summary: your first encounter with jack, he’s putting a dog collar on you. that should’ve been the first sign. but it’s only later that you come to find out he’s the man you’ve been seeing in your dreams.
content warnings/description: 18+ MDNI, AFAB reader, daddy kink, piss kink (just a few lines of it), puppy play, breath play, noncon collaring -> consensual collaring, unprotected (PIV) sex, oral sex, there is a butt plug, (1) spank, blood mentions, stalking (jack is a creep but reader loves him for it), freak4freak, lite body horror elements, weird dreams, retail hell, fragmented writing, the most obvious animal kingdom reference of all time
author’s note: this isn’t meant to be an accurate (or healthy) representation of what a d/s owner/pet dynamic would look like, so please don’t expect that. jack and reader are just raw dogging things (get it). as usual, the ending is somewhat rushed because this has been consuming all my free time, and it’s time to let it go. tagging @ozarkthedog because i know you’ve been patiently awaiting this <3
You have a recurring dream. Or is it more of a nightmare? You can't tell.
In your dream, your human form transforms into that of something markedly inhuman, a grotesque thing to see unfold behind your eyelids.
Your skeleton shrinks to a size just a fraction of what it is now, the excess skin, with nothing to cling to, spreading in a fleshy pool on the floor. Your spine bends out of shape like a pole vaulter's pole over the high horizontal bar, canted forward at an extreme angle and forcing you on your hands and feet. Bones break; your pelvis shortens, your arms lengthen, and what were two hands become two feet. Like the dinosaurs that evolved to carry their massive weight, you've become quadrupedal.
The excess skin retracts, like the tape of a leash being pulled back, and snaps securely into place. And you have a little tail, starting right around the sacral region, an extension of the canine spine.
Metamorphosis: the worst part of the dream. Becoming something other than human. The simulated pain that comes with it. But after, you're happy. Loved and cared for by a shapeless owner. You're a dear thing to them.
A pet.
But distantly, even while using your baser brain, you can tell that something is wrong. You're not meant to be like this.
And yet, you're happy.
So. Nightmare, or not?
You don't know, but you don't have the time to dwell on it. Your half hour lunch break is almost up, your ramen cup is empty, and today you're stationed at the cash registers.
It's a slow day—slower than usual, at least—though. Pittsburgh is just coming out on the other end of a big, freak snowstorm, and there is but one customer in the store right now.
You clock back in on the employee app and exit the break room to tend to him, tossing your empty cup into the bin on your way out.
"Ready to check out, sir?"
So, even though you told yourself to drop it, as you scan and punch in his purchases for dog food, chew toys, and other assorted items, you think back on your dream.
Being employed here should explain its origin. You see these kinds of owners all the time: people who cherish their pets, spoiling them rotten. Who wouldn't want to be doted on? Loved? Asked for nothing but companionship in return.
Hey!
The snapping of fingers rings out, cutting and sharp.
Are you there? Can you give me my receipt already?
You startle, and you're brought back down to earth. You shake your head.
"Oh, I'm so sorry, sir." You rip the glossy paper from the receipt printer, holding it out to him. "Here's your receipt. Thank you for shopping at Animal Kingdom."
The man scoffs, snatching it out from your hand. He collects the handles of his paper bags and murmurs, "space case," before leaving the store.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
You were daydreaming again. In front of a customer. If your boss had happened to see that exchange, you would have never heard the end of it.
You can't lose this job. You don't have much else going for you.
The next day.
Or the next week.
Does it matter?
Work. Home. Eat. Sleep. Repeat.
That is a short summary of your life as of the past near decade since you graduated high school and have been working at the pet store. It's not much, but you make do. There is the noticeable absence of a social aspect in your routine...
nothing new there, though.
You do not hate your life, but there is not much to love. It flashes by, but it is also stagnant. And it is lonely.
You peer into a tank, sighing when you see a dead one. The black of the comet goldfish's eyes stare inanimately at you. Its brethren clear the way as you scoop it out, then bag it, throwing it into the dumpster in the back of the store.
Goldfish do not have a three-second memory, as the myth suggests, but retain memory for up to three months. Its brothers could be mourning it in its death, for all you know.
Sometimes, you daydream about the ocean. Seahorses come to mind. Being one in a pair of mates. Having a partner for life. It's a heartwarming thought, but you imagine that the ocean is one hell of a scary place for a pair of frail seahorses.
You can't have it both ways. Tank or ocean.
So, then, maybe instead of a seahorse, what you are is a remora in need of a shark. Feeding on its bacteria and dead skin, you'd be set to roam the big blue, accompanied and safe. Survival by way of symbiosis. A sad existence, though, to need a creature so much more than they need you.
Scratch that. Tanks are safe. Not the ones here, but a good owner would take care of their fish.
The PA system squeals with feedback as it's turned on.
Associate to aquatics for tank five cleanup. Associate to aquatics for tank five cleanup.
You sigh. More dead goldfish.
You're stocking shelves in the avian aisle when a customer softly calls out to you. Finches and parakeets chirp in the background, rowdy in their cages.
"Excuse me, miss?" he says, approaching you, his steps audible and heavy.
You turn around and almost drop the bag of birdseed you're holding.
Hazel-green eyes and a sinful scruff. Middle-aged or so.
The man is handsome. More handsome than anyone you've ever laid eyes on in the store. Maybe even in the small world you live in between here and your apartment and the bus ride to the grocery store. You've never seen him before, but you get the feeling that you recognize him from somewhere.
"Let me help with that," he offers, taking the bag from your hands and placing it on the bottommost shelf beside you where it belongs. He shifts his weight to his left foot when he stands to full height again, a flicker of pain sweeping over his features.
"Thank you, sir. You didn't have to—"
"It's not a problem. Mind helping me with something in return?"
You nod, clasping your hands in front of you. "How can I be of assistance?"
The man holds up a dog collar from his cargo pocket.
"I'm adopting a dog soon. Want to make sure that I'm gettin' the right size."
"Oh, well, all our collars are adjustable and should be able to fit any size dog. May I?" You hold your hand out palm up so he can pass it to you, but he shakes his head.
"This one isn't. I think I got the right one, but I'd just like to check."
You're not sure where he got the collar. You look at it more closely and are stumped when, yes, it's a slip-on. Non-adjustable. It tightens when the leash is pulled, a corrective action, and is loose-fitting otherwise when the dog is compliant. There must be a new supply of them that was put up that you were unaware of.
He clears his throat and clarifies, "could you try it on?"
"Try it on?" you repeat, stunned. "Uh, that's..."
Your eyes widen slightly when you catch sight of your boss standing a few feet behind the man, nodding his head and giving you two thumbs up, as if he had heard the conversation and were encouraging you to... try on the collar.
The customer experience is our number one priority.
You gulp. Why does this make you nervous? Just get it over with.
"Sure. Anything to help."
The man releases the tension in his shoulders, relieved that you agreed. "Thank you, miss. You're a lifesaver." He stands closer to you, raising his hands up to your head to collar you.
You duck down a bit to make it easier for him, looking at the gray vinyl floor. You think of your dream, your body breaking and bending and twisting from a force beyond your control.
The dog he's planning on adopting must be a larger breed, because though you would consider yourself to have an average-sized head, it does in fact fit.
It sits, weighty yet comfortably, around your neck. You instinctively touch the cool, metal sliding ring resting at the hollow of your throat with your fingers.
"Beautiful," he says.
You're starved enough for attention that you pretend he's saying it to you and not to the fit of the collar itself.
He winks cheekily. "I think this'll fit my girl nicely."
He's adopting a female dog, then.
"Will that be all?"
"Yeah, I'm ready to check out."
You go to remove the collar yourself, your fingertips brushing the polyester material of the climbing rope, but he interrupts you.
"Here, I got it."
His fingers, thick, you note, graze the sides of your neck when he removes the collar. You smile shyly at him once it's no longer around your neck, your faces a bit too close to be polite.
You follow him to the register to ring him up, making idle conversation, "the weather's been nice lately, hasn't it?" "It sure has. I hope you take advantage of it, miss," and hand him his receipt, and then he's gone.
That was not the strangest thing you've experienced in this store, but it was strange.
You double-check the aisle with the collars, rubbing your fingertip along the circumference of the metal ring of the exact one the man had purchased. You don't know why you felt the need to confirm that they were here.
What attracted you to this position out of high school was that it had decent benefits, decent pay, and it was one bus ride away from your parents' home and then, when you moved out, walking distance to your apartment.
What's keeping you here now, though, you're not too sure. You planned to go to the community college at some point when you had saved up enough money to study something, but that never came to pass. You got trapped in the comfort zone.
A little too late now to regret not having done more for yourself, so you try not to. There's still time if you were to somehow get the courage to change your life.
The bell rings as a couple strolls in. You recognize them as two kids, now adults the same age as you, who went to your high school. It's been years since you've come across anyone from then, and you had almost convinced yourself you were the last of your class in Pittsburgh.
They don't recognize you when you ring up their cat food. A few cans of the wet variety.
It's better they don't. You don't have the fondest memories of your high school years.
"You two are a cute couple," you say, bagging the cans. Not for any reason besides to make some small talk.
Engage with the customers. Communicate. Connect. That's what separates us from them.
"Thanks! We just got engaged," she says, holding her left hand out, a giant, gleaming rock on her wedding finger. "Are you in a relationship?"
"Me?" you ask, almost appalled. "No, I haven't had the, uh, best of luck in the dating department."
She beams. "There's this speed dating event happening soon. I'm one of the organizers. You should consider signing up."
She hands you a flier from her purse, and you skim through the details before folding it up into squares, placing it in your pocket, knowing you'll likely find it in the washing machine later, torn to shreds.
"Thanks. I'll think about it." You pass her the receipt and bag of cat food. "Have a great rest of your day, you two."
Your boss, Mark, tends to hover. And in his hovering, he tends to overhear.
You're eating lunch in the break room with Katy, a woman who's long in the tooth and has a mean bite. She tolerates you, though. You're not sure what that says about you as a person, but you won't shoo away company.
Mark takes a seat beside you in what was an empty chair, and Katy stands up, her chair screeching as it's pushed back. She doesn't like Mark, so her lunch is as good as over.
He stares holes into her retreating back before turning his attention to you. "I happened to overhear that customer inviting you to a speed dating shindig. Are you going?"
You shrug, twirling your soggy noodles over and over again in the cup. "Um. I dunno. I haven't thought about it, to be honest."
"You have to go. How many years have you been working here, and you're still single?"
You're taken aback. "Why does that matter?"
He shoves his phone in your face, a selfie of him and his wife lounging on the deck of a beach bungalow, sick in love.
You remember when Mark went away on his honeymoon last year. You were temporarily assigned manager. It was one of the worst weeks of your life.
"You have to take chances. Put yourself out there. I swore off the apps, but I gave it one more chance, and look. I got married."
You don't know on the dot when you two got close enough for him to speak to you like this. But you are his longest-lasting employee and younger than the rest, so maybe he feels paternal toward you.
You do see him more than your actual father now that you think about it.
You sigh, yielding. "I guess it wouldn't hurt to check it out."
What do you have to lose? The event is Friday, and you're not scheduled to work. You can dip out the moment your anxiety spikes too high.
Mark claps a hand over your shoulder. "Excellent!"
He leaves you alone in the break room, and soon enough you can hear him getting into it with Katy.
Looking down into your cup, you frown. Your noodles are not only soggy but have now turned a ghoulish gray. You wouldn't feed this to your pet.
An elderly man brings in his sick cat, thinking that the pet store is an animal hospital. He's dizzy with worry and scarcely gets his words across. You feel bad for the pair of them and look up directions to the nearest clinic.
The cat, cradled in the arms of its owner like a baby, then pukes all over the front of your shirt and on the floor, some splashing onto the toes of your sneakers. Mark takes over, directing the man two streets down to a veterinary clinic, and you excuse yourself to clean up, using the paper towels in the employee restroom to fruitlessly wipe away the stains on your shirt. Of course you don't have spare clothes in your locker. You smell like cat puke the rest of the day.
One day, you're going to quit this place.
Mark and Katy get into a spat about pricing inaccuracies.
"I only label the prices. I don't set the prices. Don't pin this on me, Mark."
"But you're supposed to check that it matches the one in the POS before you stick them on the merchandise!"
And when you try to break up what is looking to become a fistfight, Katy accidentally slaps you across the face.
"Look at what you fuckin' made me do! Are you okay, hun?"
You're going to quit this place.
Today nothing bad happens. You clock in, and you clock out. But all through your shift, you have this crushing, despairing feeling in your chest because you know you're never going to quit this place.
Tomorrow is the speed dating event. As you think about what you're going to wear while mopping the floor along an aisle, a pair of boots comes into view.
The same ones he had on last time. You look up, and there he is, the man who collared you.
"Hey, there. Remember me?"
How could you forget? That interaction didn't leave your mind for days afterward. Every time you passed by the shelf with those collars, you thought of him.
"Of course. Is everything alright?"
You don't see too many repeat customers. Customers in general, quite frankly. Big box stores and online shopping and pet subscription boxes are forcing stores like these to close. It can be a ghost town at times. The dirt and dust tracked in from the outside are more imaginary than real.
You almost want it to happen—the store closing. Then you'd be forced to move on. You're not so lucky, though.
He rubs the nape of his neck. "I need to return the collar I bought."
You peer out past the endcap and look to the cash registers crowded in the middle of the store, a few aisles down.
Empty.
"Someone should be manning the registers. So sorry about that."
You set the mop and bucket to the side, the wooden handle leaning against a shelf with a wide array of cat and dog treats, and place down a wet floor sign.
He shakes his head. "I'm in no rush."
You lead the way to the registers and process his return, typing codes into the computer. You ask, curious, "is there a reason why you're returning this? Something wrong with it?"
He mulls over his answer. "No, it's not that."
You glance at him, quirking a brow. The cash drawer pops open, and you hand him his cash back, his fingertips skimming yours.
"The adoption fell through," he explains, shrugging. "Have no use for it now."
You wonder what made the adoption go sideways. Was it a behavioral issue, or was it simply a matter of personality? "Sorry it didn't work out. But I'm sure there's a dog out there waiting for you to be their owner."
He huffs a laugh. "You might be right."
You're home, immobile on the couch, when you should be on the bus that goes downtown. There's another one arriving in twenty minutes.
You showered and put on some makeup, but if you don't get dressed now, you're going to be late. And if you're late, you'd rather not go because then you'd be giving a bad impression.
Is anything good going to come out of this, though? Speed dating, as far as you know, is hit or miss. And you're like a magnet for misfortune.
Your phone vibrates in your lap. A text from Mark.
I want to hear all about your dates tomorrow!
You groan. You should've switched your schedule around to have tomorrow off of work.
Though you drag your feet, you get off the couch and get dressed. At the very least, you can tell him you went and showed your face. You make it to the bus stop just in the nick of time and are the last to board.
It rained earlier, and the inside of the bus smells like the aftermath of getting caught in it. Except worse. Like a damp dog instead of damp human skin intermingled with petrichor. You hope it doesn't rub off on you.
The speed dating is held at a small party venue. You feel out of place among the other women, who are dressed in nicer clothing and have bigger, prettier smiles. Your dress is itchy, and your heels pinch your toes. Already, you're regretting this.
You arrived a little too late to get yourself a drink at the cash bar to untangle your knotted nerves. You get signed in and are given a nametag, then are seated at a table by one of the volunteers. You're told to wait.
"We'll be bringing out the other half of the participants soon. Your first date will be here shortly."
The other half being the men, you suppose. The flier said this was a straight speed dating event. Currently only women are seated at the tables.
They must be waiting around in one of the connected rooms. After a few minutes, a set of double doors on the far end of the room open, and a diverse group of men file in. Skinny, heavyset, short, tall, black, white, and everything in between. All in their twenties to fifties. All handsome.
Last to enter is someone you least expect. It's as if he can tell you're watching him, because his eyes cut to yours instantly.
The man from the store heads straight toward you and sits across from you. The man isn't just "the man" anymore, though. His name is Jack, according to the name tag stickied onto his polo shirt. It's funny. How he has known your name from the moment you met, pinned to your work shirt right above your breast, but only now are you learning his.
"This is unexpected," he says, chuckling in a low, deep voice. "Looking for love too, huh."
In this slant of light, much more vibrant than the dull fluorescent in the pet store, his eyes look wolfish, almost. Angled at the inner and outer corners. An almond shape. The outer iris is a dark, forest green with flecks of amber splashed around it. The full, gray head of hair on his head and white, scruffy beard round out the animalistic look.
His shirt fits him like a glove, the bulge of his biceps glaring and distracting. The topmost buttons are popped open, and you sneak a peek at the skin of his chest, flushed pink. A little white fur there, too.
You snort, a heat rising to your cheeks. Your heart is hammering. Meeting him here has to mean something. Doesn't it?
You allow your delusions to take root, your confidence seemingly growing and blossoming from nowhere.
"Maybe I've found it already," you tease. "What are the odds we'd meet again here?"
The corner of his lip ticks up. "Don't get ahead of yourself. Let's see how well you can hold a conversation."
Each couple has ten minutes together before an alarm rings and the men are shuffled to the next table.
Two minutes, everyone! Start wrapping up your conversations!
You've managed to hold yourself above water for eight of them. Jack is easy to talk to, though, so you give him most of the credit.
You're amazed he doesn't just up and leave.
On top of his looks, after learning he's an emergency physician over at PTMC and a decorated combat medic veteran, "medically discharged on account of my leg being blown off. It's okay. You can laugh about it. I do," you think your chances with him are even lower than where they're buried six feet under.
"Do you have any pets?" he asks. "Maybe take advantage of an employee discount?"
You huff a laugh. "There's no discount, unfortunately. But no, my apartment doesn't allow pets."
He hums. "One of the nice things about owning a house."
You nod. And a whole lot nicer to live in than your shoddy apartment, you're sure.
"So, um..." you start, floundering.
Time is running out. You should make the most of the minute and thirty seconds you have left with him, but you don't know what else to say.
He picks up the slack. "A few more things I want to ask, sweetheart."
The pet name stirs up something in you. Makes you feel like a lovestruck puppy. You try to keep calm. "Go for it."
"What would you consider your biggest strength?" His elbows on the table, he interlocks his fingers, resting his chin on his hands.
You choke on a laugh. He arches a brow.
"Sorry. Just feels like an interview question."
He chuckles, the fine lines around his eyes creasing. Your face lights up because you made him do that. You want to see what he looks like when he smiles big and wide, his canines exposed.
"You can interpret it as one. Isn't that what speed dating basically is?"
"Good point." You chew on a fingernail. "Maybe loyalty? I've been at Animal Kingdom for almost ten years and have no intention of quitting." It's not loyalty as much as it is you chickening out of handing in your two-week notice time and time again. You hold back a grimace. "And, you know, if we were to be in a relationship, I'd be loyal to you, too. But that goes without saying."
"Loyalty," Jack repeats, mumbling to himself. "And your biggest weakness?"
"That's… harder to answer," because I have so many, all equally detrimental, you don't say. "I tend to daydream a lot? Get lost in my head," you decide on. "It's a thing at work. My coworkers tease me about it. It's not really been an issue, though."
He shakes his head. "That's not a weakness. I find that endearing. The world needs more dreamers like you."
The alarm sounds out, almost shocking you out of your chair. Time is up.
He watches you for a moment, glued to his chair when he should be moving to the next table.
"Why don't we get out of here?" he asks. "You said you rode the bus, right? I can drive us back to mine."
Your brows shoot up to your hairline. "What, really? Don't you want to talk to the other women?" You gesture around the room.
"I don't need to. I found you, and I'm taking you home, if you'll allow me." He stands, offering his hand to you, and adds, "my perfect match."
Jack brings you back to his house. A one-story rancher with a sleek, gray shingled roof and a manicured lawn. You wonder with his schedule if he does the upkeep himself or pays someone to do it.
During your date, he told you that on the weekends, or his version of them, anyway, he used to volunteer for TEMS as a SWAT physician. He has healthier hobbies now, though. "Got shot one too many times." But with how long his shifts run at the hospital, it's a miracle he has free time at all.
You shut the passenger door of his truck and follow behind him as you walk up the stone path. He unlocks the front door and gestures for you to enter.
As you remove your heels in the doorway, you take in the view of his house. The walls are professionally painted, and the floor is waxed. Open concept with ample room for him to navigate in his wheelchair. The couch is made of natural fabric and is gorgeous, especially compared to the tattered one you have back at home. The coffee table is bare, save for several open and scattered medical journals with their pages dog-eared.
On the minimalist side. Not a photo is hung up in sight, like all he has space for are the bare necessities. A home absent of traces of anyone but him. It seems he's been on his own for a long time.
"Come on," he says, leading you gently by the elbow and nodding his head at the couch. "Sit. Let's talk a little more. You want somethin' to drink?"
"Water, please."
Your glass of water is left untouched.
Conversation is a pretense for what Jack wants to do with you. Part of which involves capturing your lips with his and slipping his tongue into your mouth. Running papillae over the white of your teeth.
When was the last time you kissed someone?
He doesn't let go of you when he guides you toward his bedroom, clumsily walking backward in the hallway, his arms wrapped around your waist and his lips on yours, not giving you a chance to catch your breath.
"Ever been with an amputee?" he asks, parting from you, humor in his voice.
You fill your lungs, chest rising and falling fast. You're so out of practice it's embarrassing. "I can't say that I have," you admit. "But it doesn't bother me at all."
"Good."
You make it to his bedroom, and he gently guides you to sit back on his bed. It dips as he plops down beside you. He lifts his right pant leg and, with a stifled groan, works the socket loose and removes his prosthesis, along with his socks and liner, and massages his residual limb, rough hands rubbing down swollen tissue.
His wheelchair sits by the bedside as well as a pair of forearm crutches that lean against the nightstand.
"I've been on my feet for too long today. Usually take it off as soon as I get home." He tuts. "Skin is irritated as all hell."
"Is there anything I can do?" you ask sincerely.
He smiles wryly, a combination of hurt and relief on his face. "You can come 'ere."
He draws you in with an arm around the waist for another kiss, his other hand cupping the back of your neck. His lips feel warm on yours. Rough from being slightly chapped, too. He bites your lower lip, and you feel those canines you wanted to see in a smile earlier. Hard. You gasp into his mouth.
"Sorry, sweetie. Just got a little excited," he mumbles. The skin of your lip punctures, splits open, and is raw. His teeth are sharper than you would've expected from a red-blooded man. He swipes his tongue over your throbbing lip. "Forgive me?"
You can smell the blood like a bloodhound. You nod. You don't mind the pain.
"Is it okay if we take things further?" he asks, resting his forehead against yours.
"You want to?" Though you feel a bit stupid for asking. What else would he have brought you back for?
"Course. Unless you don't. We can stop here, and you can stay the night, sleep in my guestroom. Don't want you going home at this hour."
"Jack, I'm flattered, but... why me?"
"Why not you?"
You stumble over your words. "I—I dunno. I just. You didn't even give those other women a chance." You shrug. "It's just hard to believe ten minutes was enough to decide you wanted me."
He pats your thigh, giving it a little squeeze. "I think you're special. This was meant to be. Maybe you don't see it, but I do."
You look down at your lap, unsure. He tilts your chin up with his thumb and forefinger.
"Look at me. Don't get lost in your head. Just try to enjoy this. I'll make it easy," he says, the ghost of a smile playing on his lips.
You whisper "okay," wrapping your fingers around the thick of his wrist.
You trust him. Maybe too implicitly.
A tiny drop of blood wells up from your lower lip. He swipes it away with his thumb and brings his thumb to his mouth, streaking red across his lips before kissing you again.
You haven't had the most sexual partners. But of all the ones you've slept with, this time with Jack proves to be the most... white-hot and passionate.
You were more than happy to accommodate any position he was comfortable with. You offered to be on top, but he wanted to "see what you look like panting under me."
A pillow is placed under your hips to give you a bit of lift, which puts less pressure on his knees as they support his lower half, his body draped over yours. His forearms are braced by the sides of your head, and he leans down to capture your lips in a heated kiss.
His thrusts are punishing. You can barely reach far enough into your mind to pause to ask if his stump is causing him discomfort, let alone string together words. He seems fine, though. Or more so focused on your pleasure than on his pain.
Then again, he's been fucking like this for as long as he's had his amputation, and that was some time ago—years of experience under his belt during which you were in high school. The thought spreads more heat to your belly.
Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him impossibly closer to you. Sweat sticking you together, a drop trailing down the valley of your breasts. His pelvic bone grinds into your sensitive, swollen clit, fat with arousal, insistent with every rock of his hips.
When Jack had undressed and you got sight of his cock, flushed an angry red, you couldn't contain your moan.
He asked, honestly, "see what you do to me?" while stroking himself to full mast. "How can you think I don't want you? Just need some cock to set you straight."
You whimper into his mouth as his cockhead punches far inside of you. Your nails scratch down his back, leaving welts in their wake.
He parts from your lips, breathing out against your ear. "Gonna let me come inside this pretty cunt? Give me a litter?"
You whine, nodding, crystalline tears falling freely down the sides of your face to your ears when the head of his cock hits your cervix. You're distantly aware that you're on birth control, but that doesn't come to the front of your mind when you tell him, "yes, come inside me, Jack."
And he does. His come spits out of his cockhead and sprays your inner walls, flooding your cunt. Your inner muscles work his length, work as much of his come into your womb as they can.
Once your heart rates have settled, Jack rolls over and carefully scoots himself onto his wheelchair by the bedside.
"I'll be back. Need to wash up my leg."
You sit up, covering your chest with the comforter. "Would you like any help?"
He shakes his head. "Don't worry about me—you should rest."
"I'm not worried. I'm offering because I want to."
Your straightforwardness surprises you both.
He smirks, chuckling softly. "Alright, then."
He bends forward at the waist to collect his boxers from the floor, shuffling into them, and then tosses you his t-shirt to wear.
You throw him a toothy grin as you put it on and follow him into the ensuite, willfully ignoring the come slowly leaking out between your wobbly legs.
You slide the glass shower door and help him from his wheelchair onto the shower bench, one of his hands clasped in yours, his other around a grab bar.
You reach for the detachable showerhead and open the tap, check that the temperature is a comfortable warm, and then hand it to him. You sit on the edge of the tub as he proceeds to lather his stump with antibacterial soap, rinse, lather, and rinse again.
He watches you watch him, a glint in his eye. "You're a good girl, aren't you."
"What—what do you mean?"
"Watching and learning my routine, I can't help but think this is you preparing for the future."
"The future? Isn't that a bit presumptuous?"
"No, because I'm hoping this isn't going to be just a one-night stand. I want to take you out. On a real date." He reaches for a towel on the nearby rack to dry off his residual limb, now clean. "One turns into two, two into three, and the rest will be history. You'll let me wine and dine you, right?"
You scoff, though mirthfully, not quite believing what you're hearing.
"So?" he urges. "Don't leave a man hanging."
You shake your head, laughing. "I'd love to go out on a date with you, Jack."
"So, what happened with the adoption?" you ask. It's not been bothering you not knowing, per se, but the question has been bouncing around in your head, and your curiosity has gotten the better of you. "Like, was the dog misbehaving or something?"
He beats around the bush. "We just, uh, didn't see eye-to-eye."
"Explain that statement."
He rubs his palm down your back, kneading tense muscles. "She was more… high-energy than I was prepared for. I don't think she would've been happy with me. It's not good to force a dog into a home."
That feeds your curiosity, though you can't come up with a worthwhile response. You yawn and cuddle up to his side, dropping the subject. His thick fingers manipulate your body with ease, loosening hard muscle that connects to tendon that connects to bone. Sleep takes you.
He prepares you both a light breakfast before he leaves for his double shift. He lets you spend the better half of the morning here, asking that you lock up before taking the Uber he ordered for you home, which will get you back in time to get ready for your midday shift at the pet store.
He kisses you on the cheek goodbye. You capitalize on the moment and steal the shower for yourself. You use his products. They smell like him. Woody sandalwood and vetiver and something inherently masculine. In the bedroom, you get changed into a pair of boxers, a plain t-shirt, and some sweats he left behind for you, your underwear conveniently missing and your dress rumpled from last night.
Your Uber is arriving soon.
You make sure you have your phone and purse before you leave. On the ride home, you have a stupid smile on your face.
The text reads, when are you free for our first date?
You start seeing each other casually.
Matinee movie showings to bottomless mimosas (and manmosas) at brunch. It offends him when you pull out your wallet, so he pays for everything.
Normally one-night stands are just that, but somehow you have beaten the odds.
He picks you up for coffee, and afterward, you both decide to take a stroll in a park a little drive away, which has a number of benches throughout in case his leg aches.
You've been here before when you were but a child. There's a pond in the near distance that serves as the marker for the halfway point for the trail. You rush ahead of him to get to it.
All you hear is the gust of the wind blowing past your ears as you run, excitement bubbling up within you like you're that child again.
Then, he whistles. Loud and piercing; enough to make you stop in your tracks. Birds caw as they fly from the surrounding trees.
You're such an idiot. It's an unconscious thing but a behavior you'll need to correct: leaving him behind because he can't walk or run as fast as you can. On account of the prosthesis and, well, his age.
You turn back around and jog to make up the distance between you.
"I'm sorry, Jack. I wasn't thinking." You offer your hand. "So I don't run away again."
He grunts, interlocking your fingers. "Careful, or I might have to put you on a leash next time."
A farmer's market on a Sunday. You stop at a stall to sample the pierogis, rich and warm, the scent of buttermilk and clean dough lingering like the press of a kiss on your forehead—a cozy, nostalgic kind of scent.
You're a messy eater, you. You get sour cream all over your chin, lips, and fingers and lap the tang clean. He watches the pink tip of your tongue coat itself in white as if hypnotized. Dips his finger into the dollop of sour cream on his own plate and brings it to your lips. You laugh, but then suck the tip of his finger into your mouth, humming around the sun-warmed salt of his skin and sour-fresh goodness.
He pulls his finger out of your mouth with a pop and dips it into the sour cream again. Offers it to you again.
"Lick it this time," he orders. "Slowly."
A blur around you; the stall and the market are too busy for anyone to notice or care that you're licking cream off his finger like a kitten with a bowl of fresh milk. You are in your own world.
He invites you over for dinner on one of his nights off. After some back-and-forth, you wear him down enough that he relents and lets you help him prepare it. Next to the pot, on the kitchen counter, is a film packet of De Cecco spaghetti. On a baking sheet lined with parchment paper, two halves of a loaf of fresh Italian bread with garlic butter spread on top.
You excuse yourself to the restroom while he watches the garlic bread bake and the spaghetti boil, standing in the kitchen on his forearm crutches.
At the dining table, you recreate the iconic Lady and the Tramp spaghetti scene, as cheesy as it is. When your lips meet, it's a little gross: the grease of meaty tomato sauce coating lips, pieces of pasta trapped between teeth, saliva dribbling down your chin when he kisses you like he's trying to swallow you whole.
He chuckles when you pull apart. "You look a mess," he teases. He wipes the lower half of your face with a paper towel.
You can't remember the last time you were this happy. Jack tells you the same.
A half turn of the season since you've started dating. He offers you a key to his house.
You're a bit worried about how fast your relationship is progressing and refuse it, but you're over so often that he says, "might as well," and presses it into your palm.
"Thank you for trusting me." It's not as if he's asking you to move in. Still, you don't take advantage of it. It's left dangling on your keyring, untouched.
That is, until you decide to treat him after a miserable week of work. He should be coming back from his shift in the next ten minutes or so. You spent the morning preparing a feast of all his favorite breakfast foods.
As you dry the last of the dishes with a towel, you hear the jangling of keys and the front door opening. Jack is home.
He calls out your name, sensing your presence, and you smile as you walk up to him.
"I knew it was you," he says, the corners of his lips curling up. His nose scrunches up as he inhales the salty smell of bacon. He looks to the dining table, whereupon lie heaps upon heaps of food. "Sweetheart, did you make us breakfast? For the week?"
You nod, giggling and stealing his backpack from where it's slung over his shoulder and hooking it onto the rack. "I did. And I did it after finally using the key you gave me."
With a hand to the back of your neck, he brings you closer, planting a kiss on the tip of your nose, dusty with pancake mix.
"I love coming home to you."
Your pupils dilate and your heart leaps.
If you had one (dreams don't count), your tail would be wagging.
Man has a total of two hundred and six bones in the body. Canines have approximately three hundred and twenty-one. Yours crack, splinter, pierce internal organs as they fragment to make up for that one hundred and fifteen number difference. In the first few minutes, you feel nothing. You just hear the snap, crackle of collagen yielding to the force of the transformation.
Then, devastating pain. It is the worst pain you have ever felt. And in the liminal space between wakefulness and sleepiness, you can register it all along your body.
You wake up breathless, swiftly scanning your torso and upper and lower extremities under the covers.
Human.
You turn to Jack. He is fast asleep, puffing out soft breaths. You sneak out to the kitchen to get a glass of water, chugging it down to calm yourself.
You return to bed and, after some tossing and turning, fall back asleep, picking up where the dream left off. The pain is gone. You're something dog-like again. Your owner comes into view.
They have a material quality to them now. Not shapeless and indeterminate like they were before; the shape of a man. But like a mannequin in shadow, he has no discernable features.
He pets your head and tells you it's going to be alright. You roll over, show your belly to him. He is proud.
In the morning, you wake with a yawn and a stretch, feeling much better than when you had woken up in the middle of the night.
Jack is looking down at you, resting his head on his hand, his elbow propped on his pillow. He pets your head, swipes his thumb across your sleep-glossed cheek.
"G'morning. Sleep well?"
Lunch at work is spent not with a ramen cup but with finger foods and cake.
Mark is throwing Katy a retirement party.
Though she's been here just shy of five years, she's old enough now to receive benefits and has decided, "I'm fuckin' done with this shit."
Mark was over the moon when she came to him with the news, and he hired someone right away to replace her.
Animal Kingdom is small, one of the smaller branches in the small food chain of stores. There's a total of ten employees, and the others are a mix of full- and part-timers.
Everyone is here today for the party, though. Except the new kid who's watching over the store in the meantime. You feel a bit silly wearing the dog ears headband you were handed at the breakroom door, but the others have them on, and you don't want to be a spoilsport.
You wish Jack were here. And at the same time, you don't. This place has its way of sinking its teeth into you. And he has better things to do than be your shoulder to lean on at a work party that you'd rather clean out litter boxes than be at.
As people gather around Katy as she says a few parting words, "good fucking luck, the lot of yinz," you're tapped on the shoulder.
You turn around, your eyes widening.
"Jack? What are you doing here?"
He regards your dog ears with mild curiosity before his eyes drop to yours. "I thought I'd stop by and bring you lunch. Young man at the register led me back here. Is this a party?"
You pull him by the wrist to the corner of the room before anyone can spot him. "Yeah, one of us is retiring." You look down at the lunch bag by his side. "What'd you get?"
"A sandwich and chips from that place you like."
You hold up your plate of half-eaten pigs in a blanket, sticks of carrots, and sheet cake. "You should've told me you were dropping in. I would've saved my appetite."
He shrugs. "It's fine. You can eat it later. I really just came here to see you. I missed you."
You flash a smile. "I missed you, too."
He jerks his chin toward the group exchanging war stories. "Do you have to stay?"
"I mean, it's either this or I go back to work."
"How about a third thing?"
He encloses your wrist in his hand and leads you out of the room. None of your coworkers notice, too wrapped up in Katy's commemoration.
"Is there a storage closet or somethin'?" he asks, looking up and down the hallway.
You giggle. "Seriously, Jack? Here? I could get fired."
"Would that be so bad? You could just stay home with me," he says nonchalantly. "In fact, why don't you quit? You know I'll take care of you."
"I can't just quit. This job is all I have besides you."
You're joking. But not really. But Jack, he is joking. Or at least you tell yourself that. But he doesn't really seem to be joking, either.
"Uh-huh. Well, tell me where we can get some privacy, and you won't get fired."
You point to a room a few doors down from the break room, walking toward it. You hand him your plate and fumble with your set of work keys, singling out the one to the storage closet. The door opens, and he ushers you inside, locking it behind him.
The plate and the sandwich get set on a shelf among some cleaning supplies. Immediately, Jack is pushing you back against the wall, untucking your work shirt from your slacks, which he then unzips to pull your underwear down around your mid-thigh.
"Fuck, Jack, slow down," you whisper. "We have time. The party won't be over for another, like, fifteen minutes."
"'m sorry. Just want you," he mumbles before pressing his lips to yours.
He frees himself from his jeans and boxers and pumps himself to hardness. You can hear the slick motion of his fist moving up and down his shaft. You clench your thighs, your cunt sticky-wet.
He secures a hand on your hip, and with the other, rubs his cockhead through your folds, gathering your slick to line himself up and sink into your cunt. Once he's to the hilt inside you, his hand goes to cradle the curve of your jaw, his fingers making contact with the temple pieces of your headband.
"Fuckin' love seeing you wear this. So cute. My puppy," he emphasizes with a sharp thrust of his hips. The ears flap with your movement.
His words simultaneously make your stomach turn and a heat spread across your cheeks.
"You like it? I thought it was silly," you half giggle, half moan against his lips.
His hand reappears on your hip to join the other, his fingers bruising your flesh in a tight squeeze as he all but spears you onto his cock. The wall at your back prevents any escape. Your hands grip his shoulders, fingernails digging in, barely contained moans tumbling past your lips.
"Why don't you be a good girl and give me a little bark, huh?"
