list.
Candi gives a stomach-turning false squeal and finishes, “Of course, we can’t make this program mandatory, but I’m personally asking all of you as our PTMC leaders to encourage your teams to participate. Any questions?”
Then someone else’s voice rises from the silence. No raised hand. Clear and strong, a man you don’t recognize in dark scrubs and a surgical cap barks out, “This is a terrible program and you should can the whole concept before it crashes and burns.”
Candi’s face falls for a second before it twists up into scorn. “Excuse me, Dr. Park?”
“Do you have any idea how damaging programs like this are to the actual wellness of your employees?” His steady voice barely conceals rage. You sit up straighter to look at him, surprised to see a buff tall guy on the same page as you. “Let’s start with the obvious: You have no idea how many staff members may have eating disorder histories or are currently struggling with body dysmorphia or the countless conditions that make weight loss impossible or damaging. That alone should be enough to stop this.”
She scoffs, “Like I said, nobody is required to participate.”
“That doesn’t change how you’re creating an outright dangerous environment for them,” he argues. No hesitation or wavering in his voice. “Then let’s talk about how hard it is for overweight patients – who make up the large majority of Americans, let’s keep in mind – to trust their doctors in the first place. They already put off care out of fear and receive worse care because of their doctors’ biases; how much worse do you think it’s gonna be if we have management reinforcing those biases? It’s disgusting and I’m not going to endorse it.”
“Dr. Park,” she replies, all soft and condescending, “just give it a chance. I promise we have the best intentions here.”
“Nope, absolutely not. My practice will not be participating,” he cuts back without any sympathy in his voice. Is that a wet patch in your panties? “In fact, I’m gonna personally buy them all prizes for not doing this and for using their brain power to provide the quality patient care they’re paid to focus on instead of wasting their time with vain competitions that value the hospital’s bottom line over the important work we actually do. Maybe we’ll finish with a pizza party.” Standing up and collecting his things, he concludes by telling her, “My subordinates’ bodies aren’t my business; their skills are. Let’s not pretend this is about anything other than lowering the hospital’s insurance costs so the board can maximize profits.”
Next to you, Robby mutters under his breath, “Classic Park.”
When Dr. Park storms out of the meeting, you’re too stunned to move, speak, or breathe.
A few minutes after the meeting ends, the elevator down with Robby and Abbot is the longest of your entire life. They’re your friends, yes, but there’s always been a level of distance between you. They’re the ER Cowboys, the big bad attendings who’ve worked together since the dark ages, and you’re the new attending who campaigned hard to start a pediatric sub-specialty unit in the ED. They both like you plenty, but you also run your own little world that orbits theirs, a bite-sized version neither of them has to mess with often.
You’re trying not to listen to their back-and-forth – Robby talking about his ‘beer gut,’ Jack mentioning his ‘dad bod’ – when Robby nudges you with his elbow and asks, “You gonna get your residents and nurses involved with this thing? I mean, it should be especially important to you, right? Childhood obesity rates rising and everything.”
“Which is something I’m not particularly concerned about working in emergency medicine,” you reply, voice shorter than you’d meant. “Last time I checked, being fat doesn’t make kids break their arms, smack their heads, or develop infections.”
His eyebrows go up, a little surprised at your hard pushback. You’re usually soft and sweet and chatty, exactly the doctor you want helping your baby get better, but he’s clearly hit a sore spot. “I guess that would be a hard no.”
As the elevator doors slide blessedly open, you tell him, “There aren’t enough hours in the day for me to spend any of them thinking about Frank Langdon’s BMI.”
Robby replies, “I think the point is focusing on our own.”
You can tell he doesn’t do it on purpose, but the way his eyes flick down to your hips tells you everything you need to know about what he’s thinking. Spending your life in this body, you can tell what people mean beneath what they’re saying. So you give a tight smile and say, “Well, I’m perfectly fine with mine the way it is. Hope you have fun hating yours.”
As you push past them and beeline toward the lockers so you can escape to your car as soon as possible, you hear Robby turn to Abbot and ask, “What the hell was that? Did I say something?”
Jack rolls his eyes and huffs, “Brother, she’s the only bigger girl on our whole floor. Maybe try being more sensitive than an estranged father at custody trade-off next time.”
“Shit, I hadn’t even thought of that.”
“Because you’re bad with women,” Jack says with a clap to Robby’s shoulder. Just as you start to think he might be a safe space for you in all of this, he play-boxes Robby’s chest and says, “Anyway, night shift’s absolutely gonna crush day shift on this thing. Shen’s been asking me to show him the ropes at the gym for months and Ellis used to box. We can cut weight no problem.”
Robby chuckles and shakes his head. “You bastard.”
That night, you eat your dinner in front of your work computer. You give a few nervous parents messages in their portals, sign off on some resident charts, and sort through a few transfers and AMA notices. The whole time, though, your mind keeps drifting back to that doctor from the meeting, and soon enough you find yourself sorting through the hospital directory. Of course, the massive city hospital employs about fifteen Dr. Parks, three of which are attendings, and there are no pictures because the website is behind the times.
Which means you have to use the tools at your disposal.
Pretty soon after coming into the Pitt Jr. the next morning (as your department has come to be called), you take advantage of a lull in the flow to interrogate two of your residents. You find Mel and Langdon at the nurse’s station, making heart-eyes at each other, while they go over a chart. You come up to them like you’re about to commit espionage and ask under your breath, “Do you guys know a Dr. Park who works in the hospital? Big buff dude?”
“Park the Shark?” Frank takes a deep breath like even the thought is harrowing. “Yeah, of course we know him. Everyone in the ED does.”
Your brows wrinkle. “Why haven’t I met him? I’ve been here a year now.”
He scoffs and offers, “Because you’re insanely lucky?”
Mel, always generous, adds in Park’s defense, “It’s because you’re a pediatric specialist. Shark’s head of orthopedic surgery and he has his own private practice, so he’s picky about the cases he’ll take from the Pitt.”
“Thank god we have Robbins,” you say of the incredible pediatric surgeon who’s always coming down to the Pitt Jr. Then, pretending it’s more of a passing interest than a burning one, you press, “Sounds like you two aren’t crazy about him.”
“He’s a huge dick,” Langdon says at the same time Mel explains, “He can be kind of intense.”
They make the kind of conspiratorial eye contact that always makes you roll your eyes, tempted to tell them to just fuck it out of their systems already. “Details, people.”
Frank raises his hands innocently and defers to Mel, who sums it up, “He just…only cares about the medicine, I guess.”
You narrow your eyes at them. “And that’s a bad thing?
“She means that he very actively doesn’t care about anything else.” Frank clarifies, “Like, hates everything. And everyone. Especially emergency room doctors, because we can’t magically control what happens to a patient’s bones before they show up to the hospital.”
You nod slowly but ask, “Okay, so he’s an ortho jock, but what about, like, as a person?”
“I’m not sure he even is one,” Frank replies, his expression completely serious. “The only thing I know about him is that he can squat and bench 450.”
From behind him, revealing that he’s been listening, Donnie adds, “Don’t forget the 550 deadlift.”
Frank groans, “Right, how could I forget the 550 deadlift?”
At your confused look, Donnie explains, “Dr. Park took part in this powerlifting charity competition a couple of years ago.” He takes out his phone and rapidly pulls up a video. “The organization would match every pound lifted with $100 for the top three competitors. He got second – I guess the national record-holder lives in Pennsylvania – but he still donated $145,000 to Operation Rainbow. They do free orthopedic surgeries for kids in developing countries.”
“Jesus.” Trying to actually conceptualize lifting that amount of weight as Donnie scrubs through the competition video until Dr. Park’s on screen, you give Frank a pointed look. “Doesn’t sound like too bad of a guy to me.”
“Yeah, I’m sure the attention he was swimming in after had nothing to do with it,” Frank replies, all cynical. “They put it on the hospital’s Twitter and it went kind of viral. That was a tough season for any of us guys trying to date coworkers.”
Mel nudges him on the shoulder. “You’re just as handsome as Dr. Park.”
“But I definitely can’t lift the girls I date over my head.”
She protests, “That’s not what girls want!”
Watching the video of Park’s deadlift on Donnie’s outstretched phone, sweat dripping down his chest and a driven expression on his face, you muse breathily, “It’s not not what girls want.” You lean in closer to the video and observe, “Wow, those are tiny shorts.”
Mel looks over your shoulder and her eyes widen. Almost mesmerized by Dr. Park’s pumped muscles, she agrees, “Not much left to the imagination.”
Frank snatches Donnie’s phone, pushes it back at him, and huffs while grabbing a chart, “Don’t we have work to do, people?”
Donnie snickers, “Jealous little spoil sport.”
It’s not long before the day picks back up, lots of feverish crying babies and vomiting kindergarteners and skatepark preteens with broken arms that need tending. Robbins comes down to set a few bones and schedule a couple surgeries. You fall into the flow of the work you love, comforting parents and supporting students. It’s all going fairly easily until Langdon mentions the weight loss challenge; he goes back and forth between your and Robby’s service, especially for teenage patients, so he catches wind of it first. And then he manages to get Donnie into the idea in a ‘get rid of our dad bods’ way, which has you suppressing groans, and then Donnie ropes in another nurse, and Frank ropes in Mel (who has absolutely no weight to lose) because he can rope her into anything, and then you have to be the bad guy.
All in all, by the time of your last break around three, you’re fed up. You just need to vent to someone who you know agrees with you. So you stomp into the elevator and punch the button that you know leads to orthopedics, trying not to let the storm swirling in your throat control you. At reception, you flash your badge and get waved back toward the offices, where you easily identify Dr. Park’s as the biggest one all the way toward the back with the near floor-to-ceiling window views over the city on one side.
When you knock on the door, you hear an annoyed-sounding, “Yeah?”
But you’re not a shrinking violet who’s turned off by the thought of being an inconvenience. You slip into his office and close the door behind you as he turns to face you. You’re talking before he even has a chance to: “Hi, Dr. Park, I know you don’t know who I am, but-”
“I know who you are,” he interrupts bluntly. You get the sense that he does that a lot. “You started that new pediatric wing in the emergency department. I hired Robbins to my team so you’d have a pediatric specialist to call for all your tiny bone breaks.”
Taken aback for a second, your lips part into a smile. “I figured the board was in charge of that.”
“Please, the hospital doesn’t have the cash to hire a double-board-certified surgeon on short notice,” he scoffs. “I run my private practice out of this suite. I hired her personally; she has hospital privileges just like I do. Pediatric orthopedic surgery’s way harder; I figured if the Pitt’s gonna be bringing in more kids, I’m not gonna have my surgical residents butchering their little bodies in the name of education.”
Leaning against the door, you laugh and tease, “You’re kind of a bleeding heart, Dr. Park. I never would’ve guessed.”
He looks up at you properly. His eyes rake over your body and he smirks. “Don’t rat me out.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Good. What brings you all the way up to the penthouse?”
“It’s kind of embarrassing,” you start, dropping your eyes from his for the first time in the conversation, “but I just wanted to thank you for saying something during that stupid meeting yesterday. About the weight loss thing. It was nice hearing someone, um, not think my body is inherently bad. So. Yeah. Wanted to introduce myself officially and let you know it mattered to me.”
“That’s not embarrassing,” he replies with a furrowed brow. Like he really can’t fathom it. “You have the right to feel safe in the workplace just like anyone else does. Any administrative program that makes my coworkers, my nurses, or my students uncomfortable isn’t welcome in my department.”
“I wish that was the attitude in the Pitt,” you sigh, flopping down on the loveseat opposite his desk like you own the place. He definitely doesn’t hate the way you look all sprawled out or the way you unapologetically take up the space. You groan, “The other attendings are so committed to it that my students are asking if we can participate.”
“What’d you say?”
Expression tight and unforgiving, you reply stiffly, “That they’re welcome to work toward the individual prizes on their own time, but, as a department leader, I’m not going to encourage it.”
“Very tactful.”
You shrug and admit, “I may not have phrased it that well in context.”
Amused now, actually enjoying your company, Park presses, “What did it sound like in context?”
Giving him a conspiratorial little smile that he can’t deny is heart-poundingly cute, you tell him, “Something along the lines of ‘that prissy HR bitch can’t force me to starve myself to save the hospital money and you shouldn’t be sheep’ if I’m remembering correctly.” He barks out a laugh as you quickly cover it with, “Okay, okay, I know, but, in my defense, they covered the Pitt’s doctor’s lounge with these ‘motivational’ posters that make me wanna puke. How am I supposed to enjoy my sandwich with ‘weight loss starts in the kitchen!’ staring down at me? I’m here eating in my car like I did my senior year of high school when girls like Candi fucking Cassidy called me Piggysburgh. Not even that funny.”
“Come up here and eat with me, then,” he suggests with a shrug. Like it’s no big deal. Like it doesn’t make your head spin from the easy, casual selflessness of the offer. “You can use the ortho lounge whenever you need a break, too. I’ll get you a badge for our floor. We’ve got bean bag chairs,” he says with waggling eyebrows like that’s the holy grail of accomplishments. “I always make sure the place is stocked with good snacks since our vending machine blows. Plus, we’ve got Roku. And foosball.”
You meet his smile with one of your own. “Sounds very luxurious.”
“It is. Private practice is magical.” After a beat of charged silence, Park looks you up and down again like you’re his dinner plans and says, “I take my lunches at one. Consider yourself invited.”
The next day, you slip away from the emergency room floor with your lunchbox and into the elevator toward ortho without a word, ditching the unspoken, usual routine of eating lunch alongside Robby and Abbot. It’s the time of day when the three of you have a sort of informal meeting about the different cases you’re dealing with, what needs to fill in the broader emergency department, which students need more support – and the results of the latest Pens game. You know perfectly well that they’ll immediately notice your absence, but, you figure, if they really want your time, they can actually schedule something instead of taking it for granted.
When you gently tap on Dr. Park’s door, you’re met with a sort-of-teasing-but-mostly-not bark, “That better be the cute Pitt Jr. doctor and not your ugly ass here again to ruin my lunch with another last-minute emergency, Peterson!”
You nudge the door open, bite your lower lip, and reply, “Cute Pitt Jr. doctor checking in.”
His eyes shoot up to his hairline and he nearly jumps out of his seat. Swallowing hard to conceal his embarrassment, he course corrects, “I didn’t think you’d actually come. Ah, hi. Hi, doctor. It’s good to see you again.”
“You don’t have to call me ‘doctor,” you laugh as he stands up and grabs his own lunchbox from one of the countless drawers behind his desk. “We can be on a first-name basis since you’re saving me from the hell of lunch with my coworkers.”
Park scoffs, reaching around you to open up his door. “I’m your coworker.”
“Yeah, but you’re cool.”
He chuckles, “I’m cool?”
“You don’t hate fat people,” you amend with a shrug. “That’s a good start for me.”
“Fair enough.” He shakes his head in annoyance at the reminder of what you’re having to deal with downstairs. Then he nods down a hall and says, “C’mon, I’ve got a spot where I like to eat.”
“It’s not the roof, is it?” Your nose wrinkles when you frown and Park catches himself memorizing it. “Jack and Robby are always trying to get me to hang out with them on the roof.”
Park cringes at the thought, leading you decidedly away from the stairs. “Yeah, I’ve had nightmares about being the poor bastard who has to put Robinavitch back together again if he ever actually jumps.”
You snicker even though you probably shouldn’t. “He won’t; it’d be too much of an inconvenience for everyone else.”