It's not lost on you how bizarre this is. The headband is bad enough, but Jack's request is a little too on the nose. What was an ambiguous, happy, and horrifying dream is bleeding full tilt into reality.
The dreams have not stopped and, in fact, have persisted since meeting him. Have become a closer mimic of reality, however uncanny.
And yet, you do it anyway. You indulge him with a pathetic bark.
"Ruff!"
He throbs inside of you, picking up the speed of his thrusts. His pubic bone bullies your clit, and you clench down on him, an orgasm pulled out of you embarrassingly fast.
"Fuck. That's it. That's my good puppy. Come on your daddy's cock."
He slaps a hand over your mouth to keep you quiet as you keen, your eyes squeezing shut and your legs shaking like jelly as he fucks you through the tail end of your release.
He spills inside of you, and after, he asks you to "get on your knees, puppy. Wanna gag you on my cock."
When you return to the break room after seeing Jack out of the store, the salt of him lingering on your tongue, the party is over.
"Where have you been?" Mark asks, transferring the leftover sheet cake to the fridge. "You know what? Never mind. Can you take over for the new guy? He let someone walk out with an aquarium."
"Turn around. I wanna see you," he says.
Facing him, the spray hits your back and shoulders. Warm, soapy water cascades down into a swirl at your feet.
Jack is just in front of you, sitting on his shower bench, lathering shampoo onto his head of curly hair. By his side is the detachable showerhead, the flow of water reduced to a trickle. He presses the button, the flow returns in full force, and he rinses his hair.
"You're so pretty, puppy," he says, voice throaty with lust.
After the tryst in the supply closet, the pet name stuck.
His eyes scour your body, and instinctively you cross your arms over your chest and cross your legs, despite him having seen your naked body more times than you can count.
He pats the empty space next to him, setting down the showerhead. "C'mere."
You sit beside him, mumbling, "this is such a waste of water."
He chuckles. "Forget the water. You're right where you belong."
He pulls you closer so you're half seated in his lap and cups one of your breasts, slippery with soap, squeezing the curve of it until the fat plumps up in his hand. He leans down to suck a bruise onto the side of your neck as he thumbs your nipple.
You whimper, your spine tingling, your sore cunt clenching down on nothing. It seems no matter how many times he makes you come, no matter how many times he fucks your cunt full, you can never get enough of him.
Just before this, he took you from behind, his body weight like an anvil on your back, your neck trapped in the crook of his arm. Yet it was tranquilizing, as if you had been slipped something; you were too high off his body heat and the drag of his cock along your walls to know fear.
With one word, one snap of his fingers, one puppy-dog-eyed look, you come crawling. And when he's away during the day, your brain is so wired to him that even the scent he leaves behind on his pillow makes you salivate, your clit throb.
He stops the attack on your neck and angles his head lower to lick along your collarbone, but you pull him by the scruff of his neck before he can get carried away.
You level him with a serious look. "Please don't take what I'm going to say the wrong way, but I feel like... I feel like I'm getting Pavlov'd by you. Calling me 'puppy' doesn't help matters."
He stares at you, unblinking. Like he's stuck processing what you just said. Then he laughs. You laugh, too.
A ridiculous notion after saying it out loud. No, if anything, what you feel for him is closer to love than a response to classical conditioning.
Still, maybe it's easier to swallow, to say you're no better than a dog, than to admit such big, human feelings.
"What are you trying to say?" he asks.
The words fall from your lips before you can stop them. "I think I like you too much. Is what I'm trying to say. It's not a bad thing. It's just. You make me a little crazy. Is all."
He laughs again, his chest spasming against your back. You fight the urge to press your thumb into the tip of his canine to test how much pressure you need to apply before it bleeds.
"If we're pouring our hearts out... I also think I like you too much."
He says it so sincerely your heart nearly beats out of your chest.
After a second, he adds, "I can stop calling you puppy. Just tell me what you want," he murmurs, nosing your pulse point, fingers gripping your thighs to pull them apart.
He thickens beneath you, the head of his cock poking your ass cheek.
"No, I think—" You break on a moan when his fingers run along the seam of your cunt, splitting you in two. You can hear how wet you are with every upward and downward motion, even over the running shower water, and your face feels like it's on fire. "I think it's growing on me."
"Good," he rasps, teasing the rim of your hole before breaching it with the tips of his fingers, stretching you open. "Let's get out of the shower. I want to eat puppy's cunt."
You are at his house more than you are at your apartment. Before his shift tonight, he fucks you nearly into an early sleep.
Puppy, puppy, puppy—
It rolls off his tongue so often you're not fazed by it anymore.
He ruts into you from behind as you lie on your side, cocooned by his strong arms and thick thighs. His chin hooked over your shoulder, he pants heavily onto the side of your neck, licking stripes up along delicate skin, and then the stabbing of possessive, sharp teeth breaks skin, ensnaring you, like he's a dog with a bone afraid to lose the one good thing he has.
Daddy, daddy, daddy—
He comes inside you and lazily grinds his hips against your ass, plugging you up.
Daddy and his puppy. Daddy and his puppy.
After, he sits by the bedside in his wheelchair as you're curled up under the covers, thumbing the apple of your cheek. You worked a closing shift last night and an opening shift this morning. You're bone-tired.
"Catch up on some sleep, puppy. I'll be back to wake you up in the morning. You're off tomorrow, right?"
You nod, murmuring something nonsensical. He presses a light kiss to your hairline, and then he's wheeling out of the bedroom to the ensuite to take a shower.
On the cusp of unconsciousness, you hear him return and rifle through the drawers for his scrubs, roll his liner and socks onto his stump to attach his prosthesis, and return his wheelchair to its spot. A routine so familiar to you, your ears are sensitive to the slightest deviation in it.
It's odd. He's moving slower than usual this morning. By now he would be in the kitchen putting on a pot of coffee and tuning in to the evening news. lagging behind not on account of his prosthesis but as if he were delaying getting to work.
You're already asleep before you hear him shut the front door.
When you stir, you feel something wrapped around your neck.
You impulsively scratch at it with one hand, panic chipping away at the corners of sleep clouding your mind, and with the other, push the covers back to get up to check the mirror in the ensuite.
Why does it feel like...
You stop dead, your eyes popping open, wide awake, once you see what it is that is encircling your neck.
You gingerly press your fingers to the black choker collar, the word "pup" written in cursive across the front of the titanium heart-shaped lock dangling in the center of it.
You must be dreaming still.
You pinch yourself, rapidly blinking at your reflection.
No, you're not asleep. This is life.
A million questions pop up in your head at once:
Did Jack put this on while you were asleep? How did you not wake up? How did you sleep through the night with it on? Why the fuck did he collar you? Again?
With shaky hands, you reach your fingers to your nape, checking for a buckle or clip. You feel bile rising up your throat when you don't, though you guessed as much.
The keyhole on the heart isn't just for aesthetic purposes. You need the key to unlock the pendant and take off the collar, which you suspect Jack has somewhere on his person. The leather band is thick, and unless you want to risk nicking your carotid artery using one of his kitchen knives to cut yourself out of it, you're left with no option but to wait for his return.
Pieces of the puzzle suddenly fit into place in your mind but bring with them more questions.
The collar he had you try on at the store. Was that so he knew what size to get you to fit into this one? But that would mean he had planned to pursue you before that encounter, wouldn't it? The adoption. Was that a lie fabricated to talk to you or a genuine truth that preceded this turn of events? You don't know for sure. His fascination with calling you his "puppy." At least that seems cut and dry.
The implication is becoming clear. All this time, Jack has been waiting for what he thought might be the right time to collar you and make you his.
He didn't bother asking permission to do it. He didn't have to. In his mind, you had already given it.
This is too much. You are disgusted by his violation of your body. And yet, you feel as though you should be more disgusted than you are.
The line is blurring. You ask yourself again, is this a dream or a nightmare?
You grip the sink and take a deep breath, your mind made up, your heart not so much. You've never picked a lock before, but it shouldn't be too hard to learn. At home. You hastily gather what of your things you have sitting around the house into one of Jack's old army bags and order a rideshare back to your apartment.
Just your luck, though, that as you're about to run out the door, he walks through it.
He eyes the duffel bag in your grip and the choker collar around your neck.
"Sweetheart," he drawls, hands held out in front of him, careful to approach, like any sudden movement of his and you'll bolt. "I can explain."
You shake your head. "Let me go, Jack. Why don't you give me the key and—and let me go. Please. This... this isn't working anymore."
He steps closer. "I thought you would be open to it. We've been dancing around this for a while now. Got it custom made for you and everything."
"You can't just collar me while I'm asleep and not expect me to freak out!" you shout.
The skin of your neck itches. Sweat creeps up along your nape. You grip the heart-shaped pendant, pulling it side to side, rubbing your skin raw as the collar rotates.
"Let's talk about this, alright? I wasn't planning for—you woke up earlier than I thought you would." He curses to himself. "I should've been here."
You scoff. "Like it fucking matters whether you were here or not. You don't... you don't do this without discussing it first! Please, just give me the key. Now."
You stare each other down for a few more seconds before he drops his hands by his sides and sighs, digging one into his scrub pocket. He flashes the key and then tosses it to you.
"I wish you'd hear me out, but I won't force you to stay." Below his breath, just within earshot, he mumbles, "I thought you were the one."
You don't respond. Instead, you pocket the key and shoulder past him to rush out the door. A far enough distance away from his house, on the walk down the street where your ride awaits, you sling the duffel bag over your shoulder and fight with the lock to take off the collar.
You feel like you can breathe again once you hear a click. You unhook the shackle of the lock from the loop, and the collar comes loose. You're tempted to throw the collar, lock, and key into one of the neighbor's trash bins, but for some inexplicable reason, you don't.
As you hop into the backseat, tears roll down your face.
Jack was the one good thing you had.
He doesn't reach out to you, and perhaps that's a good thing.
But despite doing what you thought was right in leaving, it hurts that he let you go in the first place. But it doesn't hurt as much as it should because you see him every day. At least you think you do.
On the walk to the pet store, you see a head of curly hair in your periphery, a bit of natural copper clawing through the silver.
At work, you catch a figure passing by the storefront window out of the corner of your eye, too quick for you to be sure it was him. But how else do you explain the sudden swivel of your head if not pure instinct?
On your day off, while at the grocery store picking up ingredients for the week, you stumble into the arms of a man after being pushed by the cart of a rambunctious kid recklessly steering it for his parents. He catches you by the waist, asking, "are you okay?"
You nod absently, turning your head to the apologetic-looking kid behind you. When you face the man again, he's already disappeared, the heat of his hands on your waist gone with him. Only then do you register that his voice sounded familiar.
That same evening, you look out the window of your bedroom. The shrubs bordering the sidewalk shake, and you watch as a man-shaped shadow stretches out along the pavement, growing in size as he walks away from the street light.
You're either seeing what you want to see, or Jack is keeping tabs on you. You're inclined to think the former, but pitiably, you wouldn't be too put off by the latter. Though you tell yourself you're done with him, inwardly you feel conflicted because it's possible you overreacted.
He was right, after all. You two had been circling around a specific dynamic, for lack of a better term. And instead of catching your tail, you tucked it out of his house.
Prophetic, almost, what with the dreams you've been having to enter into a relationship with him. But the way he went about collaring you frightened you, as it would anyone. This fallout could've been avoided had he just communicated his desires better.
Since leaving his house that day, your dreams haven't felt much like nightmares. When you wake, all you remember is the latter part of the dream. Head scratches and belly rubs and endless, endless praise.
What truly is there left to be afraid of, you wonder.
The mold spreading out on the ceiling is the tipping point.
It is fascinating, though, despite it being a nuisance. How little it needs to subsist on to stay alive. How it branches out to seek more decaying organic matter to feed its belly, voracious.
The unit upstairs reportedly left the water in the kitchen sink running overnight, clogging the compromised, fragile plumbing system that runs through your apartment building and causing it to leak into your bedroom ceiling.
When you turned in for the night, there was nothing but an off-white popcorn ceiling. And like magic, when you woke, there was nothing but diseased black and green tucked between all of its bumps and ridges.
For the sake of covering his ass and not for the sake of your health, your landlord is asking that you spend a few nights elsewhere. The mold remediators won't be able to come in for another week.
It's been just over a couple of weeks since you broke things off with Jack and a little less than that since you stopped seeing him in every corner.
You are tempted to call him, but call your father instead. Your childhood home isn't too far from here. You haven't spoken to him in months now, but this is an emergency. You can't afford a hotel.
I'd love to have you, but now's not a good time. You should be able to figure something out. Why don't you crash at a coworker's? You're still working at the pet store, aren't you?
You hang up. It'll be another few months before you call him again, if that.
Another night sleeping under the mold won't kill you, you suppose. But you'll have to figure out something soon.
You fall asleep. You dream. You are already transformed.
Your owner appears, and he—
He went through a transformation, too.
Back when the dreams started, he was incomprehensible—an enigmatic entity that was felt more than seen. Then he was the shape of a man, a mere silhouette. Now he is just man.
He has hair on his head and eyes and a nose and lips. Freckled and sun-spotted skin. Two arms and two legs, one of which is a prosthetic leg.
But maybe he was always this way. You just couldn't see him for who he was. How could you have. You hadn't met Jack yet.
He says something you don't understand, but you know he's disappointed in you; his voice is lower pitched, drenched in resignation.
Bad dog.
You wake up feeling nauseous and have a rotten taste in your mouth.
The mold smells. The mold is alive and breathing and healthy, and it smells. The mold is affecting your dreams.
The mold is why you reach for your phone on the nightstand and call him.
He picks up, and immediately you start.
Can I stay over for a few days? I have fucking mold on my ceiling, and it's making me sick, and I don't have anywhere else to turn.
The line is silent for a few seconds. Then, do you want me to pick you up?
Yes. If it's not a bother.
I'll be outside in thirty.
Both of you are silent in his truck; he steals glances at you at every red light, but you look straight ahead.
Out the window, from the corner of your eye, you see a man walking his dog, which stops at a red fire hydrant so it can take a leak.
As soon as you walk through the front door of his house, you say, "we need to talk."
He nods and gestures to the couch.
You throw your (his) duffel bag stuffed with a week's worth of clothes onto the floor by your feet as you sink into the cushion.
"Do you want to start, or should I?" he asks, settling in beside you, not too close, but not too far, either.
"You can start." You wring your hands. "I'm still figuring out what I'm going to say."
"You sure?"
You nod.
Alright. About what I did—"
"You could've asked me," you blurt out. His maw snaps shut. "You could've asked me what I thought about wearing a collar. About incorporating kink into our relationship. Instead, you forced it on me while I was asleep like a creep."
His shoulders sag. He looks so tired. Lifeless, almost.
He must have been hurting as much as you were in your absence, doubly so because of the guilt you can clearly see reflected in his eyes.
A stab of pain washes over you.
"I'm so sorry, sweetheart. I should've talked to you about it first. It was shortsighted of me not to."
A dry laugh. "It was. I would've heard you out."
He sighs. "It's not an excuse, but a small part of me thought you might run if I had brought anything up." His hand hovers over yours, but after a moment's hesitation, he sets it back on top of his knee. "I fucked up. We were still new and fragile, and I should've waited until we had that discussion. But as soon as I had the collar in my hand…" he trails off. "I was overeager. An old, overeager creep, as you put it."
"I didn't say old," you murmur.
"If all you want is a place to stay, then please, stay. Take the guest room. I won't bother you while you're here." He pauses, his stare burning a hole through you. "But I'd be lying if I said I didn't miss you every fuckin' day."
You're the one reaching your hand to his this time, as calloused, familiar, and warm as you remember.
"I—I missed you, too, Jack. Maybe I should've let you explain your side of the story before storming off, but I was… overwhelmed."
He shakes his head. "No, I get it. I don't blame you for it. It was my fault."
You angle your body more toward his, your knees brushing. "Look. I'm willing to pick back up where we left off. Even… try some things, if you catch my drift—as long as we're on the same page at all times."
He raises his brows, a small smile pulling at his lips. "Yeah? You're sure?"
"Part of why I'm here is because I have no other place to go… but I've also had time to think. I want to do this with you. I guess the mold was the push I needed to clear the air. We'll start slow?"
He brushes his thumb over the pulse point of your wrist. Your pulse ticks.
"Whatever you want."
With that, you gently pull your hand away from his to rifle through your duffel bag, retrieving the collar and giving it back to him.
You reattached the heart lock, though you lost track of the key's whereabouts.
He stares at it blankly for a moment, turning it around in his hands like it holds some world-shattering secret, before meeting your eyes again.
"You kept it?" he asks.
"I couldn't get myself to throw it away," you admit.
"But what do I with it? It was supposed to be for you."
"I dunno. Save it as a memento? It's pretty, but it's not really my style. And I'd like to pick my own."
"Pick your own," he parrots, stupefied.
"If and when I'm ready for one, yes."
You take off work for the week using the last bit of vacation time you have. He does the same (though he has a lot more time to burn than you do).
"I'm not lettin' this week go to waste," he says. "Gotta lot of catching up to do."
That first night, you sleep in the same bed like no time has passed, cradled in his arms, his broad chest rising and falling against your back, soft breaths puffed out along the sensitive shell of your ear.
At sunrise, you feel him hard and insistent, slowly grinding his cock against the curve of your ass, a pathetic wetness pooling between your legs.
"Mornin'," he grunts, anchoring a hand on your hip, drawing you closer into the bulk of him.
"Good morning to you, too," you tease, pressing back against his erection, voice soft with sleep and longing.
Too impatient and with a cunt too empty to take your time, you turn around in his arms and push him onto his back, hovering over him, fumbling to pull his cock out of his boxers.
With some spit and a few strokes of your hand, he's stiff, bobbing up toward the ceiling, pre-come dribbling from his slit.
You peel off your underwear and sink down on him inch by painstaking inch, a pleasurable fullness curling your toes once you're seated on his cock.
You've never felt as complete as you do when he's inside you.
"Take what belongs to you, baby. Fuck, this cunt missed me, didn't she?"
He grabs fistfuls of your ass and bounces you on his cock while thrusting up into you, watching your breasts shake beneath the cotton of your sleep gown, your hard nipples poking through the thin fabric.
"My pretty baby. My pretty baby and her tight, puppy cunt—"
Hearing "puppy" again tightens the coil living in the pit of your stomach, a dormant, hibernating thing if not for Jack. A choked cry, and then you're falling apart, landing on his chest, bawling into the crook of his neck because you have him again.
You do away with slow. You just can't help yourself when it comes to him.
He orders a collar—strictly for play, a removable one—and leash set online. Not custom-made quality like the collar before, but it will suffice.
The material of the collar is black leather with gold-plated metal used for the buckle and the O-ring. The chain of the leash is the same gold-plated metal; the handle is the same black leather.
The set arrives the next day.
Breakfast (and brunch and lunch and dinner) at home because he doesn't want to share you with the world just yet if he can help it, hoarding the sweet, honey-ripe scent of you so no one can get a whiff.
Like a dog caching his prized possession.
And afterward, hands fisting the sheets, face down, ass up, you're a sticky, syrupy mess of sweat and slick.
His hands are like hot stones over the flesh of your hips, deliciously warm, fucking you back onto his cock with every thrust, a pillow placed under his residual limb for maximum comfort, his weight distributed more to his left side to put less stress on his right knee.
You feel him more deeply in this position. Digging through your stomach, clawing up your throat.
He wraps the excess length of the chain around his hand and tugs, forcing an arch to your back, choking you firmly yet tenderly, his grip taut but controlled. You grow lightheaded; it's a difficult thing to breathe around the thick of his cock and the tug of the leash.
Adrenaline pumps through your veins. Your cunt clamps down on him, your hole leaking with nectar.
He loosens his grip on the leash, and your head drops forward onto the mattress. Oxygen enters your bloodstream with every ragged intake of breath.
Your brain feels fuzzy. A warmth settles over you. Your orgasm is indulgent, saccharine, so much so you can taste it: fresh spring air and sifted sugar and milkweed nectar. You're a trembling, twitching thing under Jack, who continues to ram your cunt, chasing his release.
"Who's daddy's good girl, huh? Tell me."
He slaps his hand over the skin of your ass cheek when you don't respond.
Your tongue thick in your mouth, your voice wrecked, but you manage to cry out, "me—I am—I'm your good girl!"
"That's right, puppy."
It starts when the headband makes itself at home on your head. A reminder of the years you spent working with Katy that you brought with you because you knew he'd love seeing you wear it again.
He's thick in his hand, pumping himself as he sits in his wheelchair, cockhead leaking and swollen, a slick glide of his fist along his shaft, wet with pre-come and a copious amount of your saliva.
Kneeling by his feet, your tank top is pushed up over your breasts, your nipples stiffened into little peaks. The chain of the leash dangles between you, clink, clink, as he grips the handle.
You suck on the tip of his cock as you massage his heavy balls with one hand, the other gripping the armrest on his chair. A frothy, milky mess coats the base of his cock, dripping down to his balls and soaking your fingers.
"Sit back," he grunts, his voice a thick rasp.
You obey. Your hands rest in your lap, fingers itching to touch him again.
He continues to stroke his cock with one hand. He stares at your breasts, the saliva dripping down your chin, your glassy eyes, your furry little ears, the collar around your throat. "Fuck, puppy." He spills into his hand, a strangled groan passing between his lips, come sticking to his fingers. He scoops as much of his seed as he can, reaching his fingers to your lips.
"Lick me clean."
And you obey.
The sticky salt of him coats your tongue as you wipe his fingers clean, sucking them into your mouth from pointer to pinkie. He pets your tongue, pressing his fingers into the pink meat of it, and then shoves them as far down your throat as he can until you're a blubbering, choking wreck.
"That's my good girl," he praises. "How about I feed you daddy's come in a dog bowl next time? Would you like that?"
The white of your eyes goes bright, and you nod.
He pulls his fingers out of your mouth, wiping the spit on your heated cheek. "I can't hear you, puppy."
"Ruff! Yes, daddy."
After a scene, there is a comedown.
You bathe together in the bathtub, bubbles floating in the water, foamy, thick, and dreamlike, seated between his legs, your head resting on his chest, your fingers tracing the lines on his palm, reading what offshoots led him to you. To this.
"Can I ask you something?"
"Shoot," he says, his chest rumbling when you adjust yourself in his lap, the hand you're not occupied with, resting on the soft curve of your belly, possessive and protective, squeezing in warning.
"Were you really adopting a dog? When you first told me about it in the store, I mean."
He shakes his head. "No. That was just an excuse to talk to you. And…" He hesitates for a second, and you crane your neck to meet his eyes. "And get a measurement for the collar I had planned for you."
You huff a laugh. He's such a freak.
What does that make you?
"Okay, I thought that might be the case. And when you came back to return it?"
"Another excuse to talk to you," he says, smirking.
"So, then, what about the speed date?"
"That was a happy coincidence. A work buddy of mine forced me to go because he said my loneliness was depressing him. I couldn't get out of it. It took one minute for me to know I had made the right choice in chasing you. The rest of the date was just a bonus."
You sit with that for a moment.
"Where did you first catch wind of me?"
"Take a guess," he says.
"PTMC?"
You last went when a coworker got bit by a dog someone had brought in for grooming and were the one to drive them (in their car) to the emergency room. They ended up quitting, and grooming services were discontinued.
He hums in affirmation. "I was passing by as one of the interns stitched up the dog bite on the patient's forearm. You were there on the other side of them, holding their hand. You caught my attention. Somehow I knew you were who I've been looking for all my life."
"Huh. I guess I was too distracted to notice you," you muse. "But you… you sensed something in me."
"You could say I sniffed you out. Part of me was impressed by how calm you were. It was a nasty bite, but you didn't flinch."
You shrug. "I wasn't the one who got bit, though. I'd have more than flinched if it were me. But dogs bite. That's what they do if they're nervous or scared. It's not fair to blame them for following their nature. All I could do was try to be there for my coworker."
He holds you tighter to his chest, the heat of his palm searing your water-slick, slippery skin. "But you're a good puppy," he whispers in your ear, teasing. "You wouldn't ever bite me, right? Give me a reason to muzzle you?"
You giggle. "I could. Dogs also bite out of love, you know."
"Or possessiveness," he grunts.
He sinks his teeth into the side of your neck, as if proving his point.
What he likes, you like, and vice versa. You feed off each other. One continuous feedback loop of codependency tying you together.
He can't keep his hands off you.
Father-like, in the way that he takes care of you after unmaking you like no father should. Whispers of praise after "taking my cock like a good girl." Epsom salt baths he runs for you and your sore muscles after stretching your body like a rubber band. Feeding you at the dining table because you're still a messy eater and "daddy's messy, messy girl." Like some owners feel their pets are, to them, their children.
Though, at times, it feels like he is the feral mutt.
In his wheelchair parked right at the edge of the bed, he eats you out as you lie on your back, your legs thrown over his shoulders, ankles digging into the wide expanse of his back.
His fingers dimple the fat of your thighs, bruising them in his firm grip. His tongue laps your folds, swirls around your swollen clit; his teeth nip at the delicate, divine crease of skin that separates inner thigh from cunt, half man, half beast. You yank the hair on his head; to push or pull him away, you don't know, but regardless, he doesn't separate from you until you're crying against the flat of his tongue.
He likes you best naked, or as close to it as possible, your body accessible to him at all times.
"This cunt is mine," he growls when he splits you in half with his cock. "No one else's."
His, his, his, his, his.
He likes when you crawl to him naked on all fours, collared, your asshole stuffed with the fluffy tail plug he ordered along with the collar and leash set, the chain of the leash dragging along the wooden floor behind you.
He twists the bulb of it around inside you, pulling a mewl from your lips.
"Such a dirty pup, letting me play with your asshole like this, huh? Maybe I stuff her with my cock next time."
He likes watching you piss yourself on his boot outside in the backyard like the filthy pup you are, a sobbing, hot-cheeked, and humiliated, inconsolable mess after a full day of being plied with water, letting go in just your panties and a little T-shirt that is translucent and clings to you after he jerked off and pissed on your chest. Animals being animals.
You like pleasing him. You like being the sole proprietor of his attention. You like being his.
He whistles as soon as he gets through the door. He left for a few hours, though you begged him not to.
"You're supposed to be on vacation, Jack. You're supposed to be shacked up with me."
"They called me in for an all hands on deck. I have to go, pup. I'm so sorry. I'll be back as soon as I can."
Wearing just one of his oversized T-shirts, you come crawling and stop a few feet from where he stands in the foyer, hooking his backpack up on the rack.
He whistles; you crawl.
"There she is, my good girl," he greets. "I thought about you all day today."
You giggle. "Oh, did you, now?"
"Yeah," he grunts. "And that pretty cunt of yours."
He has a smirk on his face, but a flash of something hurting crosses over his handsome features, and you notice.
You cock your head, your brows furrowing, and drop the act. "Jack. Do you want a massage?"
He sighs, holding his hand out to help you up from the floor to lead you to the bedroom.
"You always know just what I need, sweetheart."
He perches himself on the edge of the bed, and you kneel by his feet, looking up at him with a compassionate smile, lifting the pant of his scrubs to release the locking mechanism on his prosthesis and shrug it off his residual limb.
You step away for a second to retrieve the prosthetic ointment in the ensuite so you can lather it on his skin.
Massaging his limb for him, hearing his groans of "pup" and "that's a good girl," steepling fingers into sore muscle, rubbing prosthetic ointment on his residual limb, on the scar of his suture line, his hand on your nape to tether himself to you, you know this is where you are meant to be.
Your landlord says the mold has been removed, and you can return to your apartment unit.
The past week felt like a fever dream. Skin-to-skin throughout most of it all. Waking up with the sun and falling asleep under the moon together. There's no part of you that Jack hasn't claimed.
But all good things must come to an end. You both will return to business as usual. Though, fundamentally, things have changed.
You're with Jack. And he won't be letting you go. Mold or not, you won't be seeing your bedroom ceiling again except to say goodbye.
On your first day back at the pet store, you're tasked with overseeing the adoption event that has been planned for a few months. A big playpen in the middle of the store near the cash registers, where puppies of various breeds chase each other's tails and nap under the sticky heat of a pet store with the rooftop HVAC unit shorted out.
Perhaps it's the swelter stalling the cogs where your rationality functions, but one puppy in particular stares at you like a baby or a child would when it's processing new information, and it seems to follow you around with its eyes as you circle the playpen to help customers fill out their adoption applications.
There must be something about your face it finds interesting. Or maybe it sees the invisible but common thread between you, as if it knows what you and Jack get up to in your free time.
Laughable how your mind plays tricks on you, but you're a touch unsettled regardless. It's too much, isn't it? Working at the pet store. Walking through the door to a man that calls you "puppy." The dreams.
You hope all of them get adopted today. They deserve good homes.
Yours is with him.
It seems like Jack will be getting his wish, after all.
"I quit."
Mark looks up at you from a stack of paper over the rim of his glasses.
"You quit," he repeats, dropping the paper and interlocking his fingers on the desk. "On the spot, or are you giving me notice?"
Your throat bobs.
Mark has been a good boss to you, but it's high time you get out of here, preferably before you hit a decade spent in this time sink.
"On the spot."
He clicks his tongue.
"I can't say I expected this, if I'm being honest. Especially since we lost Katy not too long ago. But I'm happy for you, truly. The question is how quickly can I find a replacement…" he mumbles.
"You're happy for me?"
"Of course. I think you're a bright young lady. The world is your oyster, and I believe you can do whatever it is you want in this life."
Your brows shoot up. "Oh, wow. That's… that's very kind of you to say, Mark."
He leans back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. "So, what are your big plans?"
Trade one leash for another.
You can't tell him that, though.
"Well, remember the speed date I told you about? Um, I've actually been seeing the same guy for a while now, and, uh, I dunno. I dunno what's in store for me. But he'll be there to help me figure it out."
Mark smiles. "Good for you. Aren't you glad I pushed you to go to that thing? Don't say I never did anything for you."
The dreams have stopped. It doesn't matter why, but you speculate it's because you quit your job and moved in with Jack. There is no reason for a prophecy to mask itself as a dream anymore if it has been fulfilled.
Your dreams are as boring and mundane as they can get nowadays, but at least when you wake, you have him.
Late in the summer, in the Spanish villa he rented out with a view of the sparkling sea just outside the balcony doors; the position you first had sex in all those months ago, except the backs of your knees are hooked over his broad, freckled shoulders.
Over the past two weeks you have done nothing but tan half naked under the sun, sipping on tinto de veranos by the beach with Jack by your side, his standard prosthesis switched out for his waterproof one.
One of your hands held in his, his other around the handle of his cane padded with a sand tip, he strolled with you along the shoreline, gawking at you as you wore the little bikini he then ripped off you later, biting into the sun-kissed skin of your ass and breasts and tracing tan lines with his tongue.
Now, though, he bears down on you, and he fucks your cunt mean, a bit viciously, an arm wrapped under your waist, his other hand gripping the side of your neck, forehead to sticky forehead, your collar glinting against the sunlight streaming in through the window.
He went alone to the local square to get bocadillos for dinner: crusty, fresh bread smeared with tomato pulp and drizzled in olive oil, stuffed with jamón serrano and Manchego cheese.
"I know you're up to something, baby. But fine, I'll indulge you. If I come back to you touching yourself like the horny pup I know you are, we're going to have a problem."
When he returned, you were in bed, naked, and in your hands was the day collar you chose and bought for yourself a few weeks prior—paid for with his money, because you're his pup, his responsibility, his baby—as well as the key and screw that went along with it.
You were waiting until the last day of your vacation, a vacation he couldn't be pulled in to work from, for him to put it on you.
A subtler choice than the one he initially picked for you, a dainty, thin chain laced with diamonds that stops just above your collarbone. No one will bat an eye at it unless they look close and see that the only way to remove it is with a hex key the size of a toothpick.
He dropped the sandwiches on the floor and didn't bother taking off his prosthesis, too emotional about collaring you, about having your trust to wear this symbol of his love and his ownership around your neck at all times. With trembling hands, he fastened the ends of the chain around your neck, tightening the screw with the hex key, and then pressed a kiss to your nape.
You've been wearing the play collar for so long it's become something of a comfort to you. You started to miss the feeling of it around your neck when you were done with a scene and went to bed in his arms.
But now, you have this.
You angle your head down to bite his neck so hard ripe blood pours into your mouth, so hard he groans, his chest rumbling, his thrusts stuttering. Along with the iron of the blood, you taste the meat of him: sun-screened, Spanish sun-shined, and sweat-slicked.
"Fuck, puppy. That's—that's a bad fuckin' girl. This is the thanks I get?" But you know he likes when you mark him. "Maybe what you need is a time-out. Put you in a cage." But you know his threats are empty.
He's a sucker for you. If you were to be thrown in a cage, he'd throw himself right in there with you.
You smile wide at him, your teeth stained red. "I love you, Jack. You can't blame a dog for telling you that in the only way she knows how."
He bites you, too, on your collarbone, on the stretch of skin right below your chain, though a lot more delicately because "I fuckin' love you. My baby, my puppy."
You tremble like a leaf in his arms when you come, and he spills inside you not long after, a trail of your combined release leaking down the cleft of your ass, your legs scrumptiously sore after being folded in half and fucked through the mattress.
Your love for each other, a sick kind of dependency, obligate mutualism. One species can't survive without the other. You need him, and he needs you.
synopsis jack really wants to take care of you, you're really not used to that feeling, but when an accident has you in harms way and rattles jack more than you, you have little choice but to accept how he feels about you. (I want to take care of you- it's rotten work- not to me, not if its you) type.
warnings, fluff and angst but with a happy ending. guns. insecure reader. reader is described with hair long enough to braid. insecure reader. angst with happy ending . younger reader though not a massive plot point. miscommunication/misunderstanding
authorsnote uncle pee-paw i'm growing very fond of you. sometimes i get so in my head about how things preform on tumblr and i completely forget that fanfic is so self indulgent so as long as i'm happy with it but i'm so happy with the love these pitt fics are getting they really do mean a lot
“ You need a ride? ”
When you'd called Jack to tell him you were going to be late into your night shift because the buses you relied so heavily on to get you to and from work weren't running due to some strikes or something, you really were only calling to let him know you'd be late. Not to subtly ask for him to give you a ride.
“No- no. I just didn't want you to think I was not turning up, I'll be there.”
“ What's your address again? ”
“It doesn't matter, I'm walking- running- running in,” you said breathless down your phone, busy stuffing your bag with whatever you'd need, none of which was food for the shift. You'd recently ran out of the energy bars Jack had recommended.
Everyday you said you'd prepare something nice, some risotto or something and take it in. Every morning you collapsed from exhaustion and ran out of time to make anything that resembled a 'meal'.
“ I've got it here, I'll be around in ten, ” Jack said.
Your bag slid down your shoulder as you paused. “Got it? Got what?”
“ Your address. ”
“How do you have my address?”
He chuckled down the line. “ Remember I ubered food to yours, two weeks ago? You've probably still got leftovers in your fridge. ”
Ah. You remembered. One of those times you let slip your terrible routine and he sort to fix it, sending you over prepped meals that- he was right- were still littered around your fridge.
“Right, yes. You should delete that.”
“ Comes in handy, sometimes. In emergencies, ” he said. “ I'll pick you up in ten, bye. ”
There was no time to argue as the call ended promptly after that.
Jack Abbot was a caring man. Something you were learning the hard way. You knew he'd given Ellis his spare room when she was evicted from her apartment, he'd even let her re-decorate, got her fresh blankets and sheets. You knew that Shen's favourites snacks were always stocked up in the lounge. You always knew that he was first to spot Lena getting tired and was always there with a coffee.
It was just like you knew he knew all those little things about you too.
He knew when your bus got in across from PCMT, always there to escort you over the road and back again at the end of the shift. No matter how long or gruelling it had been he would wait with you, rain or sun. He knew you had a bad sleeping habit so he told you herbal remedies in teas and even brought some for you. Annoyingly they worked and every time you had one you were forced to think of Jack.
You knew that if he said he was picking you up- he was.
There was nothing wrong with his affection.
You just didn't know what to do with it.
The night shift was still new to you. You'd only joined since their nights had gotten wilder, even too wild for the 'weirdest and wildest' to handle so you'd made the swap six months ago to help out. You were used to Robby's ways of doing things: of his careful watch over his residents with happy thumbs up or disapproving shakes of his head.
Jack trusted in his residents to take care of patients, but didn't when it came to themselves.
You rushed around, finding your pens and stethoscope and phone that you'd just put down for a second. Soon enough Jack had texted saying he was coming up (he somehow already had the code to your apartment complex).
His knuckles rattled softly and you rushed to grab the last of your things, including a book marked with 'Abbot, J' that you had yet to get round to reading.
“Hi,” you greeted.
You'd expected he'd come up just to be a gentleman, figuring the two of you would just head back down.
Jack squeezed by your attempt at baring him from your place and walked into your small and cramped apartment. “Hey.”
You tried not to be surprised, shutting the door behind him. “I've got everything, we- we can go.”
“I jussss wanna check-” the kitchen was just to the right and he opened your fridge door, grinning. “I was right. Still got the leftovers.”
There were many containers stacked, some full, others emptying. All marked in his handwriting from his meal prep he shared with you.
“Yeah, I haven't got round to sorting it,” you said. “Sorry, I didn't get around to eating everything. It's really good though.”
Jack smiled, reaching into your fridge like it was his own. “Hey, I made you a lot, didn't expect you to eat everything. Just wanted to make sure you had a choice. Did you like the Linguini? I tried a new recipe.”
Jack moved around your kitchen like he'd been living in your space forever. He was confident as he re-arranged your food, throwing what had gone out of date away and washing his hands in your sink, taking a towel hanging up by a cupboard like he knew it was there and drying.
“Er, yeah, it was nice, we can go, you know,” you said.
“You started reading it?” Jack asked, gesturing down to the book in your hands. “What do you think of it?”
“Oh, er, no. I haven't had the chance to start it. I was gonna give it back to you,” you said.
Jack shrugged. “It's yours, keep it.”
It was not yours. It was his. It was one of his favourites if the several dog-eared pages and annotations were anything to go by. It was a title he'd recommended to you and handed you a month ago but you'd only managed to flick through and get a vague understanding of the characters names only.
“But I mean- I don't know when I'll get round to reading it,” you said, loitering outside your kitchen.
“It's okay, I've read it a thousand times, keep it till you do.”
Wasn't he worried you may never get round to reading it and he might not ever get it back?, if your forgetful memory was anything to go by.
Jack finally abandoned your kitchen, passing by you. “Shall we?”
“Thanks for the lift. You really didn't have to,” you said as you left your apartment building, the sky already darkening and where others came in from their long days of work, yours was only just beginning.
“It's on my way,” he shrugged.
“It's out of your way,” you pointed out, knowing Jack was a complete different way to PCMT then you.
You saw his eyes roll as he opened the passenger door for you, nodding for you to get in.
“Just take the lift.”
“Thank you.”
“Word is you and Abbot arrived together,” said Dana.
You groaned.
There was a lot to like about the night shifts. It felt more of a team work than day did sometimes, you loved working with everyone just as much as you did day and you liked how still it got in the night sometimes. But you missed Dana who watched out for you like a mama bear. Still, she made time to always check in with you before she headed out.
Her jean jacket was thrown over her shoulders, her hair pinned back neater and keys in hand but she still greeted you like it was the start of the day.
“He gave me a lift, the buses are on strike.”
She smirked. “Nice of him.”
“I've told him not to do it again.”
“Oh yeah, how'd he take that?”
He'd shook his head and laughed, constantly brushing off every thanks you made and offer of any aid you could give. He seemed wholly un-bothered by the inconvenience you'd caused.
“Jack's a good guy,” said Dana.
“That he is.”
“You deserve someone like him.”
You weren't sure where Dana got that idea. You also didn't know why you couldn't believe her. Why every time Jack turned up when things were going bad, or why every time he showed he cared you felt scared.
And you'd never really had the time to un-pack that.
You looked up to Dana, folding your arms over on the counter. “And what about what he wants?”
“Well for that you'll have to ask him,” she said with the all knowing look in her eyes. Her hand was gentle on your shoulder as she squeezed. “I'll see you in the morning.”
“Night.”
You thought you'd have a chance to view the patient charts that were swapped over to night shift but Jack was next, standing in Dana's space.
“What did mamma bear have to say?” he asked.
“Oh you know, the usual,” you said. “Trying to give me life advice that I won't follow.”
He huffed a chuckle. “I could've told her that, saved her the time.”
“I listen to your advice-”
He levelled his gaze onto yours.
“- I try to.”
His brows rose up. “You brought anything in for food tonight?”
You were about to answer, ready to prove him wrong, finally.
Jack interrupted you. “Anything other than that caramel coffee you like?”
He could read you like a book. You don't know how he found the time to know so much about you, to observe such things you wouldn't even notice unless he pointed them out.
Your silence was an answer.
“I brought extra, we'll have it later.”
He said it so confidently, leaving little space for any arguing on your end.
“Will we?”
“Yeah,” he said, stretching out on the counter. “I'm thinking a midnight picnic, trauma two? Might even get lucky with a GSW as company.”
You laughed and when you looked at Jack he was smiling. It was a soft kind, the sort that smoothed his face and made him seem younger and lighter. The kind that you took home with you and re-played as you fell asleep slowly.
You would never admit how long Jack spends in your mind. Somehow it felt like he already knew.
“You, um, you didn't braid your hair today,” said Jack, straightening up and drumming his knuckles on the counter. His gaze only faltered on yours for a second.
This was something you knew you did, carefully creating a routine for washing your hair that meant you didn't have to do it every day after work. Enough baby powder or dry shampoo meant you could get away with two washes at best.
“No, I guess I didn't.”
“It's gonna annoy you, being in your face all day.”
“I'm sure I'll manage.”
Jack didn't listen. He picked up your wrist- the one you kept a hair tie around- and slid it onto his own before going behind you.
“Jack, what are you doing?” you asked.
“Helping you.”
“You don't have to, I'll shove it up.”
Jack grumbled. “Let me work.”
His fingers grazed your neck as he brushed back your hair, the callouses on his hands rough against you, eliciting some sort of warmth in your body. Thankfully he was behind you and couldn't see the blush absolutely coming to your cheeks.
Jack took care of those around him, but he'd never touched anyone else's hair, never stood in the middle of the nurses station where all could see to braid someone's hair.
You felt him work, the weight of his gaze on the back of your head and his fingers moving through your hair like a cool summer evening breeze.
Across the way, Lena peered over her glasses at you with a smile.
“Lena's staring,” you said, unable to focus on any work till Jack's fingers were out of your hair.
Jack hummed. You knew that concentration from the amount of times you've seen him focused. “Lena always stares.”
You noticed Crus and Matteo passing by, both watching and pointing. You were sure Crus made some obscene make-out gesture and only hoped Jack didn't see. You were sure, if anyone else had asked he'd have done the same.
Though you hadn't technically asked.
“I'm sure you have far more important things to do than braid my hair, Abbot.” The lights in the Pitt seemed brighter, burning down on you like spotlights.
“Nothing more important right now.”
Your neck stretched as Jack pulled at your hair lightly to get it all in place. Curiosity ate at you, wondering where he'd done this before but the idea of knowing- like you had any right to- shut you up before you could speak.
Eventually he finished and his hands fell on your shoulders.
“There. Ready to be a hero?” he asked, spinning you around to him.
Your feet scuffed along the floor. “What? Am I the Robin to your batman?”
His lips quirked up and he moved his head side to side like weighing up his options. “More like the Lois to my Super-man.”
You sadly weren't versed enough in comic to know if that was a good or bad thing.
Jack was attending to a young girl when you walked in. Honestly it was starting to get comical how you turned up around him or he you. Some would call it magnets and as you met Jacks gaze as you stepped in you knew the ‘people’ meant Jack.
He looked at you, taking a quick note of the fact you still had your braid in even hours into the night. Jack smiled.
“Miss mermaid this is who I was telling you about,” said Jack.
The young girl- maybe five, maybe six- looked up at you as Jack slowly pulled at the thread bringing the skin of her knee together.
The chart had told you she'd taken a nasty fall on the playground and her teacher had brought her in, still trying to get in contact with the parents while Jack kept her company, cleaning her scraped knees and the gash just below.
“Hello,” the little girl waved. There wasn't even any tear marks on her cheeks but there was a small mark of blood at her little lip and her hair was falling out around her face.
“Hello miss mermaid,” you greeted, realising quickly the name came from her little mermaid top she wore.
“We were just talking about you,” said Jack, glancing quickly at you.
You blushed, wondering what Jack had to say about you to a small child. “Oh?”
“You and Crus played mermaids that time at the beach, remember?”
The girl giggled and Jack smiled over her shoulder at you.
“It wasn't- it wasn't mermades,” you excused.
That day was one of sweltering heat and lingering gazes. The night shift had took a trip to the beach on one of the hottest days of the year, enjoying the day for the day-shifters that couldn't. You'd gotten a lift with Matteo who'd brough Victoria Javadi along as she had the day off anyhow.
There was sand in places you didn't know sand could get, beach balls that somehow were pierced before you could even blow them up and gazes shared with Jack.
Maybe it was the bikini you wore that was so different from the scrubs. Maybe it was the fact Jack was un-characteristically insecure about his prosthetic leg being exposed to all and you'd told him nobody cared, that everybody cared more that he couldn't enjoy himself. Something had changed that day, settling in you like a pebble at the bottom of a lake thrown from a great height.
Since then, you and Jack had never looked at each other the same way.
But you and Crus hadn't been playing mermaids.... exactly. You swam around a lot and sort to collect more sea shells than the other. You just didn't call it mermaids.
“Will I be able to play mermaids again?” asked the little girl brushing hair out of her face with clumsy hands.
“Absolutely,” said Jack with great enthusiasm.
“And run faster than all the boys in my class?”
Jack chuckled, so did you. “Of course, but you'll have to rest up first.”
“Give the boys a chance to catch up, huh?” you suggested, plucking a leaf out of her hair.
“I like running fast,” she said.
Jack worked on the stitching, back to concentrating.
You sat down on the other side of the bed, gently reaching over to pluck bits of leaf and dirt from her hair. “So do I but sometimes we got to take things slow to not get hurt.”
You hadn't realised the meanings of the words until Jack halted his movements, glancing at you.
So you supposed there was a double meaning.
Jack's gaze was heavy.
“Tell you what, miss mermaid, Doctor Abbot here is better at braiding hair than he is stitches,” you said after a clear of your throat.
“Rude,” Jack mumbled.
It took a little convincing but you managed to swap places with Jack, gloving up and taking the tread he'd started at. He took your space on the bed and gently worked the child's hair into something neat while you carried on her stitches, close enough to being finished.
The both of you worked in silence as you each concentrated on your separate endeavours. All the while the young girl sat in between you hummed to herself, some Disney song.
“That's my favourite,” said Jack half way through when he must have realised what song she was humming.
You were still trying to understand it when part way through they changed to 'Under the sea'. You had to all but hold her leg from swinging as she sang loudly, causing you to laugh.
“Why not singing?” asked the girl.
“Yeah, why not singing?” Jack asked
You shook your head. “I don't know the song.”
Jack made a 'pfft' sound like he didn't believe you and 'little miss mermaid' did the same, blowing a raspberry.
Eventually you finished up the stitching, coincidently the same time Jack finished with his braiding.
A nurse- Bridget- walked in with the young girls teacher, eying the two of you between her. “You braiding Matteo's hair next?” she teased with a glint of wicked amusement in her eyes.
Jack moved up from the bed just as you also stood, discarding of the tools you'd used. “Only if he asks nicely.”
“Her parents have been informed they're on their way,” said the girls teacher.
“Perfect,” said Jack, holding either end of his stethoscope slung around his neck. “We are going to leave you in the very capable hands of Bridget who knows many more Disney songs than we do. Don't go without giving me another song.”
The girl laughed, her new braid slung over her shoulder. “I won't.”
Jack smiled and held the door open for you as you left with a small wave and him trailing behind you.
Lena was at the nurses station, answering calls and dishing out work while others walked around the two of you, busy with their own nights that existed by itself in the Pitt.
You hadn't realised you and Jack were heading for the break room till his arm stretched out and he pushed the door open over you.
“Are you really telling me you didn't know the song she was singing?” he asked.
“Of course I knew the song. I wasn't going to sing and embarrass myself,” you said, pulling out the mug you always used and Jack's favourite, finding the coffee pot newly brewed.
“Like I'm any Phil Collins,” scoffed Jack as he pulled out two containers from the fridge.
You frowned, sitting at the table. “Who?”
Jack looked at you, swinging the door shut. His brows rose high, crinkling his forehead. “Phil Collins? Turn it out again.... In the air tonight... The music on Tarzan?”
“Is he the dad of Lily Collins?”
Jack slid into the seat across from you. “Who?” He passed you over a full container of some sort of quinoa. It wasn't just left overs, it was a carefully calculated portion to match his.
You stared down at it like you were trying to decide if it was poisoned while Jack had already had a spoonful of his own.
It felt strange, to be sitting in a secluded room of the chaos and eating with him. Though at work, it felt oddly domestic. It felt- annoyingly- like the right thing to do. You wanted to eat from his container and wash it, hand it back to him. You wanted to know where he kept all his Tupperware, the kind that fell from cupboards at every open of the door.
“You cooking for me now?”
Jack shrugged, not meeting your gaze. “It's quinoa. Hardly cooking.”
You took a careful spoon.
Like he'd been discreetly watching as soon as you swallowed he spoke.
“You like it?”
“It tastes... kind of...”
“Healthy?”
You looked at him, feigned aghast.
Jack smirked, jaw working as he ate his food. “Come on, if it weren't for me you'd still be living on pizza's and take aways. At least this way you save a couple bucks and eat good. For a doctor you should know how important that is.”
“What are you so worried about what I eat for?” you mumbled, more wondering to yourself.
“I like to take care of you.”
He admitted it softly, a slight shrug to his shoulders like it was nothing. Like looking after you, a simple colleague- maybe a friend if you were lucky enough- was a simple feat. As if you didn't struggle to take care of yourself. Jack worked the same shifts, even more as an attending and cooked for himself, did yoga in mornings and even went out as a SWAT team member.
“Why?” You pushed the grains around in the tub.
“Why what?” he asked.
Daring to glance at him, you found Jack looking at you, arms rested on the table, his freckled biceps pulling at his scrub top.
You shook your head, taking another spoon of the food.
Any other time some emergency would be called to save you. Nothing as such when you really needed it. Of course you were glad nobody was being rushed in hurt... but still.
“Why do I like looking after you?” Jack repeated. “Because it's you.”
At that, you smiled. Not through happiness, more sympathy. “Because I can't look after myself?”
You knew you slept a lot, didn't take as good care of yourself as you could have. There were healthy and easy meal ideas sat in a folder in your phone, gathering dust. There was always laundry in a pile, dirty and clean, to go to their respective homes. There were friends waiting to make arrangements you never got around to making. You weren't easy but you didn't think you were so bad someone else had to come in and save you.
Jack paused, his face falling. “That's not what I meant.”
“Sure it is, you can admit it,” you shrugged, the food he's kindly shared turned to ash in your mouth. “I know I might seem like a mess to you, to someone so put together and... older, but I really do have my life managed. You don't have to add me to your to do list.”
“Woah, woah, woah, I never said that. That's not what I meant at all.”
You laughed. It felt better than feeling so embarrassed. “It's okay-”
“- no, no, that's not what's supposed to be going on, I... ”
Jack cared for people, you knew that. It was just apart of himself.
So you were almost distraught inside when you realised he didn't like you anymore than Shen or Ellis. He just looked out for you cause it was something he had to do.
“I'm not actually very hungry right now,” you said, pushing the lid back on and leaving it for him.
Jack was just as quick as you were to his feet. “No, no, wait- wait, hey-”
His pushed the door closed as you only just opened it an inch.
You looked at him. Your stomach was tight, uncomfortably so.
“Let me- let me try again, okay? I didn't think this through.”
“There's nothing to think through, just wait-”
Shen appeared at the door, trying to get in but Jack was surprisingly strong in keeping the door barred. “I need my coffee.”
“Give us a minute, Shen,” said Jack with all his attending commanding voice.
“But-”
“- a minute!”
You caught sight of Shen looking to you for help before walking away, head down and probably with his bottom lip jutted out like a kicked puppy. “Shen won't get far without his coffee.”
“Shen can wait till we're done now listen,” he said and leant against the door, watching you close. “I like taking care of you, I do, I really do. Not because I think you're not capable of looking after yourself, you are, I know you are it's... I just...”
You waited.
There was nothing.
Jack looked at you with all wide eyes and tension held in his arms. It's like he wanted to say something but ... couldn't.
One more minute and Shen would tear the place apart for coffee.
“You're a nice guy, Jack, you just don't have to be that nice.”
Jack let his arm fall from the door and you evacuated.
The sun had started to rise and you were so close to getting out the door, so close to running from the day's problems. Day shift had turned up, somewhat bright eyed and bushy tailed to take the days stresses though you weren't sure they could take Jack's insistence to talk to you away.
You were inches away from leaving when Jack called for you.
There wasn't the desperation to talk to you, it was the sort he used in traumas, only.
“I need you, GSW to the chest!”
The both of you ran in, gowns pulling on and gloves next as you pushed through the doors.
It was all the usual to you: too many doctors in one room, so much talking and orders it fell on your ears like music you knew all the words to.
“Woman in her twenties, multiple GSW's,” Robby called out. “Pulse ox eighty!”
The doors shut behind and the team of you all took your roles like a practised routine.
“Three... two... one- move!”
All together you lifted her over.
There was blood blooming on her shirt, a tear in her jeans. There was a black eye and what looked like a broken nose if the cut over the bridge and the slant of it was anything to go by.
You'd seen enough of these to know when they were accidents and when they weren't.
Her back hit the bed and the sharp beep of life being lost echoed.
“We've lost her pulse!” shouted Robby.
Without being told you climbed up, hands coming together and hammering down on her chest. For a split second you felt the ghost of Jack's hands, helping you up before they were gone like a summers breeze.
Looming over her you could see the injuries better. And worse.
“GSW, right-sided, she needs a central line,” you announced.
Jack moved around you and the patient, already preparing himself for the central line before you'd called for one.
“BP's dropping out! Pulse Ox is eighty-five!” Robby called.
“She's got tension pneumo,” said Jack without shouting and everyone heard. Somewhere in the back of your mind you recognised that authority he demanded with the simple sound of his voice.
“Crash cart,” said Robby. “Charge to one hundred.”
You waited till you heard the buzz of the cart and felt the heat of the panels before moving.
“Clear!”
The sound of her pulse was quiet and the rhythm was odd but it was there, slight bumps in a green line.
You climbed down, landing next to Jack as he readied with a fourteen needle.
“BP's seventy Ox,” said Jesse.
“Day shifters trying to cramp our style,” said Jack as he slid in.
Robby tutted. “Trying to make sure you don't get all the fun.”
Jack straightened next to you. “Ok, I'm setting up the chest tube, you're gonna set me up with a thirty-two French. Get a mig of atropine and a need a unit of O-neg.”
Two units were hooked up.
“We need to get the chest tube in and stop the bleeding.”
It was all a flurry of hands and tools as the chest tube was in, as the chest was packed with gauze at the right flank where the bullet had tore through her chest. It was a close one, but the sort you could save with nimble hands and careful concentration.
“Okay,” Jack uttered as the both of you loomed over her. “I know we're fighting and I don't like that-”
“We're not fighting and now's not the time,” you said.
Robby was on the other side of the bed, giving the two of you a look. “I agree.”
Jack waved him off, focusing on you. “I'll strike you a deal, we save this woman's life. You get breakfast with me.”
You glanced up, wondering if anyone had heard, though you were sure by now Jack's attempts at asking you on a date was one of the worst kept secrets.
Robby was watching from the other side, arms over his chest and his brows raised.
“You strike a hard bargain there, Abbot,” you mumbled.
“May as well say yes, either way you're saving lives.”
“Why cause you'll die if I say no?”
Jack looked at you. As usual there was nothing giving away if he was joking or not. “Yeah.”
It would have been a pretty poor time to joke.
Five minutes later she was stable.
Blood bags hung slowly draining, rags and gauze of blood littered the ground and torn off gowns were thrown haphazardly around. The patients pulse was steady and beating with the promise of years of life ahead. There'd be challenges, you don't get shot and not have to face even more hardship.
But there was life.
And that was the most rewarding part of the job.
“Good job,” said Robby, peeling of his gloves. “I'm gonna get some air.”
“Then go home, right?” asked Jack as everyone slowly moved away.
Robby only made a rude gesture as the doors closed and left you and Abbott to peel away the blood stained gowns and gloves.
Jack turned to you, un-fazed at the life he'd saved. “You want to go from here or do you want me to drop you off at yours and let you change first?”
You stared at him.
It was almost unfair, his charisma in spite of it all. You didn't stand a chance. When Jack said he was going to save a life, he was going to do just that. It was an added bonus to take you on a date.
Your head was shaking but your lips were curling up.
Jack backed out of the room, leaving you with a thumbs up.
You didn't know why you lingered with the body. You were a resident who had one patient on the go, you should've picked up another. You should've left the trauma room for the surgical consultation.
Yet you wanted to start a chart, wanted to find a name for the girl.
As you walked over, checking her BP which sat safe at one hundred over sixty, her eyes fluttered open, dry lips parting and murmurs exiting.
“Hey,” you dropped your voice gently. “You're safe now, you're at the hospital. Can you hear me?”
You held her head steady as her eyes fluttered but didn't open wide enough to meet yours.
“Can you tell me your name?”
You listened close but got nothing from the grunts.
The doors to the trauma room pushed open.
A small girl stood there, early twenties or even late into her teens. She wore a hoody, blood soaking up the sleeves. She didn't introduce herself, instead, she stared.
“Is she alive?” she asked.
Beyond the broken nose you could see the resemblance in the unconscious on the bed and the one that stood ahead of you.
“Do you know her?” you asked.
“She's my sister.”
“Well your sister was shot in the chest, she's lost a lot of blood but she should make it-”
You heard the gunshots before you saw the gun.
Jack had stripped off the gown stained with blood and pulled off his gloves next, trashing them in a bin.
“That was some way to ask a girl out,” chuckled Robby as he followed his movements in yanking anything with blood on him off.
Jack shrugged. So far nothing that he'd planned the day had gone to plan, asides from saving lives yet that was his plan every day. When you'd called he was already at the hospital but you'd said about the buses and he put his keys back in at once. He thought finally. He'd been waiting for a sign to try to take you on a date, seeing's as the food and books and recommendations and days out weren't enough.
Now, he'd saved a life and got a date.
“So what's next?” asked Robby. “You perform a resuscitative thoracotomy and ask her to marry you?”
“If you have one let me know and I'll see.”
Robby chuckled, patting him on the back when three gunshots rang out.
Everyone ducked.
People screamed.
Where suddenly dozens of people stood everyone was down in lumps, covering heads and ducking for patients.
Jack hovered, not quite down but ready to move. Gun shots were nothing, enough to lull him to sleep. These shots were like any other but they echoed in his ears and richoeted in his heart.
They came from behind him.
From the room he'd just left.
“Where'd that come from?” he asked. He knew.
Robby's hand pushed at his chest, already moving past him. “Trauma two!”
You.
“No!”
The two of them took off toward the room.
A lady exited. It wasn't you. It wasn't the patient. It was a third un-familiar party.
She turned at the sound of heavy footsteps and rose her gun at the two.
“Gun!” someone screamed.
Robby was still holding onto Jack as the two of them skid to a stop in front of her. Somewhere someone was crashing and Jack couldn't see you or hear you.
There were three shots.
He knew three shots were enough to kill.
Jack raised his hands, showing he was harmless and helpless. “Please,” he begged. “Is she alive?”
The girls eyes were hard and full of hatred. The gun was steady in her hands. She was calm, completely but there was no doubt the gun shots were hers. “Not anymore.”
“Oh god-”
“Woah-Woah-” Robby caught Jack with one strong arm as his knees gave out.
You were dead? Some girl- hardly an adult- shot you? Why? To tear out his own heart?
It was already gone.
“Jack? Jack, brother, listen to me,” Robby was trying to talk to him but nothing was going through to him, like a signal lost.
The girl turned and left quickly, making sure everyone knew she had a gone when they all knew she wasn't afraid to use it. The shots must have rung out through the entire hospital.
Robby helped Jack up and as soon as the doors leaving the Pitt closed they rushed in.
The harsh sound of beeping was bouncing off the trauma walls where blood was splattered and a pool of that same blood dripped down into a puddle under the patient.
“Oh my god.” Jack found you at once, using the walls as a crutch as you stumbled your way through the room. He was at your side at once, arms around your trembling body and holding you- moving with you even as you tried to walk.
There was blood all over you and you'd paled dramatically.
Jack coaxed you into staying still, grabbing your cheeks to get your attention. He ignored the pain in his leg that had come from the run, the giving out and now as he crouched to get a look at you. “Hey, hey, hey, look at me- let me look at you. Are you hurt? Did she hurt you?”
Robby had already rushed to the patients side, what doctors and nurses that had gained control over themselves joining him in trying to save her life again. “Ah shit, looks like PEA! Amp of antropine, amp of Epi!”
Your eyes darted over to where the chaos ensued, even as Jack tried to get you to look at him.
“You won't ... won't get her back!” your voice was shaky and hoarse from a scream he hadn't heard. “Blew her god damn brains out.”
“Come here, okay, let's-let's-” Jack's arm was around your shoulder and he was moving you out, trying to help pulling off your bloody gloves while keeping an arm on you.
There was blood and something else on your gloves. Blew her brains out. And you'd tried to scoop them back in.
When the bright lights of the hospital met you your body grew still in his arm.
Jack was familiar with trembles, with blood and PTSD. He wasn't used to any of it in you. In everything he'd learnt about you, he hadn't learnt the subtle art of comfort. “Let's get you some air, let's get you cleaned up-”
You pushed out of Jack's arms, pulling and tugging at your scrub top soaked in blood and all but ran into the women's bathroom.
He heard retching as the door closed.
Jack shook his head, ready to follow you when Dana appeared in front of him, hand on his chest.
“Take it easy, take it easy, I'll check in on her.”
He could still hear you throwing up when Dana slipped in.
The sun was high in the sky, casting the roof of PCMT in an orange glow. The sky burnt in its colour but all you saw was red.
One moment the girl had been crashing, the monitor still beeped in your head. Her body had jerked up to the sky before you got a rhythm back and then- just as you did with any patient- you got hopeful. It seemed in the clear to do so, you'd helped patients come back from worse and you always had hope.
Nobody that worked in the ED could live without it.
Then- it had took three bangs for you to drop to the ground but not before being smeared in blood. You didn't even know what was happening as the ringing ran out in your ears. You'd met the ground with a hard thump to your head. When your vision cleared you saw the shoes rush out of the room.
Your guiding as a med student was doing no harm, saving lives and you'd dropped and put your life ahead of your patients.
What kind of doctor did that?
The cowardly type- you.
“You're in my spot,” said a voice coming closer.
Jack.
His voice soothed the nerves in your body that had been on edge since the accident. Everything made you jump, but him.
“It's a nice spot,” you said as loud as you could, knowing your voice still wasn't back. Or loud enough.
“Yeah,” he said, getting closer. “But usually I like to be on the other side of the rail. And on my feet.”
You were sat on the edge of the roof, not on the edge close enough for anyone to worry but apparently that didn't stop Jack.
He huffed, behind you now. “Please, I'm an older guy, my heart can't take it. Can you come over?”
If your feet weren't like weights pulling you down maybe you could have but you were struggling to feel any part of you.
You admitted as much, quietly. “I can't move.”
You'd moved quick when faced with the gun, dropping to save your own skin. Since then moving had been difficult, like you'd used every muscle in your body to push yourself and now you were locked.
Jack moved in a blur as he ducked under the rail and slowly set down next to you. He was silent, only his breathing calming you. “Did you get checked over with Robby?”
You nodded. “The ringing'll go away in a day or two.”
“Yeah.... it always does.”
You looked at him and Jack was looking at you. The grey stubble of his beard never looked greyer and his eyes were dull, small half moon bruises of sleep marked there. His hair was ruffled and he smelled dully of hospital.
This was a man that had saved more lives than you could count and severed in tours ... and he was taking time to check on you.
“I'm sorry,” you didn't know you had cried till Jack's arm was around your shoulder, bringing you in.
“Hey, hey,” he cooed, his arm tight on you. “What are you sorry for, huh?”
“I didn't save her, I-I should've tried. Should be reasoned with the shooter and I just-I just dropped down and you-” your breathing was ragged, the cries frequenting. “-you've done so much, lost your leg for damn sakes and I just dropped.”
“Hey,” he snapped. It wasn't un-kind. It was stern in ways he had to be in the as a night attending. “You did everthing you could.”
You looked at him. He really meant that though. “I dropped down!”
“You saved your life,” he reminded you. Jack's arm was still tight on your shoulders but his other hand held your cheek, making you focus on him. “You acted on instinct. If you hadn't your patient still would've shot and you-” Jack's breath caught. His eyes were glossed over. You'd missed the redness around his eyes. “- you'd have been shot and I couldn't live with that. I-I couldn't.”
Jack wiped away his tears, wiping yours next. He chuckled dryly at the both of your tears.
“I lost my leg in a tour,” said Jack. “Where guns and shooting is part of the job. It's not in a hospital. You did what you could.”
It still didn't feel right. It still felt like the cowards way of doing things.
“Look at me, look at me-” he nudged your gaze to his. His eyes were wide and implored you to look at him. Really look. “You did what you could and I know a patient died and I know-I know it's hard but...”
He sniffed.
“But what?” you mumbled. How could there be a but in any of this?
He held your cheeks tighter, smudging your cheeks just that little more. Jack let out a shaky exhale. “But I am so happy you're okay. I am so fucking glad.”
His dimples were hardly there as he gave you a sorry smile.
Your head fell into his chest and he brought his arms around you, holding you, shushing you as you cried. Cried for your patient, for the shooter, for the way you dropped. None of which maybe could be forgiven but all of which were valid.
Somewhere in the crying Jack held you tighter and moved the both of you back away from the ledge. You let him, even helped in scuffing your feet and pushing away till the railing hit both your backs.
“You're okay, I got you, I got you.”
I got you. He'd always had you, if he hadn't had you today what would you have done? Nothing crazy but you might have stayed up on the roof all day, be dead on your feet by the night. Jack had always had you and when he did you'd all but told him not to.
“I'm sorry.”
His hand ran over your hair. It had come lose but still remained in the braiding. “You don't have to be sorry, you don't.”
“No about earlier, in the lounge,” you said, holding onto him. “You were being nice, you've always been nice and I... I was horrible-”
“- you weren't horrible, no-”
“- you've been so kind to me and I don't even say thanks-”
“- you have actually, quite a few times- ”
“- I don't know why you put up with me-”
“- well, it helps that I love you-”
If there was one way to shut your rambling up, it was that.
You still had a vice on his scrub top but you looked up to him. For the first time- you think ever- Jack had to look away from you.
“What?” you asked.
Jack's jaw ticked and he clocked his head. “I didn't mean to say that.”
Disappointment chocked you. Of course it would just slip out, heck Jack was comforting you, he'd say anything.
“Oh.”
“I do love you,” he said and you looked at him with something akin to hope as you moved your head away. “That's why I've been looking after you, that's what you do when your- when your in love. My... my wife taught me that. I was just scared you know cause.... I haven't been in love since she died.”
It wasn't often Jack talked about his wife but when he did he talked. He'd talk anyone's ears off about her and once or twice you'd been that person.
“I'm sorry.” This time you weren't sure what you were apologising for, you just were.
Jack looked at you with a mocked frustration.
You cringed. “Sorry, I should- I should stop saying that.”
He hummed and nodded along with you, a tiny smile on his lips, the chapped parts cracking from the salt of his last tears. “I never meant to make you feel incapable, I know you can look after yourself. But I want to.”
You laughed at yourself, wiping at your cheeks and snot. “Why? I'm a mess.”
Jack took your cheek in the palm of his hand. “No, you're not. Not to me.”
Jack kissed you so slow and sweet on the edge of the roof with the sun praising upon the both of you. He didn't push his feelings into you, he let you feel them in the gentle press of his lips and the hold of his hands.
— cw: established relationship; smut and fluff; domesticity; wc: 5.5 k
— S. RILEY:
Simon loves handling knives. It’s one of his specialities after all. And he’s caught you watching him multiple times; whether it was him cutting vegetables for supper, cleaning his combat knives, or shaving with a razor blade.
So, when you pad into the kitchen in nothing but his shirt and ask him to help you shave, he doesn't even blink.
“Where?”
You tug at the hem. He follows the gesture, and his expression doesn’t change, but something behind his eyes does.
“Right.” The chair scrapes over the tiles as he rises to his full height, rolling his shoulders. “Bathroom. Now.”
He has you up on the counter with your legs spread before you can overthink it. Clinical and efficient, like he’s done this a thousand times.
“Hold still,” he commands, lathering soap between his mammoth hands. “Squirm and I'll nick ya.”
You snort, “Reassuring."
“Wasn’t meant t’be.”
His hands are rough but warm and deliberate as he works the lather over you, one palm flat against your lower belly to keep you pinned. He tilts his head, surveying you like a problem he is solving.
He clucks his tongue, “Not takin’ it all off.”
And you blink owlishly, “Why not?”
“Because I like it.” He drags his thumb through the dark curls at the apex of your cunt, appraising. “Leavin’ a clean strip. You'll thank me later.”
The razor comes up before you can argue. First stroke—slow, precise, the blade gliding through lather and coarse hair with a control that makes your stomach flip. His jaw is set, focused, and there is something unbearable about how steady his hands are when yours are gripping the counter edge so hard your knuckles ache.
He rinses the blade. Goes again. His knuckles brush bare skin this time and your thigh jerks involuntarily.
“What’d I say?” His voice is low, flat; his eyes almost bored as they flick up to meet yours.
“Sorry—”
“Don’t apologise. Stop squirmin’.” He resettles his grip on your thigh, firm enough to bruise. “Almost done.”
But you’re not making it easy on him and he knows it. He can see it—the flush creeping down your chest, the way your breathing has gone shallow, the slick gathering where his hands keep almost-but-not-quite touching.
“You’re wet,” he remarks, the same way he’d say It’s raining.
“Can you blame me?” you squeak.
“No.” Simon finishes the last stroke, rinses the blade, sets it aside. Then he runs his thumb along the neat strip of hair he’s left, then lower, over smooth sensitive skin, checking his work. “Did a bloody good job, if I say so myself.”
His thumb drags lower. Slides through the slick with zero hesitation, and you gasp loud enough to echo off the tiles.
“Responsive,” he murmurs, smug. He does it again—slower, more deliberate, watching your face like he’s taking briefing notes. “All this from a shave, love?”
You nod, voice thick, “From you.”
Something shifts in his expression; shifts to something darker, hungrier. His free hand grips the inside of your thigh and pushes it wider, and he drops to his knees on the bathroom floor like a man settling into a foxhole.
“Si—”
“Shut up,” he growls against your skin. “Let me admire my work.”
His mouth finds you—hot and wet, and completely unhurried. He licks a long, flat stripe over the freshly shaved skin and groans low in his throat like he’s tasting honey on a warm, buttered toast. Your hand flies to his head, fingers digging into the short hair, and he lets you.
Then he pulls back, and you almost whine, but he’s not going anywhere. He brings both hands up instead, spreads you open with his thumbs, rough callused pads pressing into soft skin, holding you apart so he can see everything.
“Look at that,” he murmurs, low and self-satisfied. “All swollen already.”
Your hips buck, but his sheer strength keep you pinned to the counter. “Simon, please—”
“I heard ya.”
But then Simin leans back in and his tongue finds your clit—not a broad stroke this time but a quick, focused flicker, right over the swollen nerve. Your hips buck harder and his grip tightens, thumbs digging into the soft flesh of your pussy lips, keeping you spread wide and pinned open.
“Stay. Still.” Spoken directly against you, the vibration making your thighs shake.
He does it again—that precise, maddening flicker—and you make a sound that’s closer to a sob than anything dignified. He rewards it with a low hum, adjusting the angle, working the tip of his tongue in tight little circles that make your vision blur.
“Knew you’d be like this,” he groans, pulling back just enough to watch your clit twitch under his breath. His thumbs spread you wider, obscenely so. “All wound up from a fuckin’ razor and a steady hand.”
Your cheeks are burning while your hole clenches around nothing. “You’re so full of—oh—”
“Myself? Yeah.” His tongue flattens against you, then flickers again, fast and relentless. “And you love it.”
You can’t argue. You can’t do anything except grip his hair and hold on.
He doesn’t let up. That maddening flicker becomes a rhythm—tight, relentless circles over your clit with the tip of his tongue while his thumbs keep you spread open and pinned like a butterfly under glass. You’e shaking, thighs trembling against his hands, and every sound you make earns you another low hum of approval that vibrates straight through your whole body.
“Simon—Si—I’m going to—”
“Then fuckin’ do it.” His tone is flat as ever, impatient, like you’re wasting his time by holding back.
His tongue presses harder, faster, and you come with a choked cry that bounces off the bathroom tiles. He works you through it—slower now, lapping at you in long, lazy strokes while your legs twitch and your fingers go slack in his hair.
And then you hear it before you see it—the sound of his joggers being shoved down, the slick rhythm of his fist. You lift your head, still dazed, and look down to find him on his knees with his fat cock in his hand, jerking himself in hard, fast strokes while his mouth stays pressed against your inner thigh.
“Simon—?”
“Shut up.” His voice is wrecked now. Rough. Nothing clinical about it anymore. “Needed this since I fuckin’ started.”
He’s close already. You can tell from the way his breathing fractures, the way his free hand grips your thigh hard enough to leave fingerptints. Simon pulls back, angles himself forward, fist working fast and tight, and his eyes are fixed on the mess he’s made of you, all puffy and slick. The neat landing strip dark and matted with your wetness against flushed skin.
“Fuck,” he grits out, low and broken. “Look at you.”
He comes across your cunt in hot, thick stripes—groaning through his teeth, forehead dropping against your thigh as his hips jerk into his own fist, massive shoulders shaking against the onslaught of pleasure. You feel it land on smooth skin, on the strip of hair he insisted on keeping, dripping down between your folds, and the sound he makes is almost pained.
He stays there for a moment. Breathing hard. Forehead pressed to your leg.
Then he straightens up, tucks himself away methodically, and surveys the damage with the composure of a man reviewing a mission report.
“There,” he says, dragging his thumb through the mess on your skin. His and yours, mixed so prettily. “Payment for services rendered.”