“Hey, whatever gets the job done.” He replies with a suspiciously knowing sort of sigh, “No bad reason to stay alive.” He opens up an ‘authorized personnel only’ door with his badge key. You step into a room with a warm skylight at the center of the ceiling, the sun raining down onto a small square garden beneath it, ringed by a few plush armchairs. It’s like a miniature oasis, the walls soundproof, the space insulated from the chaos of the hospital. Park explains, “They were supposed to turn this room into a whole zen meditation space thing for families waiting for their loved ones to get out of surgery, but I very kindly explained to the board that I had patients who needed care and couldn’t afford it, so that money should probably be used to start a surgical angel fund and, of course, they agreed with me.”
Sitting down in one of the inviting chairs, you give him a mischievous sideways glance. “I have a feeling it didn’t sound like that in context.”
“It may have sounded a bit more like ‘you greedy fuckers’ and ‘this disgusts me so much that I’ll move my practice to another hospital,’” he admits with a warm laugh as he opens up his lunchbox, which is an oversized borderline military thing with lots of organization. As he unpacks about a thousand containers, he glances at you doing the same and remarks, “Cute lunchbox.”
You show off the pastel bento-style compartments, arranged perfectly with fresh fruit, your favorite snacks, and a pesto pasta salad you’ve been yearning for all day. “Lunch is the only time of day I get off my feet for a solid half hour. I take it very seriously.”
“I can see that.”
You don’t miss his soft, affectionate smile as he takes in your matching containers and floral-patterned napkins. As you look at his own spread, similar in intentions but different in execution, you muse, “Looks like you’re the same way.”
“I try to be intentional when I eat,” he replies simply, pouring a homemade dressing on a colorful salad made from ingredients in his different small jars. You have to respect a man who maintains the structural integrity of a salad by mixing it at lunchtime instead of in advance.
“You must be a ‘food is fuel’ kind of guy,” you guess, gesturing to his general musculature, “given the whole ‘550 deadlift’ thing.”
He makes eye contact that strikes you as very cheeky and self-satisfied. Cute, even. “That old video still circling around downstairs?”
You nod and confirm, “They were pretty eager to have me ogle you.”
He waggles his eyebrows; you wonder if any of your coworkers have ever seen him so playful or if you’re already special to him for some reason. “Like what you saw?”
Rolling your eyes, you point your fork at him. “Don’t fish for compliments when you know you’re hot; it’s unbecoming.”
Only half-jokingly flexing his biceps for you, he snickers, “Clearly I didn’t have to fish very much.”
You reach across and smack his arm, definitely not giving his muscles a squeeze on the way. He just laughs and shakes his head and goes back to eating. The two of you are comfortable and quiet for a few minutes as you eat. Usually, you’re uncomfortable eating around others, expecting comments on your choices, whether ‘healthy’ or not. But Brendon puts you at ease, not even glancing at what you’re having as he eats.
After a few lunches together, you gather up the courage to ask what you’ve been wanting to since the HR meeting. “Why do you care so much about the weight loss campaign thing, anyway? You’re kind of, like, the exact beauty standard for men.”
“Am I?”
“We already covered fishing for compliments, remember?”
“Touché.” He laughs and shrugs and stabs into his food. “How much honesty do you want?”
“Enough to satiate my curiosity without making you uncomfortable.”
“It doesn’t make me uncomfortable to talk about it as long as you won’t be uncomfortable hearing it.”
Getting something of a sense of where this might be going, you nod and tell him slightly more seriously, “I won’t be. I wanna know, especially if you’re gonna be my regular lunch date.”
The word ‘date’ makes him straighten up and preen a bit. “Well, I think I’d like that.” So he takes a slow breath, debates his phrasing a minute, and ultimately barrels into it, talking fast in a way that seems maybe half nervous: “I had an eating disorder when I was younger. Orthorexia. Back then, it was diagnosed as OCD and ARFID. With the education I have now, I can recognize it for what it was.”
The honesty hits you hard. You know without it needing to be said that Park isn’t honest like this with most people. He’s decided, in the same way that you have, that the two of you are allies in some kind of way. The two people vocally against this stupid HR thing, yes, but something that matters more, too. Something you can’t quite put your finger on yet.
With you giving him space, no judgment, just presence, he goes on, following the train of thought and memory and letting you join him like it isn’t the big deal it is, “I was a scrawny kid. Wanted to bulk up some in med school to get girls – I know, I know – and then when I went for ortho, one of my mentors mentioned it was good to build extra strength. In this field, you need endurance, grip strength, upper body strength, core stability.” He chews on the thought alongside his lunch for a moment before clarifying, “But I went about it all wrong. Crash diets with brutal full-body gym days. Cutting out anything that ‘sounded’ bad – first it was fats, then carbs, then just about everything bodies actually need. I stopped caring about how my body functioned and got obsessed with how it looked to everyone else.”
His voice goes far away for the first time, fork wavering in the air, and you watch him carefully, waiting with held breath.
Finally, he sighs sharply, “My residency took two extra years because of it. I needed serious help. If the hospital I worked at had some program that incentivized that behavior? I’d probably be fucking dead. That’s not happening in my department.” Finally, his eyes lift up to yours. You’ve never realized just how blue they are, brilliant and light. “I’m sorry it’s happening in yours. You ever need me down there, just call.”
It takes you a minute to speak, so many emotions tangled up in your gut. You start with a simple, “thank you,” but then it quickly spirals out into, “for telling me about your history, trusting me, I guess and for standing up like that in the meeting, and for being so nice to me during all this when you don’t have to, for- for-”
“Hey, stop,” he stops you as your voice speeds up and shakes. He reaches over and gives your hand one quick, firm pulse with his own. The touch lingers. His thumb on your wrist. Like he’s making sure you’re really there. After a beat, he murmurs, “You deserve better than saying thank you for the bare minimum. Everyone does. I know that I get listened to here when most people don’t. If I don’t say something, nobody will.”
And, god, is that sexy.
You just nod kind of stupidly, trying not to get lost in his eyes like some lovestruck tween.
Thankfully, Brendon’s pager goes off, shocking you both out of the intense eye contact that’s begging to end in a kiss or a confession. He drops his gaze first and rolls his shoulders, trying to ignore the countless feelings that tumble around in his stomach whenever you look at him because Brendon Park does not get ‘crushes’ on coworkers.
After he closes up his lunch box, Brendon stands, touches your cheek with his thumb so casually it makes you want to scream, and offers, “Lunch is on me tomorrow, alright? Let’s grab something fun instead of moping around in the hospital.”
You’re still finding it a bit hard to breathe, but you manage to reply, “Yeah, that sounds nice.”
And that’s how it goes for you and Brendon.
You eat lunch together.
You talk.
You don’t tell anyone in the Emergency Department.
It’s not like you’re hiding your friendship with him since there’s nothing to be ashamed of, not really, but he’s sort of your personal oasis. Your escape from the annoying, unendingly frustrating reality of posters that read things like ‘you can have results or excuses; not both!’ and ‘the body achieves what the mind believes,’ which feels particularly insulting given the emergency room of the whole thing. Every time you top off your coffee, you have to passively wonder if Mrs. Thomas in bed eight can eat, exercise, and think her way out of the pressure sores she’s getting from overnight understaffing or Hannah in the Pitt Jr. can stop making excuses to get the result of fixing her respiratory infection.
Hannah’s parents, of course, are the kind of people who very clearly buy into the ideologies now running rampant in your hospital. You can tell in the way her father looks at you like you’re not a doctor. It’s hard to explain. That look. But you know it well. First, the assumption that you’re a nurse; you’re used to that in your colorful scrubs and being a woman in general. There are worse things than being mistaken for the most competent segment of the hospital. But this is beyond that. It’s the obvious implication that you can’t know what you’re doing because you’re fat. That you must’ve made it through med school on something besides merit because your body is proof that you can’t take care of them.
He makes it patently clear when you suggest a course of treatment that he disagrees with. You’re the one with the education, the expertise, the fellowship, the brain, but he’s the one who gets to say, “Why should we listen to some ‘doctor’ who’s going to die of a heart attack before 40? This is fucking ridiculous.”
Keeping your voice tight and professional as your eyes and cheeks begin to burn, you manage to get out, “I’ll send in another doctor for a second opinion,” before turning around and busting out of the patient’s room. You rush a few steps forward, tap Mel on the shoulder because ‘skinny’ seems to be the necessary qualification, nod back toward the room, and then escape to your office while the tears fight for dominance. Thank god you’re an attending now; crying on shift was so much more annoying before you had a door to call your own. You don’t even know for sure what you’re doing until your fingers are already on your pager.
Exactly two minutes later – one walk down the hall and a slow elevator ride – there’s a knock. He doesn’t wait for your response. Slipping inside the door like it’s a secret, Brendon takes in your tears. You’re leaning against your desk with your arms crossed over your chest. With a soft anger in his voice, he asks quietly, “What happened?”
His voice snaps you out of it. It’s a losing battle to stop the tears, but you’re still swiping them away with your palms as you tell him, “I’m sorry; I know it’s- it’s so immature to page you during the workday for something personal when-”
Brendon’s shaking his head and closing the space between you in an instant. His arms wrap around you like they were always meant to fit there. And you finally lose it, blubbering out the whole story to him in sniffly, pathetic half-sentences. How much this whole contest is getting in your head and what your patient’s dad said and how it’s all swirling together into something ugly in your mind. Eventually you whimper into his broad chest, “Maybe I should just cave and play along. If I lost some weight, then everyone would-”
“Don’t do that,” he interrupts. Stern. Like it’s deathly serious to him. “Definitely don’t do that.”
You eye him carefully, eyes wide and shiny. The tears stop when you realize he’s looking at you with nothing but adoration on his features. “Why not?”
His cheeks go pink. You’ve never seen him blush before – not like this, not a deep, neon pink that’s blotchy on his neck above his collar. It’s almost cute, if that were a word Brendon Park was capable of embodying. Eyes trained firmly on what’s in front of him, he says, plain and simple, “Your body is perfect. Just the way it is.”
That makes your lips stop wobbling, instead curling up at the corners. You let loose a tiny, sweet giggle, press your hand to the center of his chest, and tease, “Are you hitting on me in my time of need?”
“Stating a fact,” he clarifies with a hard swallow. Unable to meet your eyes because of just how caught he feels, he goes on, “Don’t let this shit get in your head. It’s not worth it. You’re smart, you’re capable, you’re gorgeous; that big sexy brain of yours doesn’t have room for that garbage.”
You bury your forehead against his shoulder and laugh, “My big sexy brain, huh?”
“Damn straight.” He pulls away from you – reluctant – and sighs, “I should get back upstairs; I’ve got to scrub in ten.”
“Sorry again for-”
“No. Don’t apologize. I, ah, I like being there for you. Glad you caught me when I had a minute.”
“Then thanks.”
“Any time.” He does that thing where he cups your cheek again. It takes everything in you not to nuzzle into his palm. “I mean that.”
“I can tell.”
As Brendon leaves your office, you take a minute to catch your breath behind the door, knowing you need to refocus yourself.
That’s when the rage kicks into his gut.
It’s no secret that Brendon has a bit of an anger problem. Not the kind that has him flying off the handle throwing punches, but enough that he’ll call a doctor a dumbass if they compromise a patient’s care or suggest something particularly asinine. Enough that he can’t stop himself from shoving into the Pitt’s doctor’s lounge, where Robby and Jack are both on break, laughing over coffee like they aren’t part of the reason you’re in your office crying when you should be saving kids from polio or whatever's wrong with them.
The moment Brendon’s in the lounge, all eyes turn to him. He’s out of place. Hulking and determined and mean. Without saying a word, he goes around the tables and rips down the first poster he sees related to weight loss or food off the wall, ripping and crumpling it in his hand. As Robby stands to intervene or at least ask anything, Park shakes his head hard and snarls, “Violation of hospital policy. Section 241. Content of materials posted in common areas must be professional and inoffensive.”
Robby scoffs, on the verge of laughing because of how ridiculous it seems to him, “I wouldn’t exactly consider a poster for an HR campaign inoffensive.”
“Then why was I offended by it, Mike?” He goes for the next poster and gives it an equally ruthless treatment, shredding it and trashing it. “Get all this shit down. Other side of the Pitt, too, the pediatric side. People are complaining”
Watching in shock as Brendon continues to tear down every piece of weight loss promotional content he can find, Robby warns, “Shark, you can’t just come down into my department and-”
Park whips around, pushes a balled-up poster into Robby’s chest, and interrupts, “File a complaint.”
Robby raises his eyebrows to the sky and watches Park stalk out of the lounge, continuing his reign of terror on the bulletin boards that line his way to the elevator. “Ooookay, then.”
Jack releases a harsh laugh. “Who pissed in his coffee this morning?”
When you walk past the lounge, still sniffly and puffy, Robby tilts his head to the side. “I have a feeling it’s about someone else.”
The next morning, you’re lingering near HR’s doors, taking your first break early because Donnie had sent you a text: looks like your boyfriend’s in trouble…
When you’d looked up, you saw Candi Cassidy dragging Brendon toward the administrative section of the hospital, having caught him right after the two of you shared your morning coffee and bitch session in your office. Trying and failing to be subtle, you glared in Donnie’s direction and then high-tailed it over to Human Resources, one hall’s length behind them so you wouldn’t get caught.
You can half-hear the argument behind the door. Candi’s throwing around staff intimidation, employee morale, non-compliance while Brendon’s tossing back hostile work environment, discrimination, bias. HR buzzwords fly back and forth. Voices are clipped and high. Tense. Brendon sounds firm and sure of himself, giving orders, and your brain can’t do anything useful because you’re just imagining what it would sound like to be on the receiving end of that tone in very different circumstances.
After a minute of total silence, Brendon barrels out of the door, clearly still pissed, and nearly knocks right into you. Before he can curse out whatever dumbass doctor got in his way, he realizes it’s you. And his entire being softens – his expression, his tense shoulders, his damn lungs. He lets out a long breath and mumbles, “Shit, sorry. Didn’t see you there.”
You nod toward the nearest empty corner, lower your voice, and ask him seriously, “Are you in trouble for your little fit in the ED yesterday? Everyone was gossiping about you all afternoon.”
He snorts like it really is a laughable thought. “No. She doesn’t have any power over me unless I really step in it. Taking down a couple posters isn’t going to do that.”
“So what was all the yelling for?”
Brendon shrugs and averts his eyes, not sure if you’re going to be upset with him or not. “She said I can’t make a scene in front of junior doctors over a new policy I don’t agree with. I said I’d be much happier to make a scene elsewhere if that’s better.”
A smirk flicks at the edge of your cheek; Brendon’s obsessed with the way your skin wrinkles ever so slightly next to your smile. “And how exactly did you phrase that, Shark?”
Almost bashful, he admits, “I threatened to pull my hospital privileges if she doesn’t nix the program. Said I’ll move my practice; UPMC’s been trying to poach me for a decade.”
All choked up out of nowhere, you whisper, “You didn’t have to do that.”
He shrugs and searches your face. Like it’s an answer, he says, soft and sweet, “Well, you were crying yesterday.”
With your heart pounding out of your chest, you try on a half smile. “Technically that was because of a patient’s parent, not the weight loss competition.”