Your eyes roll with fond exasperation as your head tips back to rest on the counter.
“You’re disgusting.”
“And you’re welcome, love.” He leans in, presses a single kiss to the landing strip, and stands. “Clean yerself up. Dinner’s in twenty.”
— K. GARRICK
Kyle notices things. It’s what makes him terrific at his job—reading a room in mere seconds, clocking the miniscule details everyone else always misses. So, when you come home looking like the week has chewed you up and spat you out, he’s already running the bath before you’ve kicked off your shoes and put down your bag.
“Self-care day!” he announces. “You. Me. Bathroom. Now.”
“Kyle, I’m fine—”
“Didn’t ask.” He’s already steering you by the shoulders, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “I’ve got you, yeah? Let me do this for you, baby.”
And that’s the thing about Kyle. He doesn’t ask permission to take care of you—he just does it, like breathing, like it’s the most natural and obvious thing in the world.
He starts with your arms.
You’re sitting on the edge of the ceramic tub, warm water lapping at your calves, while Kyle kneels beside you with a fresh razor and a bottle of fancy shaving oil he warmed between his palms. He lifts your arm above your head, long and gentle fingers circling your wrist, and works the oil into the hollow of your underarm with slow, thorough strokes.
“When’s the last time someone took care of you properly?” he asks casually, like small talk.
“You did. Last week,” you deadpan, brows furrowed.
He grins brilliantly. “Doesn’t count. That was just sex.”
You snort softly, “Just sex, he says—”
“Hush now.” He draws the razor up in a smooth, careful line. Rinses. Again. His touch is absurdly gentle for hands that can strip a rifle in seconds. “This is different. This is maintenance.”
“You make me sound like a bloody car.”
“Nah.” Kyle kisses his teeth, then switches to the other arm, lifting it with the same easy confidence. “More like a classic bike. High-performance. Needs the right hands.”
You snort again, but your skin is already tingling where he’s touched—warm oil sinking in, the faint sting of freshly shaved skin, his thumb rubbing slow circles into your wrist while he works.
Your legs take longer. He’s thorough about it—kneeling on the tile floor, one of your calves propped on his shoulder, dragging the razor from ankle to knee in long, unhurried strokes. He takes his time with the oil after, working it into your skin with both hands, thumbs pressing into the muscle of your calf until you groan.
“Good?” he asks, gauging your reaction, and there is something darker in his voice now. Something paying attention.
“So good,” you breathe, eyes closed in bliss.
He slides higher—past your knee, along your inner thigh. Still massaging, still working the oil in, but his fingers are brushing territory that has nothing to do with shaving. He watches your face the whole time, reading every micro-expression, cataloguing what makes your breath hitch, what makes your muscles relax.
“One more spot,” he murmurs, hands settling on your inner thighs. “Yeah?”
You nod. Your mouth has gone dry.
“Need words, love.”
And you nod more enthusiastically, “Yes. Please.”
His smile is warm, but his gaze is filthy.
Kyle repositions you gently, guiding you back against the fluffy towels he’s already laid out on the bathroom floor like he planned this from the start. Probably did. Kyle Garrick is always three steps ahead.
He settles between your thighs and takes his time with the oil, working it into the soft skin of your mound with his fingertips. Not rushing. Letting you feel every slow circle, every press of his thumb, until you’re breathing hard and your hips are shifting restlessly.
“Easy, my love," he says softly, one hand flat on your belly. “I’ve got you. Not going anywhere.”
The razor is careful. Feather-light strokes, angled perfectly, his free hand stretching the skin taut with a confidence that makes heat pool low in your stomach. He shaves you bare, all of it, pausing to rinse the blade and check his work with the pad of his thumb.
“Beautiful,” he murmurs thickly, and means it.
Then the oil comes back. Warm from his hands, drizzled over freshly shaved skin, and he starts working it in with both thumbs in long, slow strokes down either side of your slit.
Your thighs twitch. He notices. Of course he does.
“Sensitive?” he asks teasingly, voice low. Eyes crinkling with mirth.
“Kyle—”
“That’s not an answer.” But he’s smiling, thumbs pressing a little firmer, gliding through the oil and spreading you open slowly. “Tell me how it feels.”
You swallow hard, but your voice still comes out raspy, “Like you’re trying to kill me, baby.”
He laughs; warm, genuine, the sound rumbling through his chest. “Not yet.” His thumbs drag inward, slicking through the oil and your own syrupy wetness now, framing your clit without touching it. “We’re getting there, though.”
Kyle starts massaging in earnest then, and it’s devastatingly precise. Both thumbs working slow circles over your outer lips, pressing and releasing, coaxing blood to the surface until everything is swollen and throbbing and so slick you can hear it. He watches your face the whole time, dark eyes tracking every flutter of your lashes, every bitten-back sound.
“There she is,” he praises when your hips start rolling into his hands. “There you go. Just let it happen, baby.”
And he slides one thumb between your folds—just one, dragging through the mess—and your whole body arches.
“Fuck, Kyle—” you mewl, and Kyle mutters a curse under his breath, pupils blown.
“Yeah, I know.” He does it again, slow and firm, circling your clit with the pad of his thumb while his other hand keeps you spread open. “You’re soaking my hand, love. That all from the shave, or you just like being taken care of by me?”
“Both—God—both!”
“Greedy.” He says it fondly, pressing a kiss to your inner thigh. Then he sinks a finger into you—one, then two—curling them forward, and your back comes off the floor.
“Oh—oh—fuck!”
“Right there?” He crooks his fingers experimentally, finds the spot that makes your vision white out, and presses more firmly. “Yeah. Right there.”
He starts working you open with slow, deliberate thrusts—two fingers buried deep, curling against that front wall, while his thumb keeps circling your clit in a rhythm that’s going to end you. His other hand is on your hip, holding you steady when you start to writhe.
“Don't fight it,” he reminds you, and then his mouth replaces his thumb—hot and wet, tongue lapping at your clit in broad, flat strokes that make your thighs clamp around his head.
He groans against you and his fingers pick up the pace, curling and pressing in a rhythm that builds something white-hot at the base of your spine. You can feel it coiling, tighter and tighter, different from a normal orgasm, deeper, more urgent.
“Kyle—Kyle, I’m gonna—”
“I know.” He pulls back just enough to speak, lips brushing your clit while your inner muscles clench and flutter around his pumping fingers, urging him deeper. “I can feel it. Let go.”
“I can’t—”
“Yes, you can.” His fingers press harder, faster, rubbing firmly against that swollen spot inside you. “You’re safe. I’ve got you. Let go for me.”
His mouth seals over your clit and he sucks, gentle and persistent, while his fingers thrust up hard until something inside you breaks. And you come with a sound you don’t recognise; your whole body locking up and then releasing in a hot, pulsing rush that soaks his hand, his chin, the towels underneath you.
“That’s it. Fuck, baby, that’s it—” Kyle’s voice is wrecked, awed, his fingers still working you through it as you gush and squirt over his knuckles, soaking the towels. “Christ, look at you. So fucking beautiful.”
You’re shaking. Trembling all over, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes from the intensity of it, and Kyle is already there to catch you; easing his fingers out gently, pressing soft kisses to your inner thighs, your hip, the curve of your quivering belly.
“I’ve got you,” he says again, gathering you up against his lean chest. “I’ve got you, love. You did so well.”
You bury your face in his neck and he holds you. Always solid, warm, and steady. His hand strokes your back in slow, soothing circles while your breathing comes down.
“Self-care day,” you mumble against his throat, chuckling softly.
He laughs, quiet and fond. “Told you I’d take care of you.”
— J. PRICE
John finds you standing in front of the bedroom mirror, fresh from the shower, towel discarded on the floor like an afterthought. You’re turning sideways, then forward again, fingers tugging at the dark curls between your thighs with a frown he recognises immediately.
He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed. Watches you for a moment.
“Don’t even think about it woman,” he says gruffly.
You jump, because of course you didn’t hear him coming. The man moves like smoke when he wants to. “Jesus, John—”
“I know that look.” He nods toward your hand. “You’re thinking about shaving.”
You tut. Caught again. “It’s gotten—”
“No.”
He pushes off the doorframe and crosses the room, calm and unhurried, the way he does everything. Like the world operates on his schedule and it knows better than to argue.
“You nicked yourself last time,” he reminds you, stopping behind your back. You can feel the warmth of him through his shirt, his breath against the top of your head. “Bled all over the damn bathroom. Looked like a crime scene.”
You frown. “It wasn’t that bad—”
“It was exactly that bad.” His steely eyes meet yours in the mirror. Steady and final. “You want to be smooth, I’ll do it. End of discussion.”
That tone from your husband. The one that ends briefings and closes arguments. It mean Captain Price isn’t asking.
He takes his time setting up, because John Price has never rushed anything important in his life and he’s not about to start with a blade near your precious skin. Warm water in a bowl. A fresh razor—not the one you butchered yourself with last time, but his, the good one he keeps in the leather case. A flannel. Shaving soap that smells like sandalwood and menthol.
“On the bed,” he orders. “Edge. Legs apart.”
“John,” you try to reason again.
“Did I stutter?” And he gives you that look. The head tilt forward to look down at you.
And you sit obediently. He pulls the ottoman over, settles onto it between your knees like he’s sitting down to a job that requires patience and precision. Which, in his mind, it does. He drapes the warm flannel over you first—pressing it gently against the curls, softening the hair—and the heat makes you exhale slowly through your nose.
“Good girl,” he murmurs, absent and fond. “Just relax.”
He works the soap into a lather between his palms, and his hands are broad and rough and unhurried as he spreads it over you. Fingers moving through the hair with a kind of proprietary ease, like this is his to manage. His to maintain. You watch him from above—the focused set of his jaw, the silver threading through his full beard, the absolute steadiness of his hands.
You exhale slowly, willing yourself to relax while heat starts pooling low in your belly. “You don’t have to—”
“I know I don’t have to,” he interrupts calmly, picking up the razor. “I want to. Difference.”
The first stroke silences you. Slow, precise, the blade drawing a clean line through lather and hair. His free hand pulls the skin taut, and his eyes never leave his work with the same concentration you’ve seen him give to maps and mission briefs in his office.
He rinses the blade in warm water. Goes again.
“You’re quiet,” he remarks eventually, a hint of amusement buried under the gravel.
“Hard to be mouthy when your husband’s got a razor on your—”
“Careful.” But he’s smiling, just barely, the lines around his eyes crinkling. “Good time to practice some of that restraint I’m always bloody on about.”
Stroke by stroke, he clears the hair away. Thorough. Methodical. He tilts your hips when he needs a better angle, adjusts your thigh with a tap of two fingers like he’s positioning you on instinct. There’s nothing rushed about it, nothing performative—just a man doing a job properly because it needs doing and he doesn’t trust anyone else to do it right.
When he’s finished, he sets the razor aside and wipes you clean with the warm flannel—slow and careful passes that make your freshly shaved skin prickle and sing. Then he sits back, hands on your knees, and surveys his work.
“There,” he murmurs, thoroughly satisfied. “That’s how it’s done, woman.”
“Thank you.” And when you try to close your legs to get up, his hands stop you.
“I’m not finished.”
Your breath catches. He hasn’t moved—still sitting on the ottoman, still between your thighs, still looking at you with that calm, unhurried authority. But something’s shifted in his expression. His gaze has darkened, and you very well know what that means.
Your stomach swoops. “John?”
“Lie back.”
And you do obediently. Again. Not because he has ordered you to—though he has—but because when John Price uses that voice, your body just listens. Your back hits the duvet and you stare at the ceiling, heart hammering, while he pushes your thighs wider with both hands.
“Smooth,” he murmurs absentmindedly, running his palm over you, feeling his own handiwork. His thumb traces the edge of your slit; barely there, maddeningly light. “Soft.” His eyes flit up to look at you, almost smugly. “See what happens when you let me handle things?”
But you’re still staring at the ceiling, refusing to give him the satisfaction. “You’re insufferable.”
“And you’re wet.” John mentions it plainly, like a field observation. “Have been since I started. Thought I wouldn’t notice?” He snorts.
Your eyes close slowly, praying for patience. “Was hoping you wouldn’t.”
“I notice everything. Especially about my wife. You know that.” He leans forward, presses a kiss just above your mound. Utterly deliberate and proprietary. His beard scratches against the smooth skin and your hips jerk. His eyebrow raises. “Sensitive?”
You exhale a breath. “Your beard—”
“Mm.” He does it again—drags his jaw across the freshly shaved skin, rough against smooth, and the noise you make is mortifying. “That’s bloody new. Like that, do you?”
He doesn’t wait for an answer, just settles in, hands hooking under your thighs, pulling you to the edge of the bed and into his mouth like he’s sitting down to a meal he intends to take his time with.
The first broad stroke of his tongue makes you arch clean off the mattress. He grunts, low and satisfied, and pins your hips down with one forearm.
“Stay put,” he mutters against you. “I mean it.”
And then he takes you apart.
It’s not frantic. It’s not teasing. It’s thorough. The way John does everything. Long, slow drags of his tongue from entrance to clit, tasting every inch of smooth skin, learning the new terrain with the same patient focus he gave the razor. His beard scrapes against your inner thighs, your lips, the crease of your legs, and the contrast—soft warm tongue, rough stubble—has you writhing within minutes.
“John—John—”
He hums against your clit and the vibration shoots straight up your spine. His hands tighten on your thighs, pulling you closer, burying himself deeper. He sucks your clit between his lips firmly and flicks his tongue over it in a tight rhythm that makes your hands fist in the duvet.
“Oh God—oh fuck—”
He pulls back. Just enough. Lips still brushing you when he speaks.
“Language, darling.”
“You’re eating me out!” you whine helplessly.
“And you’ll still mind your mouth in my house.” But there is a rumble underneath the words—amusement and bone-deep arousal, barely restrained—and his tongue is back on you before you can fire back, licking into you with a hunger that contradicts every ounce of composure in his voice.
John brings a hand up and slides two thick fingers inside you without preamble, curling them forward, and the sound you make is broken and loud and not remotely dignified. He groans at the feel of you clenching around him, and you feel it everywhere.
“That’s it,” he groans, low and rough. “That’s my gorgeous girl.”
He fucks you with his fingers—steady and deep, curling against the spot that makes your thighs shake—while his mouth works your clit in slow, sucking pulls. He’s not rushing but savouring. Taking you apart piece by piece with the same relentless patience he applies to everything, and you couldn’t stop the orgasm building in you if you tried.
“John—I’m close—”
“I know you are.” He doesn’t change pace. Just keeps that maddening, steady rhythm. “Come when you’re ready. I’ll be here.”
It hits you like a wave. Slow and devastating, rolling through you from the inside out. Your back arches, your legs lock around his wide shoulders, and you come on his tongue with his name in your mouth. John works you through every second of it, fingers still moving, tongue still pressing, until you’re shaking and pushing weakly at his head.
When he finally pulls back, he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Looks up at you with dark, satisfied eyes and a beard that’s matted and glistening with your come.
“See? That’s why you let me handle things.”
You can’t even argue with that. Not right now at least. You’re boneless, spent, staring at the ceiling while he presses a kiss to your inner thigh and stands—unhurried as ever, straightening his shirt like he didn’t just ruin you for the rest of the day.
“I’ll make us a tea,” he calls from the doorway, completely composed. “You’ll want a biscuit after that, because I’m going to fuck my wife later.”
— J. MACTAVISH
“Nae, hen.”
Like every time before, Johnny straight up refuses when you ask him to help you shave your bush.
He takes one glance at it and his pupils blow up like an IED, swallowing the baby blue of his irises within milliseconds.
“Why?” you whine, stomping your foot like a petulant bunny. “Johnny, pleeease! I can’t do it on my own! I cut myself last time!”
And you cross your arms, frowning at him, and hoping it’s enough to make him cave. But, alas, it is not.
“Good,” he retorts, turning back to the telly where some Premier League match is playing that he’s barely watching anymore. “Maybe tha’ll teach ye to leave her alone.”
Her.
“Johnny, it’s hair.”
“Aye, it’s hair. Her hair. And I fuckin’ like it.” He slings his arm over the back of the couch, manspreading like he owns the entire living room, eyes fixed on the screen with a kind of stubbornness that makes you want to scream. “End of.”
“You don’t get to decide what I do with my own—”
“Never said I did,” he interrupts flatly, then glances at you sideways, grinning. “I said am no’ helpin’. Big fuckin’ difference, lass. Ye want to hack away at yerself in the bathroom again, be my guest. I’ll be here Mournin’.”
You cross your arms, scoffing, “You’re mourning my pubic hair.”
“Aye. She’s a right bonnie. Deserves better than some dull razor and yer shaky hands.”
You gape at him. He takes a slow sip of his beer, utterly unbothered, eyes back on the match. The audacity of this man. The sheer, Scottish audacity.
“Fine,” you snap, and yank your leggings down right there in the living room. “Look at it then. Look. It’s a mess, Johnny!”
That gets his attention.
He turns his head slowly, beer bottle halfway to his mouth, and his eyes drop between your thighs. The grin slides off his face and something else replaces it—something hotter, sharper. His jaw works. He shifts in his seat.
“Come here,” he demands suddenly.
“No. You said no.”
“I said come here.” He pats his thick right thigh. “Need a closer look, don’t I? Cannae make a proper assessment from across the room.”
You know it’s a trap. You know it is. But he’s looking at you with those baby blue eyes and that crooked, shit-eating smile, and your feet are already moving.
He pulls you onto his lap the second you’re within reach—hands on your hips, spinning you so your back is against his chest, your bare arse settled right over the growing bulge in his joggers. He spreads your thighs with his knees, hooking your legs over the outside of his, opening you up.
Your eyes widen. “Johnny!”
“Shh, hen. ‘M assessin’.”
Johnny looks down over your shoulder, chin resting against your temple, and his hands slide down from your hips to your inner thighs. He spreads you open with both thumbs and makes a low, appreciative sound that vibrates through his chest and into your spine.
“Aye, see?” he says, voice dropping rougher. “Look at her. She’s fuckin’ gorgeous. All soft an’ warm." He drags his fingers through the curls, tugging gently, and your hips twitch. “Why would ye want to get rid of this?”
“Johnny, I just—”
“Nah, hold on, ‘m talkin’ to her, no' you.” He dips his head lower, mouth against your ear, but he’s addressing your exposed cunt like it’s a separate entity. “Don’t listen to her, sweetheart. She doesnae know what she’s got. Ye’re perfect.”
You sigh deeply, lips pursing. “You’re literally insane.”
“Aye, she says thank ye,” he continues, ignoring you completely. His fingers stroke through the hair again, lower this time, brushing your outer lips. “She’s happy. See? Nice and warm in her wee fur coat. Ye want to take that away from her? In this economy? In this weather?”
“It’s literally June, Johnny.”
“Could get cold! Ye don’t know!” His thumb grazes your clit—barely, just enough—and you gasp. He grins against your ear. “Oh, an’ she’s awake now. See that? She heard ye talkin’ aboot razors an’ she got scared. I’m just comfortin’ her.”
“You’re the worst person I’ve ever—hah—”
His thumb presses down, firm, and circles slowly. “What was tha’?”
“—ever met in my entire—fuck—”
Johnny chuckles with dark satisfaction. “That’s more like it.” He circles again, lazy, like he’s got all the time in the world, like the match is still the most important thing in the room. His other hand holds your thigh open, fingers digging into the soft flesh. “Look at ye. All wet already and I’ve barely touched her. She likes the bush, babe. She’s tellin’ ye.”
Your eyes squeeze shut, trying not to make another sound. “That’s not—that’s not how that works—”
“No?” He sinks a finger into you—just one for now, thick and rough—and you clench around him so hard your vision blurs. “Feels like it’s workin’ to me.”
He starts a rhythm—slow, dragging thrusts with his finger while his thumb circles your clit—and you’re melting into his chest, head falling back against his shoulder. The telly is still on, some commentator yelling about a foul, and Johnny’s watching the match over your shoulder like he’s not knuckle-deep inside your hairy cunt.
“Johnny—fuck—pay attention to me—”
“I am payin’ attention. Multitaskin’, lass. Top o’ ma fuckin’ class.” He crooks his thick finger, and you nearly come off his lap. “Ooh, there she is. Found the spot, aye?”
“Please—”
“Please what? Please shave ye?” He tsks, adding a second finger, stretching you. “Still nae. But I’ll make ye forget why ye wanted to in the first place. Deal?”
You whimper. He takes that as a yes.
Then he pulls his fingers out, and you do whine, loud and needy, and before you can protest, he’s lifting you off his lap and onto your feet. You sway, legs shaking, and he grins up at you as he slides down the couch, lying back with his head on the armrest.
“Come here,” he demands again, pulling his shirt over his head and tossing it. He folds his muscular arms behind his head, looking up at you like he’s ordered room service. “Sit on my face.”
“You—what?”
Johnny snickers at the dumbstruck expression on your face. “Ye heard me.” He licks his lips. Obscenely slow and deliberate. Like a wolf licking its chaps. The bastard. “Bring her up here. I want to have a proper conversation.”
“A conversation,” you repeat, not amused.
“Aye. With my tongue. Now get up here before I drag ye.”
Your thighs are still trembling as you relent with a groan and climb over him, knees sinking into the couch cushions on either side of his head. You hover, suddenly self-conscious, and he rolls his eyes.
“Oh, fer fuck’s sake—” His brawny hands grip your hips and yank you down onto his mouth.
The first thing you feel is his groan—deep, guttural, vibrating against your cunt like he has just taken a bite of the best thing he’s ever tasted. His tongue drags through your furry pussy lips, broad and flat and filthy, and his fingers dig into the meat of your arse hard enough to leave bruises.
“Johnny—oh my God!”
He can’t answer with his mouth full of you, but he slaps your thigh once—hard—and you jolt. And the message is clear.
You roll your hips against his face, tentative at first, then harder when his tongue licks your clit and flicks over it in rapid, relentless strokes He’s making sounds beneath you, groaning into your cunt like he’s getting off on it as much as you are. Perhaps more. His nose presses into the curls he refused to shave and he inhales deeply, moaning like he’s dying.
“Taste so fuckin’ good,” he mumbles against you, pulling back just long enough to breathe. His chin is soaked, his eyes are five shades darker, and he’s grinning like a maniac. “Ride my face, sweetheart. Fuckin’ use me.”
His mouth seals over your clit again and he sucks hard, and your hand flies to the armrest for balance because your legs have stopped working entirely. He’s licking into you with his whole mouth now, tongue fucking you, slurping, then dragging back up to your clit, alternating between sucking and flicking in a rhythm designed to make you lose your mind.
“I’m—Johnny, I’m going to—fuck—!”
He pulls you tighter against his mouth, both hands gripping your arse and leaving finger-shaped marks, and his tongue works your clit in fast, tight circles while his nose presses against your mound and you come so hard your thighs clamp around his head and your whole body convulses.
He doesn’t stop. He licks you through it—slower now, gentler, long lazy strokes through your slit while you twitch and shake above him. When you finally collapse sideways onto the couch, boneless and gasping, he wipes his face with the back of his hand and sits up looking thoroughly pleased with himself; face shiny and mohawk wild.
“So,” he says, reaching for his beer on the side table like nothing happened. Like his grey joggers don’t have a large, damp patch on the front where his hard cock presses against it and reeks of his cum. “Still want to shave?”
You throw a cushion at his head.
He catches it, laughing—that big, stupid, full-body laugh that crinkles his whole face—and pulls you into his buff, hairy chest.
“That’s what I thought.” He presses a kiss to your hair. “Now let me watch the fuckin’ match, ye silly lass.”
Keepsake
previous - masterlist
Ghoap/female reader - omegaverse au
You’ve found some footing outside your room.
In the last week, you’ve managed to carve out some sort of existence in the house. There are bookshelves in what you assume is an office, and you’ve found titles there that help occupy your time. Sometimes you even sit on the couch in the living room, eager to escape the same four familiar walls of the bedroom. You come out for meals too, since no one has brought food to your door again, breathing through your mouth as you try to block out their scents.
It doesn’t work.
They’re everywhere.
Their scents, their bodies, even their clothes. You find shirts shoved in couch cushions, jumpers hanging over the back of kitchen chairs or the stair railings. They’re in the living room in the evenings, in the kitchen in the morning, at the table for dinner. One of them is always at breakfast, talking to you even if you don’t respond, keeping you apprised of the day.
“Johnny’s out until the afternoon, chasin’ down a lead. I’ll be here if you need something.”
“Gonna go out for groceries. D’ye need anything?”
“Simon’s on a perimeter walk. Dinnae want to scare ye, but we thought we heard something in the woods last night.”
It does scare you though. The looming threat, the fact that someone wants to kill you, is always in the back of your minding, haunting you like a bad dream. You’re afraid to step foot outside the front door, and whenever you hear them talking in low voices that abruptly stop once you enter the room, you fear the worst. They swear, again and again, that you’re safe, but the worry never goes away, it just lurks in the back of your mind, reminding you why you’re here, why you’re trapped in this house with your mates, a logical, sensible thing turned insane as you balance rational thought with instinct. Your safety is an ever changing thing, crossing lines in your head, trying to do backflips to figure out who you need protecting from.
The outside threat, or them.
Your pills aren’t working.
It’s the fourth morning in a row where you’ve swallowed your usual dosage, one suppressant, one blocker, one painkiller… and felt nothing.
No relief. No numbness.
Nothing, except for the pounding behind your eyes, the nausea crawling up the back of your throat, the never ending muscle cramps.
It’s taking a toll.
“Dove?” Johnny’s voice cuts through the static between your ears, the impossible tug of war you’re playing with yourself. They should be working. Is it because you’re too close to your alphas? Are they being overpowered? Is your body working against them, making you sicker?
Simon says your name, but you ignore him.
Is it even possible? Could their proximity override the effects of your medication? Did the doctor ever say anything about that?
A hand touches your face. It snaps you back to reality and you jerk away, shocked.
Your reaction doesn’t deter Johnny though, whose fingers are brushing across your brow.
“Ye’re warm, sweetheart. Ye feelin’ alright?” You nod, but don’t say anything, tongue heavy like wet cement in your mouth. Johnny looks down at your breakfast plate and frowns. “Ye barely ate.”
“Not hungry.” You croak. You lean away from him. He’s too close, and the urge to crawl into his arms and press your nose to his neck is overwhelming. You think it could help you, he could help you, be a balm, soothe your pain, take it away and-
Stop.
You shoot to your feet. The movement is too swift, too sudden and you sway, your lack of balance automatically moving Johnny forward, his hands on your arms, holding you steady. “Whoa, easy. Ye alright? Do ye need to lay down?”
“I don’t know.” You look away, trying to hide from their gazes, Johnny’s bright and concerned, Simon’s dark and focused. Two walls closing in on you, squeezing you from both sides.
“Maybe ye should go back to bed, try to get some sleep. Or do ye want to lay on the couch?” You shake your head.
“No, no… I’ll go back to bed. I’m probably just tired.” An obvious lie, but you can’t admit to them how badly you’re hurting. Your pride won’t allow it.
“Alright…” Johnny says as his hand slowly moves from just above your elbow to your back. “Let’s go get ye comfortable.” You stiffen, try to pull away but his touch stays firm, grounded at the base of your spine like an anchor, steering you towards the stairs.
You look over your shoulder before taking the first one. You’re not sure why, something pulls you, some sort of gravity, your eyes finding Johnny’s, and then Simon’s behind him. A foul yearning ricochets through your soul, your body, a desire unlike anything you’ve ever felt spreading through your blood.
An infection.
They made you sick.
They’re making you sick, still. Somehow.
Buried deep, the want burns, begs you to lean in, to give up, to give yourself over. To fall into their mercy and their attempts to soothe you, to let them have you. It takes considerable effort to fight it. To gnash your teeth together and refuse to let it out.
You hold your breath all the way up the stairs, letting the fire grow in your lungs until you reach your bedroom, head swimming as you collapse into the mattress. You should tell him to leave, but you can’t. The effort would be too much.
“Jus’ rest.” Johnny murmurs, back of his hand pressing to your forehead again as he brings your blankets up to your chin. “I’ll check on ye in a bit.” You scowl.
“I’m fine. Just tired.” You bite out before rolling onto your side, staring straight ahead at the wall. He sighs as he stands, shakes his head.
“If ye say so.”
You’re full of restless energy when you wake up.
It’s after sunset, the only light in your room coming from the small lamp that’s on your bedside table, hazy yellow light spilling out from behind the shade.
You feel a bit better, more clear headed, but there’s this… unsteadiness under your skin, something volatile and turbulent trying to get out. Your chest feels too tight, your hands are trembling.
Anxiety, you think. Has to be. You’re not immune to it, have plenty of experience with stomach twisting worry, though it’s never felt like this. It’s a new manifestation, a new way of your body worrying, fixating.
The blankets you’re hidden under are too heavy now, constricting, and you sit up, glancing around, looking for something that may have triggered your discomfort.
There’s nothing, except for the empty bedroom.
The bedroom that’s too large, too open.
It’s problem needing to be fixed, and you know what to do.
You pull the mountain of pillows apart, stacking them in misshapen rows around the edge of the bed, effectively creating a wall between you and the door. All the blankets come next, the extra ones, the weighted one, folded and then unfolded, arranged so each hem is ready to be pulled up over your face at any time to hide you from the world. You reorganize too many times, unable to stop yourself from pulling them around the center of the bed, bundling them up into cozy little groups, ready to be laid in, or on, however you want. You rifle through your duffel, looking for more clothes, comfy pants and shirts, their cotton lengths or fleece insides bringing you a tiny bit of peace as you shove them between edges. The bed is smaller now, and you’re enclosed like a castle sitting inside formidable walls. Tucked away. Safe.
But it still doesn’t feel right.
That feeling in your body, the one stretching and straining in your bones, twisting you from the inside out, hasn’t gone away.
You eye the lamp.
It’s too high, you decide. Too tall. It needs to be on the ground, and you place on the carpet at the corner of your bed, just next to the table so the warm yellow glow is somewhat muted.
Better, but still not right.
Maybe it’s the scent. Everything smells like clean laundry, all the blankets and pillows bearing the same lavender, freshly washed smell, the one that you get from the expensive detergent.
Nothing smells like you except for your clothes.
You grab at a blanket and work the edge of it over your wrists, your neck, your face, doing the same over and over with the others. You rub your face on all the pillows, breathing them in as deep as you can, trying to figure out if the contact is making a difference, or if it’s a fruitless endeavor.
It should work.
It should.
You look around. Up. Down. Eyes dragging from each corner to the next, looking for an offender. A reason.
The closet catches your eye.
Maybe it’s too big, you wonder. Maybe the room is too large, too much. Overwhelming.
You crawl off the mattress on hands and knees, shaking hands reaching for the closet door.
It’s dark in here. Nearly empty, but you can fix that. Easily.
You drag everything you’ve assembled on the bed to the floor, pulling it inside the closet piece by piece, lining the walls with pillows, arranging the blankets so they’re perfect for burrowing, snuggling.
Still not completely right, but better. Something is still off, but this is safer, darker. Everything you need.
You’re not sure how long you’ve been buried in the mountain of your own creation when the bedroom door opens.
Could be hours. Could be minutes. Time is a little blurry.
Everything is a little blurry, if you’re honest.
The pounding in your head has returned, a small headache that grew between your temples until it was beating like a drum, forcing your eyes closed, pushing you deeper into your pile of softness. It soothes you somehow, makes things feel not as terrible.
You stay there, curled up, when the door creaks. When there’s a silent pause, and then footsteps, and you don’t move when the closet is opened, the small amount of light at the back of the alpha causing you to wince.
Simon.
Sea salt and leather floods the space, and you realize with dread it’s a part of what you’ve been missing, that itchy, anxious feeling under your skin partially calming as steps closer.
His knees crack as he crouches, lowers himself in front of you, without a word. The silence settles like a tightrope, too dangerous for you to walk, to speak. You watch him inspect you, the closet, the blankets and pillows, watch the calculation unfold in real time.
“This is nice,” he murmurs, running a hand over some of the blankets, “bit small for your nest though.” The horror is immediate. Is that what this is? Is that what you’ve done? It has all the markings of nesting, all the telltale signs, but for some reason, you can't see it. You've nested before, but it's never felt like this.
No. You’re not nesting. You just needed to get comfortable. The room was too big, too open to them.
“It’s not a nest.” You growl, instinctively pulling a blanket up to your neck. “I was just… I needed to get out of bed.” He cocks his head.
“It’s not? Sure looks like one to me.” Dismay burns in your blood, and your scent turns sour. Distressed. “It’s okay,” he soothes immediately, “you did good, dove. It’s a good nest.” He’s speaking to your biology, your hindbrain, and your omega preens, the instinct inside of you lighting up at the praise. It’s like a knife in your heart, this betrayal of your sense, and the horror only grows as you start to purr, the light vibration coming from beneath your ribs earning you a small smile from your alpha.
Stop.
Stopstopstopstop please stop-
The purring gets louder. Your stomach tosses, bile burning in the back of your throat, but you can’t stop it. You’re paralyzed, immobile, two factions fighting for control, and you can’t do anything but lay there as his hand comes to rest on your ankle, thumb pressing in, down, working against you in a slow circle. “Such a good omega.”
That snaps you out of it.
The praising of your designation is always something that has disgusted you. It’s dehumanizing, reduces you to a role, a biological factor and nothing more. An omega is the same as any omega, when it comes down to it. All driven by need, by instinct, preening and purring and desperate for knots and bites. Animals done to their bones.
You won't let that become who you are. You can't.
You kick his hand away and scoot back, deeper into the corner. The purring and pride has vanished, and in its place is a black rooted, snarled mess of fear and anger and pain. There’s a moment where you think he’s going to tighten his grip and hold on, but it doesn’t last. He stands instead, looks down as he towers over you.
“Dinner’s ready.” You shake your head.
“I’m not hungry.” It’s not true. You woke up with an appetite, and even with this situation, this confusion, the anxiety, the pain, everything, it’s still there.
“You need to eat.” You’re about to refuse again, but his eyes narrow. “Do you need me to bring you downstairs myself?” He will, you know it. You don’t doubt he will drag you out of this closet and down the stairs.
“N-no.” You hate the stammer, the proof in it. How it exposes you, shows how scared you are, how unsure. How this entire situation has changed you, took your life and dumped it upside down.
“C’mon then.” He extends his hand, and the part of you that’s growing out of control tries to take it. Your arm twitches, moves like it’s being played by a puppeteer. It’s only once your fingertips almost brush his that you yank back with a scowl. He chuckles. “Suit yourself.” He’s not leaving, not until you’re out of the closet, and you know that. He could force you, bark at you, drag you out. He’s got you pinned to the ropes, no choice but to do as he says, so you reluctantly crawl forward on your hands and knees, unsteady as you start to stand from being curled up all day.
You give the closet one last look before you close the bedroom door, its dark mouth beckoning you, waiting patiently.
It knows you’ll come crawling back before the night is over.
𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐞 (/ˈsōlˌmāt/) a soulmate is a person with whom you feel an intense, profound, and often instant connection, characterized by deep understanding, shared values, and mutual growth. while frequently romantic, soulmates can also be friends or companions who challenge, support, and help you grow into a better version of yourself.
I feel like I need to share this because idk if Europeans are familiar with the presence of Aldi in the US, but at least especially in my area they’ve been growing a lot recently. Like Aldi bought out some local failing grocery chains where I live (Louisiana) and have opened Aldis in all these somewhat rural communities and small towns, which for the record I’m fine with
But as a result of this they are advertising a lot more in my area and also in many cases, the people in these areas have never been confronted with Aldi or any European grocery store. So the ads that Aldi is pushing out to its new US customer base feature a cowboy shopping at Aldi who is explaining to new Aldi customers how Aldi works. Like this cowboy is explaining you gotta put a quarter in the shopping cart and why there are very little name brands. A cowboy is how they want to reach their American customer base. They gave us a cowboy
summary: A phone call from your father cracks open wounds you thought had long since healed. As you struggle to keep yourself together, Pope shows you the terrifying truth about loving a man who would do absolutely anything for you. andrew ‘pope’ cody x f!reader / cw: angst!!!, depression, parental abuse, financial abuse, readers trauma in full swing, warning for readers father, manipulation, coercion, stalking, panic attacks, crying, breakdown, use of violence for gain, armed robberies, murder (lol), protective!pope, mentions of drug use, mentions of overdose (readers mom), pope doesn’t know what’s wrong with reader so he just does the most, police chase, psycho!pope but it’s hot, pope doesn’t play when it comes to bambi fr (we been knew), smut!! (oral f!receiving, he’s a munch, oral m!receiving, throat fucking fr, gratuitous sex???, breeding kink, unprotected piv, slight slight choking not fully.), i think pope would just disappear for a while when he sets his mind to something so… yea, we see a diff side of bambi, bambi matches his freak lowkey. word count: 17.7k (somebody sedate me pls) amalia’s love note: I LOVE THEM YOUR HONOR!!! in an attempt to make up for the lack of pope last chapter i present you with this very fun, very special, very dark piece. you might be thinking, oh she’s gunna enable him, no sir he be doing that himself anywhore onto bigger better things!!!! i rly do imagine pope just saying ‘no’ over and over in an argument with bambi lmao. we are going to pretend that I didn’t forget to write him wearing a ski mask :) love yall. PREVIOUS PART | NEXT PART
Normally you could spend hours wandering between vendors, buying things you didn’t need and convincing yourself they somehow counted as necessities. Fresh flowers. Homemade soap. Bread that cost way too much money. Little pieces of normal life. The kind of things you always promised yourself you wouldn’t buy and somehow ended up carrying back to your car anyway. It had become one of your favorite ways to spend a Saturday morning, getting lost in crowds of strangers and pretending for a few hours that your biggest concern was whether you really needed another candle.
Today, though, your mind was somewhere else entirely.
You’d spent the morning studying for an exam that felt extremely impossible, your bag still slung over one shoulder as you wandered between booths with an iced coffee in your hand. The summer sun was warm against your skin. People laughed around you. Families pushed strollers down the crowded rows. A little girl ran past carrying a bouquet of sunflowers almost as big as she was. Somewhere nearby a musician played an acoustic guitar. Everything around you felt normal. Peaceful. The kind of day that should have felt easy.
For a few minutes, you almost felt normal. Then your phone rang. You glanced down.
Dad.
Your stomach immediately tightened. You hadn’t spoken to him in years.
The call went to voicemail. You let out a relieved sigh and kept walking, trying to ignore the sudden spike of anxiety crawling up your spine. You focused on the coffee in your hand. The crowd. The music. Anything except the name that had appeared on your screen. Maybe that was it. Maybe he’d gotten the hint. Maybe he’d leave it alone.
Then it rang again.
And again.
And again.
By the fifth call, people were starting to glance at you. Your chest felt tight. The ringing seemed louder now, impossible to ignore. Each vibration against your palm felt like a countdown to something terrible. You already knew this wasn’t going to be a normal conversation. Your father never called unless he wanted something. Never reached out unless there was a problem he expected someone else to solve. Your hands were already sweating by the time you answered.
“What?”
Silence. Then a familiar sigh. Disappointed. Long-suffering. The same sigh he’d used your entire childhood whenever he wanted you to feel guilty.
“Nice to hear from you too.”
You closed your eyes. “What do you want?”
“Wow.”
“Dad.”
“No hello? No how are you? Nothing?”
You pinched the bridge of your nose. Every conversation started like this. Always. No matter what he had done, somehow you ended up defending yourself before the real conversation even began. It was like being dropped back into childhood without warning. Suddenly you were eight years old again, trying to figure out why everything was somehow your fault.
“I’m busy.”
“You’re always busy.”
“Please tell me what you want?”
The silence that followed made your skin crawl. For the first time, he sounded nervous. Not angry. Nervous. And that scared you more. Your father angry was normal. Predictable. Your father scared meant something was wrong.
“I need your help.”
Your stomach dropped. Of course. Of course he did. Because your father never called just to call. He called when he wanted something. He called when he needed something. He called when he wanted somebody else to clean up his mess. The tiny bit of hope you’d had that maybe he’d just wanted to hear your voice vanished instantly.
“What happened?”
Another long silence.
“I owe some people money.”
You actually laughed. Not because it was funny. Because it was ridiculous. Because somehow, despite everything, this was exactly what you should have expected.
“Dad.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
“Please listen.”
The word please coming from him immediately made your pulse quicken. Your father didn’t say please. Not unless something was very wrong. Not unless he was desperate enough to start performing vulnerability.
“How much?”
Silence. Way too much silence.
“Fifty thousand.”
The world seemed to stop. The crowd around you disappeared. The music. The noise. Everything.
“What?”
“Fifty thousand.”
You genuinely thought you might throw up. The number echoed through your skull. Fifty thousand. Fifty thousand dollars. You could barely keep up with your tuition payments “Dad, I don’t have fifty thousand dollars.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you calling me?”
“You have connections.”
You stared at nothing. Confused. “What connections?”
“You’re in medical school.”
You blinked. “What?”
“You know people.”
“No I don’t.”
“Yes you do.”
“No, I really don’t.” You felt yourself getting frustrated. Because none of this made any sense. You were a student. A broke student. You lived in an apartment Pope owned. Half your bank account disappeared into tuition every semester. You counted every dollar most months. You worried about textbooks. Gas money. Rent if you ever had to move out. “Dad, I don’t have fifty thousand dollars.”
“You could get it.”
“No.”
“You could.”
“No.”
“You always give up before you try.”
The words hit harder than they should have. Because that was his thing. Twisting reality until you weren’t sure what was true anymore.
Suddenly the impossible became your fault. Suddenly his choices became your responsibility. Suddenly you were the selfish one. The bad daughter. The one who wasn’t trying hard enough.
“Dad.”
“If you wanted to help me, you’d find a way.”
Your chest tightened painfully. “I don’t have fifty thousand dollars,” you whispered, feeling guilty anyway.
“You could take out loans.”
You frowned. “Loans?” No bank would give you more loans when you’d already taken out almost two hundred thousand dollars in student loans. He knew that. Or maybe he didn’t care. Either way, the expectation remained the same.
“You’re smart. Figure it out.”
Figure it out. The phrase echoed. Figure it out. The same thing he’d said when your mom overdosed. The same thing he’d said when you ran away. The same thing he’d said every time life became inconvenient. Figure it out.
Your breathing started feeling strange. Too fast. Too shallow. You swallowed hard “What happened?”
He was quiet. “I made a mistake.”
“What mistake?” Silence. “Dad.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It does matter.”
“They’re going to kill me.”
The words knocked the air from your lungs. Your eyes filled instantly. Your father lied constantly. Manipulated constantly. Exaggerated constantly. But fear? Real fear You could hear it.
“They said if I don’t pay, they’re going to kill me.”
You leaned against a nearby vendor tent because your knees suddenly felt weak. The edges of your vision blurred. Your stomach rolled violently. The crowd around you felt impossibly far away now, like you were trapped behind glass watching the world continue without you. “Oh my God.” You felt nauseous suddenly.
“You can’t let that happen. You already killed your mother, don’t be the reason I die too.”
The guilt arrived immediately. Heavy. Crushing. Familiar. The same guilt he’d spent years building inside you. The same guilt that somehow survived every therapy session, every attempt to heal, every logical reminder that your mother’s addiction had never been your fault. “Dad…”
“You’re all I have.”
That was a lie. You knew it was a lie. He had a wife. Children. Friends. An entire life that didn’t include you. But somehow hearing it still hurt. Because part of you still wanted him to choose you. Still wanted him to love you. Still wanted to matter.
“If they kill me-”
“Stop,” you begged.
“It’s true.”
“Stop,” you begged harder now.
“If they kill me, it’ll be because nobody helped me.”
The panic attack hit so fast it stole your breath. You couldn’t inhale properly. Your vision blurred. Your hands started shaking. The crowd suddenly felt too loud. The sun felt too bright. Your chest felt too small to hold your lungs. “Dad, stop.”
“I’m scared.”
And there it was. The final hook. Because for all the horrible things your father had done, there was still a little girl inside you that wanted him to love her. A little girl who wanted to save him. A little girl who still thought maybe if she fixed enough of his problems, he’d finally become the father she deserved. Your heart was hammering so hard it hurt. Tears burned behind your eyes. Every logical thought in your brain was being drowned out by guilt and fear.
“I’ll-I’ll see what I can do.” The words left your mouth before you even realized you were saying them.
His relief was immediate. “I knew you’d help me.” Of course. Not thank you. Not I’m sorry. Just certainty. Because helping him wasn’t a gift. It was an expectation.
The call ended a few minutes later. You sat in your car for almost an hour afterward. Staring at nothing. Trying not to cry. Trying not to panic. Every few minutes another wave of anxiety would hit and your chest would tighten all over again. You kept replaying the conversation. Kept hearing his voice. Kept hearing you already killed your mother. You knew it wasn’t true. You knew it was manipulative. You knew exactly what he was doing. And somehow it worked anyway.
You didn’t tell Pope. Not that day. Not the next day. Not the day after that.
You told yourself you were protecting him. That you could handle it. That you would figure something out. Every morning you woke up with the same pit in your stomach and the same promise to yourself. Today would be the day you fixed it. Today would be the day you found a solution. Today would be the day you stopped feeling like you were drowning. But every night ended the same way, with your laptop open in front of you, your eyes burning from exhaustion, and another dead end staring back at you from the screen.
Instead, the secret started eating you alive. You stopped sleeping. Stopped concentrating. Stopped studying. At first it was small things. Missing a few lecture notes. Forgetting assignments. Reading the same paragraph in a textbook six times without retaining a single word. Then it got worse. Entire days blurred together. You’d sit at your desk for hours accomplishing nothing. Your thoughts felt trapped in a constant loop, always returning to the same impossible problem. Fifty thousand dollars. Fifty thousand dollars. Fifty thousand dollars. The number followed you everywhere. It sat beside you in class. It waited for you in the shower. It followed you into your dreams.
You spent hours looking at loans you couldn’t qualify for and jobs that wouldn’t pay enough in ten years, never mind ten days. Every rejection felt personal. Every denial felt like proof that your father had been right about you all along. Not smart enough. Not capable enough. Not resourceful enough. You knew logically that wasn’t true. You knew most people couldn’t magically produce fifty thousand dollars. But logic had never stood much of a chance against the voice your father planted in your head years ago. The more desperate you became, the louder that voice got.
Every time your phone rang, your stomach dropped. Every text from your father made your hands shake.
“Any luck?”
“They’re asking again.”
“I’m running out of time.”
“You promised you’d help.”
Sometimes he called three or four times in a row. Sometimes he left voicemails. Sometimes he sent paragraphs describing how scared he was. How alone he was. How nobody else would help him. And every single message made you feel smaller. Worse. More responsible. You knew what he was doing. You could practically hear your therapist’s voice explaining manipulation and guilt and emotional abuse. The problem was that understanding it didn’t stop it from working. You still found yourself staring at your phone at three in the morning wondering if he was telling the truth. Wondering if somebody was actually going to kill him. Wondering if you were about to lose another parent because you couldn’t save them.
By the end of the week, Pope started noticing. Because Pope always noticed. The dark circles under your eyes. The untouched food. The way you’d stare at your phone before quickly locking the screen whenever he walked into the room. The way your hands trembled when you thought nobody was looking. The way you stopped curling against him on the couch. The way you’d disappear into the bathroom for twenty minutes at a time just to sit on the floor and breathe through the panic before he could see it.
The worst part was that you started pulling away without even meaning to. Not because you wanted distance from him. Because being near him made you feel guilty. Pope loved you in a way that was almost overwhelming sometimes. He noticed when you skipped meals. He remembered what kind of coffee you liked. He kissed your forehead when you fell asleep studying. Every act of kindness felt like a spotlight shining directly on the secret you were keeping. You hated lying to him. Hated every forced smile. Hated every excuse. But you couldn’t bring yourself to tell him. Because the second you did, it would become real.
One night you sat at the kitchen table pretending to study while Pope cooked dinner. The apartment smelled like garlic and onions. A normal night. A peaceful night. The kind of night you usually loved. Instead, you spent most of it staring blankly at the same page while your phone sat face down beside your notebook. You jumped when it vibrated. Not enough for most people to notice. Enough for Pope.
You flipped it over before he could see the screen.
“Everything okay?” he asked from the stove.
“Yeah.” The lie came automatically.
Pope glanced over his shoulder.
You immediately looked back down at your textbook. “Okay.” That was all he said. But you could feel his eyes on you. Could feel him watching. Not suspicious. Concerned. Which somehow felt worse.
By the time you climbed into bed that night, exhaustion had settled so deeply into your bones it felt permanent. Pope was already lying down. The second you slipped beneath the blankets, his arm automatically wrapped around your waist. Normally you would’ve curled into him without thinking. Normally you’d bury your face in his chest and let the sound of his heartbeat calm your mind. Instead, you lay awake staring at the ceiling.
Your father’s messages replayed endlessly in your head. Your chest felt tight. Your eyes burned. You couldn’t stop thinking about all the ways this could end badly. Beside you, Pope’s breathing stayed slow and steady. For a long time, neither of you moved. Then quietly, in the darkness, his hand tightened against your side. Just slightly. Like he knew. Like he didn’t know what was wrong yet, but he knew something was. And somehow that almost made you cry more than your father’s phone calls ever did.
By the following week, Pope had stopped asking questions. Not because he wasn’t worried. Because every time he asked, you lied.
The lies weren’t convincing. They never were. Not to him. You’d smile and tell him school was stressful. Tell him you were tired. Tell him exams were kicking your ass. Then you’d turn around and spend forty minutes staring at your phone like it was about to explode in your hands.
Pope knew something was wrong. He just didn’t know what. So he watched. Not in a creepy way. At least not by Pope standards.
He simply started paying closer attention. The first time he followed you, he expected you to go to class. Instead, he watched you walk into a bank.
Pope frowned from across the street. You were inside for almost thirty minutes. When you came out, your shoulders were slumped.
You sat in your car afterward for another fifteen. Just sitting there. Staring at the steering wheel. Then you wiped your face.
Pope’s stomach dropped. You were crying.
The second bank happened two days later.
The third happened the day after that.
By the fourth, Pope was getting angry. Not at you. At whatever had put that look back into your eyes. The look he’d spent months helping you get rid of.
The one that reminded him of how you’d looked in Smurfs kitchen after Nate hit you. Scared. Lost. Alone.
The fifth bank lasted less than ten minutes. You came out looking devastated.
Pope watched you sit in your car and lower your forehead onto the steering wheel. You stayed like that for almost twenty minutes. Not moving. Just sitting there.
Something twisted painfully in his chest. Because you looked defeated. And Pope hated seeing you defeated.
The sixth bank was the worst one. You’d spent nearly an hour inside. Long enough that Pope actually started worrying. Long enough that he nearly walked in himself.
Then the doors opened. And there you were. Eyes red. Face pale. Walking like somebody had just told you the world was ending.
Pope watched you make it halfway across the parking lot before stopping completely. You stood beside your car staring into space. Then suddenly your hands covered your face. Your shoulders shook.
Even from across the lot, he could tell. You were crying. Hard. The kind of crying people did when they thought nobody could see them.
Pope gripped the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles turned white. For a brief moment he considered getting out. Going to you. Demanding answers.
Instead he forced himself to stay put. Because if you wanted him to know, you would’ve told him. Wouldn’t you?
The thought sat wrong. Heavy. Uncomfortable.
You drove home almost an hour later.
Pope gave you enough time to get inside before following.
The apartment was dark when he walked through the front door.
Too dark. No television. No music. No sound. His stomach immediately tightened.
“Sweetheart?” Nothing. He dropped his keys onto the counter. “Bambi?”
Still nothing. Then he heard it. A broken sound. Small. Almost impossible to hear. A sob.
Pope’s heart stopped. He followed the sound down the hallway. The bathroom door was open. And there you were. Curled up on the floor. Completely shattered.
You were sitting against the bathtub with your knees pulled to your chest. Your phone was lying discarded beside you. Mascara stained your cheeks. Your entire body shook with every breath. You looked like you’d been crying for hours.
Something inside Pope broke instantly “Sweetheart.”
Your head lifted. The second you saw him, whatever fragile control you’d been holding onto disappeared. A sob ripped from your throat. Not a quiet cry. Not tears. A genuine, devastating sob. The kind that came from somewhere deep. The kind that hurt.
“Oh sweetheart.”
Pope was on the floor beside you immediately. You practically fell into him. Both arms wrapping around his middle. Holding on like you were drowning.
Pope pulled you into his lap without hesitation. One hand cradling the back of your head. The other rubbing slow circles across your back. “It’s okay.”
You shook your head violently. Another sob escaping. Words tried to form. Failed.
Pope could barely understand you. “I know.”
You buried your face deeper into his chest. Your fingers twisted desperately into his shirt. Like if you let go, you’d fall apart completely.
“Hey.” His voice softened. The way it only ever softened for you. “Look at me.”
You couldn’t. Every time you tried, another wave of tears hit. Another sob. Another shaky breath. Pope’s chest physically hurt. Because you were trying so hard. Trying to explain something. Trying to carry something. And it was crushing you.
“I tried.” The words came out broken. Barely audible.
“I know.”
“I tried so hard.” A fresh wave of tears followed immediately.
Pope’s hand tightened against your hair. “I know sweetheart.”
You shook your head. “No.” Another sob. “I tried.”
Pope felt something cold settle in his stomach. Because whatever this was You genuinely believed it was your fault.
You kept repeating it. Over and over. Like a prayer. Like a confession. Like if you said it enough times maybe somebody would believe you. Maybe you’d believe you.
“I tried.”
“I know.”
“I really tried.”
“I know.”
Pope pressed a kiss against your forehead. Then another. Then another. Like he was trying to hold you together with nothing but touch. “You don’t gotta do this right now.”
Your breathing hitched. “They’re gonna-” The rest dissolved into tears.
Pope immediately frowned. “They’re gonna what?”
You just cried harder. Words disappearing entirely. Pope’s heart was racing now. Something was very wrong. Very wrong. But every time you got close to explaining it, another sob cut you off.
Another wave of panic. Another breakdown.
Eventually you exhausted yourself. The sobs became quieter. Your grip on his shirt loosened. Your head grew heavier against his chest.
Pope kept rubbing your back the entire time. Never stopping. Never rushing. “It’s okay sweetheart.” Your eyes were already closing “You can sleep.”
A small sound escaped you. Exhausted. Defeated. Heartbroken. Pope held you for another twenty minutes before realizing you’d finally fallen asleep.
Your breathing had evened out. Your body had gone completely limp against him. Carefully, he slipped one arm beneath your knees. The other around your back. Then stood. You barely stirred. Just curled instinctively closer. Seeking warmth. Seeking comfort. Seeking him.
Pope carried you into the bedroom. Pulled the blankets back. Laid you down gently. For a moment he simply stood there looking at you. Your face was swollen from crying. Your eyelashes were still damp. Even asleep, you looked sad.
That bothered him more than he wanted to admit. Pope sat on the edge of the bed and brushed a strand of hair from your face. Whatever this was. Whatever had put that terrified look back into your eyes. Whatever had you crying on bathroom floors and visiting six different banks.
He was going to find out.
And when he did, God help whoever was responsible. Because nobody got to make you cry like that. Nobody.
Pope woke before dawn with your tear streaked face in his mind. The apartment was dark, silent except for the hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen. He didn't need an alarm, his body knew what today was. What it had to be. He sat up on the edge of the bed, bare feet on cold hardwood, and let the weight of it settle over him.
He thought about your smile, the way you looked at him like he was capable of anything. Like he was more than just another Cody boy destined for prison or an early grave. You deserved better than this life, better than scraping by in Oceanside with nothing but salt air and broken promises. Today, he’d give you something real. Something that mattered.
Pope stood and moved through the apartment with practiced efficiency. Black jeans. Dark hoodie. Gloves tucked in his back pocket. He checked the duffel bag one more time, spark plugs, ceramic tips intact, wrapped carefully in cloth. The perfect tool. Small, portable, effective against tempered glass. He’d learned that years ago, watching a tweaker smash a car window in seconds. Physics and desperation made strange bedfellows.
The first car was parked three blocks away, a stolen Honda Civic with plates he’d swapped yesterday. He’d staged all six vehicles across Oceanside over the past week, each one clean, each one disposable. The planning had taken a day. The execution would take hours.
Pope locked the apartment door behind him and stepped into the dawn darkness. His heart was already beating faster. Not fear, he’d left fear behind a long time ago. This was something else. Purpose. Clarity. Love distilled into criminal intent.
The first bank opened at nine.
Pope sat in the Honda three blocks from First National, watching the morning unfold. Commuters shuffled past, clutching coffee cups, staring at phones. None of them saw him. That was the trick, be so ordinary that you disappeared. Just another guy in a car, waiting for nothing in particular.
At 9:07 AM, he pulled on the gloves and stepped out. The bank was a squat brick building with large windows facing the street. He’d cased it four times over the past day, memorized the layout, the camera positions, the response times. Security guard on duty, but older, slower. Tellers behind bulletproof glass. The real money wasn’t in the drawers, it was in the ATM vestibule, the cash display cases, the manager’s office if you knew where to look.
Pope walked in like he belonged there. Calm. Confident. He moved past the teller stations toward the back where they kept the promotional displays, those glass cases full of cash meant to entice people into opening accounts. Stupid, really. Might as well put a sign that said “Rob Me.”
His hand closed around the spark plug in his pocket. The ceramic tip was the key. Tempered glass was designed to withstand blunt force, but the hardness of the ceramic created a focused point of pressure that shattered the structure instantly. Pope didn't need to understand it completely, he just needed it to work.
He glanced around. The security guard was near the entrance, distracted by his phone. The tellers were busy with customers. Pope pulled out the spark plug, wound up, and swung.
The sound was louder than he expected, a sharp crack followed by the cascading tinkle of safety glass collapsing into a thousand pieces. For a moment, everything froze. Then chaos.
Someone screamed. The security guard's head snapped up. But Pope was already moving, hands plunging into the display case, grabbing banded stacks of hundreds and fifties. His duffel bag opened like a hungry mouth, swallowing the cash. Ten seconds. Fifteen. Twenty.
"Hey! HEY!"
The guard was coming, hand fumbling for his radio. Pope grabbed one more stack, zipped the bag, and ran. Not toward the front entrance, that was suicide. He’d mapped the back exit, the one the employees used, the one that led to the alley. His legs pumped, adrenaline singing in his veins.
He hit the alley at full speed, turned left, and sprinted three blocks to where the Honda waited. Keys in the ignition. Engine turning over smooth and clean. He pulled into traffic like he had all the time in the world, just another Oceanside resident going about his day.
In the rearview mirror, no sirens yet. No pursuit. Pope’s hands were shaking on the steering wheel. Not from fear, from the rush. The duffel bag on the passenger seat was heavy with cash, maybe fifteen or twenty thousand if he'd guessed right.
He thought about your face when he told you about the money tonight. The way your eyes would go wide. The way you’d finally understand that he meant it when he said he’d do anything for you.
Pope ditched the Honda in a grocery store parking lot and walked four blocks to where the second car waited. He transferred the duffel bag, checked his watch. 9:34 AM.
The second robbery went smoother.
Pope had learned from the first one, move faster, hit harder, don't hesitate. The Coastal Credit Union was smaller, less security, more vulnerable. He walked in at 11:15 AM, two hours after the first hit, and went straight for the ATM vestibule where they kept the cash reserves.
Another spark plug. Another swing. Glass exploded like a gunshot.
This time he didn’t wait for the screaming to start. He grabbed what he could, stacks of twenties, fifties, hundreds, and was out the side door before anyone could react. The Camry was parked close, engine running in his mind even though he’d shut it off. Muscle memory carried him through the escape, autopilot born of planning and necessity.
By the time the first police car arrived, Pope was already five miles away, merging onto the 76, heading east before doubling back south. The duffel bag was heavier now. Maybe thirty-five, forty thousand total. He was ahead of schedule.
But the police scanners he’d been monitoring were starting to chatter. Two bank robberies in Oceanside, same MO, suspect using spark plugs to break glass. They were connecting the dots faster than he’d hoped.
Pope ditched the Camry in a residential neighborhood and walked to car number three, a Ford Focus, dark blue, parked behind an abandoned warehouse. He sat in the driver’s seat for a moment, breathing hard, letting the adrenaline cycle through his system.
He pulled out his phone and looked at your picture. The one from earlier in the summer, your hair blowing in the ocean breeze, smiling like you didn’t have a care in the world. That’s what he was buying with this money, freedom from care. Freedom from the grinding poverty that turned people into ghosts. Freedom from whatever was bothering you. Pope put the phone away and started the engine.
By noon, the city was buzzing with news of the robberies. Pope could feel it in the air, that electric tension that came when people realized something dangerous was happening in their safe little world. He drove past two police cars on his way to Pacific Trust, both of them heading in the opposite direction, lights flashing.
They were looking for him, but they didn’t know where he’d strike next. That was his advantage, speed, unpredictability, the willingness to push when everyone else would pull back.
Pacific Trust was in a strip mall, sandwiched between a nail salon and a pizza place. More cameras here, more foot traffic. Riskier. But the cash displays were visible from the street, practically begging to be hit.
Pope parked the Focus two blocks away and walked. His third spark plug was in his right hand, concealed by his sleeve. His heart was hammering now, not from fear but from the accumulation of adrenaline, the way it built up in your system like a drug you couldn't quite metabolize.
He pushed through the glass doors at 12:23 PM.
The bank was busy, lunch hour, people depositing checks, withdrawing cash for the weekend. Pope moved through the crowd like a shark through shallow water. Purposeful. Predatory. He reached the display case and didn’t hesitate.
The spark plug swung. Glass shattered. Money appeared.
This time, someone tried to stop him, a middle-aged man in a business suit, some kind of hero complex overriding his common sense. Pope shoved him hard, sent him sprawling into a velvet rope barrier. The man went down with a yelp. Pope grabbed cash with both hands, stuffing it into the duffel bag, not even counting anymore, just taking everything he could reach.
A security guard was coming, younger than the first one, faster. Pope saw him reaching for something on his belt, pepper spray, maybe a taser. Not good. Pope zipped the bag and ran, shouldering through the crowd, ignoring the screams and shouts. The guard was behind him, closing the distance.
Pope hit the parking lot at full speed and made a decision. Instead of running to the Focus, he cut left, sprinted through the strip mall, vaulted a low fence, and disappeared into a residential neighborhood. The guard couldn’t follow, too slow, too committed to protecting the bank instead of chasing suspects into unknown territory.
Pope circled back, breathing hard, and reached the Focus from a different direction. No one had followed. No one had seen. He climbed in, started the engine, and pulled into traffic with his hands shaking so hard he could barely grip the wheel.
Three down. Three to go. The duffel bag was getting heavy, maybe sixty, seventy thousand now. He was past the halfway point in every sense that mattered.
But the police presence was intensifying. He could hear it on the scanner, units being repositioned, roadblocks being discussed, helicopters being requested. They knew someone was hitting banks across Oceanside in a coordinated spree. They just didn’t know who, or where he’d strike next.
Pope ditched the Focus and walked to car number four, a Nissan Altima, gray, parked in a church parking lot. He sat in the driver’s seat and checked his phone. 1:47 PM. The day was slipping away. He needed to move faster.
He thought about you again. About why he was doing this. The money wasn't abstract anymore, it was real, tangible, heavy in the bag beside him. This was your future. your future together. A chance to disappear, to start over somewhere the Cody name didn’t carry the weight of a criminal history.
Pope started the Altima and headed for bank number four. The fourth robbery was when things started to go wrong.
Oceanside Federal was in the business district, surrounded by office buildings and restaurants. More witnesses, more cameras, more risk. But it also had more money, Pope had seen the cash displays, the promotional materials, the signs advertising high-balance accounts. This was where the real score waited.
He parked the Altima three blocks away and walked, the duffel bag slung over his shoulder like he was just another guy running errands. The spark plug was in his pocket, the fourth one, the ceramic tip still sharp and deadly.
Pope pushed through the doors at 3:15 PM and immediately knew something was off. There were too many people in suits, too many eyes tracking movement. Had they increased security? Were they expecting him?
No time to second-guess. He moved toward the display cases, hand closing around the spark plug. This was the moment, commit or retreat. Pope had never been good at retreating. He swung. Glass exploded. Alarms shrieked. And this time, the response was immediate.
Two security guards converged on him from different directions, moving with military precision. Pope grabbed what cash he could, but there wasn't time for the careful collection he’d managed at the other banks. He snatched three, four bundles and ran, the guards right behind him.
The front entrance was blocked. Pope pivoted, headed for the back, but one of the guards was faster than he looked. A hand grabbed his shoulder, spun him around. Pope reacted on instinct, threw an elbow, connected with something soft, heard a grunt of pain. The guard went down.
Pope ran.
Out the back door, into an alley, the duffel bag bouncing against his hip. Behind him, shouting. Radio chatter. The sound of pursuit. He sprinted three blocks, lungs burning, legs screaming, and dove into the Altima. The engine roared to life. He pulled into traffic just as a police car turned onto the street behind him.
For thirty seconds, Pope thought it was over. The cop car was closing, lights flashing. But then it turned off, heading in a different direction, responding to a different call. Pope had gotten lucky. Again.
He ditched the Altima in a residential area and walked to car number five, a Honda Accord, white, parked near a elementary school. His hands were still shaking. The fourth robbery had been too close, too chaotic. He’d gotten maybe another fifteen thousand, bringing the total to somewhere around eighty-five grand. Close, but not enough. Not yet.
Pope sat in the Accord and tried to calm his breathing. The police scanner was going crazy now, multiple units responding to Oceanside Federal, descriptions being circulated, roadblocks being set up on major arteries. They were closing the net.
He checked his phone. 4:02 PM. The sun would set in a few hours. He had two more banks to hit, and the entire Oceanside PD was looking for him.
Pope thought about stopping. About taking what he had and running. Eighty-five thousand was good money. Life-changing money. But it wasn’t enough. Not for what you deserved. He started the Accord and headed for bank number five.
The fifth robbery was an act of desperation disguised as confidence.
Seaside Savings was near the coast, a small branch that catered to retirees and tourists. Less security, less money, but also less risk. Pope needed a win after the chaos at Oceanside Federal. He needed to prove to himself that he could still do this.
He parked the Accord two blocks away and walked to the bank, the fifth spark plug in his hand. The sun was lower now, casting long shadows across the pavement. The day was running out. Time was running out.
Pope pushed through the doors at 5:34 PM.
The bank was nearly empty, just two tellers and a handful of customers. The display cases were smaller here, less cash visible. But Pope was committed. He’d come too far to stop now.
He moved to the nearest case and swung the spark plug.
Alarms wailed. Pope grabbed what he could, smaller bundles, twenties and fifties mostly, not the hundreds he’d been hoping for. Maybe five thousand, maybe less. He stuffed them into the duffel bag and ran.
No security guards this time. No pursuit. Just the sound of sirens in the distance, getting closer. Pope made it to the Accord and pulled into traffic, his heart pounding so hard he thought it might burst through his chest.
Five down. One to go. The duffel bag was heavy now, maybe ninety-five thousand, close to the goal but not quite there. One more bank. One more robbery. Then he could go to you, hand you the money, and watch your face light up with the realization of how much he loves you.
Pope ditched the Accord in a parking garage and walked to the sixth and final car, a Chevy Malibu, black, parked in an alley behind a liquor store. This was it. The last vehicle. The last robbery. The last chance to make this work.
He sat in the Malibu and checked the scanner. The police were everywhere now, coordinating a city-wide search, setting up checkpoints, pulling over vehicles that matched the descriptions. They knew he was using multiple cars. They knew he was hitting banks in a pattern. They still didn’t know where he’d strike next.
Pope looked at the last spark plug, the sixth one, the ceramic tip still intact. One more swing. One more explosion of glass. One more armful of cash.
Then it would be over.
He started the Malibu and headed for the final bank. Harbor Trust was the biggest risk of all.
It was in downtown Oceanside, surrounded by shops and restaurants, with heavy foot traffic even at dusk. The police presence was visible, two patrol cars parked within a block, officers on foot, eyes scanning the crowd. They were expecting him. Maybe not here specifically, but somewhere. They knew he wasn’t done.
Pope parked the Malibu four blocks away and walked, the duffel bag over his shoulder, the last spark plug in his pocket. His legs felt like lead. His hands wouldn't stop shaking. The adrenaline that had carried him through the first five robberies was curdling into something darker, exhaustion, desperation, the creeping certainty that his luck was about to run out.
But he just kept thinking about you. About the promise he’d made to deran to take care of you. About the life you could have if he just pushed through this last one.
Pope reached Harbor Trust at 7:18 PM, just as the sun was setting over the Pacific. The bank was still open, lights blazing, customers inside. He could see the display cases through the windows, large ones, full of cash, the biggest score of the day if he could pull it off.
He pushed through the doors.
The bank was busy, people making last-minute deposits before the weekend. Pope moved through the crowd, invisible again, just another face in the sea of faces. He reached the largest display case and pulled out the spark plug.
This was it. The moment everything came together or fell apart. Pope swung. The glass exploded with a sound like a gunshot. Alarms shrieked. People screamed. And Pope grabbed cash with both hands, stuffing it into the duffel bag, not caring about the cameras or the witnesses or the police cars outside. This was the last one. This was everything.
A security guard appeared, younger and faster than the others, reaching for his radio. Pope shoved past him, the duffel bag heavy and awkward. The front entrance was blocked by panicking customers. Pope pivoted, headed for the side exit, but the guard was right behind him.
"Stop! Police!"
Pope didn’t stop. He hit the side door at full speed, burst into the alley, and ran. Behind him, the guard was shouting into his radio, calling for backup. Pope sprinted three blocks, lungs burning, vision tunneling, and dove into the Malibu.
The engine started. He pulled into traffic. And then he saw them, two police cars, lights flashing, converging on his position from different directions.
Pope made a split-second decision. Instead of running, he turned into a residential neighborhood, killed the lights, and parked behind a row of dumpsters. He sat in the darkness, breathing hard, listening to the sirens pass by on the main street. They were looking for a moving vehicle, not a parked one. They were looking for someone running, not someone hiding.
For five minutes, Pope sat in the darkness and waited. The sirens faded. The police cars moved on. He got out changing the plates on the car quickly with extras he’d stashed incase. And slowly, carefully, he started the Malibu and drove away, taking side streets and back roads, avoiding the main arteries where the checkpoints would be. He’d done it. Six banks. Six robberies. One day. The duffel bag on the passenger seat was heavy with cash, over a hundred thousand dollars, maybe closer to a hundred and twenty. More than enough.
Pope drove to swap to his truck before driving back to his apartment. His hands were still shaking. His heart was still racing. But he'd done it. For you. All for you.
The coffee shop was busy enough that you barely had time to think. Which was good. Thinking had become dangerous lately.
Every quiet moment seemed to lead back to your father. Back to the fifty thousand dollars. Back to the growing knot of dread sitting permanently in your chest. Every time your phone buzzed, your stomach dropped. Every time it didn’t, you somehow felt worse. You were exhausted from carrying a problem you couldn’t solve.
“Medium vanilla latte for Sarah!”
You slid the drink across the counter with a practiced smile. The customer thanked you and disappeared into the crowd.
The morning rush was finally beginning to die down when your coworker grabbed the remote and turned up the television mounted in the corner of the shop.
“Jesus,” she muttered. “What the hell?”
A few customers looked up. You glanced over absentmindedly while wiping down the espresso machine.
The local news anchor looked unusually serious. “…continuing coverage this morning after an unprecedented string of robberies occurred across Southern California.”
Your eyebrows furrowed slightly. The screen shifted to footage of police cars and yellow tape outside a bank. Then another. Then another. You stopped wiping. “What happened?”
Your coworker pointed toward the television “Apparently somebody hit six different banks.”
“What?”
The anchor continued speaking. “Authorities have confirmed six locations were targeted over an eight-hour period. Investigators believe the incidents are connected and are searching for those responsible.”
Several customers started talking amongst themselves. Someone whistled.
“Six?”
“No way.”
“How do you even do that?”
You shook your head. “That’s insane.”
The footage continued rolling while reporters spoke over images of flashing lights and crowded sidewalks.
There wasn’t much information yet. No suspects. No real details. Just confusion. Lots and lots of confusion. The sheer scale of it seemed to have everyone stunned.
“People are nuts,” your coworker said.
You nodded absentmindedly. Your thoughts were already drifting somewhere else. Because while everyone else was talking about robberies, all you could think about was money.
Fifty thousand dollars. The number seemed to follow you everywhere now. Every conversation. Every thought. Every sleepless night.
The television kept playing in the background while you worked. Customers came and went. Drinks were made. Hours passed.
But the story kept reappearing. Every update. Every breaking news alert. Every reporter standing outside another bank. By lunchtime even you were tired of hearing about it.
“Still talking about that?” you asked.
Your manager laughed. “Six banks in eight hours? They’re gonna be talking about that for weeks.”
You grimaced. “Great.”
The story faded into background noise after that. Just another terrible thing happening somewhere else in the world.
By the end of your shift, you barely thought about it anymore. Your father was a much more immediate problem. Much more real. Much harder to ignore.
When you finally left work that evening, exhausted and emotionally drained, the news was still playing on televisions across town. Everyone was still trying to figure out who could have done something so ridiculous.
Meanwhile, several miles away, Pope sat quietly on the couch waiting for you to come home. The television in his apartment was off. The news coverage had been off all day. He hadn’t watched a second of it. He didn’t need to. He already knew exactly what they were talking about.
His attention shifted toward the door when he heard your keys jingle outside. Immediately. Everything else disappeared.
The door opened. You walked inside looking tired.
The sight of you instantly softened something in his expression. “Hey.”
“Hey.”
You kicked off your shoes. Dropped your bag. Then collapsed onto the couch beside him.
Pope’s arm immediately wrapped around your shoulders. You melted into his side without thinking. For the first time all day, your chest loosened slightly.
“Long day?”
You sighed. “The longest.”
Pope nodded and pressed a kiss into your hair. Neither of you mentioned the news. Neither of you mentioned the robberies.
And while you spent the evening worrying about how you were going to save your father, Pope sat beside you carrying a secret so absurd that if you ever found out, you’d probably lose your mind.
The shower you decided to take did absolutely nothing to help. You stood beneath the hot water until the bathroom mirror fogged completely over, your forehead resting against the tile as you tried to think through the mess your life had become. Every solution seemed impossible. Your father needed fifty thousand dollars. You didn’t have fifty thousand dollars. Medical school certainly wasn’t paying you fifty thousand dollars. Every time you closed your eyes, you heard his voice again.
You’re all I have. If they kill me-
You shut the water off before the thought could finish. Your chest hurt. Your head hurt. You were tired of feeling helpless. Tired of sitting around while everyone else in your life seemed capable of fixing things.