“It’s the whole fucking culture,” he sighs. When he runs a hand through his slicked-back hair, it loosens some of his waves. You wonder how he looks without the product in, morning-tousled and sleepy-eyed. “Candi’s all ‘it is what it is’ about this whole thing, about the ‘side effect’ of making people feel like shit. She thinks it’s worth it. For the greater good. Whatever. My practice doesn’t bring in twenty fucking percent of this place’s annual surgical revenue for the hospital to treat its doctors and nurses like they’re just another expense to lower. Makes me fucking sick.”
Your head spins at the idea, running some quick numbers from the figures that get presented every quarter. “Jesus, your practice is worth that much?”
“220 million last year across all my surgeons,” he huffs as though it’s a footnote. Then he touches your chin, holding it between his thumb and forefinger. Forcing you to look at him. To focus on him. Your knees are weak under the intensity of his gaze. “That’s not the point. I want you to go on a date with me.”
“That’s the point?” You laugh. Honestly laugh. Placing your hand at the center of his chest, you chuckle, “You threatened to cost the hospital two hundred million dollars to get me to date you?”
“No, no, not- not like that,” he’s quick to assure. “I really do think this whole thing is bullshit. You know it matters to me, too. A lot. And I speak up. Always have. But you- Getting to know you has made it matter a lot more, okay? Don’t make me defend myself. Just go out with me.”
“Are you asking me or telling me?”
“I’m begging you.”
You let out a sharp laugh that you stifle with your hand, checking around to see if anybody’s noticed how stupid the two of you are, talking about all this out in the open. Sure that you have a moment of privacy, just to drive him crazy, you corner him and lower your gaze and press, “Tell me honestly: Do you have a fat fetish, Brendon?”
For some reason not taken aback by the question, he debates his answer for a minute, tilting his head slightly as he chews on the words. Ultimately, he decides to be honest: “I don’t think it’s a fetish to prefer big girls. And I don’t think fetishes are inherently a bad thing. I have plenty of fetishes.”
That makes your eyebrows shoot up. “Oh?”
“Go out with me,” he presses, leaning in much closer than is work appropriate, “and I’ll tell you.”
A little breathless, you insist, “But you do usually pursue plus-size girls?”
“Is that a problem?”
“Not necessarily.”
“I get that you’re suspicious – it makes total sense, seriously, I swear I get where you’re coming from – but it’s not any different than wanting a tall boyfriend or something, right?” It makes sense to you when Brendon reasons, “We all have our things we like about someone else’s looks when we get a crush. I think you’re hot as fuck, I’m attracted to your body, and you have a great personality in addition to that. Smarter than me by a mile, sensitive like I can never manage. You’re fucking perfect. I’d be an idiot not to ask you out when you check all my boxes.”
“Pause.” Actually, truly smiling now – flirtatious and adorable enough to make Brendon swoon at the view – you needle, “Did you just say you have a crush on me?”
“Yeah, I absolutely did,” he murmurs with cheeks rapidly turning pink. “And that’s mortifying for a guy like me, don’t you think? The kind of thing that at least earns a pity date?”
Dragging out your words, doing a terrible job at pretending you aren’t going to say yes, you lilt gently, all sweet and feminine, “Give me a really good reason and I’ll think about it.”
Brendon’s rich blue eyes absolutely sparkle when he realizes he’s got you. “I’ll give you two. First of all, there’s a special art exhibit downtown this month and a little birdie told me through the grapevine that you love museums.”
You curse under your breath. “Mel, you useless romantic.”
“Secondly,” he goes on, lowering his voice. He steps toward you so that you have to back up. Into the wall. Now it’s his turn to check if you’re alone. With one hand on either side of your head, he presses you against the sheetrock, eyes locked on yours with an intensity that has your resolve to play coy evaporating. “If I like fat girls, and I’ve mostly been with them, you know what that means?”
It’s nearly a gasp as you reply, “What?”
“It means I’ll know exactly how to worship you,” he murmurs. Right against your ear. Your toes curl in your sneakers. Toying with you by dragging his finger along the base of your neck, just a slow back and forth, he muses, “Doesn’t that sound nice? A guy who isn’t a coward about grabbing your stomach? A guy who knows he wants to wear your thighs like earmuffs? A guy strong enough to throw you around the way you’ve always craved?” Hands on your waist now, not overtly sexual but already overwhelming in the most delicious way, he purrs, “Gimme a chance, gorgeous, and I promise I’ll make it worth your while.”
Biting your lip and shaking your head because you have to get rid of the absolute ache to kiss his smirk right off him in order to practice medicine for the rest of the day, you ask, “When’s your next day off?”
“I have the whole weekend.”
Your eyes brighten up. “Me too.”
“How early do you wake up on Saturdays?”
“How early is your fancy art exhibit open?”
“Ten.”
“Pick me up at 9:30.”
“I could take you to breakfast first.”
“I refuse to go out with you first thing in the morning; I’ll look like a zombie.”
“Prettiest zombie I’ve ever seen.”
“You’re such a suck-up.” When your watch buzzes, signaling that your break’s over, you kiss his cheek softly and say, “9:30 on Saturday. Don’t be late.”
“Never have been; don’t plan on starting now.”
Getting ready for your date with Brendon is actually fun. It’s been a long time since you’ve gotten ready for a date and felt uncomplicated excitement about it. No nerves about your body because you already know Brendon is beyond into it. So you slip into something that highlights every curve instead of disguising any of them, a maroon silky thing with a long lace hem to show off your legs, low square neck that frames out your cleavage, and straps just thick enough to cover your nude bra. The fabric is thin enough to show the delicate line of your thong in exactly the right lighting, which you’re sure Brendon will manage to find at some point during the day.
He rings your doorbell at 9:28. Doesn’t text to say he’s outside, doesn’t honk the horn for your attention. Walks all the way up to your porch to greet you like an adult. And when you open the door, his absolutely floored expression has you rocketing up to cloud nine on a dopamine rush. Brendon reaches out and touches your waist as he steps just inside the doorway. He revels in every inch of you. You become acutely aware that the two of you aren’t at the hospital anymore with the way his eyes are slow, greedy, savoring. He’s checked you out at PTMC before, for sure, but now he’s basically feeling you up with those baby blues as he whistles low, “Wow. Seriously, wow.”
You smack him on the chest as your cheeks heat up, not used to the obvious desire written all over him. When your hand hits the luxurious fabric, you actually notice his outfit instead of the way he’s devouring yours. In a camel-colored knit polo – you definitely don’t miss the subtle sheen of the Versace logo on the pocket in nearly the same color as the fabric – tucked into slightly high light tan slacks, all under a dark brown coat, he looks modern, stylish, and absolutely positively downright edible. His hair’s moussed instead of gelled, slightly wavy and fluffy, and he’s freshly shaved instead of late-night scruffy.
Dragging your hand down the center of his chest, you shake your head and smile. “Who knew the Shark had actual style?”
He lifts your hand to his lips and presses a kiss to your fingers. With a too-charming smirk, he murmurs, “Don’t tell anybody, alright? Nobody would be scared of me at the hospital if they knew I’m the kind of guy who drops a grand on a shirt.”
Grabbing your purse and shrugging on your black leather jacket before stepping out the door after him, you reason, “You put in the time and effort to make the big bucks; you have every right to spend it however you want.”
“I’m glad you think that way,” he replies as he guides you half a block down to his parking spot, “because this is my car, and I’m really hoping you don’t think that makes me an asshole.”
“Yeah, it definitely makes you an asshole,” you breathe as you drag your finger along the freshly-shined blue GranCabrio. “This is one slutty car, Dr. Park.”
He laughs – loud and honest like he rarely can during work hours – and opens up the side door for you. “Does that mean you like it?”
“Definitely.” You grin as you slide onto the rich leather interior. “As soon as it’s warm enough, you have to put the top down and take me somewhere you can drive fast.”
“Yeah?” As he settles into the seat next to you, Brendon puts one hand firmly on your thigh as he pulls the car out into the Pittsburgh traffic. With his fingers driving you clinically insane just sitting there on your dress, he flashes you a hunky smile and teases, “Planning on keeping me around that long?”
“Maybe if you behave yourself today.”
“Oh, baby, I never behave myself when I’m off the clock.”
“Is that a promise?”
“Absolutely.”
The rest of the drive there is easy between you, and that same energy carries on as he whisks you through the museum’s entrance and straight inside. He’d already bought the tickets online and added them to his phone wallet, so you don’t even get a moment of feigning like you would’ve paid for yourself. Slick bastard. Brendon just makes every moment so easy to fall into. Not that you’d expected the date to be hard, but you’d figured there would be some kind of adjustment period going from lunches and coffee breaks to a full-on date out in the real world, no pagers or coworkers to separate you.
Instead, it’s not long before you’re instinctively threading your fingers with his and dragging him from exhibit to exhibit. You clearly know a hell of a lot more about art than he does – it’s obvious when every nod of his comes with his eyes drifting over your body – but he likes listening to you talk about literally anything you want to talk about. Just having your voice all to himself is enough to keep him over the moon among the stars.
When you reach the special exhibit – portraits by Viktor Lyapkalo – Brendon takes the time to slow down and read all the plaques and descriptions alongside listening to you talk. The way he engages with the new material makes you wonder if maybe he’s actually just been to this museum enough times that he’s got all the other areas committed to memory, preferring to treat you like the art.
“I love the way he paints women,” you sigh wistfully as you stand in front of a particularly lovely nude: Evening, from 2007. Brendon stands squarely behind you, arms casually around you. Admiring the work up close, you go on, “He notices all the things that make bodies beautiful. The light and shadow on the curves, refusing to make them smooth and pristine, like every single dimple is worth painting for the rest of time to see. They’re all so…lush. Succulent. Like you’d want to reach inside the scene and take a big bite and the juice would run down your chin like a summer plum.”
“You’re describing yourself there, gorgeous,” he murmurs in your ear from behind. Breath hot. Gravelly. Wanting. His hands roam over your waist and hips and stomach, way too slow and intimate for how profoundly in public you are. But you’ve never had a man so openly desire you like this, so you can’t help melting against his chest. Yearning for more. For half a second, he palms your ass, and then he nips your ear to say, “Never wanted to take a bite of anything so badly.”
Before he can fluster you too much, get the upper hand so you’re melting into a puddle on the museum floor, you turn around and kiss him. He makes the cutest surprised sound at the base of his throat like he hadn’t expected you to match his energy. But then you tangle your fingers in his hair. You push up onto your toes. And then he comes to his senses and kisses you back. Hard. Commanding. Pieces of his control slipping away with every shared breath. His hands are on your waist and your lower back, desperate to touch more, and you can feel the restraint it’s taking him not to bend you over the bench in front of the art and ruin you.
When you accidentally moan into Brendon’s mouth, a security guard in the nearby archway clears his throat. You stifle a giggle and pull back from him. You’re about to apologize, but he’s faster. Brendon’s breath is hot against your ear as he croons, “Can I take you back to my place now or do I have to look at the rest of these paintings when all I can think about is seeing what’s under this dress?”
With a coy smile, you give him one more quick kiss and say, “Bring me back next weekend so I can finish reading everything and we can leave right now.”
His grin is wicked. “You have yourself a deal, doctor.”
You’re all over him the moment you’re in his bedroom, barely taking a second to absorb the expectedly organized and minimalist space, outfitted only with luxurious staples in cream and navy and no needless clutter. Your dress is somewhere on the staircase up to the second floor, discarded haphazardly as Brendon manhandled you through the space, strong enough to basically carry you any time you lose your footing in the dizzying intensity of his mouth on yours.
By the time you’ve pushed through the bedroom door, you’ve yanked off his (extremely soft) polo and gone for his belt next. As you move, you’re shoving him toward his bed with an eagerness that maybe borders on desperation. It’s been a long time and he’s hot as fuck; god forbid. Trying to suppress his grin as he pulls out of the kiss, Brendon orders, “Don’t rush me, baby. We have all the time in the world.”
Forcing yourself to take a deep breath, you teasingly groan at him, “That wasn’t your attitude half an hour ago.”
He reasons, “Half an hour ago there were several miles between you and my bedroom.”
He steps – ever so casually – out of his slacks, revealing extremely form fitting gray boxer briefs, a drop of precum darkening the front, highlighting the delicious outline of his cock. Not letting you drool too much, those precise hands of his go to your bra clasp, unhooking it with the ease of, well, a surgeon. Enjoying the gentle hitch of your breath when his eyes devour you, he kisses over your pulse point just to feel it quicken beneath his attention. When he’s satisfied with the way your toes curl into the plush rug beneath your feet, he finally loops his thumbs beneath the hips of your underwear.
“But now I’ve got you all to myself-” Brendon slides your underwear down your legs, guides you out of them, and pushes you backwards “-in my bedroom-” your knees hit the bed and you fold underneath his weight, staring up at him as he cages you between his elbows “-at my mercy. No need to rush.”
You raise up an eyebrow and chase him for a kiss that he dodges just to drive you up the wall. Dragging your first finger along his bicep, his trap, his throat, his chest, you muse, “At your mercy, huh?”
He nods with a satisfied, painfully charming smirk. “That’s right.”
Your voice drips with lust. He’s never heard it darken like that and it’s definitely becoming a problem for his patience. “Gonna do whatever you want to me?”
“Yup, absolutely.”
You huff a bit and tut, “Well, you sure are just hovering over my naked body for someone with such big plans.”
He grins and shifts his weight back so he can properly look at you. “What did I just say about rushing?”
You sit up and kiss him hard just because you’re allowed to now. You feel his resolve weaken as you palm the borderline offensive ridge of his thick, hard cock. Your ego tingles a bit at the knowledge that, even if he’s putting on a show of waiting, you’re affecting him just as much as he’s affecting you. “God forbid I want you to make good on all that feeling me up at the museum.”
“Fine, you wanna be in charge so bad?” All dramatic, Brendon flops onto his back next to you and taps his lips. “Saddle up, cowgirl.”
You snort out a less-than-sexy laugh, but he finds it just as cute as every other sound you make. “Jesus, Bren, did you seriously just say that?”
“I’m losing my ability to form coherent sentences just thinking about it, frankly,” he teases. You’ve never noticed how much he glows when he’s happy. Then he takes your hand and tugs you toward him, on your knees. “How about ‘come sit on my face right the fuck now’? That work better for you?”
Looking down at his eager expression, nervous and not wanting to disappoint, you bite your lip and admit, “I’ve never done that before.”
It’s a personal offense to him. He props himself up on his elbows as his lips part in true surprise. “Seriously?”
You shrug modestly. “Too nervous to hurt someone.”
“Then you’ve been with weak men,” he says, deathly serious. He gives your thigh an affectionate squeeze and assures you, completely sincere, “Don’t worry; I’ll make sure it’s so fucking good for you. Give me two minutes of trust and I swear you’re gonna love it.”
Well, you figure, he’s never done you wrong with his promises before. So you swing one leg over his chest and hover suspiciously a few inches above his head. His mouth waters when he can finally see the hint of your pussy beyond your soft, inviting mons.
Keeping his voice so sweet and soothing, he adds, “If it doesn’t feel good or if you’re uncomfortable or anything, just tap me and get right off. You’re in charge.”.3.1
Still skeptical of the whole affair, you say, “I know you know already, okay? But, like, I’m not small, Brendon, I could seriously break your jaw or something if I slip out of place.”
Craning his neck to try to get to your pussy, he growls, impatient and starving, “Thankfully I know a few good maxillofacial surgeons.”
“Okay, but what if I-”
Brendon rolls his eyes and yanks you down by the hips so your cunt envelopes his mouth. You let out a yelp and grab his headboard to get your balance. Finally, his eyes roll shut with pleasure as your warm, thick thighs on the side of his head muffle any sounds but your pretty moans. He mutters, dreamy and rough, into your pussy, “That’s better.”