The idea came to you while you were drying your hair. It was stupid. Actually stupid. But the more you thought about it, the more it made sense.
The boys always had money. Not normal amounts of money either. Money that appeared out of nowhere. Money that somehow paid for bars and apartments and trucks and everything else.
You accepting that whatever they did, it was better for your sanity not to know. But maybe, maybe this once if you helped on a job. Maybe you could earn enough to help your father. You immediately hated the idea. But you hated feeling useless more.
Twenty minutes later, you found yourself standing in front of the bedroom mirror wearing a white lace camisole and matching sleep shorts.
Not because you were trying to seduce Pope. Mostly. Okay, maybe a little.
But mostly because Pope was significantly easier to approach when he was distracted by how pretty you looked. That felt manipulative. You decided not to think about it.
The apartment was quiet when you walked out. Pope sat on the couch exactly where you’d left him earlier. One arm stretched across the back cushions. Television playing. Attention nowhere near the television. His eyes immediately lifted when he heard you.
You swallowed. Suddenly nervous.
Pope frowned slightly. “You okay?”
You walked over slowly. “Maybe.” That answer did not help. His eyebrows pulled together. You stopped directly in front of him. Then stepped between his knees.
Pope immediately looked suspicious. Very suspicious. The kind of suspicious that said he’d known you long enough to recognize when you were building up to something. “What?” You smiled nervously. “What?”
You looked away. Then back. Then away again. Pope’s hands settled on your hips automatically. “What?” The third what came with significantly more concern.
You sighed. “I need a favor.”
Pope’s expression immediately softened. “Okay.”
“No questions?”
“No.”
Your heart squeezed. God. You loved him. “Well…” You shifted awkwardly. “Maybe ask one question.”
His eyes narrowed. “What kinda favor?” You winced. Pope noticed immediately. And suddenly looked much less relaxed. “Bambi.”
You looked down. “What if…” you started carefully. “What if I helped you guys with a job?”
Silence. Complete silence. The television continued playing behind him. Neither of you heard it. Pope stared. You stared back.
The softness disappeared from his face so quickly it almost startled you. “What?”
You rushed forward. “Not forever.”
“No.”
“Andrew-“
“No.”
“I haven't even explained-“
“No.”
Your mouth dropped open. “You don't know what I'm asking for.”
“I do.”
“No, you don't.”
“I do.” His hands fell away from your waist. Now he looked irritated. Actually irritated. Which wasn’t what you'd expected.
“I need money.”
“No.”
“I could help.”
“No.”
“You didn't even let me finish.”
His jaw tightened. “No.”
You threw your hands up. “Oh my God.” Pope stood. Now you were annoyed too. “You guys do one job and make more money than I've seen in my entire life.”
“No.”
“I'm serious.”
“No.”
“You don't even know what I was gonna say.”
“I fucking know enough.” His voice had gotten sharper. Not angry. Scared.
You recognized the difference. “I could drive the car.”
“No.”
“I could be lookout.”
“No.”
“I could-“
“No.”
“Andrew.”
“No.”
You groaned loudly. Pope rubbed a hand over his face. Like he couldn't believe this conversation was happening. “You think I'm gonna let you do that?”
“I'm not helpless.”
“I know.”
“Then what's the problem?”
His laugh sounded genuinely offended. “The problem?”
“Yes.”
“The problem is you're talking like I would ever let you anywhere near that.”
You blinked. “Oh.” You crossed your arms. “I need money.”
The second the words left your mouth, something shifted in Pope's expression.
Concern replacing irritation. There it was. The real issue. The thing underneath everything. Your shoulders slumped. “I need money, Andrew.”
Pope stared at you for a long moment. Then suddenly moved. Before you could react, he bent down, grabbed you around the waist, and hauled you over his shoulder.
You yelped. “Andrew!”
“No.”
“What are you doing?”
“No.”
“Put me down.”
“No.”
You smacked his back. Hard. He ignored you. Of course he ignored you. “Andrew!” You couldn't help laughing despite yourself. Pope carried you down the hallway. Past your bedroom. Past the bathroom. Toward the spare room. The room he never used. The room that stayed closed most of the time.
Your eyebrows furrowed. “What are we doing?”
Pope opened the door. Then unceremoniously dumped you onto the bed. You bounced once. Twice. Then froze. Cash. Cash everywhere. Bundles. Stacks. Piles. The entire room looked like a financial institution had exploded.
Your brain stopped working. “What.”
Pope crossed his arms. You looked at him. Then the money. Then him again. Then the money.
Your mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. “What.”
Pope looked annoyingly calm about the entire thing. “I got you money.”
You stared. For several seconds. Your brain struggling to catch up. Your eyes widened. “Oh my God.”
Pope immediately looked concerned. “What?”
“You.” Pope froze. A very guilty-looking freeze. Your jaw dropped. “Andrew.” He said nothing. “Oh my God.” His silence was answer enough. “Andrew.” Pope looked at the ceiling. You stared at him. Then at the money. Then back at him. “That was you.” Still silence. “Oh my God.”
Pope finally looked back at you. You couldn't tell if you wanted to laugh or cry. Or scream. Or all three.
“I was trying to help you.” The sincerity in his voice made you put both hands over your face. Because somehow that made it worse. Not better. Worse.
“You thought I needed…” You gestured wildly around the room. “…all of this?”
“You were upset.”
You laughed. A completely hysterical sound. “You committed a felony because I was upset.”
Pope frowned. “More than one.”
You stared at him. He stared back. Completely serious. And somehow, despite everything, despite the absurdity of the situation, despite the fact you were currently sitting in a mountain of cash looking at the world's most devoted psychopath, You started laughing. Which was not the reaction Pope had been expecting.
The laughter bubbled up from somewhere deep in your chest, uncontrollable and slightly manic. You laughed until tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, until your stomach hurt, until you had to wrap your arms around yourself just to hold it together. Pope stood there watching you, his expression unreadable, his body still, and that somehow made it funnier. The fact that he'd robbed six places in eight hours because you'd been sad. The fact that he'd brought home enough cash to fill an entire room. The fact that he was standing there looking at you like you were the crazy one.
“You're insane,” you gasped between laughs, wiping at your eyes. “You're actually insane.”
Pope's jaw tightened slightly, but he didn't move. Didn't defend himself. Just watched you with those dark, intense eyes that never seemed to miss anything.
“I can't believe you-“ Another laugh cut you off. “Six robberies. Six. Because I was upset.”
“You needed help.” The simplicity of his answer made you laugh harder. Like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Like committing multiple felonies was a completely reasonable response to your emotional distress.
“Andrew,” you managed, trying to catch your breath. “This is-this is-“
You couldn't even finish the sentence. Pope's expression shifted slightly. Something darker flickering across his face. Something that made your laughter catch in your throat. He was still riding the adrenaline from it, you realized. Still hopped up on whatever energy had carried him through those robberies. You could see it in the tension in his shoulders, in the way his hands flexed at his sides, in the dangerous glint in his eyes.
He moved suddenly. Before you could react, he was on you, his hands gripping your thighs and pulling you down flat onto the bed. Cash scattered around you, bills rustling and sliding across the comforter as Pope positioned himself between your legs. Your laughter died immediately, replaced by a sharp intake of breath as his hands slid up your thighs, pushing the fabric of your sleep shorts higher.
“Andrew-“
His eyes met yours. Dark. Hungry. Still dangerous. “You think it's funny?”
His voice was low, rough, edged with something that made heat pool low in your belly.
“I-“
Pope's hands hooked into the waistband of your shorts and panties, yanked them down in one smooth motion. You gasped, your hands flying to his shoulders, but he was already moving, already settling between your thighs, his breath hot against your skin.
“You're laughing,” he said, his voice almost a growl. “At me robbing six fucking places for you.”
“Andrew, I didn't mean-“
His mouth was on you before you could finish. No warning. No buildup. Just his tongue flat against you, licking a long, slow stripe that made your back arch off the bed and a broken moan tear from your throat. Your hands flew to his hair, fingers tangling in the curly strands as Pope's hands gripped your thighs hard enough to bruise, holding you open for him, holding you exactly where he wanted you.
He ate you out like a man starving. Like he needed it. Like the adrenaline still coursing through his system had nowhere else to go except into this-into claiming you, marking you, making you feel exactly what he'd done for you. His tongue worked you with an intensity that stole your breath, alternating between broad strokes and focused attention on your clit that had you gasping and writhing beneath him.
“Oh God-“ Your voice broke on a moan as Pope's tongue circled your clit, then sucked it into his mouth. The sensation was overwhelming, almost too much, and you tried to close your legs on instinct but Pope's hands tightened on your thighs, forced them wider, held you completely open and exposed to him.
Cash rustled beneath you with every movement, bills scattering and sliding as you writhed. The sound of it-the physical reminder of what he'd done, what he'd risked, what he'd brought home for you-made everything more intense. Pope groaned against you, the vibration sending shockwaves through your body, and you realized he was getting off on this. On having you spread out on top of the money he'd stolen for you. On making you fall apart while surrounded by evidence of his devotion.
“Andrew-please-“ You didn't even know what you were begging for. More. Less. Something.
Pope's response was to slide two fingers inside you without warning, curling them perfectly as his mouth continued its assault on your clit. You cried out, your hips bucking up against his face, and Pope made a sound that was almost feral-possessive and hungry and completely uncontrolled.
He fucked you with his fingers while his tongue worked your clit with single-minded focus. The wet sounds were obscene, mixing with your gasps and moans and the constant rustle of cash beneath you. Pope's free hand slid up your body, pushed your camisole up and over your breasts, then his palm flattened against your stomach, holding you down, keeping you pinned while he took what he wanted.
“I can't-“ You gasped, your thighs trembling. “Andrew, I can't-“
Pope pulled back just enough to speak, his voice rough and wrecked. “You can.”
Then his mouth was back on you, more aggressive than before, his fingers pumping faster, harder, hitting that spot inside you that made stars burst behind your eyelids. Your hands fisted in his hair, pulling hard enough that it had to hurt, but Pope just groaned and doubled his efforts. He was relentless, merciless, using his mouth and fingers to take you apart piece by piece.
The pressure built impossibly fast, coiling tight in your belly, spreading through your whole body until you couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't do anything except feel. Pope's tongue flicked rapidly against your clit and his fingers curled inside you and suddenly you were coming, your body arching off the bed as the orgasm crashed through you in waves that left you shaking and gasping his name.
Pope didn't stop. Didn't slow down. He worked you through it, his mouth gentler now but still insistent, drawing out every last aftershock until you were oversensitive and trembling, trying weakly to push his head away.
“Too much-“
Pope finally pulled back, but only far enough to look at you. His face was wet, his eyes wild and dark, his chest heaving with rough breaths. He looked dangerous. Feral. Like the adrenaline still hadn't worn off, like he was still riding that high and you were the only thing that could satisfy it.
Cash was scattered everywhere around you now, some bills stuck to your sweat-dampened skin, others crumpled beneath you. You were completely wrecked, your body still trembling with aftershocks, your mind struggling to process what had just happened.
Pope's hands slid up your thighs again, his grip possessive, claiming. “Not done with you.” His voice was rough, raw, edged with promise.
You looked up at him, at the dangerous glint in his eyes, at the tension in his body, at the way he was looking at you like he wanted to devour you all over again, and felt heat pool low in your belly despite having just come.
“Andrew-“
He leaned over you, one hand braced beside your head, the other still gripping your thigh. “Gonna fuck you into this cash,” he said, his voice low and dark. “Gonna make sure you feel exactly what I did for you.”
Your breath caught. Pope's eyes searched yours, looking for hesitation, for doubt. He found none. Only heat. Only want. Only complete surrender to whatever he wanted to do to you.
“Please,” you whispered.
And Pope's expression turned absolutely predatory.
Pope held you tightly the cash strewn all around you. His voice was soft when he said your name. Careful. You looked at him. Then immediately looked away. Your throat felt too tight. Pope's thumbs rubbed small circles against your hip. “What happened?”
You shook your head. Not because you didn't want to tell him. Because you didn't know how. How did you explain that your father was going to die and it was going to be your fault? How did you explain that you'd spent your entire life trying to make up for something you'd never actually done, and now the bill was finally coming due?
“Sweetheart.” Pope's hand moved to your chin, gently tilting your face back toward his. “Talk to me.”
Your eyes burned. “My dad.”
Pope's expression shifted immediately. Something hardening in his jaw. He'd never liked your father. Never said it outright, but you'd seen it in the way he tensed whenever you mentioned him. In the way his eyes went flat when your father called. “What about him?”
You swallowed hard. “He owes money.” Pope waited. “To bad people. Really bad people. He-“ Your voice cracked. “He called me. He was crying. He said they're going to kill him if he doesn't pay them back.”
Pope's hands stilled on your knees. “How much?”
“Fifty thousand dollars.”
Pope's jaw tightened, but his voice stayed calm. “When?”
“Two weeks.”
“And if he doesn't pay?” You couldn't say it. Couldn't make yourself say the words out loud. Pope's hands moved to your face, cradling it gently. “Hey. Look at me.” You did. His eyes were dark. Intense. Completely focused on you. “We'll figure it out.”
The certainty in his voice made something crack open in your chest. All the fear and panic and guilt you'd been holding back came flooding out in a rush. You started crying. Not the quiet, controlled kind of crying. The ugly, desperate kind that made your whole body shake.
Pope pulled you into his arms immediately. You buried your face against his chest and sobbed. “I can't-“ you gasped. “I can't let him die.”
Pope's hand moved to the back of your head, holding you against him. “You won't.”
“You don't understand.”
“Then tell me.”
You pulled back just enough to look at him. Your face was wet. Your eyes swollen. You probably looked like a mess but Pope just looked at you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered. “It's my fault.”
Pope frowned. “What's your fault?”
“My mom.”
His expression shifted. Confusion flickering across his face. "”You said your mom died years ago.”
“I know.”
“From an overdose.”
“I know.”
Pope's hands settled on your shoulders. “Bambi. That wasn't your fault.”
You shook your head. “He said it was.”
Silence. Complete silence. Pope stared at you. You could see him processing. See the pieces clicking together in his mind.
“What?” Your voice came out small. Broken. “He said she started taking pills because of me. Because I was difficult. Because I stressed her out. He said-“ You had to stop. Had to breathe. “He said if I'd been better, she wouldn't have needed them. She wouldn't have gotten addicted. She'd still be alive.”
Pope's hands tightened on your shoulders. “When did he tell you that?”
“After she died.”
“You were sixteen.”
“I know.”
“Jesus Christ.” Pope's voice had gone flat. Dangerous. You'd heard that tone before. Usually right before he did something that ended with someone in the hospital. “He's been holding that over you this whole time?”
You nodded. Pope's jaw worked. You could see him trying to control his reaction. Trying not to scare you with whatever was happening behind his eyes.
“And now he's asking you for money.” It wasn't a question.
“He needs help.”
“He's manipulating you.”
“Andrew-“
“He's using your guilt to get money out of you.”
“You don't know that.”
Pope's laugh was harsh. “Yeah. I do.”
You pulled away from him. Suddenly defensive. Suddenly angry. “He's my father.”
“He's a piece of shit.”
“He's scared.”
“He's a liar.”
“You don't know him.”
Pope stood up. Ran a hand through his hair. Turned away from you. You could see the tension in his shoulders. See him fighting to keep his temper in check.
“Andrew.” He didn't turn around. “He's going to die if I don't help him.”
Pope's hands flexed at his sides. “And you think that's your responsibility.”
“Yes.”
“Because he told you your mom's death was your fault.”
“Yes.”
“Even though it wasn't.”
You didn't answer. Couldn't answer. Because some part of you, the part that had been sixteen and terrified and desperate for someone to tell you it wasn't your fault, still believed him. Still carried that guilt like a weight you'd never be able to put down.
Pope finally turned back to you. His expression had shifted. Still angry. But softer now. Sadder. He sat down in front of you. “Sweetheart.” You looked at him. “Your mom's addiction wasn't your fault.”
“You don't know that.”
“I do.”
“You didn't know her.”
“I know you.” His hands found yours. Squeezed. “And I know there's no version of you that could have caused that. You were a kid. You didn't do anything wrong.”
The words hit you like a physical blow. You started crying again. Pope pulled you back into his arms and held you while you fell apart. He didn't try to fix it. Didn't try to make you stop crying. Just held you and let you break and promised you over and over that it wasn't your fault.
Eventually, you ran out of tears. You sat there in Pope's arms, exhausted and hollow, your face pressed against his chest. “I need to help him.”
Pope's hand moved through your hair. “Okay.”
“I don't know how.”
“We can use the money I got for you.”
You pulled back to look at him. “You mean that?”
Pope's eyes met yours. “Yeah.”
Something in his expression made you believe him. Made you think maybe-just maybe-everything would be okay.
He helped you up off the bed. Led you to your actual bed. Held you until you finally fell asleep, your body exhausted from crying, your mind too tired to keep spiraling.
Pope stayed awake. He watched you sleep. Watched the way your face relaxed. Watched the tension leave your shoulders. Watched you look peaceful for the first time in days. And while he watched, something cold and calculating settled over him.
Your father had done this to you. Had spent years convincing you that your mother's death was your fault. Had weaponized your guilt. Had called you crying about debts and threats and danger, knowing exactly how you'd react.
Pope had seen manipulation before. Had grown up around it. Knew what it looked like. This was textbook. And he was going to prove it. He waited until he was sure you were deep asleep. Then he carefully removed himself from the bed, grabbed his phone, and went into the living room. He sat on the couch in the dark and started searching.
Your father's name. His address. His social media. His job. Everything.
Pope was methodical about research. Always had been. It was one of the things that made him good at what he did. He knew how to find information. Knew how to piece together a picture of someone's life from scattered details.
By the time the sun started coming up, Pope had a pretty clear picture. And none of it matched what your father had told you.
No signs of panic. No signs of someone scrambling to come up with fifty thousand dollars. No signs of someone whose life was in danger. Just a man living beyond his means. A man with a wife twenty years younger than him. A man who'd been borrowing money from you for years. Pope's jaw tightened. He looked back toward the bedroom. Toward you. Still sleeping. Still believing your father's lies.
Still carrying guilt that had never been yours to carry. Pope made a decision. He was going to find out the truth. All of it. And when he did, when he proved your father was lying, he was going to make sure the man never hurt you again.
Pope had been gone for three days. You'd barely slept. Barely eaten. You'd spent most of the time sitting on the couch staring at your phone, waiting for your father to call again. Waiting for him to tell you time was running out. Waiting for him to tell you they were coming for him.
The call never came. That should have been a relief. Instead it made the anxiety worse.
When Pope walked through the door, you practically jumped off the couch.
“Where have you been?”
Pope set his keys down. Looked at you. Really looked at you. You could see him taking inventory. The dark circles under your eyes. The way your clothes hung looser than they had a few days ago. The tremor in your hands.
His jaw tightened. “We need to talk.”
Something in his voice made your stomach drop. “What's wrong?”
Pope crossed the room and took your hand. Led you back to the couch. Sat down beside you. His hand stayed wrapped around yours, but his expression was unreadable. Calm on the surface. Something dangerous underneath. “I looked into your father.”
Your heart stopped. “What?”
“I looked into him. His life. His finances. Everything.”
“Andrew-“
“There's no debt.” The words hit you like a physical blow.
You stared at him. “What?”
Pope's thumb moved across your knuckles. “There are no dangerous people. Nobody's threatening him. Nobody's going to kill him.”
“That's not-“
“He lied.”
The room tilted. You pulled your hand away from Pope's. “No.”
“Sweetheart-“
“No. You're wrong. He was crying. He was terrified. He-“
“He was acting.” Pope's voice stayed calm. Steady. But you could see the rage building behind his eyes. “I spent three days watching him. Following him. Looking into his accounts. His social media. Everything.” Pope leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “He's not in danger. He's living a life he can't afford.”
Your chest felt tight. “What are you talking about?”
“He has a wife. Twenty years younger than him. Three kids. A house that costs more than he makes in two years.” Pope's hands flexed. “He gambles. He buys expensive suits. He goes out to dinner four times a week. He's bleeding money and instead of cutting back, he calls you.”
You couldn't breathe. “That's not-“
“He's been doing it for years. Different stories. Different emergencies. Always just enough to keep you sending money without asking too many questions. He keeps a book in his office cataloging the money you’ve sent him over the years.” The words kept coming. Each one landing like a punch. “He doesn't owe anyone anything. He just wants you to keep funding his lifestyle.”
Your hands started shaking. “He said they were going to kill him.”
“He lied.” Pope's expression shifted. Something dark flickering across his face. “He's a piece of shit who's been using you.”
The anger came suddenly. Violently. You stood up. Pope stood with you. “I've been-“ Your voice cracked. “I've been destroying myself for years. I haven't slept. I haven't eaten. I was going to-“ You couldn't finish the sentence. Couldn't admit out loud that you'd been considering asking Smurf of all people to let you help on a job. That you'd been willing to risk everything. For nothing. For a lie.
“He told me my mom died because of me.” Pope's hands curled into fists. “He's been holding that over my head for years. Making me feel like I owed him. Like I had to make up for what I did.” Your voice was rising now. Getting louder. “And this whole time he's been lying. He's been using me. He's been-“
You couldn't finish. The rage was too big. Too consuming. “He deserves to die.” The words came out before you could stop them.
Pope went very still. You looked at him. At the way his expression had shifted. Gone quiet. “I mean it,” you said. Your voice shook but the words were steady. “After everything he's done. Everything he's put me through. He deserves to die.”
Pope stared at you. Something passed between you. Something unspoken. Something that felt like understanding. Then Pope stepped forward and pulled you into his arms. You collapsed against his chest. Started crying. Not the desperate, panicked crying from before.
This was different. This was rage and grief and betrayal all mixed together. Pope held you through it. One hand in your hair. The other pressed against your back. His chin resting on top of your head. But his eyes His eyes had gone somewhere else. Somewhere cold.
When you finally pulled back, Pope's hands moved to your face. He looked at you for a long moment. Then he kissed your forehead. “I'm gonna take care of it.”
You didn't ask what he meant. Some part of you already knew. Pope held you a little longer.
The next two days, Pope was different. Not distant. Not cold. Just... settled.
Like something inside him had clicked into place and locked. You didn't notice at first because he was still gentle with you. Still patient. Still the same steady presence he'd always been. He made you tea in the mornings. Pulled you into his lap when you got quiet. Kissed your forehead when you cried. But there was something underneath it now. Something you couldn't quite name.
A stillness that felt less like calm and more like waiting. Pope had always been good at compartmentalizing. It was a survival skill.
Something he'd learned young and perfected over years of doing things most people couldn't stomach. He could hold you while you fell apart and simultaneously plan what came next. He could brush your hair back from your face with hands that had done terrible things and would do terrible things again. It didn't conflict for him. It never had. Protecting you wasn't separate from the violence. It was the same thing.
The first night after he told you the truth, you cried yourself to sleep against his chest. Pope stayed awake. One arm wrapped around you. The other resting on your hip. His thumb moved in slow circles against your skin while his mind worked through logistics. Timing. Location. How to make sure nobody would interrupt.
He wasn't angry anymore. Anger was too hot. Too reactive. This was colder. More certain.
Your father had looked at you, his own daughter, and decided you were useful. Decided your love was something he could weaponize. Decided your guilt was something he could mine for profit. He'd made you believe you killed your mother. Made you carry that weight. Made you think saving him was the only way to atone for something that was never your fault.
Pope had watched you break under it. And now he was going to make sure it never happened again.
The second day, you noticed his hands. Not because they were shaking. Because they weren't. Pope's hands were always steady, but this was different. This was the kind of steady that came before action. Before commitment. You were sitting at the kitchen counter while he made breakfast, and you watched him crack eggs into a bowl with the same methodical precision he did everything. No wasted movement. No hesitation.
“You okay?”
He glanced up. His expression softened immediately when he looked at you. “Yeah, sweetheart.”
“You've been quiet.”
Pope set the bowl down and came around the counter. He stepped between your knees and cupped your face in both hands. His thumbs brushed your cheekbones. His eyes stayed on yours. “Just thinking.”
“About what?”
For a moment, he didn't answer. Then he leaned down and kissed you. Slow. Deliberate. Like he was memorizing the taste of you. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours. “About making sure you're safe.”
Something in his voice made your chest tighten. Not fear. Something else. Something that felt like recognition. Like some part of you understood what he wasn't saying.
That night, Pope held you until you fell asleep again. Your head on his chest. His heartbeat steady under your ear. One of his hands tangled in your hair while the other rested against your back. He waited until your breathing evened out. Until he was sure you were deep enough that you wouldn't wake up when he moved.
Then he carefully removed himself from the bed. You stirred once. Made a small sound. Pope paused.
When you settled again, he pulled the blanket up over your shoulder and pressed a kiss to your temple. “I'll be back.” You didn't hear him. He grabbed his keys off the dresser and left.
Your father lived in a house he couldn't afford. Pope had learned that during his research. Learned a lot of things, actually. Learned your father had a gambling problem he'd never mentioned. Learned he'd been borrowing money from you for years under different pretenses. Learned he had a wife twenty years younger than him who didn't know he had a daughter with another woman. Learned he spent money on bottles of wine that cost more than rent.
The house was dark when Pope pulled up. One light on in the back. Probably the kitchen. Pope sat in his truck for a moment. Engine off. Hands resting on the steering wheel. He wasn't thinking about consequences. Wasn't thinking about right or wrong. Wasn't thinking about anything except the look on your face when you'd said he told me they were going to kill him.
He got out of the truck. The neighborhood was quiet. Nobody around. Pope had chosen the time carefully. Late enough that people were asleep. Early enough that the bars weren't closed yet. Your father would be home. Probably drinking. Probably watching TV. Probably not thinking about you at all.
The back door was unlocked. Careless. Pope let himself in. The kitchen was empty but the light was on. A half-empty bottle of whiskey sat on the counter next to a glass. Pope moved through the house silently. Years of practice made it easy. He found your father in the living room. Sitting in a recliner. TV on. Eyes half-closed.
He didn't hear Pope coming. Didn't see him until Pope was already there. By then it was too late. Pope's hand closed around the back of your father's neck and yanked him out of the chair. The movement was so sudden, so violent, that your father didn't have time to process it. His body hit the floor hard. The air punched out of his lungs. Before he could draw another breath, Pope's boot connected with his ribs.
The crack was audible. Your father made a sound. High. Desperate. Pope kicked him again. Same spot. Harder this time.
Your father tried to curl into himself. Tried to protect his body. Pope grabbed a fistful of his hair and dragged him across the floor. Your father's hands scrabbled at Pope's wrist. His legs kicked uselessly. Pope hauled him up and slammed his face into the coffee table.
Once. Twice. Three times. The wood splintered on the third impact. Blood sprayed across the surface. Your father's nose was broken. Maybe his cheekbone too. Pope let him drop and stepped back. Your father rolled onto his side. Gasping. Choking on blood. His hands came up to his face instinctively.
“Who-“ The word came out wet. Garbled.
Pope crouched down beside him. His expression was blank. Empty. Like he was looking at something that didn't matter. “I'm the man taking care of your daughter.” Your father's eyes went wide. Fear. Pope's hand shot out and grabbed his throat. “And you just couldn't leave her alone.” He squeezed. Not enough to kill. Just enough to make breathing impossible.
Your father's hands clawed at Pope's wrist. His legs kicked out. His body thrashed. Pope's grip didn't budge. He watched your father's face turn red. Watched the panic set in. Watched him realize nobody was coming.
Then Pope let go. Your father sucked in a desperate breath. Coughed. Choked. Blood and spit ran down his chin. “Please-“
Pope stood up. He looked around the room. His eyes landed on the fireplace. On the iron poker sitting in the stand beside it. He walked over and picked it up. Tested the weight.
Your father saw it. Started trying to crawl away. Pope crossed the distance in two steps and brought the poker down on your father's leg. The sound of the bone breaking was sharp. Clean. Your father screamed. The sound was raw. Animal. Pope hit him again. Same leg. The scream turned into something else. Something that didn't sound human anymore.
Pope dropped the poker. He grabbed your father by the collar and dragged him back to the center of the room. Your father was sobbing now. Begging. The words came out in a jumbled mess. Apologies. Promises. Pleas for mercy.
Pope didn't respond. He straddled your father's chest and pinned his arms with his knees. Your father tried to buck him off. Tried to twist away. Pope's fist came down on his face. Once. Twice. Three times. Four. The cartilage in his nose collapsed completely. His orbital bone cracked. Blood poured from his mouth.
Pope kept hitting him. Methodical. Relentless. Each impact made a wet, meaty sound. Your father's struggles got weaker.
His face was unrecognizable now. Swollen. Pulped. One eye was completely shut. The other stared up at nothing. His breathing was shallow. Rattling. Pope's knuckles were split open. Blood, his and your father's, covered his hands.
He stopped. Looked down at the broken thing beneath him. Your father's mouth moved. Trying to form words. Pope leaned down. Close enough to hear. “Are you trying to ask me why i’m doing this?”
“You told her she killed her mother.” His voice was quiet. Flat. “You made her think she owed you.”
Your father made a sound. Wet. Gurgling. Pope's hands closed around his throat. “Now I have to kill you.” He squeezed. This time he didn't let go.
Your father's body convulsed. His legs kicked weakly. His hands came up and tried to pry Pope's fingers loose but there was no strength left in them. Pope watched his face change colors. Watched the light start to fade from his remaining eye. Watched the exact moment the fight left him.
He kept squeezing. Long after your father stopped moving. Long after his body went limp. Long after there was any possibility of him coming back. When Pope finally let go, his hands were shaking. Not from fear. Not from regret. From exertion.
He stood up slowly. Looked down at the body. At the blood pooled on the floor. At the broken furniture. At the evidence of what he'd done. Then he turned and walked out.
You woke up to the sound of water running. For a second, you were disoriented. The bed was empty beside you. The apartment was dark except for a sliver of light coming from under the bathroom door. You sat up slowly. Listened. The shower. Pope was in the shower.
Something about that felt wrong. Not the shower itself, Pope showered at weird hours sometimes, especially when he couldn't sleep. But something about the timing. About the way you'd woken up. Like your body had sensed his absence before your mind caught up.
You pushed the blankets back and stood. Your bare feet were silent on the hardwood as you crossed to the bathroom. The door was cracked open. Steam poured out into the hallway. You pushed it open wider and stepped inside.
The mirror was fogged. The air was thick and hot. Through the glass shower door, you could see Pope. His back to you. Head down. Hands braced against the tile. Water cascading over his shoulders. And swirling red down the drain.
Your breath caught. Not from fear. From something else entirely. You watched the water run pink, then clear, then pink again as it sluiced over his skin. Watched the way his shoulders rose and fell with each breath. Watched the tension in his spine. The set of his jaw when he turned his head slightly.
He knew you were there. You could tell by the way his body shifted. The way his hands flexed against the tile. But he didn't turn around. Didn't say anything.
Just stood there under the spray like he was waiting for you to decide what happened next. You reached for the hem of your sleep shirt. Pulled it over your head. Let it fall to the floor. Your shorts followed. Then your underwear. You opened the shower door and stepped inside.
The water hit you immediately. Hot. Almost too hot. Pope turned his head. His eyes met yours. There was something in his expression you'd never seen before. Uncertainty. Like he was bracing for your reaction and didn't know what it would be. Like he thought you might be scared. Might pull away. Might finally see him for what he really was and decide it was too much.
You stepped closer. Close enough that your chest brushed his back. Close enough to feel the heat radiating off his skin. Your hands came up slowly. Settled on his waist. Slid around to his stomach. You pressed yourself against him. Felt every line of his body against yours.
“Sweetheart-“ His voice was rough. Uncertain.
You cut him off. “Turn around.”
For a moment, he didn't move. Then he did. Slowly. Like he was giving you time to change your mind. When he faced you, you could see it all. The blood still caught under his fingernails. The split skin across his knuckles. The spatter on his chest that the water hadn't quite washed away yet. Evidence. Proof. Of what he'd done. Of what he was capable of. Of how far he was willing to go.
Your eyes traced over every mark. Every bruise. Every sign of violence. And something inside you shifted. Something you'd been trying to ignore for weeks. Maybe longer. The part of you that had always been drawn to the darkness in him. The part that felt safest when he was most dangerous. The part that didn't want him in spite of what he was capable of, but because of it.
You looked up. Met his eyes. “You killed him.” It wasn't a question.
Pope's jaw tightened. “Yeah.”
The word hung between you. Heavy. Final. Irreversible. You should have been horrified. Should have been scared. Should have stepped back and demanded answers and processed the weight of what he'd just told you. Instead, you closed the distance between you. Your hands came up to his chest. Slid over the water-slick skin. Traced the lines of muscle. The evidence of violence. “Good.” The word came out breathier than you intended.
Pope's eyes widened slightly. “Sweetheart-“
You pressed closer. Your body flush against his. “He deserved it.”
Pope's hands came up instinctively. Settled on your hips. But he didn't pull you closer. Didn't move. Just stood there staring at you like he was trying to figure out if you were in shock. If this was some kind of delayed reaction. If you'd break down any second and realize what you were saying.
You didn't. Instead, you slid your hands up his chest. Over his shoulders. Into his wet hair. “You did that for me.” Your voice was soft. Almost reverent.
Pope's grip on your hips tightened. “I did it because he hurt you.”
“I know.” You pulled his head down. Brought his face close to yours. “That's why it's hot.”
For a second, Pope just stared at you. Like he couldn't quite process what you'd just said. Like he'd expected tears or fear or horror, anything except this. Except you pressed against him. Wet and wanting. Looking at him like he'd just done the most romantic thing in the world instead of beating a man to death with his bare hands.
“You're not scared.” It wasn't a question. More like he was testing the words. Trying to make sense of them.
You shook your head. “No.”
“You should be.”
Your lips curved. Just slightly. “I'm not.”
Pope's eyes darkened. You watched it happen. Watched the uncertainty bleed away. Watched something else take its place. Something hungry. Possessive. Dangerous. “Bambi-“
You kissed him. Hard. Desperate. Your mouth crashed against his and Pope made a sound low in his throat. His hands tightened on your hips. Pulled you flush against him. You could feel every inch of him. Hard muscle. Wet skin. The evidence of what he'd done still lingering on his body.
It should have repulsed you. It didn't. It made you want him more. Your hands fisted in his hair. Pulled. Pope groaned into your mouth.
His hands slid from your hips to your ass. Gripped. Lifted. Your legs wrapped around his waist automatically. He pressed you back against the tile. The cold shocked through you for half a second before the heat of his body overwhelmed it. His mouth moved from your lips to your jaw. Down your throat. Teeth scraping over your pulse point.
You gasped. Arched into him. “Andy-“ His name came out broken. Needy.
He pulled back just enough to look at you. Water ran down his face. His eyes were wild. Searching. “You really want this?”
You nodded. “Yes.”
“Even knowing-“
“Especially knowing.” The words came out fierce. Certain. Pope stared at you for another beat. Then something in him snapped. His mouth found yours again Harder this time. More demanding.
His hands roamed over your body like he was trying to memorize every curve. Every line. Every place that made you gasp or arch or dig your nails into his shoulders. You kissed him back just as desperately.
Your hands slid over his chest. His shoulders. Down his arms. You could feel the split skin on his knuckles. The evidence of violence. Of protection. Of love twisted into something darker and more dangerous than most people would ever understand. But you understood. You'd always understood. That's what scared you before. Not Pope. Not what he was capable of. But the part of yourself that wanted it. That craved it. That felt safest when he was most dangerous. You'd spent so long trying to be good. Trying to be soft. Trying to be the kind of person who didn't find violence attractive.
But standing here with Pope's hands on your body and his mouth on your throat and the evidence of what he'd done still washing down the drain- You didn't want to be that person anymore. You wanted this. Wanted him. Wanted the darkness he carried and the protection he offered and the certainty that he would burn the world down before he let anyone hurt you again.
Pope's mouth moved back to yours. His kiss was consuming. Possessive. Like he was claiming you. Marking you. Making sure you understood exactly what you were choosing.
You kissed him back just as fiercely. Your nails dragged down his back. Hard enough to leave marks. Pope groaned. His hips pressed forward. You could feel him. Hard.
“Bambi-“ Your name was a warning. A question. A plea. You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes.
“I want you.”
Pope's jaw clenched. “You don't know what you're saying.”
“Yes, I do.” Your hands came up to frame his face. “You killed him because he hurt me.”
Pope's eyes searched yours. “Yeah.”
“And I love you for it.” The words hung between you. Raw. Honest. Dangerous.
Pope's expression shifted. Something fierce and possessive and almost feral crossed his face. “Say it again.” His voice was rough. Commanding.
You held his gaze. “I love you for it.”
Pope kissed you again. Harder. Deeper. His hands gripped your thighs. Held you against the wall. The water beat down on both of you. Hot. Relentless. Washing away the evidence of what he'd done while you clung to him and kissed him like you were trying to crawl inside his skin.
When you finally broke apart, you were both breathing hard. Pope's forehead rested against yours. His eyes were closed. “You're not who I thought you were.” The words were quiet. Almost awed.
You smiled. “Neither are you.”
Pope's eyes opened. Met yours. “I'm exactly who you thought I was.”
You shook your head. “No.” Your hands slid into his hair. “You're even better.”
Pope stared at you. Like he was seeing you for the first time. Like he'd thought he knew you and was just now realizing how wrong he'd been.