You can’t help giggling as you put your other hand in Brendon’s hair for support, grateful to be with someone who makes you feel so comfortable and safe even at the edge of your comfort zone. With Brendon reverently holding your hips, stroking your stretch marks with his thumbs, keeping you grounded on his precise tongue, it only takes you a minute to find the pressure and rhythm that feels comfortable, where you can get out of your head and trust Brendon and your own legs.
Then it finally starts to get good.
Brendon’s cock strains against his boxer briefs when you finally let out that first real, uninhibited moan he’s been craving as long as he’s known you. It’s a high-pitched, surprised thing that rings around his ears like a bell, the sound slightly dampened by your thighs just the way he wanted. He memorizes the exact motion he did with his tongue to work that sound out and repeats. Again. Again. Your breaths get faster. Shorter.
It takes real, actual concentration for Brendon to stop himself from creaming his shorts when he realizes you’re going to cum on his face. Your thighs start to tremble as you resist it at first, reluctant to lose control in such a vulnerable position. But then Brendon’s strong fingers dig into the plump fat off your ass – hard.
Possessive.
The sudden moment of eye-rolling-good pain drops you completely into your body, all doubts and insecurities abandoned, and you snap. Your fingernails dig into Brendon’s scalp as you grip his hair to stay in the moment. Pleasure skyrockets up your spine in lightning strikes. Timed with the pulses of your cunt, begging to be filled by him.
When it’s finished rolling through you, lungs heaving, you slowly flop off of Brendon and throw your forearm over your face to catch your breath. You can’t help but laugh softly to yourself. Sweat shines on your hairline and your legs still feel like jelly as Brendon turns onto his side to gaze at you with so much adoration it’s overwhelming.
Pupils blown wide and drunken on your body, Brendon sighs out happily, “Fuck, you’ve got no idea how good you taste.”
“Come here, then,” you giggle, so light and airy with delight that everything has become simple. You kiss him with a greedy tongue and let your own mild tartness linger on your tastebuds. When you pull back, he looks positively dumb. Eyes empty. Nothing but lust in his pretty blues. “Yeah, I do taste pretty good, huh? Bet your cock would like a taste.”
He shakes his head and laughs as he shifts onto his knees above you. “It’s so easy for you, isn’t it?”
You spread your legs and bat your eyes and savor just how devoted he looks, like a puppy sitting pretty for its favorite treats. “What is?”
“Being so fucking sexy without even thinking about it,” he breathes, sounding a little shaky as he lines up the head of his cock with your orgasm-slick pussy. “Fuck.”
You roll your eyes even as your cheeks burn. “As if you don’t have the exact same gift.”
“No, I have to think about it a lot. I try. You’re just floating around being this damn goddess like it’s the easiest thing in the entire world.”
“You don’t have to stroke my ego, Bren, you’re already about to fuck me.”
He frowns a bit and stills, not thrusting into you just yet. “You know I’m not complimenting you just to butter you up, right?” At the split second of partial disbelief on your face, he shakes his head and leans down and kisses you hard. You’ve never seen his expression so stern. “Baby, you’re gorgeous. After that first time you showed up to my office, I couldn’t stop talking about you to everyone. It was like word vomit.”
“Now that makes me feel sexy.”
“Shut up; I’m not always good with the word stuff.” He wrinkles his brows to try to come up with the right words. “Every single time I see you, my brain stops working. Everything short circuits. Because I just- I can’t even imagine deserving to be in the same room as you, much less between these perfect goddamn legs.” He shifts upward again, hands rubbing up your thighs as he shakes his head wistfully. “Grabbing these gorgeous hips and getting to play with your amazing tits.” His hands follow his words, toying with your nipples until you’re gasping and grinning. “Looking into your beautiful eyes while I get to fuck you.”
As tears sting at your eyes, you turn your head and blink hard, whimpering out nothing but an innocent, “Brendon.”
“Don’t hide from me, sweetheart,” he urges as he kisses you. Slowly, so slowly, as you look up at him with glossy eyes, he pushes his cock into you. When your lips part softly in pleasure at the way he fills you, Brendon murmurs against your pulse in between kisses to your skin? “There’s my girl. Just stay right here with me. I’ve got you. Let me make you feel good.”
And he does.
All the while holding you and groaning sweetness into your ears, your lips, your neck, Brendon fucks you like he’s been designed for your pleasure. He takes his time. He pays attention. When he thrusts just right, making you moan his name loud and unafraid as the head of his cock crooks against your g-spot, he keeps it exactly like that and tucks the sound away in a proud little part of his brain.
With how talkative you are, he’d expected you to be vocal in bed. But you’re just loud. And that’s plenty clear for him. So he does the talking, swearing and praising in equal measure. There’s no performative dirty talk from him, nothing that sounds like it’s straight out of a cheesy porno. It’s just you feel amazing, I’m so lucky I get to have you, fuck, this is perfect. You’re melting under him and you barely notice him snaking one hand between your bodies to thumb at your clit until you’re already on the verge of cumming again, him whispering, “there you go, that’s it” right up against your ear in a way that has your toes curling, your fingernails digging into his shoulder blade and his arm, your breaths teetering on the edge of gasps.
“That’s- When you’re gripping me like that, I can’t-” Brendon’s barely able to string words together as your second orgasm threatens, taken well and truly aback by how good you feel wrapped around him when you’ve completely let go of control and fear and shame. When you’re just his and he’s yours and it really can be just that simple. His balls are already tightening up when he manages to rasp out, “Can I-”
You’re nodding into his shoulder before the question’s even finished, shuddering out a shaky and honest, “Please. Let’s- Together, please.”
And you detonate. Both of you. Locked to one another. You can’t bear to close your eyes and risk missing a single moment of Brendon Park’s soft, rapturous expression when his cum spills inside of you. His borderline angelic blue eyes meet yours – meet them, like a handshake between long-lost friends, a meeting that turns to a clasped hug, reluctant to let go – and you’re filled with his heat and he’s founded by having you.
Brendon’s lips kiss the tender sweat from your forehead as he catches his breath. There’s a tiny, secret little smile that exists only for you on his rough features. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”
Struggling to stifle a smile that’s yearning to split you open, you nip a quick kiss onto his lips and half-giggle, “You’ve mentioned that.”
“And I’m gonna keep mentioning it,” he replies, warm and wonderful as winter cider, “as long as you’ll have me.”
anyways (I say this as someone who is deeply critical of the united states government, military, unchecked capitalism, police, etc) I am SICK of people treating america as if it has no cultural value or positives so….. I love u 85 million acres (bigger than italy) of national parks. I love u harlem renaissance. I love u groundhogs day. I love u sweet tea and fried chicken and jambalaya. I love u apple cider donuts and maizes on crisp autumn days. I love u 95k miles of coastlines and new england fisherman and hand knitted sweaters. I love u halloween where millions of people dress up and give candy to strangers and carve jack o’lanterns. I love u small talk and small towns and potlucks and bringing over casseroles to your struggling neighbors. I love u cowboys and ranch hands and arizonian cactus. I love u appalachian trail and dirtbikes and divebars. I love u sparklers and fireflies. I love u mark twain and toni morrison and emily dickinson and henry david thoreau. I love u rock n roll i love u bluegrass and hippies i love u jimi hendrix and nirvana and CCR and janis joplin. I love u victorian houses and jonny appleseed and john henry and mothman and bigfoot. I love u foggy days in the pacific northwest and neon signs and roadside attractions. I love u baseball and 1950s diners and soft serve. I love u native american art and pop art and poptarts. I love u blue jeans and barbecues and jazz musicians
Hear me out. Beefy!Bucky (because we love him in this house) and his plus sized girlfriend (not just chubby, but like size 20ish). She's never been able to wear her boyfriend's clothes because they're too small. Enter Bucky with his broad shoulders and big arms. The first time she wears one of his Henleys and it's BIG on her she gets all emotional. Cue Bucky being so sweet and soft with her. And maybe telling her how hot she looks in his clothes.
The soft hum of the heater filled the living room as rain beat against the tall windows.
You stood in the doorway of the bedroom, arms crossed over your chest, staring at the laundry basket like it had personally betrayed you. Your favorite oversized sweater, the one that usually made you feel cozy and cute, was now covered in coffee from an unfortunate spill during your morning Zoom call.
And nothing else in your drawer felt right.
Bucky wandered in from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a dish towel. Even in a simple black t-shirt and gray sweatpants, he looked massive. The serum had carved him into something broader, stronger, and unfairly gorgeous. His shoulders strained the fabric, biceps flexing with the smallest movement. At 6’1” and built like a walking wall, he made doorways look narrow.
“You okay, doll?” His voice was low, warm, that slight Brooklyn drawl still clinging after all these decades.
You sighed. “Laundry disaster. I’ve got nothing comfortable to wear, and I’m not squeezing into work clothes again today.”
He tilted his head, metal arm whirring softly as he tossed the towel aside. “Wear mine.”
You blinked. “Buck… we’ve had this conversation. Your stuff doesn’t fit me.”
It was true. In every past relationship, you’d been the plus-sized girl who watched wistfully as girlfriends stole their boyfriends’ hoodies. But Bucky’s clothes? They were tailored by necessity to a super soldier frame. You were a size 20—soft belly, wide hips, thick thighs, full breasts—and proud of it on good days. On bad days, the world reminded you that “one size fits all” was a cruel joke.
Bucky stepped closer, ducking his head to catch your eyes. “Try it anyway. For me?”
He pulled open the middle drawer and fished out one of his henleys—charcoal gray, well-worn, the kind that smelled like cedarwood soap and him. The fabric looked enormous in his hands. You hesitated, then took it, disappearing into the bathroom.
The cotton slid over your head like a dream.
It didn’t cling. It didn’t pull tight across your chest or stomach. The hem fell past your hips, brushing mid-thigh. The sleeves, meant to hug his massive arms, draped loosely over yours, cuffs hanging well past your wrists. The wide neckline slipped off one shoulder, exposing soft skin.
You stared in the mirror, heart suddenly too loud in your ears.
It was big on you.
Comfortably, beautifully big.
Your eyes stung.
You’d spent years making peace with your body—learning to love the way it filled out dresses, how it moved when you danced alone in the kitchen, the power in your thick thighs when you climbed stairs without complaint. But this? This quiet proof that someone else’s size could finally wrap around yours without effort felt like a missing piece clicking into place.
A soft knock. “Doll?”
You opened the door.
Bucky stood there, and the expression on his face made your breath catch. His blue eyes widened, then softened into something reverent. He stepped inside, closing the distance until his hands settled on your waist. His thumbs stroked slow circles over the fabric.
“Goddamn,” he breathed.
You let out a watery laugh, swiping at your eyes. “It’s huge on me.”
“Yeah,” he said, voice rough. “It looks perfect.”
He guided you gently toward the full-length mirror, standing behind you. His chin rested on top of your head, arms wrapping around your middle. In the reflection, you looked swallowed up by him in the best way—soft curves draped in his shirt, his broad chest framing you like he was built to shield you from everything.
“I’ve never…” Your voice cracked. “I’ve never been able to wear a boyfriend’s clothes before. They always looked ridiculous or didn’t close or just… didn’t work. I told myself it didn’t matter, but—”
“Hey.” Bucky turned you in his arms, cupping your face with both hands. His thumbs brushed away the tears that had spilled over. “You listen to me, okay? You are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. Every inch of you.”
His hands slid down, squeezing your hips gently. “These drive me crazy.”
One palm smoothed over the soft curve of your belly beneath the henley. “Makes me want to lay my head there every damn night.”
His voice softened further. “Your arms, your thighs, the way you fill up a room just by smiling… baby, I love all of it.”
You leaned into his touch, emotions swirling.
He kissed your forehead, then your temple, then the tip of your nose. “Seeing you in my shirt? Fuck, it’s doing things to me. You look soft. You look like mine. Like you belong right here, wrapped up in everything I am.”
His voice dropped lower, warm breath brushing your ear. “And hot. Really hot. The way it slips off your shoulder like that? I’m trying real hard to be a gentleman, but all I can think about is how good my hands look on you right now.”
A shy smile tugged at your lips. “Yeah?”
“Oh yeah.” He pulled back just enough to look at you fully, eyes dark with affection and heat. “Turn around for me?”
You did a slow spin, the hem flaring out. Bucky made a low, appreciative sound that sent warmth pooling in your stomach.
“C’mere.” He tugged you toward the bed, sitting on the edge and pulling you between his spread thighs. His hands slid under the hem of the henley, palms warm against your bare skin. “You feel that? How perfectly you fit against me? Doesn’t matter what the size tag says. You were made to wear my clothes. Made to be right here.”
You threaded your fingers through his hair, tilting his face up. “I love you, Bucky Barnes. You big softie.”
He grinned—that rare, boyish smile that still made your heart flip. “Love you more, doll. Especially like this.”
He leaned in, kissing you slow and deep, hands roaming reverently over every curve the henley now claimed as its territory.
Later, you ended up curled against his chest on the couch, his henley still on, now paired with his thick socks that bunched adorably at your ankles. Bucky traced patterns on your thigh, occasionally dipping under the fabric just to feel you.
“You know,” he murmured against your hair, “I’m buying you ten more of these. Different colors. Maybe I’ll start wearing your sweaters too, just to even things out.”
You laughed, pressing closer. “They’d be tight on you.”
“Exactly.” He kissed the top of your head. “And I’d still think you looked better in mine.”
The rain kept falling outside, but inside, wrapped in Bucky’s shirt and his arms, the world felt exactly the right size.
Fluff makes me cry more often than angst because I am a yearner tm and know in my heart of hearts that a simple and soft live will never be in the cards for me
based on this request
wc: 1.2k
pairing: jack abbot x wife!reader
summary: jack has always liked privacy, but one of his biggest secrets is revealed one random afternoon.
c.warning: established relationship (married); mentions of minor injury and minor car accident; reader is a mother; no other warnings i think but if i missed something let me know!
a/n: gooooood it's been so long since i last wrote for jack. i missed him so much! i hope you liked this!
masterlist | requests
for years, jack’s personal life has been locked inside a vault. of course he’d mention you, his wife, from time to time. but always in passing and never waiting too long for his coworkers to asks any personal questions. and it’s not because he doesn’t love you, god knows he’s obsessed with you. but a small, overprotective part of him thinks that by distancing himself from you and your kids when he’s at work he manages to keep you away from the hospital.
he has spent a decade building a wall between his grueling work and the life he cherishes waiting for him back home.
but tonight, the universe has different plans for him.
you sit on the edge of the crinkling paper of the examination table in exam room 4, a dull, throbbing ache radiating down the left side of your neck. every time you try to tilt your head, a sharp reminder of the sudden impact flashes through your muscles. a minor fender-bender on the way home from your daughter's hockey practice left you with a stiff, aching neck, but thankfully, nothing more. next to you, your twelve-year-old daughter is swinging her legs off a plastic chair, her hockey gear bag resting by her feet. she’s still wearing her team jersey and, next to her, your five-year-old son is entirely unbothered by the clinical surroundings, happily coloring on a piece of scrap paper. the minor accident had sent your heart into your throat, but as you look at your children, the overwhelming wave of maternal relief keeps you grounded.