You leaned in. Pressed your lips to his. Soft. Gentle. A contrast to everything that had come before. Pope's hands tightened on your thighs. You smiled against his mouth.
Pope pulled back enough to look at you. Really look at you. His eyes traced over your face. Searching for doubt. For any sign that you didn't mean what you were saying. He didn't find any. Instead, he found something that made his breath catch. Certainty. Desire. Darkness. A mirror of his own. “Fuck.” The word came out rough. Almost reverent.
You grinned. “Yeah… fuck.”
Pope kissed you again. Slower this time. Deeper. Like he was savoring it. Like he was trying to memorize the taste of you. The feel of you. The way you fit against him. When he finally pulled back, his eyes were dark. Hungry. Possessive. “You're mine.” It wasn't a question.
You nodded anyway. “Mhm.”
“Say it.” His voice was commanding.
You held his gaze. “I'm yours.”
Pope's grip on you tightened. “And I'm yours.” The words settled between you. A promise. A claim. A vow.
You kissed him again. Soft. Sweet. A contrast to the violence that had brought you here. Pope turned off the water. Carried you out of the shower. Didn't bother with towels. Just walked you straight to the bedroom and laid you down on the bed. Water dripped from both of you. Soaked into the sheets. Neither of you cared.
Pope settled over you. His weight familiar. Comforting. You looked up at him. At the man who'd killed for you. Who'd crossed a line most people couldn't even see. Who'd looked at the person who'd spent years destroying you and decided he didn't get to exist anymore. And you felt safer than you'd ever felt in your life. Not in spite of what he'd done. Because of it.
Pope's hand came up to cup your face. His thumb brushed over your cheekbone. You smiled. Your hand covered his. Something in Pope's expression softened. You pulled him down. And as Pope's hands roamed over your body and his mouth found all the places that made you gasp, you realized you weren't scared anymore. Not of him. Not of yourself. Not of the darkness you'd been running from your whole life. Because Pope had shown you something tonight. That love didn't have to be soft. That protection didn't have to be gentle. That sometimes the most dangerous thing in the world was also the safest.
But when you tried to deepen the kiss, Pope pulled back. His eyes were dark. Hungry. Possessive in a way that made heat pool low in your belly. You reached for him but he caught your wrists, pinned them above your head with one hand. The other traced down your body, slow, deliberate, like he was mapping every curve, every line, every place that belonged to him now. His touch was firm, claiming, and you arched into it, wanting more, needing more.
“Andy-“
His mouth cut off whatever you were going to say. Kissed you hard enough to bruise, hard enough to claim, his teeth catching your bottom lip before his tongue swept into your mouth. When he pulled back, you were breathless, your lips swollen, your body trembling beneath him.
“Let me.”
Your voice came out soft. Pleading. You pulled against his grip on your wrists and he let you go, watched as you sat up, as you pushed him back against the headboard, as you settled between his legs. Your hands slid up his thighs, felt the muscle tense under your touch, felt the power coiled there, the same power that had ended your father's life just hours ago.
“Let me show you.”
Pope's jaw clenched. His hand came up to cup your face, thumb brushing over your bottom lip, and you kissed it, then took it into your mouth, sucked. Pope's breath hitched. His eyes never left yours, dark and intense, watching every movement you made.
You released his thumb and moved your hands higher, wrapped one around him. He was already hard, had been since the shower, since you'd pressed against him and told him you loved him for what he'd done. Your hand stroked him once, slow, firm, and Pope's head fell back against the headboard. His breathing changed, deeper, rougher, and you could see the tension in his shoulders, in his jaw, in the way his fingers flexed against the sheets.
You leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his hip, then lower, your tongue tracing along his length from base to tip. Pope's hand fisted in your wet hair, not pulling, just holding, grounding himself. You took him into your mouth slowly, savoring the weight of him on your tongue, the taste of him, the way his whole body tensed at the contact.
Pope made a sound low in his throat, something between a groan and a growl, and your eyes flicked up to his face. His jaw was clenched, his eyes closed, his chest rising and falling with each breath. You took him deeper, hollowed your cheeks, used your tongue the way you knew he liked, and Pope's grip in your hair tightened. His hips shifted just slightly, like he was fighting the urge to thrust, fighting to maintain control.
You pulled back, let him slip from your mouth, and looked up at him with eyes that were already starting to water. “I want you to,” you said, your voice rough, wrecked. “Use me.”
The words hung between you, raw, honest, desperate. Pope's eyes opened and met yours, searching your face for any sign of hesitation, any doubt. He found none. “You sure?”
You nodded, your hand still wrapped around him, stroking slowly. “Please.”
Pope's expression darkened. His hand tightened in your hair and his other hand came up to cup your jaw, his thumb tracing over your swollen lips. “Open,” he said, his voice low and commanding, and you did. You opened your mouth and Pope guided himself back in, slow at first, letting you adjust, letting you breathe. Then his grip tightened and he started to move.
Controlled at first. Deliberate. Using your mouth the way you'd asked him to, the way you needed him to. You relaxed your throat, let him in deeper, and tears pricked at the corners of your eyes but you didn't pull away. Didn't want to. This was worship. Gratitude. Surrender. This was you showing him exactly what his protection meant to you.
Pope's breathing got rougher, less controlled. His movements became more demanding, his cock hitting the back of your throat with each thrust. You gagged, choked, tears streaming down your face, but you kept your eyes on his, kept your hands gripping his thighs, nails digging into muscle. The sounds were obscene, wet, desperate, the sound of you struggling to take him, the sound of him using you exactly the way you'd begged him to.
Your jaw ached. Your throat burned. Saliva dripped down your chin and tears blurred your vision, but you didn't care. You could feel him getting close, feel the tension building in his body, the way his thrusts became less rhythmic, more desperate. His hand in your hair was almost painful now, holding you in place, controlling every movement, and you loved it. Loved the way he took what he needed from you. Loved the way he didn't hold back.
Pope's breathing was ragged now, his control slipping, and just when you thought he was going to come down your throat, he pulled you off him suddenly. You gasped, coughed, looked up at him with confusion and need, your lips swollen and wet, your face a mess of tears and saliva.
He was breathing hard, his eyes wild, possessive, darker than you'd ever seen them. “Not like this,” he said, his voice strained, rough. “ I want to feel you.”
Pope pulled you up, positioned you over him, your legs on either side of his hips. His hands gripped your waist hard enough to bruise and you could feel him beneath you, hard and slick from your mouth. You reached between you, guided him to your entrance. You were already wet, had been since the shower, since you'd seen the blood, since you'd realized what he'd done for you.
You sank down slowly, inch by inch, taking him in. The stretch was intense, almost too much, and you gasped as he filled you completely. Pope's hands tightened on your waist, his eyes never leaving yours, watching every expression that crossed your face, the pleasure, the pain, the overwhelming sensation of being completely full of him.
When you were fully seated, you both paused, breathing, adjusting, savoring the connection. Then you started to move, slow at first, rolling your hips, finding a rhythm. Pope's hands guided you, controlled the pace, controlled everything, and you let him. Surrendered completely to whatever he wanted to do to you.
“Thank you,” you breathed, the words spilling out unbidden. “Thank you for protecting me.” Pope's grip tightened and he thrust up into you, hard, making you gasp. “Thank you for killing him.” Another thrust, harder this time, and you moaned. “Thank you for being exactly what I need.”
Pope pulled you down, kissed you hard, his tongue invading your mouth the same way his cock was invading your body. His hands moved from your waist to your hips, held you in place while he thrust up into you, harder, deeper, taking control completely. You clung to him, nails digging into his shoulders, your forehead pressed against his as he fucked you with an intensity that stole your breath.
“I want you to come inside me,” you gasped against his mouth, the words desperate, needy. “Please, Andy. I want to feel you. Want to carry you inside me. Want everything you'll give me.”
Pope groaned, his rhythm faltering for just a second before he flipped you, pinned you beneath him on the bed. His hands grabbed your thighs, pushed them back, opened you wider, and then he was moving again, hard, deep, relentless. The new angle had him hitting something inside you that made you see stars, made you cry out with every thrust.
You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulled him deeper, your hands clawing at his back. “Yes,” you moaned, the word broken, desperate. “Please, Honey. Want you to fill me up with your cum.”
The words were filthy, desperate, true. Pope's rhythm got rougher, less controlled, more primal. You could feel him getting close, feel the tension building in his body, the way his breathing changed, the way his grip on you tightened. His mouth found your throat, teeth scraping, marking, claiming you as his.
“Come inside me,” you begged, your nails raking down his back hard enough to leave marks. “Fill me up. Give me everything. Want to feel you dripping out of me. Want to carry your cum inside me all day.”
Pope's hand came up to your throat, not squeezing, just holding, possessing, reminding you who you belonged to. His thrusts got harder, deeper, more desperate, and you felt yourself getting close, the pressure building low in your belly, spreading through your whole body.
“I'm yours,” you gasped, your voice barely a whisper. “Completely yours. Mark me. Claim me.”
Pope's forehead pressed against yours, his breathing ragged, uncontrolled, and you could feel him right on the edge. His grip on your throat tightened just slightly and his rhythm faltered, became erratic, and then he was coming, hard, deep inside you, his cock pulsing as he filled you with his cum.
You felt it, felt him pulse, felt the warmth spread inside you, and it pushed you over the edge. Your body clenched around him, milking him, taking everything he had to give, your orgasm crashing through you in waves that left you shaking and gasping beneath him.
Pope's hand stayed on your throat, his body pressed you into the mattress, his weight grounding you, anchoring you. When you both finally came down, Pope didn't pull out, didn't move. Just stayed buried inside you, his forehead resting against yours, his breathing slowly evening out.
Your hands came up to his face, traced over his features, the sharp line of his jaw, the scar above his eyebrow, the lips that had just claimed every part of you. “I love you,” you whispered, the words soft, certain, absolute.
Pope's eyes opened and met yours. “I love you too,” he said, his voice rough, raw, honest.
You pulled him down and kissed him, soft, sweet, a promise. Pope rolled onto his side, pulled you with him, kept himself buried inside you. Your leg hooked over his hip, his arm wrapped around your waist, holding you close, keeping you connected. You pressed your face against his chest, felt his heartbeat, steady, strong, safe.
“Thank you,” you whispered again, the words barely audible.
Pope's hand came up to your hair, stroked gently. “Always.”
And you realized, lying there with him still inside you, his cum slowly leaking out around where you were joined, that you were done pretending otherwise. Done pretending you wanted soft. Done pretending you needed gentle. Done pretending the darkness scared you.
Because Pope had shown you the truth tonight, that sometimes the most dangerous thing in the world was also the safest. And you were never letting that go.
Series Summary: Taking Lena under your wing leads to you developing a relationship with her Uncle Pope. You might be just the thing they've needed to feel like a real family.
Chapter Summary: You help Lena navigate one of the most challenging days of the year for an insecure middle schooler: Picture Day. As he watches Lena blossom because of your influence, it becomes harder for Pope to ignore his feelings for you.
Tags/Notes: fluff, parent!pope, girly girl reader, lena blackwell, slow burn
Content Warnings: none
Author's Note: because of everything going on in my life atm, i'm gonna be focusing on WIPs that are closer to being done or that just make me happiest for a bit so here's more of this!
Word Count: 3.1k
As the summer winds down and the school year begins, Andrew gradually becomes comfortable with having you around Lena. Soon enough, he’s reaching out to you when he has emergency repair work for his tenants so you can babysit. You get used to picking her up from the skate park to take her home or to the mall or the beach, whatever she wants. It’s nice; she’s kind of your mini-me, always looking to you for things that Pope can’t really help with. His advice for dealing with mean girls was ‘How about you tell me who their dads are and I’ll handle it?’ with his knuckles clenched white around the steering wheel, so your gentler touch is definitely needed.
All the while, you’re focused on nurturing your relationship with Lena, not your crush on Pope. Teaching her what she wants to learn and sneaking in the truths she needs to hear. He tries to do the same because he’s terrified of scaring off the one good female role model Lena has.
The dam of his attraction to you breaks slowly, tiny cracks in his resolve over time. It splinters in every moment that he watches you with Lena, always so gentle and so light, meeting her where she is. It crumbles each time he walks you into your building and then turns on your bedtime livestream on the way back home, listening to your sweet voice talking about him and Lena – who you give nicknames for privacy – and your plans and your job and whatever your followers want to hear. He just likes to hear your voice, a warm thing made of butterfly wings and cotton candy.
The third week of September, Pope can’t ignore it anymore.
SUNDAY
The three of you are at the mall on Sunday afternoon when Lena asks, “Can I get an outfit for Picture Day while I’m here, Pope?”
Tilting his head to the side as he vaguely remembers the eight Picture Days he had before dropping out for good – Smurf never bought the packets they tried to sell because he didn’t smile, anyway – he asks, sounding genuinely curious, “You need a new outfit for that?” But then you glare daggers at him and he quickly corrects, “Of course, Bean. Whatever makes you feel your best.”
“Come on,” you suggest, happy to have a new mission for the afternoon, “let’s go to that little boutique on the first floor where we bought your purple sundress. Something bright and fun like that would be perfect, don’t you think?”
“Exactly,” Lena agrees seriously. As you all take the escalator down to the other side of the mall, Lena tells you, “Maya Jenkins made fun of my picture last year, so I want to make sure I have a really nice one this time.”
“From everything you’ve told me, Maya Jenkins is a rat bitch,” you reply right away, not thinking. Pope snorts out a laugh behind you as you clear your throat and backpedal, “How about this year you show up feeling confident as hell and totally ignore her and take the prettiest picture ever for you? Not for her or anyone else. We can get a cute frame and hang it up somewhere nice. I’m sure your uncle would like to have something to remember what you were like at this age when you’re grown up.” You cut a glowing look over your shoulder. “Right, Andrew?”
“Absolutely.” He shrugs like it isn’t a big deal, which makes it obvious to you just how important it really is. “Wish I had more pictures of me and Julia from when we were kids.”
Your eyes soften as you gaze at him for a moment. Lena looks between the two of you with a satisfied, cheeky smirk.
TUESDAY
You show up at Pope’s house at 5:30 with your hair curler, makeup bag, and manicure kit in tow. You haven’t even gotten yourself ready yet, still in a pair of slouchy shorts and a tee with no bra, hair tucked in a pink silk bonnet and no makeup on your face; ensuring that Lena feels good before Picture Day is more important to you than looking good. That reality makes Pope’s stomach twist around itself. The view of your cute nipples nudging at your pajama top doesn’t hurt, either.
Lena’s on the couch in her PJs eating breakfast (peanut butter banana pancakes, eggs, sausage, strawberries, and fresh-squeezed orange juice; Andrew told you he’s very serious about making sure Lena has enough protein and vitamins). She squeals happily when she sees you and pats the spot on the couch next to her, which you occupy right away.
Before you can say anything, there’s a plate of food in your hands, Andrew silently serving it to you with a knowing look. “I watched your stream this morning; a handful of chocolate almonds isn’t breakfast.”
You roll your eyes but accept it because Pope is one of those people who make arguing completely futile – and, admittedly, you’re so fucking charmed by knowing he watches your streams to keep tabs on you when you aren’t together. “Thank you. That’s very sweet.”
Lena hums happily, “See, Pope? I told you she wouldn’t think it’s weird.”
As you giggle at him, Andrew rumbles something under his breath and returns to the kitchen to clean up from cooking.
Between bites, Lena tells you, “I’ve got my outfit and accessories and stuff all picked out now.” Then she picks up her phone and opens up Pinterest, showing you some inspiration pictures for her hair and nails, all sunshine and daisies and bouncy curls. “You think we can do something like this? I know we don’t have a ton of time.”
As Andrew joins you back in the living room, flopping onto the closest armchair with his legs spread wide like such a man, you shake your head and assure, “I did a fancy updo and a full set of French tips in an Uber on the way to my cousin’s bachelorette party; we have plenty of time.”
Pope’s eyebrows raise. “Seriously?”
“Mhmm,” you reply, all proud. “We girly girls have a set of skills you could never ever begin to comprehend.”
He chuckles under his breath and then stands, taking your and Lena’s empty plates with a quick, “Go get ready. I’m not gonna let you be late to school just because you wanted to look cute for picture day.”
You scoff, “It’s a need, Andy, not a want. But we’ll be quick.”
Andy.
Andy Andy Andy Andy.
His brain turns to ice cream and his veins fill with hot fudge because you’re so fucking sweet to him without even thinking about it. He’s rendered entirely speechless, wide-eyed and toddler-hopeful, as Lena snatches your hand and drags you into her bedroom suite. He can’t manage a single thought for five minutes straight, simply awestruck by the easy intimacy of your slow integration into his life.
Still floaty with adoration, Andrew drifts over toward the two of you after half an hour, knowing he needs to start corralling Lena for school. When he sees you finishing off Lena’s daisy-inspired makeup look with some soft highlights on her cheeks, he melts. Since losing her mom, Lena’s never had someone be so gentle with her, smiling and affirming and complimenting until she actually feels good about herself.
Once you’re happy with the makeup look, you finally allow Lena to look in the mirror, asking with bated breath, “What do you think, Lee?”
With a smile that actually makes her seem like a kid instead of a mini adult for once, Lena announces, “I look so pretty.”
When you catch Andrew’s eyes in the mirror, he’s absolutely glowing. Yes, for him that means a soft smile and crossed arms. But you can see the smile in his eyes and the innocent blush in his cheeks. He may not get this whole thing, but he’s Lena’s #1 fan, so if all this makes her feel pretty and confident, he’s going to support it with his whole chest. He touches her shoulder, knowing better than to ruffle her hair or even graze her cheek. “You’re beautiful, Bean. Really.”
Her smile grows as she once again checks herself out in the mirror.
FRIDAY
The day Lena comes home with her school pictures, you’re already in the kitchen with Andrew, working on dinner together in a comfortable rhythm with one of his crackly old records crooning through the house. Lena has Art Club on Fridays, so it’s about five when one of her friend’s moms drops her off at the bottom of the driveway. The sound of middle school girls saying enthusiastic goodbyes with talks of weekend plans makes you and Andrew smile to each other, small and intimate.
You hear Lena before you see her, skipping quickly toward the kitchen and loudly announcing, “We learned to draw in two-point perspective today, Pope! You won’t believe how cool this drawing of-” She stops and grins when she sees you there alongside her uncle, quickly tackling you into a hug. “I didn’t think you’d be here today!”
“Andrew thought it’d be fun to surprise you with your favorite dinner and I offered to pick up the groceries and help him out,” you explain with a warm laugh as she lets you go. “Now let’s see that drawing, yeah?”
While you and Andrew finish up dinner, Lena shows off the sketches she did during her club, all with mostly erased perspective lines that show the new skill she’s learning. They’re architectural, inspired by buildings in the neighborhood on the shore, and they really do show some potential. You make sure to ooh and ahh appropriately, knowing how important it is for her to be encouraged.
Once the three of you are full of Andrew’s supposedly famous fish tacos and your signature citrusy mocktail, the dishes are cleaned up, and Lena’s homework is done, Lena takes out a thick folder from her backpack and hands it unceremoniously to her uncle. “We got our pictures back today. I think they turned out good.”
Andrew sits up straight on the couch and you lean in, too. Quickly and quietly, trying not to make a thing of it, he opens up the hefty envelope of photos – he’d ordered multiples of every size they offered plus a fridge magnet, a keychain, and digital copies inexplicably still stored on a DVD.
A slow, tender smile spreads over Andrew’s lips as he takes them in. Lena’s absolutely beaming at the camera, clearly feeling herself in her cute makeup, clothes, and hair. She actually looks like herself. He pulls her into a tight hug on his lap and tells her seriously, “These are really great, Bean. We’ll go out and get some frames tomorrow; I’ve gotta put one up in my office at the park and one over the fireplace here.”
She perks up and hugs him again, burying her face in his neck. “Really?”
“Of course,” he assures; you can see the familiar pain in his eyes at the idea she’d even question that. “Hell, I’ll get it tattooed if you want me to.”
She laughs and shakes her head. “That might be too far.” Then, still perched on his knees, Lena turns to you with wide, hopeful eyes and asks, “What do you think?”
You look more closely at the largest photo and tell her, “You look so beautiful, Lee, seriously. These could be in the dictionary next to ‘pretty.’”
Her smile only grows as she averts her eyes, embarrassed but thrilled under the praise from everyone. “Thanks for doing my makeup and everything.”
“Any time,” you reply, dipping down to make eye contact so she knows it’s true, “although you’re really coming along as my makeup protege. You won’t need to have me on call soon enough.”
She shakes her head as she stands up. “You still have to teach Pope to take care of his skin.”
You give him a mean faux-glare and cross your arms over your chest. “You aren’t following the routine I built for you?”
He puts up his hands defensively. “I am, I swear.”
Lena grabs his right hand and holds it out in front of you. “His face, yes, but look at these sandpaper hands. He needs more help if he’s ever going to get a girlfriend.”
“I don’t think he’d have any trouble getting a girlfriend if he wanted one,” you reply, hoping your voice isn’t too needy with your crush.
Andrew nods tightly. “Thank you very much.”
But you still wrinkle your nose at the callus on him, taking his hand in yours and inspecting closely. As sexy as they would feel on your soft skin, his hands definitely don’t look well cared for. With a little shrug, you admit, “Actually, though, you really should let me get you a nice heavy cream for these. Repair all these cracks.”
He sighs, thinking about nothing but how good your hands feel on his skin even in this totally platonic way, “Whatever you say.”
You teasingly pat him on the cheek. “That’s what I like to hear.”
After a charged beat where you and Andrew hold eye contact a little too long, Lena interrupts with a tug to your sleeve. “Can you stay for movie night? We always watch something together on Fridays.”
Batting your lashes, you turn back to Andrew. “I’d love to – if it’s okay with Andy.”
He rolls his eyes and shifts his legs to stop himself from chubbing up at how fucking sexy you look when you’re being totally silly with him. All he can picture is how pretty you’d be looking up at him like that and begging for something very different. “Of course it’s okay. What are we watching, Bean?”
“Ten Things I Hate About You,” she says. “Kyra and Kylie’s mom has a picture of Heath Ledger up on their wall and I want to see if he’s actually cute on film.”
You nod, impressed. “Good call. And I promise he is.”
Andrew sighs, ready to strap in for yet another romcom (god, he misses when she always wanted to watch a Land Before Time feature), and orders, “Go get ready for bed first. We both know it’s 50/50 if you fall asleep and I’m not fighting with you over brushing your teeth when you’re half-conscious again.”
She pouts but concedes, “That’s fair. The evidence is there.”
Andrew snickers, “Thank you for your cooperation.”
Once Lena’s disappeared into her bedroom suite, Andrew stands up hastily, beelines to the kitchen, and rummages around in a way that makes it clear you’re supposed to follow him. First, Andrew removes last year’s school picture from his wallet and hands it to you. In it, Lena’s barely forcing a smile, her eyes full of insecurity and her lips pressed in a tight line. “She wouldn’t let me put up any of these. None from the year before, either. She said she looked ugly.”
Instinctively, you rub his back between his shoulder blades. “Nobody deserves to feel that way, especially not such a good kid.”
Placing a wallet-size of the new picture, where she’s glowing and confident, in the plastic sleeve in front of the old one, Andrew swats a tear from his cheek and whispers roughly, “This is the first school picture where she’s really smiled.” Another tear falls and this time he lets it, trying to breathe deeply and steady himself in your hand on his back. “God, she’s got the most beautiful smile, doesn’t she?”
“Yeah, she does.” You slide your arm across his shoulders and squeeze him. “I’m so glad she felt good about herself.”
Then Andrew Cody does something you’d never expect from him: He hugs you. Tight. His strong arms wrap around your back and he kisses the side of your head. Without questioning the moment, you bury your forehead in the crook of his neck and breathe in his brisk cologne. In a shaky vulnerable voice, he murmurs, “That’s because of you. I can’t thank you enough.”
He pulls away abruptly because he knows he could get lost holding you. There’s more he has to do. While you stand there, still a bit breathless from his strength and his scent, Andrew opens up a high cabinet – one nobody but him could reach – and removes something you can’t quite see. “Here,” he mutters as he shoves a thick envelope into your hands, “just a thank you. For all the time you spend with Lena. And everything else. Don’t make it weird; just take it.”
You peek suspiciously inside the envelope and find two brand new bundles of hundred dollar bills, fresh from the bank. Closing it immediately, you press it to his chest and reply, “Andrew, I can’t take two thousand dollars from a single parent.”
His eyebrows pinch together and he pouts adorably. Voice gravelly and low, he insists, “I said don’t make it weird and just take it. C’mon, be good for me.”
Well, that goes right between your legs. He didn’t necessarily mean to phrase it that way, but he also definitely doesn’t miss the way you choke out a nervous breath/giggle and flick your eyes away from his. After swallowing thickly, you tell him, “Okay, fine, but I’m going to get you and Lena presents and you can’t stop me.”
Finally, he cracks that lopsided smile you’ve only gotten out of him a handful of times. “You’re not the kind of girl I could stop from doing anything you wanted to. I like that about you.”
“That I’m stubborn?”
“That you’re sure. You don’t question yourself. It’s-” you can hear how he wants to say ‘sexy’ in his tone and the way his words hitch “-an attractive quality in a woman.”
Before you can respond, Lena emerges from her bedroom with her teeth brushed, her pajamas on, and her hair braided. You squeeze Andrew’s bicep briefly, your eyes communicating more emotion than he could ever understand, and tuck the money in your purse before joining Lena back in the living room. Andrew sits in the middle and it strikes him that he could get used to this – his girls on either side of him, an easy domestic life spread out for the taking.
Within an hour, Lena’s snoring, her head on Andrew’s lap, before Heath Ledger’s even delivered his iconic serenade. You hum along to it under your breath, nudging Andrew at your favorite moments, and try not to wake Lena with your happy squeals at the best scenes. It’s no surprise to him that romcoms are your favorite. Toward the end, you give him a sleepy smile and then rest your head on his shoulder like it’s nothing. Normal. Where your cheek touches his shoulder, it feels like lightning.
That settles it.
This isn’t a crush or some fleeting attraction.
He’s falling in love with you.
Now what the fuck is he supposed to do about it?
In lieu of my ko-fi, please consider donating to my mother's long-term dementia care fund.
summary: your night becomes a series of unfortunate events & a very unprofessional moment sends you seeking refuge on the roof. luckily, your very patient attending Jack Abbot can’t leave you up there alone.
tags/warnings/tropes: the pitt but it’s sitcom-ish, all the patients are kinda whack, age gap (reader is in her 20s), no use of y/n, reader has curly hair, slowburn over a night, reader is on the brink of a panic attack at one point, jack makes a joke about jumping off the roof, reader gets her hair pulled by a patient, they make out like teenagers, antivax mentioned IN A BAD WAY, a child cries after some yelling, mateo & javadi mention under the cut, kinda hurt/comfort, small foot injury, reader is half starving for most of the night, jack is sweet as per usual
wc: 8k ish (i fell into a trance)
a/n: hi!!!! i haven’t written in a long time and this is me getting back into it so i hope it’s good & you enjoy <3
⋆˚꩜｡
“We deal with the weirdest and the wildest.” Jack Abbott's voice rang in your head, over and over again. “Because we’re the weirdest and the wildest of them all.”
That seemed to be proving true tonight more than ever. When you finally made it to resident status a year ago, it seemed like the hospital got kicks out of torturing you. You thought this title bump meant power and freedom, not cleaning up everyone else’s messes. Some nights are easier than others, and the moment you walked through those hospital doors, you had a feeling this wasn’t going to be one of them.
The fluorescent lights buzzed high over head, highlighting the hospital floor. They had a way of turning everyone skin the same sickly pale. It was louder than usual. Every bed seemed to be occupied by someone hurting, dying, or loudly causing problems for every member of the staff. It seems like there are more people than usual tonight, and twice that number are probably waiting tirelessly in triage.
Must be a full moon or something
You swear the room spins around you as all the sounds accumulate in some loud brigade against your ears. Just looking at everyone and everything you're going to face tonight.
Someone in a closed trauma room across from you screams, the very specific sound of a bone snapping back into place following. Apparently the situation isn’t going well based on the next string of words you hear from Dr. Walsh through the wall.
With a sigh, you reach into the bag still slung over your arm, reaching for your can of Red Bull. No way you're making it through this shift without an energy drink. You’re hand finds emptiness in your drink pocket, patting around frantically. Then, you picture it sitting on the messy counter in your crappy apartment, right where you left it this morning. Next to your small lunchbox, which is still sitting there. Fantastic.
-
“What the hell is that?” Ellis asks from behind you. Based on her laugh, it seems she's already seeing what you are. She comes and stands beside you, eyes squinting as she leans in. She knocks her elbow against your arm as she fully makes it out.
You're staring at the X-ray in front of you, the light board behind it illuminating the imaging from a 42-year-old male. Your mouth hangs slightly open as you fully see it now. You both make out the image of a foreign object that seems to be a carrot.
“That's not a stomach.” Shen says, stopping in his tracks at the image.
“No. It’s not.” You sigh, ripping the image down off the screen. Of course, this case is the chart you just happened to pick up. Shen and Eliss’s laughs echo behind you.
“Abbot!” You call after him. You jog down the hallway to catch up, holding your stethoscope against your chest as it bobs along with your footsteps.
He’s always preferred you to call him Abbot or even Jack. Doctor Abbot felt too formal for how close you two have grown over the years. Trips to the bar down the block, coffee after shifts at the little cafe within walking distance. Those excursions would be too weird with you still calling him “Dr Abbot” like some scared med student.
He turns around quickly at the sound of your voice, gesturing for whoever he was talking with to go ahead without him. His full attention is given to you immediately.
-
“Wow.” Is all Abbot says as he holds the X-ray up to the light. “Can't say I’ve ever been that desperate.” His lips turn up into something between a smirk and a grin.
The humor of the situation finally catches up to you as you laugh at the tight-lipped expression he's wearing.
“I don’t need to or want to think about that, Abbot.” You respond.
“And for that… You get to do the honors.” His closed smile turns into an irritating grin as he shoves the X-ray back into your hands, already walking away, leaving you in front of the last room you want to enter.
“Nightcrawlers, baby!” Jack yells to no one and everyone.
-
After half an hour, a surgery consult, and a very volatile man who insists he somehow managed to slip in his kitchen, you leave the trauma room with a final click of the door. Walsh eyes you as she walks beside the man's gurney, taking him up for more imaging. She's not thrilled you made this her problem. But she's not thrilled with much.
Without even meeting her eyes, you wave her goodbye, adding a little finger wiggle to really piss her off. It works.
“Your residents need to learn to problem solve and not push it off on surgery.” Walsh puts her hand out to stop Jack as he attempts to walk by. “This could’ve been a small procedure done down here and you know it.”
”You said it yourself Walsh, heavy is the head that wears the crown.” Jack snickers as he looks past her, finding your eyes.
He props himself against a lone gurney in the hallway, facing you with that same grin still on his face. The ER hasn’t calmed down at all in the past few hours. Matter of fact, you’re almost sure it's gotten more chaotic, but Jack always seems to find a way to make small moments for you.
“She might be right. You probably could’ve signed off on something down here.” You laugh along with him, making a guilty “oops” face.
“And put my favorite resident through that? No way”
-
“Coffee?” Shen is already standing sympathetically in front of you. He’s holding his own Dunkin coffee and another iced coffee just for you. You’re starving, and the look of the iced coffee makes you wanna drop to your knees and rejoice.
“Yes. Finally. Thank you.” You say, dropping your head in gratitude, spraying a little hand sanitizer before grabbing for the cup.
“No time.” Jack appears, not slowing down. He grabs your arm as he strolls by, wrapping his fingers around your bicep. He drags you for a second, not letting go until you're matching his speed, and even then he seems hesitant. “Single MVA rolling up. Guy went into a pole.”
“I’ll leave it on your desk,” Shen yells after with a thumbs up. “I got you extra caramel drizzle.”
-
The sliding doors to the ambulance bay open with a woosh. It’s not a luxurious place by any means. One of the fluorescent lights above you is out and emits a strange hum that you usually can’t hear over the sound of the ambulances. Though, the flowers planted around the building make it a little nicer. No telling how much money they spent on that instead of better safety measures.
The cold air hits your face immediately; it's a windy Pittsburgh night. You zip up the athletic jacket that’s been around you all night, tucking your mouth and nose into it for a second. Jack reaches over and barely untucks your hair that's gotten tangled into the jacket. He doesn’t say anything as he does it, just carefully moves the hair from off you and adjusts the jacket. His fingers barely graze the side of your neck as he pulls back.
“How’d it go with Carrot Top anyway?” Jack asks, tightly crossing his arms over his chest. Almost as an animal would for protective measures. As if he didn’t just share an incredibly tender moment with you.
Your mouth falls open at the nickname, an embarrassing snort coming out, clamping a hand over your lips quickly.
“Carrot Top?"
Only Jack would think up a name like that.
“Carrot Bottom?” he questions with the raise of an eyebrow. Very proud of himself.
“I hate you.” You nod reverently, your face betraying you as you grin through every word.
“You could never.”
Jack makes a motion of putting his hand on your crown and ruffling your curls. From anyone else this would be annoying. These curls have a very meticulous routine. But, from Jack it's weirdly endearing. The smile on your face only serves to egg him on as he picks up a coil and stretches it.
-
The MVA you’re missing your extra caramel drizzle coffee for turns out to be a drunk man who has nothing nice to say and yet no injuries to explain his grand irritation. The slurred voice and incoherent yelling quickly turn from just annoying to grating.
“We are gonna get you pain meds, but first you need to shut your fucking mouth.” Jack says to the man very sternly. It even draws your attention, making you straighten yourself out. He can be demanding when he wants to.
The drunk gestures wildly with his hands and occasionally with his feet as he yells. The smell of his breath and the alcohol reeking from him would make you wanna gag if you had any food in your stomach. During a long brigade of words that make no sense in the order they're said, the man's fingers catch your hair by accident.
He yanks, pulling your whole head down with his grip. You tug once but can’t break his grip. The sound of instruments clattering against a tray echoes through the room, and Jack's voice booms with a “Hey!”
His hand clamps around the drunk man, physically prying his fingers off of you. The man protests with sharp sounds of pain that Jack ignores.
“You good?” He asks quickly, eyes searching yours. His hand is still clamped around the man. “I’m fine.” You shake your head out physically. Soothing out the clump of curls that are now frizzy from the friction of his grip.
“Push Haldol. He’s combative.” Jack orders one of the nurses in the room with an unusually authoritative yell. His eyes flick to yours every few seconds, surveying you for any sign of discomfort.
How is he even still awake?” You ask, adjusting the man's IV, half-impressed and half-irritated.
“To spite us.”
And the way this night's going, that very well may be true. Some cryptid figure sent from Hell just to irritate you further.
-
Two Discharges down and a mountain of charts to fill out, you finally have time to sit at a desk. Being off your feet for the first time in hours. Your energy is almost depleted after having nothing to eat and no caffeine.
Plopping down in your chair is wildly uncomfortable. Your lumbar support must be giving out. Make a note to complain about that.
Although if they're not worried about coughing up money for better safety precautions so doctors and nurses get their hair pulled less, something tells you they won't care about this chair.
Finally reuniting with your beloved coffee, you discover it’s died in your absence. You find the ice completely melted. Now, some off-putting sludge the color of wet cardboard. Even the little streaks of caramel look depressed. Great.
To make matters worse, your computer isn’t turning on. “What the hell is with this thing?” You tap the power button insistently, definitely making the problems worse.
“Oh yeah, Victoria said that one wasn't working. Someone on day shift did something to it,” Mateo says, spinning himself around in his chair. You're a little jealous of how carefree he always is.
“We're calling Dr. Javadi Victoria now, are we?” You ask with a sideways smile and a knowing glare.
“I’ll call IT.” is all the response you get.
“Can’t.” A passing nurse with a name you can’t place says. “They left already.”
”Oh yeah.” Mateo smiles to himself and finally speaks in response to your raised eyebrows. “Apparently Donnie's taking out the IT girl tonight. Must be why she cut early.”
“Fantastic,” You say with a clearly sarcastic smile. “Donny gets a hot date, and I get a busted computer and a night alone.”
“You could get a hot date.” Mateo grins.
“Don’t make me tell Victoria,” You turn in your chair quickly to stare at him. The sound of wheels squeaking.
“Not me. You're too old for me,” he says.
“We’re like almost the same age!” You say back incredulously.
“Yeah, and I like younger women.”
You make a gagging sound before he finishes his thought.
“I mean Dr. Abbot.”
“Again, Mateo. I’m like half his age!”
Jack is well into his 40s, and not to mention your attending. Sure, you've thought about it. Briefly, I mean, you're human; you have eyes. Plus, it's not even your fault. He makes it hard not to. In reality, it's really completely his fault.
“Okay, and maybe he likes younger women too.”
“You're nasty.”
_
The sound of an older woman's shaky but familiar voice pulls you out of the small fantasy you were letting yourself have about a world in which maybe you do manage a hot date with Jack. Stupid Mateo. You drop your head onto your desk for a moment, bonking your head against it.
You're close enough to stay in your rolling chair and spin yourself backward to reach the woman. You already knew exactly where she’d be. She tended to wander, the dementia making her restless especially at night. She was a frequent flyer.
“Mrs. Deborah, what is it?” You ask, always finding yourself smiling at the woman even when she pesters you all night.
“I want to see that handsome doctor again. I liked him.”