"it seems to be nothing more than a little muscle strain," dr shen says softly, his gloved hands expertly palpating the base of your skull, his expression a soothing balm to the lingering adrenaline in your veins. shen steps back, charting something on his tablet with a soft, reassuring smile. "the kids are completely clear, not a single mark or tender spot on either of them. i’m going to order a mild anti-inflammatory for you and then you are free to go home and rest."
"thank goodness," you sigh, reaching down to ruffle your son's hair. "i just wanted to be absolutely sure they were okay."
outside the glass doors of the exam room, jack is walking fast, clipboard in hand, listening to an intern rattle off a patient's vitals.
“send for dr. fitz, he’ll know what to do. and call me when you get the results. what’s the state of the girl in bay one?”
jack turns then towards the intern as she starts listing the latest lab results on the young patient that just arrived a few minutes ago. he is in full doctor mode. focused, distant, and professional.
that is, until he passes the curtain of your bay, a sudden movement catching his eye. it’s a high, dark auburn ponytail swinging back and forth. a very specific, familiar ponytail.
the same one he usually fights with on his days off as he helps his daughter get ready for practice, earnestly trying to avoid any bumps or stay hairs hanging from the ponytail. jack stops dead in his tracks, causing the intern to almost crash into his back.
jack looks through the pale curtain, eyes widening. the clipboard in his hand feels suddenly too heavy. and it only gets worse once he notices a second head poking though the curtain, this time his baby boy. his entire world is sitting right now in exam room 4.
he abandons the intern mid-sentence, pulling the curtain aside, his usual collected demeanor completely evaporating.
"jack?" shen looks up, surprised by his sudden entrance.
but jack isn't looking at him. he rushes straight to the side of the table, his eyes scanning you from head to toe, wide with a rare, raw panic. "what happened? are you okay? are the kids okay?"
"hey, breathe," you say instantly, reaching out to catch his hand. your fingers lace into his, and the grounding touch immediately lowers his shoulders, though his chest is still heaving. "we're okay. i promise. just a stupid little bumper-to-bumper on the way home from the rink. someone short-braked ahead of us."
your daughter rolls her eyes playfully. "mom took the hit like a champ, dad. you should be proud."
"daddy!" your five-year-old chirps, abandoning his coloring page to scramble off the chair and throw his arms around jack’s leg.
jack immediately drops to one knee, wrapping his strong arms around your son, burying his face in the boy's hair for a brief, fiercely protective second. he looks up at your daughter, reaching out to squeeze her knee. "you're sure you're both okay? nothing hurts?"
"we're totally fine, dad," she reassures him, giving him a warm smile.
only then does jack stand back up, turning his attention fully to you, eyes glowing with adoration and relief. his hand cups your cheek, his thumb gently brushing across your cheekbone. "and you? your neck?"
"just a little stiff," you murmur, leaning into his touch, completely accustomed to how deeply he cares for his family, even if he keeps it hidden from the rest of the world. "dr. shen was just checking me out. he says we’re good to go."
speaking of which… the room is entirely silent as four sets of eyes turn to the doctor.
you look past jack’s shoulder and notice that dr shen is standing there, his jaw slightly slack. on the other side of the curtain, the intern who had been following jack is staring open-mouthed, and a bunch of other nurses, including lena, have paused in the hallway, completely transfixed by the scene.
the great private dr. abbot is currently looking at you with a softness none of them knew he possessed, his hand resting tenderly on your waist while a local little league hockey player calls him dad.
jack blinks, finally realizing the audience he has gathered. he straightens up, but he doesn't let go of your hand, the other one resting on top of your son’s head. he clears his throat, the faint trace of a rare, boyish smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as he looks at his stunned colleague.
"john," jack says, his voice regaining its usual steady cadence, though it's much warmer now. "i believe you've met my wife. and these are our kids."
shen blinks, a massive grin suddenly breaking across her face. "your kids? jack, you have a whole family!”
“i do,” he says, smiling softly.
“and you didn’t think of sharing that information with the group.”
"i like my privacy," jack defends himself. he looks down at his kids, then back to you, the sheer relief of knowing you are all safe overtaking any awkwardness about his secret being out. he leans down, pressing a lingering, sweet kiss to your lips right in front of the entire observation window. " i'm glad you're all safe."
"we are," you whisper, smiling against his lips. "now, can you sign our discharge papers, dr. abbot? we want to go home."
"consider it done," jack says softly. he turns to the staring interns outside with a mock-stern raise of his eyebrows, and they instantly scramble back to work, whispering excitedly among themselves.
as jack helps you down from the table and gathers your son into his arms, you know his quiet, mysterious reputation at the hospital is officially over, but seeing the proud, contented smile on his face as he walks his family out, it’s clear he doesn't mind one bit.
the sunshine of the night shift, all cookies and lavender, loves to make the grumpy, sassy, silver fox attending smile through attempts at flirting and baked goods. but what happens when he asks a certain replacement attending for drinks and the sunshine dims?
—angst. yearning. fluff ending. reader can be described as plus size but no specified race. age gap (reader is in her late 20s, early 30s, our grumpy man in his late 40s, early 50s). medical inaccuracy.
part one here !
thank you to @cafekitsune for the lovely divider !
There was a sudden lack of confections and savouries in the pitt.
Everybody noticed that it was not a coincidence.
The first time, you faked a gasp and everyone brushed it off as just a slip of your mind. A habit that just slipped past your brain. A reason that didn't need a calculated thought process. Genuinity was believed like it wasn't a calculated gamble and everything moved on normally.
The second time, you yawned and complained about your lack of sleep. The drain of energy due to hellish shifts and mental exhaustion was no new notion to the people of the pitt. Everyone had experienced this personally so no one questioned the lack of sweet treats. You were given empathetic side hugs and understanding nods. However, the treats were still missed.
The third time was when everyone staggered. You didn't even mention or acknowledge the absence of filled boxes of beloved delicacies and moved on with your shift as if this was the normalcy stitched onto every day of the pitt. You received side eyes, casual check ins on your health and suspicion from two mama nurses.
Worst of all, you received something you were too blind for. Something you never expected. Jack Abbot's concern.
After the day you heard Dr. Al and Jack, no Dr. Abbot, you felt as if someone had drained the soul out of you. Their words, his laugh and grin constantly replayed in your mind—finding new angles and new thorns to prick you. That night you cried. You weeped. You sobbed. But you realised that you needed to back off.
Jack was not yours. He didn't owe you anything.
He was a free man, allowed to ask other women out and that he did. Just because your heart was torn due to illusions created by your mind, the feelings that you held for him didn't mean that he was held responsible. He never ever even smiled at you. Wasn't that the whole premise of this? How were you so humiliatingly blind?
The mornings you would wait just for him, so that you could tease him one last time before going home. The smirk that would catch you off guard, the huffs and eye rolls you held dear—why? They were mere reactions, a crumb of what he could have actually given. The afternoons you would spent baking, imagining his face, when he tried it.
If he tried it.
Would he finally smile?
Would he gaze at you with his twinkling eyes?
God, you wanted to dig up a hole and die.
Why did you create this world by yourself? Where he would reciprocate your feelings? Why would he like you?
You with your chubby stomach, your endless rolls down your back, the way your scrubs stuck to them and and tightened around your thick thighs. Your visible pouch and overbearing love handles which poured out that your scrubs tugged at every single day.
He must be entertained by it, you thought.
The way he would be amused by your one liners, your silly attempts which he must've seen as desperation. You know he loved the attention, sensing every time he heard your a little too enthusiastic pitter patter growing as you got near him, he would immediately expect some flirty dig.
How much ever you tried, he never gave in.
It was a reminder—he was your attending. You were his nurse. And he would never go for you. He would never break that professional barrier with you.
But what about that moment on the roof? Samira asked you when you were telling her everything and almost flinched when you scoffed.
Tears almost brimmed your eyes at the thought of that sunrise, his words, that smile. The hope you built in your heart, the sliver of belief that had grown into something wildly inappropriately out of proportion which had been shattered.
"He probably felt responsible. I am a nurse under his authority and he noticed how I was on the verge of fucking losing it. Can't lose another nurse when there's a statewide insufficiency of nurses." You laughed humorlessly, sipping the wine in your hand. She had just stared at you, reading you meticulously, but that's when you realised one thing. This was your workplace. These were the people you worked with.
And you had let yourself get too personal.
The sunshine of the night shift.
Where had you gone wrong?
Like why could Samira read you so well?
"You know, you don't have to make yourself feel dumb over something that wasn't in your hands."
"But wasn't it Mira? I should've stopped myself from...whatever that was."
"What? Stopped yourself from what exactly, hon? Being yourself?" She questioned. You let out a huff. "You don't understand, Mira. It wasn't just that—I–I got way too involved in this whole...thing. Flirting with my attending to make him smile?" You retorted. Samira just rolled her eyes and smiled softly.
"That's who you are, bub. Making others smile and laugh. Spreading joy!"
"Don't make me sound like a Disney character." You had playfully rolled your eyes.
However, she couldn't convince you and after that you had decided that you had to refrain. Refrain yourself from getting too involved, too personal. You mentally reprimanded yourself for sharing that little story with Abbot. You had to pull back. So you did.
You decided no baking. Not for someone who doesn't even have a bite. No flirty comments or digs for someone who doesn't even give a smile. No bonding over past trauma or tragedies. Professional boundaries must be set. For your own sanity.
Now the thing is Jack Abbot doesn't believe in coincidences, so the first time you called him Dr. Abbot in a flat and weirdly un–you way, it bugged him. His mind said its been a hard shift. But instinct said that he knew you, and that this wasn't normal.
He can tolerate the lack of attention and then he'll get used it, you figured. Besides, he has Al Hashimi now. Your chest tightened.
He probably didn't even care about you that much, did he?
So, you pulled back.
Little did you know, Jack Abbot noticed everything immediately.
—
"Hey, sunny,"
Your back tensed. Your attention on the chart in front of you wavered, but you didn't want to show him that. Not him. You had to back off. You had to push the stupid giddy feeling you get at that nickname. Your eyes hardened on the chart.
You hummed in acknowledgement. Jack's eyes furrowed. "You know, while I appreciate you not bringing in treats to distract our pittlings, they are complaining to me about it."
Everyone. Not you, you figured.
You gulped. It was hard to figure out what to say in a way that didn't seem rude or too standoffish. Or too obvious to the fact that you were trying to avoid him.
"Sorry, Dr. Abbot. I didn't realize that, do you want me to tell them to back off?"
You didn't notice the way he flinched. Or maybe you chose not to. Because even if you chose to not let your eyes drift off to the attending, your body didn't stop understanding him. It didn't stop feeling him.
Jack swallowed in the feeling of his heart squeezing. His jaw tightened for a small second, before returning his focus on you. His mouth opened to give a reply before someone called your name. His heart's pace quickened, almost in panic, but all he knew that something was wrong with you. You started moving, didn't even wait for his reply, like you were afraid of what he was going to say. How he was going to react. Your heart was on the line.
But before you could slip past him, he stopped you, his hand on your elbow. Your eyes widened at his touch. His grasp around your elbow, firm yet not harsh, soft and almost careful. His calloused fingers' touch was almost feather-light, yet it burned through your body. Your mind flashed to the roof, to the way he took care of you on the other side of the railing. You let out a shaky exhale.
"Sunny, are you okay? You know if there's anything—"
"Three traumas incoming! Car collison, two adults, females, and a 7 year old boy! ETA is 4 minutes!" Lena yelled over the nurses' station and you immediately snatched your hand from his hand as if it scorched you. You couldn’t even look in his eyes anymore.
But his didn't leave you. "Sunny, are you fine?"
"I'm okay." Jack furrowed his eyebrows at your short tone.
You gulped. "I have to get the...carts ready." You mumbled and sprinted off.
—
You put up a verbal guard, a professional mask, something other people, who didn't know you wouldn't question at all. But Jack wasn't "other" people. He knew you, atleast that's what he thought.
So, he approached you more.
It was like the world was cruel, you thought. Why is he coming after me, now?
You were just trying to protect yourself from the hurt. The pain. The ache of seeing him every time and the reminder, pricking you like needles, that he chose someone else. Maybe you were being unreasonable. Afterall, none of it was his fault. But wasn't this what he wanted? Professional boundaries. So you boarded up walls that you wished he wouldn't break through with his saccharine tone and honey dipped kindness.
But you had to be strong.
So when he came up to you with his concerned yet hopeful eyes, searching your soul for something you didn't want to name, you closed off. He was just a man who was searching for the sunlight which blessed these insufferable nights. "Hey,"
But before he could even say something, he could see the walls go up, your guards that weren't up before. His throat tightened. He didn't understand what was happening.
"Dr. Abbot, do you need something?"
He stared at you for a bit too long. His stare burned on your body, as if it was consuming your entire being, luring you to look at him, give him something. The gaze seemed too critical to you, like he was trying to figure you out, a secret. It was stripping you bare.
"Are you sick?"
You pursed your lips and pretended that your body wasn't begging to just lean into him. "No, not at all." You said, nonchalantly.
"Are you sure? I can check you out—"
The warmth inside your sternum flared up, threatening to redden your whole face. You had to get out of there. "Really, I am good. I appreciate your concern, Dr. Abbot. But its not required."
You walked away.
Jack's throat went dry. Usually, you would throw in a retort at him, a flirty dig or some insinuation he would be too flustered to acknowledge. He imagined it, your wicked grin, a mischievous glimmer in your eyes and he would expect the comment—"You can check me out at dinner, Abbot." or "A little eager are we, Mr. Grumpus."—and now, nothing.
He watched you walk away as if you had burned him with your absence of words.
Why was this affecting him so much?
But he was in denial and he knew that. If he wasn't so obvious, maybe Lena wouldn't have started teasing him about how his gaze lingered on you. The way you smiled, they way your hips would sway in that playful way of yours after getting the slightest of reactions out of him, the way the room would light up due to your laugh.
He gulped and walked away.
But Jack Abbot knew one thing—something was wrong with you. And he couldn't let his the night shift's sunshine dim out.
—
You groaned and hit your head against the locker. This was too difficult. Had you actually fallen for this man so hard that you saw him everywhere now?
Every where you went, he was there. His scent, his gravelly voice, his eyes followed you literally everywhere. Every single patient, you were partnered with him. You had to give your best fake smiles, swallow in every instinct to make him smile and focus on the patient in front of you.
"Hey, I am Nurse—" you introduced yourself, "and this is Dr. Abbot," and him, stopping yourself from glancing at him in his glory. "He will be inspecting your wound, is that okay?"
The 72 year old woman in front of you just nodded, a reassured smile forming on her face as she looked up at the man you tried so hard not to adore. He glanced at you and gave the woman a gentle smile, making your heart skip a beat. Can he not?—
"Sunny, can you please hand me the gloves?" He asks you and you just nod, trying to hide your face from him. Your ears had turned cherry red and the way his fingers brushed against yours was not helping you. He gazed at you for a moment and you had to remind yourself that you had a patient in front of you. Who was noticing everything.
"Now, can you tell me how this happened, Mrs Lowery?"
The woman told her dilemma. How she was trying to make a dish her husband used to love. She was out of practice unfortunately, as her husband died four years ago, but today was their wedding anniversary and she refused to sulk. Rather wanted to celebrate him. While cutting something the knife slipped and cut her.
He listened to her intently, his care burrowing deep into his veins. Ignoring the way his delicate touch or gentle eyes made absurd butterflies erupt deep in your stomach, you handed him everything he needed to clean her wounds and prevent any infections.
"Sunny, can you hand me the—"
"Have you always called her Sunny? That's such a cute nickname!" She gushed at the both of you. Heat crawled up your neck, making your whole face go crimson as she looked expectantly between the two of you.
"You both make such a cute couple!" She beamed.
You couldn't look at Jack, not when everything was making your eyes water.
"I—um, no—we aren't—" You stammered frantically. Your brain was going in a frenzy. Were you still being obvious? How could she insinuate that—
Jack cleared his throat, and you side glanced him. He looked dejected. God, he must've been so embarrassed by this. You felt a sharp sting inside your ribs.
"Ma'am, your wound is clean, I will come back to do some tests though. So, just stay right here, alright? Do you need anything else, like water or some food?"
"No, sweetheart, you're such a doll. You just keep that sweet smile on that face, don't you agree, Dr. Abbot?"
"Um—yeah—" He rasped, the tip of his ears turning pink. "Her smile is," He swallowed, "sweet, makes everything easier." He turned his head towards you, your eyes meeting his, his hazel meeting yours. You could hear your heartbeat in your ears because it was too intense. The way he was looking at you, gazing at you, as if you were worth something in his life, someone he cared so intently about. The soft green specks in his eyes sparkled at you and you had to force yourself to look away. There was a lodge in your throat.
You had to get away.
"Thank you," You mumbled to him or the lovely lady, you didn't particularly know but you had to escape. Escape before your heart decided that he was in love with you, too. Increased your hope by a ridiculous amount which would ultimately crash and you would have to consume an insane amount of ice cream while weeping.
Not happening.
Not over the man who couldn't even smile at you.
So, you almost ran out of there.
"Hey, hon! Can you get some gauze from the supply room for me?" Lena asked Kelly. But you saw your opportunity, and ran before her, "I got it, Lena!" You chimed in, a fake smile creasing your face weirdly. "Listen Kelly, could you take South Eight? She needs some tests done. Don't worry, Dr. Abbot is there, he'll tell you what to do," You pleaded.
"But—"
"Thanks, Kels, I love you—"
__
"So, why did our honeybee just dump her case with you to nurse Kelly just to get some gauze for me?"
"I—I don't know. God, does she seem weird to you lately?" He ran a hand over his face. His forehead held exhausted creases, his muscles sore and he felt like something had been tugging at his chest. Your sudden absence in his life was confusing him to no ends. Why were you acting like—like—
"Oh, you mean the fact that she doesn't try to make you smile anymore?"
He blinked. And again. His eyebrows furrowed. "Can you read minds or something?"
She raised her eyebrows at him and huffed, crossing her arms over her chest, suspiciously. "So, you were thinking the same thing?"
"What? No. That's not—Oh, no."
"Uh huh," She stared at him, "Listen, nobody here knows what's going on with her, but you should at least try to cheer her up."
"Yeah. Yeah, I could do that. Thanks, Mama nurse. I swear this place would go to shit if it wasn't for you." He boasted.
"Don't I know it," She grunted.
—
The next shift, Jack walked towards you with the confidence of a man who knew the secret to the most infuriating woman. As if he knew how to break down all your guards successfully with having to move a muscle. And Sunny, he thought pridefully, he can't wait to see the look on your face.
He strutted in, ignoring inconsequential, judgemental looks by Ellis and Shen, with a coquette brown bag in his hand. It had the label of The Moonlight Bakery, written in a sweet font, with bows tied on its handles. Inside it held your most favourite pastry, the one you were yapping about a few weeks ago. Its aroma floated towards you before Jack reached you. You could taste the sweetness of the blueberry compote topped on the sweet tres leches cake that you love so much.
Your eyes drifted from the board in front of you to everyone near you. Why can you smell that? Where is that coming from? Before you could figure out the person who was gatekeeping your favourite pastry, the last man, the last person you would expect such a menial thing about you, stopped beside you.
His fresh cologne hit you, threatening to lure you in a dreamy state. Anxiety coursed through your veins and you frantically looked around, finding a way to avoid conversing with him. But before you could move away, he plopped down a bag next to you. Your eyes widened at the label and the pastry inside.
You cursed.
"For you. Your favourite pastry from that bakery you couldn't stop talking about last week. Gotta admit your taste is not half bad, Sunny." He grinned smugly. What?
He remembered.
Why does he remember?
Why did he even pay attention?
You swallowed, glancing at his satisfied expression and to other peering eyes near you, too eager for your reaction. "Um...Thanks Dr. Abbot."
His grin immediately faltered. "What?"
"Thank you for this, you didn't have to." You said mildly. His face fell. Almost crumpled. Your heart pace increased as you witnessed his eyebrows furrow, his lips form a discouraged pout and his hazel eyes dimmed. Something tugged at his chest. Yours ached.
"Why are you being weird?" He muttered, with a gruff voice but it was disheartened, as if he was taken aback. But you had to pretend there wasn't anything wrong. That this was normal. This is normalcy. That the very weave of every moment you spend with Jack now didn't change the way your heart pumped deep inside your sternum. How all of it isn't inherently unnatural. That it didn't unsettle your bones. Every time you had to create a formal boundary or throw a polite word at him to protect yourself, you felt as if your soul was losing itself, the very sparkle that held you and him. Because as every detached conversation widened this distance between you and the man you loved brilliantly, an ache spread through every muscle, to an extent where your lungs couldn't process the oxygen it inhaled. Or maybe it wasn’t the oxygen that your body needed desperately.
You swallowed that desperation.
"I'm not being weird?" You blinked, cluelessly.
He pursed his lips, his frustration boiling, like a 5 year old who was refused his favourite candy, something he expected so cockily but he didn't show that, no. His face was unreadable.
You almost rolled your eyes. Shocker. No reaction by Jack Abbot.
"Don't do that."
"What do you mean, Dr. Abbot?"
Every instinct in your bone was screaming at you to lean into his body, touch his forearm, give him your sweetest smile or a kiss on his cheek as a thank you.
He looked like his frustration was about to boil over, force him to say it outright. He stopped himself in his own irritating, out–righteous way because half the hospital was shamelessly spying on you. He glanced at the pastry in front of him, untouched. Then at you, whose eyes had returned back to the chart, as if he was unimportant. Disposable.
"Nothing," He muttered.
He walked away.
The next shifts, you didn't come back. Didn't go back to being the Sunny he knew. You had stopped leaning into his space. You stopped calling him old man, stopped haphazardly and inappropriately complimenting his looks, stopped your dramatic winks, your warm waves and soft smiles when his day was going unexceptionally difficult.
It was becoming impossible to ignore. Not by just Jack but by your fellow, lovingly nosy, coworkers.
"Do you think we should do something?" Javadi asked Ellis, who, along with Crus were observing the very entertaining scene in front of them.
You were assisting Jack on a cardiac patient. Your movements were mechanical and detached and your eyes were focused on the patient but they were still vacant. His kept drifting back to you, your face, as if he was seeking something in the way your features expressed, as if they held the answer to all his questions. Yet Jack's eyes had this look in them, something akin to melancholic, because the answers he sought weren't what he was searching for.
Shen—who was also there with you—and the patient were looking between you and the attending back and forth as if this was the best and worst entertainment they had gotten since Sophie's Choice.
Shen side eyed Ellis across the room. "O—kayyy, this is so much worse."
"What even happened between them?"
"Whatever it is, they refuse to talk about it which has amped up the tension."
"Which is simultaneously slaughtering employee morale. Seriously, I will write a formal complaint to Robby." Crus chimed in at which Javadi snickered.
"So, do we get it involved?"
"Nahhh, let them figure this out themselves." Ellis declared as Crus groaned next to her.
"Care to make this interesting?" Princess smirked. Javadi jumped out of her place and Ellis flinched. "Jesus, where did you come from?"
"40$ on 4 more shifts after which they have a huge fight and makeout in the supply room."
Javadi scoffed but Ellis raised her eyebrow. "50$ on 3 shifts, and makeout on the roof."
"You really think they will last that long? Abbot looks like a volcano about to reach its bursting point. 30$ on 2 shifts—"
"Abbot can last longer, the most patient man I've ever seen." Javadi stated, mindlessly playing with her pen while gazing at the two of you.
Crus gave her a deadpan look. "Not for the girl he's so crazy in love with."
Ellis leaned back on the counter.
"Does he even know that?"
—
He still didn't stop his tries, his kindness and compassion pouring its way into every shift as he brought you your lattes he once complained about—how they are not even coffee, just random flavours mixed in milk—he helped you with your charts and made sure that Shen didn't finish that absurdly spicy ramen you like from the vending machine.
But you had stopped seeing it as hope, in order to save your heart and feelings from any more damage, but only seeing it as your attending looking out for you. As he must be with everyone else.
It was only that. Professionalism.
It could be only that.
But you didn't know how hard misery had hit Jack. Every time he looked at you, something made his chest stutter. He tried to deny it, the way he felt at peace whenever you were near him, always smiling. The way he would feel like the universe blessed him with you, the way you would be determined to make him happy. Denying the way he would gladly surrender to your shenanigans, your attempts, your exclusive sparkle if it wasn't for his stubbornness.
It almost scared him.
He didn't expect to care so much for someone, yet find someone who cared so much for him after his wife's death.
He lost someone he loved and then fell to the crutches of loneliness and emotional numbness. He didn't find happiness, scratch that, he didn't believe that he deserved happiness nor care. It was Robby and Dana who took him out, reminded him that there is so much to live for and that there are still people who care about him.
But love? He forgot that. Forgot what it feels to be in love. Forgot what it feels to be loved by someone. He carried his wife deep inside his heart, but the thought of finding another person to love, our rather another person feeling him worthy enough to love was unthinkable.
Then came you.
A blast in his life, you entered with a box full of chocolate chip cookies, the most annoyingly sweet smile on your face, and the biggest heart on your sleeve. It took him less than a second for his brain to decide you were trouble and his heart comprehend you were significant.
And beautiful.
So simply beautiful.
Your wide eyes, to your curvy hips to your thick thighs. Everything had him unnecessarily malfunctioning. The way your scrubs stuck to your back rolls, and your cute pouch which poured out in the front and how the neckline couldn't hold your cleavage, knowing his large hands could hold your body just they way you liked, sent him spiraling. He would've done anything to see you out of the scrubs. He didn't know why he was suddenly acting a 16 year old boy who had discovered women for the first time.
Then there was your pretty smile. It used to send heat waves through his body, a giddiness along with it which he thought he would never experience again. The way you would look at all the patients with kind eyes, always chirpy for the kids who were scared, compassionate with the parents. He didn't know what to do with himself and what he was feeling when you sent him your warm waves every time you saw him and all he could do was purse his lips and nod.
The danger in his mind and heart would grow whenever you brought some of your delicious food to try. Always making sure the kids (doctors in the their mid 20's) were fed, along with everyone else who overworked themselves. This was just a step towards—imminent doom?—he didn't know. But he knew that the way his heart raced with the urge to just be near you and your kindness all the time, make you smile, make you blush and fluster you wasn't exactly normal.
Yet, his body never stopped your ridiculous attempts, his smile and feelings coming slowly to the surface. But he had to put up a wall. Because this sudden lack of inhibitions when it came towards you was dangerous, wasn't it? No, it was scary. Not exactly dangerous. This lack of control was, in a way, good. But he could never admit that. So, he put up a wall and never smiled. Never gave you a reaction.
But never stopped you either.
So, when all of it had stopped all of a sudden, his heart malfunctioned. His brain couldn't process this change. Rather refused to adapt to it.
Denial is a river in Egypt, Ellis had said.
He didn't understand what it meant. Or rather, he didn't want to.
It was when Robby cornered him that he knew he wasn't just being ludicrously unsubtle but he was being moronic as well.
"You know, you're being stupid, right?"
"Excuse me?"
"Sunny."
Jack's eyes hardened.
"That's my nickname for her. Find your own." He scowled at Robby.
But Robby laughed outright, boisterously. "Do you hear yourself? God, do you even understand what you're doing?"
"I have no idea what you're talking about." He claimed.
"You know she made that Afghan food you like. The one you used to yap about in your letters."
"Wait, what?" Jack breathed out. He gulped and reminisced the sunrise on the roof with you. The way you looked in the sun, how your eyes lit up when he smiled for you, the kindness in your eyes when he told you about his times in Afghanistan—his heart lodging in his throat. You actually listened. He felt like he couldn't breathe.
"Look at you, man. You're flushed." Robby gasped out, his eyes unbelieving. Jack's gave was pink, a dreamy look in his eyes, his pulse quickened at an alarming rate. "You're down bad for her, aren't you?"
Jack just let out a shaky breath. His eyes were glassy.
"Listen, I don't know what happened between you both, man. But you gotta get your shit together, Jack. You've met a woman so kind and so loving, someone that you won't find in a million lifetimes. She likes you. You know that? Who spends half their time trying to make you laugh?"
He took a soft pause as Jack let's out a soft, unbelievable chuckle. "She is amazing."
Robby nodded, "The universe is giving you another chance, man. Ridiculously easy one because she's right there. You just gotta do right by her, Jack. I swear to god, if you fuck this up, the whole E.D is not going to forgive you. She might be your Sunny. But she's everyone's sunshine here. No one wants to lose that."
Jack breathed in, trying to process every word Robby just said. He sighed and shook his head. "I'm so fucked."
"That's right."
—
The end of the shift Jack felt like he couldn't breathe. Not with you still looking at him like you didn't know him. You still ignored every single opening he gave you. By this time, you had gotten better at hiding your pain behind a mask of smiles and propriety. The civility you had structured masterfully between you and Jack was meant to be protecting you. You tried to convince yourself shift over shift, yet you knew it was killing you from the inside.
What you didn't know was that it was killing him too.
His own decorum was slipping. It was frustration that was seeking through the crevices of his well maintained reputation as a composed doctor. Not anger though. Never anger.
He felt like he was losing you.
His Sunny was slipping away from his fingers.
"Dr. Abbot? Dr. Park is here for the ortho consult?"
He merely nodded, his head not in the right state. But it worsened when he got to North Four. You were there. Not alone. With Park.
He entered, his footsteps heavy with the storm his heart had been enduring. The fluorescent lights pierced through him, not like they did before, when you were there to warm him up. When your smile would warm the whole place up. You would always look at him first. But as he entered this room, a coldness spread through his veins, because this time he realised you didn't look at him first.
Instead, as his sight settled, he saw you.
Laughing.
With Dr. Park. Your gaze set on him.
A wrenching pain shot across his chest.
No. No. No.
He glanced between you and Park.
Jack's eyes narrowed. You had your hand loosely covering your pretty mouth as you giggled to yourself, but he was not the cause. Dr. Park stood there in all his glory telling the young teenager some hilarious tale of an injury he went through while playing football in his high school years. The teenager seemed more relaxed and comfortable now. You stood there beside him with a suture kit in your hand, your eyes never leaving the ortho attending, with a sparkle in your eyes that Jack never saw.
You didn't notice him.
At least that's what he thought.
You had sensed him entering as you always did. Your body had an instinct when it came to him, as if seeking him out or leaning into him was more of a nature to you. Something you had grown comfortable to. You recognized his presence immediately and somehow, even if you had tried to get in the habit of forgetting him, your body hadn't forgotten him at all. After all, muscle memory is muscle memory.
So, your shoulders had relaxed but your heart raced. You had difficulty focusing on what Dr. Park was saying so you just kept your eyes on him.
"Dr. Park. Took you long enough." A rough voice came from behind. Your eyebrows immediately furrowed. Jack's voice was tight, as if he was holding something back. Some kind of pain or discomfort. You had seen him get shot at, yet his voice had never been like this before. It was new for you.
He saw you turn away from him, almost an inch closer to the other attending. His breathing had become shallow, teeth grinding one another as if he was trying to control himself. The distance between you and him had never been more suffocating. He couldn't breathe in your lavender and vanilla scent, couldn't feel your warmth, hear your silky, cheery and kind voice.
But he thought he witnessed it, an ease in your body, the way it hasn't been with him in past few nights. The laugh he hadn't earned in ages. Something that, apparently, Dr. Park had earned.
His heart was starving. Lungs felt hollow.
But something about the proximity between you and Dr. Park made irritation gnaw at his chest.
"Why? Did the ED miss me, Abbot?"
He let out a huff that sounded much like a scoff, like he couldn't believe the audacity of the man. "Oh, don't worry, ED is doing just fine." He gruffly said. Dr. Park's mouth twitched slightly.
You stood between them, a tension attaching you to him. Yet you felt like there was something going on in his mind, something that was making the veins in his neck pop. The intensity with which he was glancing at you was magnetic, a force you wished you weren't so pulled towards. You resisted and resisted. A string between you both losing its elasticity moment by moment as you not only avoided him but refused to name it.
So, you did what you thought was best.
You deflected. You deflected and turned your attention on Dr. Park in front of you.
"Well, don't worry, Ortho is perfect for me. I was just convincing this lovely nurse to join me up there. I swear—"
"Excuse me?"
Your breath hitched.
Something beneath him, inside his lungs, set on fire. A cold fire. It knocked the air out of him. His brain stuttered. Stopped functioning thoughts except for a tangible reality of you actually going away. A warmth he couldn't hold onto first.
"Sunny? You call her that, right?" He smugly added, unknowing of the fire he was adding fuel to. "Sunny, can you pass me the chart?"
Jack's irritation whitened into something else. Hot anger. Frustration. Panic.
Absolutely fucking not.
"You don't call her that." His eyes had darkened, jaw clenched to an impossible extent. The room had fallen to a deadly silence. The air had escaped, a cold settled around which had nothing to do with the weather. Your throat had gone dry. Face flushed. Heat spread through your body.
You hadn't ever seen Jack with such a dark expression.
He gritted his teeth, eyes narrowed—hazel covered with an envious green—and whatever burned inside him was creeping out, ugly and unseen. "Only I call her Sunny."
"Dr. Abbot—"
He ignored your gasp of voice, unbelieving of his claim. It was scalding and irrational, he knew, but he couldn't stop it.
He could only see what his brain flashed in front of his eyes, undesired. An image of you moving away, another person making you laugh, flustering you the way he used to. You looking at someone else with the same caring eyes. Because he did, now. He looked for you first. He didn't want to lose being the first person you looked for, forever.
He felt something coil and tighten under his sternum.
Especially not because of fucking Dr. Park.
"So what should I call her, Abbot—sweetheart, darling, honey? She looks like a honey." He teased on.
"You call her nothing, Park. She's not your anything."
Park's eyebrows raised in amusement, finally getting a hang of what exactly was going on. He moved his gaze back and forth Jack and you, a tension he didn't know he had stepped into.
"I see, Abbot. Of course. She's yours—"
"I'm not!" You cried, a desperation in your voice that pierced through the tensed air set in the room. "I am nowhere near his. Dr. Park, please continue with the consult." You whispered with a frustration lodging in your throat.
You moved to leave, glaring at Jack before storming out.
—
Jack didn't go after you. Not this time.
Because at this point, he felt like he didn't understand you anymore.
Or rather he felt like he was losing you.
The worst part was that he knew your laugh. It rung in his ears every time he felt like the darkness was going to absorb him again. He knew every version of it, every version that you gave him—with your heart open. It was the way the room used to light up every time your eyes brightened with it, a loud laugh, one that bounced off of every single surface just to get to him and wrap him in its velvety warmth. Then there was the sly giggle or the snort you couldn't help but let out. They gave him a kind of delight that would linger.
Yet when he heard this one, something lurched behind his ribs. Because he didn't expect this. Didn't expect to hear a new one which he hadn't catalogued himself yet. A swirl of ugliness and breathlessness tightened under his sternum because it was not him that was the cause of it.
White frustration surged through the man as he thundered across the ED. A type of storm people had not seen before.
"What happened?" Lena asked, fearlessly. His gaze sharpened as he remembered the foreign sound again. "Fucking Dr. Park. And Sunny."
She raised her eyebrows. "What?
"This man thinks he can just swoop in and try to poach her. Fucking called her Sunny," He ranted. "Everybody here knows I call her that. And then when I told him that, Park had the fucking audacity to ask me whether he should call her 'honey' then."
Lena pursed her lips at him, amusement visible across her face. "Right."
"I mean, can you fucking believe that?"
"I can't fucking believe you, Dr. Abbot." Samira muttered to herself, resentment laced in her words. Her eyes had sharpened as if to cut Jack, but they were still focused on the chart in front of her.
"Excuse me?"
She scoffed and rolled her eyes. "If you seriously don't know what you've done, I can't help you." And tried to walk off. Before she could, Jack caught her. "Mohan, what are you talking about?"
She huffed and crossed her arms. "Dr. Abbot, I have patients to catch up with."
"Seriously? Listen, I care about her. A lot. And I have no idea why she is acting like this and its killing me. If you know something—please tell me." He pleaded.
"You have no right to act all jealous and possessive of her when you asked out Al Hashimi."
"Wait, what?"
"She's been trying to make you smile for months and she bakes for you goddammit! You give her nothing, never! And then the poor girl walks in on you and Dr. Al—"
"I never asked her out."
"Excuse me?"
Jack's heart dropped down in the pit of his stomach. "I never asked out Dr. Hashimi."
"But she—"
"Never. I did ask her to get beer together but that was just because Robby wanted me to get a a clear image on her. It was never meant—Fuck."
Samira pursed her lips and blinked at the man as he went through a plethora of emotions. He swallowed and raised his gaze at her to find her eyebrows shot up, expectantly, as if to say you need to fix this now.
"I need to find Sunny."
—
You needed a breather.
And what better place than the roof?
You breathed in the air, a calm that you wished would stop the storm inside you. The whirlwind of emotions and stupid feelings. All for that one man. One man you couldn't seem to let go of. It was almost humiliating how much you wanted to hold on, hold on to the brittle dream of him loving you back like you did him.
The look you saw on his face. God, did you imagine it? Did he also miss you? No. No. You stopped yourself. You just needed some more time. Away from him. Away from the chaos which was a few floors down. A bit of silence—
The door creaked open, destroyer of your attempts at peace up here. You wished it was Lena or Ellis but you knew who it was.
"What are you doing here?" You asked weakly.
"Sunny—"
"What do you want from me, Jack?" Your voice broke.
"I need to know why out of nowhere you've been acting like you don't fucking know me, Sunny." He confessed, his frustration laced in the words. "I need to know what the hell your problem is, cause'—"
"Jack, please—"
"No, I need to hear it from your mouth, okay? What is it? You hate me all of a sudden—" He kept pacing towards you, as if without the close proximity he won't survive.
"No, you fucking dumbass! I love you! I've been in love with you and you don't—" You hiccuped, turning around, tears finally rolling down your cheeks. "You don't a–and if I stay any longer with you, I'll break my own heart because I will keep falling a–and you won't."
"You're in love with me?" Jack gasped out, disbelief in his breath. You pulled yourself together, your hands wrapping around your cold body, shoulders hunching, trying to hide yourself. Humiliation made your tears well up again, your brain was hurting and you embraced your body, bracing yourself for the inevitable rejection. "Are you serious?"
You nodded slightly before your gaze flickered back to the sky. "Listen, I–I know this is bad, especially since you like Dr. Al Hashimi and you asked her out. I am going to give in my request for a shift to days, or even out of the ED—"
"Like hell you will. Like hell I will let you."
"What?" You whispered.
"I never asked out Al."
There was a heavy pause between, as your heart stopped itself, almost as if because it couldn't hear Jack's words perfectly.
"Excuse me?"
"I never asked her out. Whatever you heard was me doing a favour for Robby."
His gaze pierced through your soul, begging you to understand what his words couldn't convery but you deflected. You didn't let yourself believe. "Still. It doesn't mean you don't want her—She's perfect. She's mature, beautiful, absolutely brilliant—"
"She's not you."
You couldn't have heard the words right. "Excuse me?" You breathed out.
He stepped closer to you, your heart threatening to pump out of your chest. You could see him clearly now, through all of your tears. His perfectly freckled face, gorgeous salt and pepper curls, his eyes filled with so much tenderness and pain it caught your breath.
"She's not you."
He titled his head slightly, gazing at you with so much adoration. He reached out, his hand so careful, feather light touch as he tucked a strand away, as an unfortunate whimper escapes your mouth. Not a moment of weakness. An indication of the longing. Longing for the same touch.
"She's not Sunny. Yes, she is intelligent, mature, brave and pretty too. But she's not you." He let out a shaky exhale before continuing.
"She's not the person who is so determined to make me laugh. She's not the one who makes the room brightened up by just being in it. She's not the one...the one who made me feel worthy of being loved again."
Your gaze flickered up at his eyes again.
"But Jack—you never," you gulped again, stopping the tears to blur up your vision again, "you never even reciprocated it. Never..." You trailed off, mindlessly flashing back to the times you put yourself down while wondering why he never flirted back. "But when—when I saw you with Dr. Al, you smiled—so freely, it hurt. W–Why did you never—"
"I was afraid." Hs cut you off. "Afraid that after I smiled for you, you w–would move on. Stop doing what you're doing. I didn't want you to stop. You were the best part of my day."
There was a pregnant pause before he added.
"Besides you made my brain malfunction."
A chortle left your mouth, a remark of disbelief. "Excuse me?"
A sly lopsided grin touched his face. "I never could give you any reaction because you stopped my brain from giving out any coherent orders to my body. My throat would become concerningly dry and I couldn't even give a reaction without making myself look like a dumbass."
You let out an unwarranted giggle. You shook your head, but behind your eyes, there was still the blinding cover of uncertainty. A cloud of doubt still stopped you. Your body was not letting yourself lean into him completely, but not pushing him back either. Reluctancy had settled over your bones.
"Jack. This is not making sense—"
"You're the first person I look for in a room." Your breath hitched. "And when you stopped looking for me...I felt empty. I was losing my mind and Robby had to knock some sense into me—and I—I was too afraid to lose you, Sunny."
He grabbed the rails around you, his arms framing around your body, his figure radiating a kind of restlessness. His fingers had gripped the metal so hard, his knuckles were turning white in frustration, as if he was holding himself back from...well, you.
A heated flush spread across your cheeks. Your eyes met his, a soul found another, the love and yearning that had been hidden behind fear finally blown out in the open.
"Why did you never tell me?" You whispered.
"I was afraid." There was a pause before he moved his body close to you, the proximity both of your hearts had been starving for. "But I realised the fear of losing you is far more than the fear of...accepting love."
Your hand slowly reached out to his face, cradling it, his stubble grazing your hands, your eyes boring into his. A shy smile broke out on your face, something eternally beautiful, he realised as his heart skipped a beat. You both leaned in, his forehead leaning against yours, as you let yourself finally be pulled into his warmth. Falling into his soul. Never leaving his heart.
"Say it for me. Please."
His gaze flickered to yours, a vulnerability shone in them as he searched your face before realisation dawned on him.
"I'm falling for you, hard."
He took a deep breathe.
"I love you, Sunny."
You opened your eyes and sighed, as if you were holding a breath for the longest time.
"One more time."
Jack's eyes never left you. Instead, they flickered to your lips. The ones he dreamed about. The ones he wanted to—
He tilted his head and went in, a brush of his lips against yours, as if asking for permission, but only a whimper came out. Soft and delicate, something that gave him the courage he needed.
You gasped as his hand grabbed at your waist, gently squeezing your pretty love handles before pulling you into him as he smashed his lips against yours. He swiftly molded his lips against yours, getting drunk on your taste. While you just melted into him, holding onto him like he was your lifeline.
Your hands travelled up from his torso to his chest to his collar, your fingers grabbing them and passionately pulling him impossibly closer. His explored your body in the way it didn't even daydream about. They hoisted you with their bulging strength, sliding from your back to your mane and back to your hips. He groaned in your mouth and you whined softly before he sucked on your lower lips.
The kiss wasn't aggressive nor was it too shy. It was the perfect amount for two lost people finding themselves again. For the two people who had been too afraid to grab the love right in front of them. Two people who were stunningly starved for each other's touch. Two souls who had finally found each other.
You slowly whined as both of you pulled back for air and he smiled against your lips.
"Look, who's smiling now." You teased gently. You played with his curls, reveling in this feeling, the giddiness consumed your body, and the anxious buzz in your muscles had disappeared because he was here. Holding you. Loving you.
He chuckled wholeheartedly. He softly pecked your lips. "Only because of you, Sunny."
—
The elevator dinged open.
The sight could heal all longing hearts. And it did.
"Oh my god." Santos whispered.
Everybody at the nurse station looked at her, puzzled at her widened eyes. That was until they followed her eye sight.
There you were.
Not alone.
Jack and you appeared, fingers intertwined, shy smiles on both faces, but the satisfaction and love glowed on both of you, unsubtly. Plus, your lips were chapped.
Crus crossed his arms over his chest, "Fucking finally."
Robby cheered with Shen. Dana and Lena said something on the lines of 'took you long enough', as Princess and Perlah looked kind of disappointed, but for a different reason.
"I fucking won!" Ellis beamed.
Everyone groaned.
You both just grinned at each other. Jack, finally happy, because he faced his fears, and finally reached for the warmth and love that was always there. Because he got his girl. His Sunny.
And you? Well because you finally realised that the man you loved also looked for you before even entering a room.
That was love.
In a room full of people, I look for you.
—sombr.
AHHHH FINALLY DONE WITH THIS.
I love you guys so much for the love you gave me and sunny <3
Warnings: dragonsickness!kili, he's kinda toxic, cannon accurate violence, undertones of abusive and controlling behavior. Please take care of yourslef and only read if you can handle it!
a/n: hehehe, I'm baaaaack, I wonder how many times I've said that and accidentally blipped off the radar immediately after. Anyway, this was a request I was sent; it was one of the ones I lost to thank you, anon, for sending it again, so I had a chance to actually write it! If anyone has any other requests, my inbox is open!
It was off-putting, the way your usually care-free lover’s eyes turned dark at a moment's notice. You two had spent the whole journey to the mountain kingdom desperately trying to keep each other’s spirits up. You and Kili taking on the roles of camp clowns more often than not. It helped in some small way. After nearly being shot, eaten, torn apart, and crushed along the way, it helped to have some small moments of joy.
These moments were, however, becoming more and more elusive. The company’s arrival at the mountain was tainted by the discovery of Samug still enveloped in your people’s treasure. And when Kili, Fili, Bofur, and you arrived a day after the burning of Laketown, it was clear there would be no time for clowning anymore. You were put to work by Throin within moments. Only waiting for Oin to check over the three of you and patch up any lingering wounds. Then it was into the hoard, searching night and day for the Arkenstone.
You wanted to chalk up the change in Kili’s mood to exhaustion; you had barely had a moment's respite in what seemed like forever. But exhaustion didn’t explain the glint in his eye when he looked over the seas of gold, or, for that matter, you. Kili had grown short with the other members of the company, brusque and distant, muttering under his breath constantly.
There was one moment you stepped away, needing air and a brief glimpse of sunlight, trying to erase the glint of gold from your mind but knowing deep down that it would be a futile endeavor. You were gone for an hour, maybe less, when Bilbo came tearing up the stairs to the overlook.
“Y/N! Y/N! You have to come back, he’s losing his mind!” The Hobbit was out of breath but still tugging mightily on your arm.
“Thorin can wait a mere moment. We need to rest, I’m just the only one not too scared to go without permission.”
“It’s not Thorin, it’s Kili.” He never wavered in his insistence on getting you to return. At the news that it was your love and not his uncle, your eyebrows shot up, and your pace quickened.
Bilibo was right, of course. When the two of you returned to the hoard, you were met with the sight of Ori being lifted by the front of his shirt by a seemingly enraged Kili.
“What gives you the right? How dare you even speak her name?” Kili pulled the younger dwarf closer, close enough to see the dragonfire burning in his irises.
“I-I was just wondering where she made off to, honest.” You had seen Ori scared, sure, but never before had it been aimed at another member of the company.
“Kili!” you yelled, “What are you doing?” The second the prince's eyes landed on you, he released the dwarf in his grasp, tossing him to the side carelessly, your own eyes following to ensure he wasn’t wounded.
“Ghiavshel,” he breathed, pulling you into him, his grip tight and ironlike around your waist, “Where were you?”
“I needed a moment of air, Kee, that's all.” You tilted your head to the side, trying to get a deeper look into his eyes, eyes that seemed to be seeing less and less as the days went by.
“I do not like you being far from my side. Stay close to me, please, love.” His pleading seemed earnest, and the tightening grip around you gave you little cause to deny him.
It seemed that whatever darkness had settled in Throin’s head had also found residence in his nephew. You looked to the side and caught sight of Nori and Dori aiding their young cousin. Your smile dimmed, unnoticed by your bethrothed.
“Of course, Amralime. I’m sorry for worrying you.” he placed a rough kiss to your head and, as nothing had ever happened, returned to the hoard, sifting through the mountains of gold before him.
Moments of violence among the group remained few, but tensions were high; more than once, Kili had evoked rank over the other dwarves, something your love would never do when in his right mind. Kili was a prince, sure, but he had grown up like any other dwarfling, so why now did he seem all so eager to lord over those around him?
His instance in keeping you close only got worse, at first satisfied simply by being in the same room, he grew antsy when you were out of reach, and eventually, you were unable to find yourself out of his grasp at all times, even as the two of you slept.
Sleeping became an issue in and of itself. Kili told you he didn’t trust the men enough to sleep on the bedrolls in the main hall with them, not with you out in the open. It had never been an issue before, but now Kili refused to sleep when you would, only holding you in his arms and staring out at the group keeping watch over you. It would be sweet if it weren’t your friends he was ‘protecting’ you from.
He didn’t sleep, he didn’t eat, and he talked less and less. His muttering was difficult to follow and worrying, and you feared for him. You feared for the man he was becoming and what he would think of himself if he ever did break free from the madness.
On the morning that would change everything, Kili was clearer than he had been in weeks. He had a smile on his face as he gazed down upon your sleeping form and brushed a tender kiss to your braided hair before wrapping you in another fur and making his way to the hoard.
He spent the wee morning hours toiling away, muttering to himself and searching, but not for the Arkenstone. He collected gems and jewelry, finery of all kinds, and from all the ages of creation. Once he had a haul he deemed large enough, he made his way back to you. Still asleep and still confined under a stack of blankets and furs.
Slowly, as not to wake you, he undid the braid in your hair and began rebraiding it. Threading in jewelled beads and chains, he wove your hair into the most intricate braid it had ever been in. One that he thought you were worthy of. He made you piece by piece into his own treasure.
You awoke to the feeling of fingers in your strands and the comforting feeling of Kili’s legs on either side of you, your head resting atop on of his thighs. You smiled and turned to look at the dwarf you loved, only to freeze when you saw the manic look on his face. His eyes did not scan your face like they always did; instead, they flitted around your head, inventorying all the precious metal and gems he had adorned you with.
“Ghivashel, you are a treasure, my treasure, and now you finally look the part.” His hands stroked the side of your face, still not looking into your eyes.
“Kee, I thought I had always been your treasure.”
“Yes, of course,” he blankly replied before his voice took on a reverent tone,” But now, my love, you shine.”
You sat up and slipped further from him, the furs falling from your shoulders showing the dress you wore. It was the one given to you by Bard’s girls, and it had seen better days, but it was all you had.
Kili’s eyes followed the movement, and his brow furrowed as he took in the sight of your clothing.
“Stay here,” his command was gruff, “I need to find you something suitable to wear.”
“Kili, what I’m wearing is suitable.”
“No, no, no,” he shook his head and began pacing. “You need more; they need to know! Need to know you’re mine, my treasure.”
“Kili, I am yours, and you are mine; that has never been in question.”
“But they need to know, they need to see. Need to see how you can glow.” He stopped pacing, looking straight at you, “I will make you glow, I promise ghivashel.”
You bit your lip as you watched the dwarf you love step further and further away from you, away from the light and towards the depths of glittering gold.
Something broke in you in that moment, hope that you'd ever get your kind, funny, and charming dwarf back slipped away, with every footstep that echoed down the hall.
Kili did return, clutching a truly magnificent gown in his hands, deep blue and lined with golden thread, sapphires encrusted along the neckline. It was gorgeous, it felt soft on your skin and fit perfectly, and Kili was right, you glowed in it. You had never felt more like a bird in a cage.
Kili’s eyes were completely glazed over when he took in the sight of you, head to toe, dipped in gold, a true testament to the wealth of the line of Durin.
The sound of a warhorn drew your attention, and the two of you quickly joined the others on the overlook. You witnessed firsthand the madness that had overtaken Thorin as he denied his promise to the Men of Laketown from behind a stone wall. One that was supposed to offer you and your company protection, but only made you feel more and more like a prisoner.
It was in the moment that the King Under the Mountain lifted the hobbit burglar over the edge of the stone wall, dangling his life like it was something he was entitled to take if he so wished, that you fully grasped how deeply the madness ran in the line of Durin. You looked off to the side, catching your beloved pacing back and forth, muttering under his breath once more with a crazed look in his eye. As much as it hurt you knew, you can’t stay here. Not with him like this, not when it would mean becoming an object to be coveted instead of a partner to love.
Night falling saw you back in your own clothing, descending the wall and making your way to the camp on the other side of the dividing line you wished had never been drawn. When the elven guards saw you, they didn’t hesitate to bind your arms behind your back and march you to the tent in the center of the camp.
Inside stood the Elven King, Bard, Gandalf, and Bilbo, who took one look at the state of you and rushed over to fret, telling the guards to unbind you. The effort was as kind as it was useless, the elves not moving, simply looking to their King.
He gazed down at you and nodded once. Not a full moment later, your bonds were severed, and you fell into the arms of the only friend you had in the enemy camp.
“Tell me why I shouldn’t just kill you right now,” Thranduil spoke with an eyebrow raised, his posture relaxed but his eyes anything but.
“There is a madness in the mountain, it’s overtaken Thorin and Kili, that I know. They are single-minded and obsessed. I could not stay.”
“It is a brave thing to protect your own interests over the ones you love,” Bard spoke from the corner.
“It does not feel brave,” you admit, “It feels like cowardice, running away instead of trying to help.”
“There is not much you can do to help; perhaps your departure will be enough to break through to them, but they must break free on their own,” Gandalf reassured you, although his words held little comfort.
“May I find a place to rest?” You asked. “I will be no help to anyone dead on my feet.”
The men agreed, and Bilbo exited the tent with you, leading you to his own little tent that Gandalf had provided not even hours before.
In what felt like days and also no time at all, you found yourself standing by the wizard on the frontline of a negotiation, pleading with your eyes to your lover who stood on the overlook, mirroring his uncle’s face of stone and giving nothing away. It had all fallen apart miraculously quickly: the arrival of Dain’s army, Thorin’s declaration of war, Ravenhill exploding with monsters of all kinds. Without much thought, you found yourself rushing into battle, unequipped but full of purpose and ready to fight until your dying breath if needed.
No matter how many enemies you cut down, more took their place. You all were quickly being overrun, and it was looking like it might be the end. You paused, turning to look at the Kingdom of your kin, sending a thank you to the Gods for giving you Kili even if only for a brief time, and asking for forgiveness, for your own cowardice, and for his recent callousness.
And like an answer from the Gods, the stone wall crumbled and the company burst forth from the rubble, armed to the teeth and ready for blood.
Your energy renewed, and you fought like hell, fought through hordes of evil to reach the man you loved, his hair loose and whipping as he fought his own battles; his frame noticeably empty of the velvet robe you last saw draped over his shoulders.
The gap between you closed more and more every second until you stood there, breathing heavily with a smile unfit for battle but not really caring. You could finally see, in his eyes, the dwarf you fell in love with, and a relief like you had never felt crashed upon you like a fierce wave.
“I missed you.” You took Kili into your arms for a change.
“I missed you, too, Amralime. I cannot apologize enough; I’ve been a fool.” You shushed him with a kiss on his lips, the sound of battle raging around you.
“I’m just glad to have you back. What’s done is done.”
“And will never be done again, I swear.” The two of you smiled at each other, minds finally clear. You grabbed his hand, placed a kiss on the back of it, winked at him, and jumped back into the fray. With your prince by your side, you were starting to like your odds.
Captain Price had been expecting many things when Ghost informed him he was getting married.
A security risk.
A secret intelligence operative.
Perhaps some terrifying woman who looked as though she could snap a man’s neck with her bare hands.
What he had not expected was you.
The first warning sign should have been the fact that Simon seemed nervous.
Not anxious.
Not worried.
Nervous.
Price had known the man for years and could count on one hand the number of times he’d seen him genuinely uncertain.
Yet there Ghost stood near the entrance of the base, arms crossed tightly over his chest, staring toward the parking lot as though preparing for combat.
Soap noticed it too. "Sir,” he muttered quietly beside Price, watching Ghost with narrowed eyes. “Is he… pacing?”
Price blinked.
Ghost was, in fact, pacing.
Very slightly.
Like an agitated panther.
“Well I’ll be damned,” Price murmured.
Gaz looked between them. “Should we be concerned?”
“Terrified,” Soap answered.
Before anyone could speculate further, a vehicle rolled through the gates after being checked and if
The moment Ghost spotted it, he stopped moving entirely.
The transformation was subtle that most people wouldn’t have noticed.But the men who worked beside him every day saw it immediately.
His shoulders relaxed.
The tension disappeared from his posture.
Something softened.
The truck parked, the driver’s door opened, and then you appeared.
You were much shorter than they’d expected.You practically had to hop down from the vehicle. A large tote bag swung from one shoulder while a drink carrier balanced precariously in your hands.
The first thing you did was smile.
Not a polite smile.
Not the carefully practiced smile people gave soldiers.
A genuine one.
The kind that immediately reached your eyes.
“Oh my God,” you said, spotting Simon across the lot. Your face lit up so brightly it almost seemed impossible. “There he is!”
Then, to the absolute horror of the Task Force, you jogged toward Ghost.
Ghost.
Lieutenant Simon Riley.
The terrifying bastard responsible for half the nightmares on base.
Placing the drinks carefully down, you practically launched yourself at him.
Soap actually choked.
Price nearly dropped his cigar.
Gaz made a strangled noise.
Ghost caught you effortlessly.
One arm wrapped around your waist as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
For a horrifying second, the entire task force expected him to set you down.
Instead he simply kept holding you.
You grinned at him.
He stared down at you.
And somehow that terrifying skull-masked soldier looked completely helpless.
“There you are,” you said, cupping his face between your hands without a shred of fear. “I missed you.”
Ghost’s gloved hand settled against your back.“Was gone four days.”
“I know.”
“You called me twenty-three times.”
“I did~.” You seemed proud over that.
Then Ghost leaned down slightly as your fingers curled under his mask. "I missed you too.”
The silence that followed was deafening.
Soap looked physically ill.
Price rubbed his face.
Gaz looked like he was questioning reality itself.
Ghost finally glanced toward them and then immediately the softness vanished as the intimidating stare returned, the lethal presence returned and the entire base suddenly felt colder.
“Stop starin’,” he growled.
You turned around immediately. “Oh!”
The smile returned.
“Oh! These are your friends!”
Friends.
Price would later swear he saw Soap’s soul leave his body.
You carefully handed Ghost your drink carrier before marching directly toward them. “Hi!” you announced. “I’m Simon’s wife.”
The three men simply stared.
You waited.
Still smiling.
Finally Price recovered first.
He stepped forward and offered a hand. “Captain Price.”
You shook it enthusiastically. “It’s so nice to finally meet you! Simon talks about you all the time.”
Price nearly laughed because Simon talked about nobody.
Yet judging by the look Ghost was giving him, apparently he talked about Price.
Interesting.
Very interesting.
You moved on before he could ask questions. “You must be Soap.”
Soap blinked. “Uh… aye.”
“Oh my gosh, your mohawk is real.”
Soap frowned. “Did Simon tell you about my mohawk?”
“No.” You tilted your head. “I just wasn’t sure if it was a hairstyle or a military cryptid situation.”
There was a moment of silence then Gaz burst out laughing.
Soap looked offended.
Price looked amused.
Ghost sighed heavily.
You pointed immediately. “And you’re Gaz!”
Gaz smiled. “That’s me.”
“Simon says you’re the normal one.”
The laughter doubled.
Soap wheezed.
Price nearly choked on his cigar.
Gaz looked deeply offended.
Ghost turned away completely.
Which only confirmed he had absolutely said it.The next hour somehow became even stranger because you chatted with everyone effortlessly.
You remembered names.
Asked questions.
Laughed easily.
Within minutes it felt less like meeting Ghost’s wife and more like meeting a friend they’d somehow known for years.
Price noticed something else too.
Every few minutes Simon checked on you.
Not obviously.
Most people would never notice.
But Price did.
A glance.
A shift closer.
A hand briefly touching your shoulder.
Tiny little confirmations that you were still there.
Still safe.
Still smiling.
And every single time you smiled back at him.
Like it was automatic.
Like you understood something about him nobody else ever had.
The realization hit Price unexpectedly.
For years they’d all assumed Ghost preferred being alone.
Preferred distance.
Preferred isolation.
But watching Simon follow you around the base like a silent shadow made the truth painfully obvious.
The man had never wanted to be alone. He’d simply never had someone worth coming home to.
The final nail in the coffin of everyone’s sanity came later that afternoon.
You’d spent hours traveling, jet lag was catching up with you.
One minute you were sitting beside Simon during a briefing.
The next, your head slowly tipped sideways then landed directly on his shoulder and stayed there.
Asleep.
Completely asleep.
Price paused mid-sentence.
The room went silent.
Nobody moved.
Nobody dared to breathe.
Ghost looked down.
Adjusted slightly.
Then carefully pulled his jacket over you like a blanket. His hand rested protectively against your arm. The gesture was so gentle it felt impossible coming from him.
Price exchanged a glance with Soap.
Soap looked devastated.
Gaz looked emotional.
Ghost noticed them staring as his eyes narrowed immediately. “Dare either of you.”
Nobody dared.
And that was the day Task Force 141 met the one person on Earth more dangerous than Ghost himself.
The woman who had somehow managed to make Simon Riley happy.
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