”Dr Abbot is busy.”
You kick yourself immediately for jumping to Jack when you heard the words, “handsome doctor”. She could've meant anyone. But let’s be honest, she probably meant Jack.
“He’ll make an exception for me.” She says back with all the confidence in the world. It's impressive, honestly. You laugh, not cruelly but with warmth for the woman. She even laughed back with you, no doubt forgetting what she's smiling about.
“I’ll let him know you're interested.” You nod, closing her curtain back.
-
“Mrs Deborah in curtain one for you.” You say, catching Jack's arm as he passes by, basically shoving the iPad into his chest. He's sturdy. You're beyond tempted to keep your hand there for a second when you feel him flex from the impact, but you think better of yourself. “She's very insistent on seeing the handsome doctor again.”
He props himself against your portion of the desk, like he’s planning on staying for a while. He really was handsome, even under the awful fluorescent lights. Where they washed everyone else out, they seemed to highlight his features—the darkest parts of his graying hair and his dark eyes.
“Ah and you came and found me?”
“Lucky guess.” You catch his gaze and drop it back down to the chart you're scribbling on quickly.
“Would you get outta here and just satisfy her, please.”
His eyes widen a little at your words as he pulls his head back, tilting it at you. He starts to scoff before you realize your mistake.
“Not like that!” You give his arm a whack with the manilla folder in front of you. “Go, just get!” You whack him a few more times to shoo him away as you hear his deep laugh getting quieter and quieter.
“Guess that tells us he at least doesn’t like older women,” Mateo pipes up from across the desk.
You're gonna go crazy here.
-
“Got a kid for you in 3.” You don’t even bother to look up at who's speaking as you take the iPad that was unceremoniously shoved into your hands. “Can someone else just get the write up started for me? I'm just running to the vending machine for a Red Bull.”
“Nope. Its yours”
Great. It's like these people are out to keep you caffeine-less, starved, and angry.
Leaning against a free wall, you scroll through the papers. 7-year-old girl with fever, cough, and stomachache. It’s routine at least. The papers in her file are sparse. Only one sheet from a primary care physician, and it a couple years old. A single sheet showing she went to urgent care once, no school papers.
System must be on the fritz again.
”Anyone else had their charts wrong tonight?” You ask as you lean against the desk, shifting through some rogue papers. And, of course, seeing as you’re being divinely targeted today, everyone else answers that they haven't had a problem.
“Got somethin’ wrong?” Jack asks, tilting his chin up at you in question.
“I think I’m missing papers.”
“I got time. Let's go check it out.” He says, his hand coming out to pat your arm as he gestures you along with him. He keeps his hand on your arm for a second longer than a casual brush requires and certainly longer than any kind of professional necessity. He finally releases your arm with a small squeeze to your bicep. He seems to be attached to your hip after the brush with the drunk patient.
”Knock knock.” You say in a light voice as you crack the door open, peering your head in to smile at the young girl on the other side. “I hear we’re not feeling so good today!” You say with a frown. Your voice takes on an uncharacteristically light tone that it doesn’t usually have.
Jack fills the space beside you; the peds room is small enough, but as he stands beside you, it feels like it's shrunk. His hands clasped behind his back, the stance he always seems to have as he takes in a scene. He gives you the nod to go ahead. He’ll let you run it.
You are his favorite resident after all.
The mother accompanying the girl has an immediate presence when you enter the room. Hovering and impatient. “Yes. She's been here half the night already, and we’ve seen anyone. She's coughing and hot - but really we were about to leave.”
“Yeah. I apologize.” You nod along sympathetically; your jaw twinges as you find yourself grinding your teeth at the woman's tone. But. you’ve managed to master the art of sympathetic nods and conveniently timed reactive listening.
“Why don’t you tell me what's hurting you, okay?” You squat down beside the young girl's hospital bed, running your hand over her forehead. The poor girl doesn't get a syllable out before the mom is huddled above you, taking over your motion of rubbing her head, nearly colliding your hands together.
“It’s mostly the fever. Her stomach’s started feeling better in the last hour. It seems to be passing; her grandmother was just very insistent on bringing her here. We’d really like to go home soon.”
You pause for a second as to not have your tone be as aggressive as it wants to be as the words start rising in your throat. Jack catches on. Your threshold for any kind of annoyance has been shrinking the whole night, and he can see it.
“Hi ma’am, Dr. Jack Abbot.” He interjects, shaking the woman's hand. Giving you a sideways look of - breathe and cool it
“Usually we let them tell us what's wrong. Makes the kiddos feel better and all.” He winks over at the child, effortlessly charming.
After a few words of babble you don't quite pick up, you get the overall idea that the girl “doesn't feel good, is hot, and her throat's scratchy.”
“And my tummy really hurts.” She mutters, pulling herself into the fetal position.
So, clearly this mother wasn't adept at answering your questions for her daughter.
You glance over at the woman while her daughter's cries of her stomach hurting fill the room. The casual glance might've been more of a glare, you realize as you sense how narrow your eyes are. Oops
“Am I gonna have to get a shot?” The little girl asks, pulling the thin hospital blanket over her face.
“Oh my goodness! I would never let that happen to you!” You say in the certain tone of voice you only reserve for children. The little girl pulls the blanket down just enough to peer her eyes out. You reach over and hook her much smaller pinky with yours. “I promise you.”
“Yeah!” Jack grins from beside you, squatting down to get closer to the girl's height. “We're only doing the easy stuff. We could do it with our eyes closed.” He barely pulls the girl's blanket over her eyes and then pulls it back down teasingly. She giggles from somewhere under the blanket.
You’d forgotten how sweet Jack was with kids. He seemed to have a way of relaxing them. He always makes them feel seen and heard.
Speaking of shots, you scroll back through the papers, going over what information you seem to be missing. “I'm afraid we may have lost some information in transit.” The mom sighs before you even finish. “I'm sorry about that if we did.” You continue; the only smile you can manage now is a tight-lipped one. “When did she receive her vaccines? I’m not seeing that or the six-year boosters.”
“She hasn’t.” The woman says as if it's the simplest thing in the world.
Your thumb hovers above whatever you were looking at on screen, your eyes shooting up.
“I’m sorry?”
“We’ve chosen to keep her unvaccinated. She's very healthy, and we’ve been very safe. She’s homeschooled.”
Across the room, Jack, who was leaning casually against the door, straightens up, hands positioned behind his back once again, as if surveying a battlefield. Not only is he visibly more on edge, but it seems there's a new sense of irritation radiating off of him. Everything he knows medically is being questioned, but morally too. He doesn’t speak yet, though.
“Okay,” You say, the word coming out way too slow. Nodding at the same pace, your lips puckering.
I'm a doctor, a professional. professional. professional
“So, your daughter is 7 years old and has not been properly vaccinated?”
“No, but-“
“And why is that exactly?” You cut the woman off before whatever follows "but".
Okay, maybe THAT wasn’t super professional
Jack's eyes dart to yours. Not threatening, but maybe a vague warning in there.
The mom crosses her arms, a mix of defiance and defensiveness. Whatever nonsense she's about to spew, she clearly believes. The daughter barely shifts from under the blanket, letting her now widening eyes poke out at her mom. She stares like she knows something’s happening but isn't sure what exactly.
“They're full of God knows what! The government's been hiding this stuff for years; only now is there someone that’s being honest and looking into these things. Not to mention there's proof that children are getting sick from these things, even getting autism and -“
Now your face has given up on hiding its feelings. You squeeze your eyes shut so they don't manage to roll out of your head, rubbing them furiously with your thumb and index finger. Her thoughts and opinions are so wrong you can't even seem to find the words to explain how for a moment.
“Ma’am,” Jack speaks up. His voice is level but at a slightly lower register than you normally hear it. He's lacking that charm he usually has, the way his words seem to roll out. “That information is widely spread but not always medically accurate.”
This touches a nerve for him and you can see it. Having been in countries that didn’t have access to these things like we have, having seen so much harm that could’ve been prevented with these same things this woman is withholding from her daughter.
“It's blatant misinformation!” You say, a humorless laugh coming out behind it.
Today has gone too far. Too many people griping in your ear, so loudly and so wrongly that it seems to all have accumulated in your system as this one woman pushes too far.
“Do you know how many diseases you’re letting your daughter be vulnerable to?” Your hands seem to be moving by their own accord, flying around as you speak.
The poor young girl doesn’t understand, and all she seems to piece together from your words and your anger is that she's done wrong, she's in trouble, and she’s gonna get much sicker. You don't even realize the little girl's reaction and hone in on the mother, blinking rabidly as you wait for her answer. Tunnel vision sets in as you grow more frustrated and your body seems to be losing its ability to cope.
”Do you know many children in other countries are dying every day because they don’t have these things?!” You continue, the words flying out rapidly. Your voice is now hitting an octave that’s far too high to be polite or professional.
The girl is now in tears, hiding under her blanket, calling for her mommy. At this, Jack is stepping in. He’s angry, but he hides it better than you. Must be all that therapy and nude yoga he does. Changing gears to defuse this quickly, he puts his hand over the little girl, running it over the blanket soothingly.
His eyes shoot over to you, narrowed and stern. A single glance that he’s seemed to have mastered over the years. It can shut anyone down pretty quickly.
Even though he agrees with every point you’ve made, you’ve just made a scene in his ER. He cannot let you sit here and berate a patient's family members, no matter how noble the cause.
His gaze shifts from angry to disappointed for half a second. You're his best resident, and you’ve just stood here and acted wildly unprofessional while in his presence. You're better than that, and he knows it. You messed up a very important case, and that’s not like you. You’ve probably now just made it completely impossible to get through to this woman if there was even a small chance. Not to mention, you were near screaming in the presence of a child who you’ve just scared half to death.
His gaze registers, but too much adrenaline seems to be pumping through you too much to care. Whatever knot was being wound so tight tonight finally seems to have snapped. Any other time a look like that from Jack would’ve made you want to melt into the floor.
“Doctor!” He calls out, his voice stern, but demanding attention from everyone in this little room. That does manage to put a stop to your brigade of questioning, shaking you back to reality a bit. “I’m gonna take over here.” Without any politeness, Jack tears the iPad from your hand, his back now facing the mother and daughter.
“You find a way to calm yourself down, and you be back here in five.” He opens the door a little wider, signaling it's time for you to leave. Now, finally noticing the girl crying in the corner of the room, you see no place for argument.
-
You jab your thumb into the elevator's up button, bouncing back and forth on the balls of your feet, incredibly antsy to just get some air and get out of here.
“Excuse me, Doctor?” A medical student you’ve only seen twice and therefore haven’t memorized the name of wanders up beside you with a lost puppy look.
“Ask someone else. I'm on a break.”
You thumb the up button at least 10 more times; it can't come soon enough.
“Sorry. I just needed a-“
“Find anyone else, literally any other resident who cares. Not me!”
As the elevator doors shut with you inside, you catch a final glimpse at the wide-eyed student, standing there like you just dumped a bucket of cold water on him.
-
The air that hits you on the roof is frigid and harsh. With the sound of the heavy door shutting behind you with a final squeak from its hinges, you can finally breathe. Chills run up your arms as you strip off your thin jacket. Leaving you exposed to the cold air in nothing but your thin black scrubs made of some material that swishes when you walk.
Knowing what you know about the human body from your years of study, you know that cold exposure stimulates your vagus nerve. You can stop this panic attack before it happens. You close your eyes, resting your arms over the railing surrounding the edge of the roof. They put this up years ago to deter jumpers, keeping you back a few feet from the ledge.
You let your head drop, finally relaxing the tense muscles. The wind starts to numb your cheeks and the tip of your nose as you're sure they go red. You go over what should be happening in your body, like a mantra.
“My heart rate is lowering, my sympathetic nervous system is engaging, I'm falling into a state of calm. And, after a while, you start to believe it.
Glancing down at your watch, you see your five-minute allotted break Abbot “allowed,” has passed, but you don’t move yet. Instead, you duck under the tall railing, muttering to yourself as a curl gets caught on an exposed bolt. You jerk it back while gritting your teeth.
Somehow this is the most annoying thing that’s happened to you all day.
Once under, Pittsburgh seems to have grown 10 sizes. Now you can see straight below you. The way the streets and sidewalks blur together with the cars looking smaller than possible. You're contemplating whether this sight calms you or alarms you more as the sound of the door groaning perks your ears up.
“If you're gonna jump, don't do it over anti-vaxxers.” Jack's voice rises from somewhere behind you. He pauses, waiting for any reaction from you. He doesn’t get one as you stay facing the skyline.
“If you do, it might end up with you a number in one of their statistics, and that just wouldn’t be fair.” Your shoulders barely shake with a laugh, the sight giving him a small sigh of relief. Turning to face him, you find yourself not able to stare at him too long.
“Surely making jokes about jumping off the roof is counterproductive to all that therapy speak you use.” You take a step towards him, feeling unnerved by the vast Pittsburgh skyline and the drop-off that's close behind your back.
“It’s a process.” He shrugs from the other side of the rail. “Besides, she says humor is a good coping mechanism. Better than drinking anyway.”
You roll your eyes, letting yourself laugh. You keep your eyes on the ground in front of you for a bit longer, not wanting to be met with the same look you were on the receiving end of in that peds room.
“Yeah. I don’t think I have any place to be talking.”
“No, you don't.”
A few moments of silence pass between the two of you. Your eyes are still focused on the tennis shoes on your feet, yet you can still feel his gaze burning into you.
“I’m not gonna apologize for what I said. I was right.” You barely scuff your shoe against the ground as you speak.
“I expect nothing less.”
You finally bring your eyes up to meet his gaze. To your surprise, it's not a cold stare as you’d expected. It’s the same Jack you've always known. Kind eyes that always seem to manage to stare through you, a smile that’s always just sitting on the corner of his mouth, like he’s always on the brink of making a stupid quip.
“And I’m not gonna apologize for kicking you out.” He says, tilting his head to the right as he stares at your face for a reaction. ”But, I can apologize for how I did it.” Now diverting his own gaze. He may be advancing in his therapy and his healing process, but he’s still not great with apologies from either side.
“No, don’t.” You sigh, brushing him off with a vague waving gesture. You imagine the little girl's face peeking up from under the blanket, scared of your yelling, and feel like you probably deserved worse. “Trust me, I think I earned it.”
“C’mon,” Jack puts his hand out from the other side of the railing. He makes a noise from the corner of his mouth and nods his head back towards the door. “You're makin’ me nervous over there.”
Your feet stay planted for a second, twisting your neck around to see the Pittsburgh skyline one more time. Before you cross that threshold again, you feel like you have to ask about the girl and the vaccines. If Jack was able to work his magic and convince the mom. If the answer you get is no, there's just no point in following him back inside. Maybe you’d live on the roof forever, never enter that hospital that has worn you down so badly tonight again.
But, despite it all, you know you will. You always do
“Is she getting her vaccinated?”
“No,” Jack says with a sigh that racks his own body. He’s as torn up about this as you are, but he's better at internalizing it. “She signed out AMA.”
“Son of a bitch!” You yell, louder than you meant to and way louder than anything Jack was expecting from you.
“Stupid. Fucking. Hospital.”
Jack watches on with what can only be described as shock and horror as you kick at the iron railing in front of you, punctuating every word with another bam of your foot.
“Stupid. Fucking. Parents.”
He’s never seen you so angry before, certainly never angry enough to kick literal iron. Unfortunately, the sight is kind of hilarious. The way your giant curls bob along with every kick and your top lip narrows as you yell.
“Fuck!”
Your anger got the best of you, and your final kick was just a little too hard. Your hand clamps down on your right foot, gripping your toes over your shoe. The pain makes you hop in place on your good foot, your body flooded with that weirdly awful sensation of stubbing a toe.
Jack's laugh echoes along the roof as he ducks under the railing smoothly. “What the hell was that?” He asks, bending down a little to see your face in your hunched-over state.
You grit your teeth. “Just shut up for a minute.” That kind of pain radiating from your foot that makes everyone and everything around you irritating. You pound your fist against the railing in frustration, willing your toe to stop throbbing.
You hear Jack's knee hit the concrete, the distinct clink of his metal prosthetic barely audible. He takes your foot and rests it on his knee, carefully moving his fingers along the front of your shoe. He feels around gently, no feeling of any toes being broken or bent.
“As flattered as I am, I really don't think now’s the time for a proposal.” You half laugh, half still wince from your standing position above him, who’s still on one knee. From afar, this might actually look like a really shitty hospital rooftop proposal.
“You wish.” He quips back at you easily, not even looking up. “My proposal would be much better than this.”
Your stomach does a little flip at his words before you can stop it. His tone is so casual and sure, like he’s actually thought about it before.
He taps his hand against your leg and gives your calf a feather-light squeeze, lowering your leg off his knee and back on the ground. “Nothing's broken. Just don’t kick any more metal tonight.”
Without even thinking about it, he grabs the side of your thigh to give himself better leverage to stand back up. You chide yourself internally for the feeling it gives you.
He’s just an old man with a bad knee!
“We got ten minutes left tonight.” He glances down at the thick black watch on his wrist, the numbers lighting up in military time. “Think you can handle a few more charts?”
Your hellish night can be over in 10 minutes if the world doesn’t throw anything else at you.
You nod, ducking under the railing with him, the same bolt catching another curl. Someone or something HAS to be out to get you today.
You wobble a little as you stand back up straight. You still never had proper time to eat or drink, just the occasional chug of water when the chance presented itself. You hadn’t noticed how exhausted and weak you feel until now.
“Alright, sit down for a second.” Jack sighs, seeing the way you look unsteady on your feet. He's never been one to push people past their limits, especially you. He lightly wraps his hand around your arm, pulling you along with him, keeping you steady with his tight grip.
The rooftop wasn’t meant for lounging like you and Jack seemed to use it. All there was up here was huge air conditioning units, long pipes running along the walls, and concrete that’s been bleached by the sun. Jack dragged you over and sat you down on a thin edge of concrete where the giant HVAC unit was situated. The hum of the machine and the view straight ahead of the skyline actually made it pretty peaceful. This must be his specific spot. The thought brings a small smile to your face. He’s brought you over to his one little slice of peace on this roof. He shifted himself into sitting down beside you, one leg pulled up, and his prosthetic stretched out onto the roof, his black pant leg rolling up just enough to see it.
From the breast pocket of his scrubs, he pulls out a granola bar wrapped in a green wrapper. “Eat something before you go back down.” He passes it over to you, sitting close enough that your shoulders are pressed into each other.
“How often do you sit here?” You ask, a bite of granola bar in your mouth. Part of yourself tells you to act more proper to try and impress Jack a little, but the other part of you has never quite cared what people think, and you're too starving to care.
He reaches over and gently pulls a small crumb of granola from your hair. It’s the gentlest anyone’s touched you tonight.
“I’d tell you, but I’d have to kill you.” He says monotoned, narrowing his eyes a little in an attempt to be threatening.
You laugh, coughing into your hand as you inhale a piece of granola wrong.
“That is if you don't beat me to it.” He claps a hand over your back, patting a little as if you were choking. But, he doesn’t move his hand after those few seconds. He stays like that, hand on your back, leaning his head against the humming machine behind you both. He looks at peace here, with you in his favorite spot.
His hand seems to naturally start slipping, finding its way to the small of your back now and just resting there comfortably. You try to stop, telling yourself to focus on the skyline, not him. He means nothing by it; Jack is just naturally affectionate.
Losing your restraint as the seconds tick by, you dart just your eyes over and see him staring, entirely turned towards you on this small piece of concrete. With your heartbeat pounding in your ears, you give in too, turning to have your whole body completely facing him.
His face is closer to yours than you thought. If either of you leaned forward just an inch, your noses would brush. He doesn’t do anything, just looks. It's like he’s taking in your whole face, every feature as his intense gaze stays trained on you. His eyes drop just for a second. down to your lips. When he meets your eyes again, you nod your head just a little, something that would’ve been imperceptible to anyone but Jack, who notices everything.
At that, he lets his own resolve crumble around him, leaning forward quickly like he can’t stop himself for another second, finally meeting your lips.
He’s careful at first, matching the pace you set. You hadn’t realized exactly how much you wanted this until you finally have it, finally have him. Giving in to him, you bring a hand up to his face, resting your fingers just above his jaw, running your thumb along the patch of dark gray stubble growing in. He feels your hand on his face and leans in further, half forcing you to let yourself fall back against the concrete. The hand still on the small of your back supports you, putting your other hand on the space between his neck and shoulder, using him to stay steady. His strong hands keep a tight grip on you as he deepens the kiss.
Forcing himself to pull back for a moment, he rests his hand on your face, carefully cupping your cheek, his eyes searching yours, immediately making sure you’re okay with this.
“Oh shit.” Is all you can get out of your mouth, putting your fingers over your lips like you can’t believe he was just there. The side of his mouth barely pulls up at the weirdly charming sight of your wide, unbelieving eyes looking back up at him.
“Yeah.” His voice sounds gruffer now as he nods along with you and your air of shock.
“Oh shit!!!” You say again, propping yourself up on your elbows. It’s hitting you all at once that Jack is your attending, not to mention twice your age. But you really can't find it in you to care enough.
“You okay?” He asks, working through the same ideas in his head and coming to the same careless conclusion. He’s worried though; he's the older one and your professional senior. He feels it's on him to make sure you're comfortable, and he's taking that seriously. His eyes search yours a little quicker now when you don’t answer right away.
But, as if some switch flipped, you're pouncing back on him in a second. The intensity almost knocks the air out of his lungs.
Both hands on his face now, you deepen the kiss quickly, trailing one hand to the nape of his neck, drawing him in as close as you can. Now, as if the situation has reversed, you're leaning against him, one hand moving to his chest, pushing him down with more force than you intended. He laughs gruffly for the half second that your lips part from each other as you push him flat on his back.
You're like a woman possessed as your lips find his again. The feeling of your palm scratching across the concrete beside his head only encourages you more, the other still firmly pressed on his chest, feeling his chest flex through his thin black shirt. He smiles against your lips as he tangles his hand in your mountain of curls. His hand presses against the back of your head to keep you as close to him as possible, making it impossible to leave his lips for a second. Just as his other hand squeezes onto your hip, that familiar sound of the old door echoes across the roof.
Your head shoots up as you both pause to listen, staying completely still. his hand falls from your hair, craning his neck from his lying-down position to try and see anything. Jack is hidden enough behind the HVAC but you’re not.
Dana's thick accent floats through the air as she calls Abbott's name. “Dana?!” You whisper to him frantically. Day shift must be trickling in now. You two definitely stayed up here longer than you should’ve.
She steps out of the doorway as the door shuts behind her. She moves her head around to look wherever she imagines Abbot might be on this roof. Her eyes skip over you for a second before snapping back.
“The hell are you doing up here?” She asks, now positioning her hands on her hips as she looks at you suspiciously.
This is bad. You've always thought Dana had all-seeing eyes and now she's here.
“Oh, uh - just getting some air.” You feel Jack pinch your side at how unbelievably bad your delivery was, half stumbling through the words. You slap his hand away quietly.
“Why are you laying like that?” She asks, her head tilting like she knows something. You hadn’t quite considered how much of a compromising position you must be in visually. Half sitting up, the bottom half of you she can't see, wide-eyed and nervous like you've been caught doing something wrong. which you kinda have.
“Oh, I um- uh…” Your voice trails off as you try and dig through your head for anything to say. Literally anything. “Lost an earring…” Your voice quirks up at the end like you’re asking her if she even believes you.
She doesn’t answer, just stares. And it's terrifying
Jack just barely raises his head enough to try and see what she’s doing as her silence draws on. What he seems to forget is the cardinal rule of: If you can see them, they can see you.
You put your palm flat over his face, half smothering him for a second and completely not caring. Pushing his head back down slowly as if moving slowly would somehow stop her from seeing what she's already seen. You barely smile at her, the expression more of a wince as the look of guilt overpowers it.
Dana's not shocked by much; she's seen everything a person can see in her career, but this one takes her by surprise. She knew you were up to no good the moment she saw your puppy dog eyes, but quite possibly the last person she imagined was under you was Jack Abbot.
“Please-“
She cuts you off almost immediately as you start speaking.
“I can’t believe what I'm seeing.”
You look away, deciding the stars must be better to look at than the cross-armed, unbelieving stare she's giving you. You think you actually hear her laugh but don't dare check.
“We have an ambulance rolling up in two minutes. Multiple MVA, all hands on deck. That is if you can pull yourself away.” She talks with her hands now, her accent seems to come out stronger as her frustration with you grows.
You nod quickly, choosing carefully not to say another word.
“You got all that, Jack?” She asks, now the unmistakable sound of humor in her voice. You wince when she says his name. You knew she saw him, but the fantasy of pretending she didn’t was nice.
“Got it.” He yells, still hidden and flat on his back. Raising a thumb in the air for her to see.
“Come on then, people.” She claps her hands loudly.
You scramble up quickly, slipping onto your hands for a second. Popping back up and frantically grabbing your jacket off the railing, flailing around with your arms trying to get it on properly over your now extremely wrinkled scrubs.
“Get yourselves together.” She shakes her head in a similar cadence a disappointed mother would. You're pretty sure you hear her muttering something along the lines of, “And they call themselves doctors.” as the door slams.
Jack groans as he stands up, a hand over his back as it aches from the concrete.
“Very nice, old man. Thank you.” You grimace at him for getting you both caught.
“Yeah, blame me, misses “I lost an earring.”
He comes up behind you and fixes your jacket, which you're still fighting against, pulling the left arm right-side out and guiding it through. He walks around and stands in front of you now, looking with that same gaze he's had with you all night. Except this time there seems to be something softer in his eyes, along with the softest, most relaxed smile you think you've ever seen Jack wear. He pulls at a few coils of your curls, flattening them back down from where his hand was tangled a few minutes ago.
“For what it’s worth, I’d like to finish this and not have Dana interrupt us this time.”
And, once again, like he's completely irresistible to you. Your hands are on his face. pulling him into another kiss. Fleeting and short this time.
Just like that, your terrible night seems to have completely turned around.
"All because my head is full of poison
And my heart is full of doubt
I got toxins in my bloodstream
You tried so hard to suck out
—the cure, Olivia Rodrigo
summary: you’re the ray of sunshine and overly dependable smiling intern the night shift crew has been needing. But a certain attending begins noticing you might need more help than you let on.
wc: 11.7k (a short one sorry guys)
warnings: crippling perfectionism, high-key people pleasing, reader is bright and bubbly to compensate for how awful she feels day to day, one vomiting scene, service dom jack, santos is on nightshift bc i love her and i wanted her in this fic. trinity and dennis and reader r basically siblings, jack’s characterization in this is DEF andrew pope cody-esque panic attacks, mental health struggles, reader is an intern again but i swear it’s just cause i watch a lot of greys and interns r the only stage of medical career i know enough about to write semi-well T-T
acknowledgments: once again a round of applause for @wesandresons for the lovely gif, and @uzmacchiato and @cursed-carmine for the dividers!
a/n: i’m not rlly sure i like how this turned out but oh well @leeknowpegger i hope this keeps you company
masterlist
When you first get to the PTMC, Jack can’t decide what he thinks about you.
He vaguely remembers you— you’d done a rotation here, some time ago. One of the unfortunate ones who’d drawn the short stick and been stuck on the night shift. He has a hazy recollection of your face during an MVC, your jaw hard set and a permanent smile to your face. He vaguely remembers, at the time, the only thing he’d really though was:
Jesus, this kid needs to dial it back.
The sentiment, of course, remains the same when it’s handoff time, and Robby is telling him all about what an awful fucking day it’s been, and of course now he says “Oh, remember that med student you got stuck with awhile back? Smiley-face? You must’ve done something right, because she matched into the ED for her residency. She starts today.”
Not exactly the news an attending wants to hear right after the horror show the day has been so far. Especially when intern/baby resident in question is… charismatic.
“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Ellis says, her eyes trained on you as you soothe a crying teenager who just got wheeled in. “If you ask me, we could use someone who actually smiles. Bit too dark and dreary in here for my taste.”
“You like dark and dreary.”
She gives him an unimpressed raised eyebrow. “So? We can’t all be doing it. Like, we’ve got Shen, but his is more iced-coffee induced than actual smiling charm.”
“I can be charming when I want to be.”
“No, you can be flirty or suggestive. There’s a difference.”
Jack does not justify her response with one of his own, instead choosing to look down at his tablet and pretend to chart while he listens to how you’re interacting with the patient. The teenager seems to be calmed down, and the parents don't sound frantic or worried.
Maybe Ellis is right. Unfortunately, this tends to be the case fairly often.
He sighs and focuses on the chart he’s supposed to be doing and attempts to wipe his mind of bright smiles and glittering eyes.
—
The PTMC and Emergency Medicine in general was not, actually, your first choice. It wasn’t even your second, or your third.
First was surgical. Everybody wants to be surgical. You wanted surgical. It’s flashy, it pays well, and it’s cool as fuck. Plus, unlike some of your classmates, you actually have the stomach for it (one of the many things that eventually translated well to emergency medicine.)
Second was Ortho. Because bones are cool. Ortho surgeries are fun too, when they’re not arthroscopy after arthroscopy.
Third was any kind of unit like Burn or ICU. A high stress program that wouldn’t let you think, let you run on adrenaline all day.
But then you did your rotation in general surgery and absolutely fucking hated it.
Surgeons are assholes. Surgeons are uptight nerds who like to subject anyone they consider beneath them to cruel and unusual punishment.
Even in during the short duration of your rotation through surgery, it almost killed you. You could practically feel the light in your soul dimming at every pointed comment, every sharp correction, every barked insult and something or other cruel word.
And then there was the PTMC. The stupid ED that wasn’t supposed to fun, was supposed to be grueling and exhausting (especially since you’d gotten assigned to the night shift.) But instead of awful you got amazing, which sucked.
Seems counterintuitive, but it’s true.
You wanted to like surgery enough to power though. But not a single rotation after the ED even came close to measuring up. The speed, the action, the gore, and the kind but firm guiding direction from the attending’s and residents.
Matching into the PTMC was an event actually worth celebrating. As in, you decided to un-tense minutely and splurge on actual champagne that you drank in your apartment while dancing to your favorite music.
And now, you’re here. Determined to not fuck this up. To keep moving, keep going, and be a fucking excellent ED doctor.
Except your attending, Dr. Jack Abbot, one of the reasons you joined the ED in the first place, keeps giving you funny looks when he thinks you’re not looking.
You’re not sure if he’s aware that you know that he’s staring at you. You do have a wider than normal field of peripheral vision, so maybe he doesn’t know that you can still see him out of the corner of your eye?
Regardless of if he knows or not, it’s unnerving. Because he’s your boss. And you know he’s capable of being an incredible doctor and mentor, because you see it every single day.
Just not directed at you.
He’s not really mean, or standoffish, or anything like that, he’s just… not necessarily kind. Not in the way that you see him with the other residents on his service or even with you, during your rotation as a med student.
Hell, he’s nicer to Santos than he is to you.
“Did I like, say something to offend him and I don’t know?”
Trinity makes a face at you from over the edge of the monitor. “Isn’t that more my area of expertise?”
“No. You offend people on purpose.”
“True.”
You prop your head on your hands, resting your elbows on the counter above her. Your keycard, attached to your breast pocket via a red, heart-shaped badge reel is lovingly adorned with pink rhinestones and cute stickers. The pocket itself is filled with several glitter gel pens (and regular pens, just in case.)
“I just don’t get it. I’m nice, right?”
“Disturbingly so.”
“Exactly. The only thing I can think of is that I’ve messed up or something, but it’s Dr. Abbot. He’d tell me if I did. He doesn’t exactly hold back.”
“Do you really need me for this conversation?”
You level her with a look, but she just groans.
“Why do you even care? So what, one guy doesn’t like you, boohoo.”
“He’s not just some guy. He’s my attending. And you might’ve secured your spot here, but i’m all shiny and new. I can’t exactly earn people’s respect if our boss doesn’t like me.”
Trinity doesn’t immediately respond with a scathing remark, which usually means that you’ve made a valid point.
“Should I talk to him?”
She sighs. “I think you’re overreacting. You’ve only been here for like, two weeks? Three? He’ll probably calm down the more you work together.”
“Did he stare at you all weirdly when you first started?”
“Well, no, but that’s because I don’t suck at my job.”
Now it’s your turn to glare.
“Sorry. I guess you’re not completely hopeless.”
You roll your eyes. “Thanks, Trin.”
She scrunches her nose up at the nickname like you knew she would, because she hates it, which makes it one of the only weapons you have against her.
Trinity wasn’t as helpful as you’d hoped, and night shift means no Dana to ask for advice. There’s Dr. Ellis, but she’s pretty close to Dr. Abbot, which means there’s a high chance that whatever you ask her will make it back to him. You aren’t really close enough to Dr. Shen to ask him “Hey, how come Dr. Abbot stares at me when he thinks I’m not looking and isn’t as nice to me as he is to you guys?”
The question is stupid and kind of pathetic, so really, you shouldn’t be asking anybody, but you’ve always been crippled by an intense need to be well-liked. It feels like winning, and it feels good and safe. Safe is good. Safe is great.
Wanting the guy who's essentially your boss to like you is completely rational, right?
You just wish he’d tell you what you’re doing wrong, so you can fix it.
Also, it’s just driving you crazy.
Even if he just legitimately didn’t like you, and made that apparent, it’d be something. You could work with that. You could figure out what it was he didn't like via intense pattern recognitin and fix it. Problem solved!
But he isn't obvious about it. He behaves indifferent and detatched- like you could die tomorrow and he wouldn't care.
It’s the not knowing. If you could just ask him, if he could just give you an answer, then you’d know where you stood, and everything could be fine.
What changed? You want to beg, What happened after my med student rotation? Do you even remember that? What did I do? Where did I go wrong?
It eats away at you over the course of the week. It has been since you noticed, which was pretty much on day one. You don’t show this outwardly of course, because you’re pretty sure you can get through to him and level out the wrong-footedness you feel around him through stubborn determination. Surely, at some point your unwavering nature will win out and he’ll finally see there isn’t anything he needs to hate about you. This is an incredibly healthy mindset to move through life with.
The week closes with an MCI around 5pm, which is just everyone’s favorite thing in the world. The night shift gets called in, minus Trinity, who was already there working a double, and everyone sets in for the long haul. You do your best to focus on the patients and do not at all think about the ease and camaraderie between Mohan and Abbot, because that would be a very fucked up progression of priorities.
Eventually it’s all over— patients are stabilized, some aren’t. Overtime ends with phantom blood on your hands and being strong-armed into drinks in the park afterwards.
You feel awkward, because you don’t work with the day shift people that often, so you’re not really sure how best to be yourself and not come across as weird. Neither of your “safe” people (Trinity and Dennis) are present, so there’s no way in hell you’re going to be capable of relaxing.
You take the beer that’s tossed to you, even though you think beer is gross (why does it taste like that? Why do people enjoy it?) and sip on it excruciatingly slowly, trying to hide a grimace and occasionally chiming in with mentally rehearsed and carefully crafted jokes and comments.
It’s exhausting, and not at all how you wanted to spend your night after an MCI. In a dream world, you don’t have the social backbone of a wet paper bag, and you say no, and you go home to your house and shower, then watch one, maybe two episodes of a tv show, scroll through Pinterest, and then go the fuck to bed.
But for the low low price of much needed rest, you get to drink one of the most disgusting alcoholic beverages known to man and worry if everyone thinks you’re being weird! Yay!
Also. Side note. Minor comment. Little issue.
Jack Abbot is sitting next to you. Like, right next to you on the bench. Because he came late and it was the last spot open. So he’s just right there. Posture loose and open and not at all like he didn’t just help you try to save a girl your age who had the misfortune of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Like two hours ago your elbows weren’t brushing, elbow deep in a man’s organs, saving his life.
Jack, unlike you, looks comfortable to be at the park with everyone. He doesn’t look like he’s analyzing conversation to determine the best thing to say next.
Jack isn’t looking at everyone. He’s not looking at anyone. He’s looking at you.
You turn, give him a little smile.
Again.
Maybe he doesn’t know you can still see him out of the corner of your eye. (No, he’s a vet, he’d definitely also have wide peripheral vision. But maybe he thinks that you don’t have it, because you’re not a vet.)
(You’re probably thinking too much about the peripheral vision.)
Jack doesn’t stop staring at you. Instead, he reaches over to where your barely-drunk beer is in your hands, and says:
“Here, give me that.”
And then he just. Takes your beer. Straight out of your hands.
Jesus fucking fuck he so hates you.
—
“He took your beer?”
“Yes,” You groan from the kitchen island in Trinity’s apartment, “He said ‘here, give me that’ and then just took it. He didn’t say anything else to me for the rest of the night.”
She lets out a low whistle. “Maybe he doesn’t like you. What could you have possibly done to make him not like you?”
“I don’t know!”
“Well, you better fix it. Having your attending hate your guts will like, majorly suck.”
“I don’t know how to fix it. That’s what i’m over here for. To brainstorm.”
“I thought you were here to steal the cookies Huckleberry made?”
Dennis peeks his head up from the couch. “Wait, what?”
You wave a hand. “Semantics. Focus.”
“Okay,” Trinity taps a pencil on a notepad, “Have you tried sleeping with him?”
“He’s like, probably over twenty years older than me.”
“So? I know your type.”
You roll your eyes. “As if he’d go after me, Trin. He doesn’t like me.”
“Hate sex is a thing.”
“Name one time hate sex solved the hate part.”
She purses her lips. “Touché. What about like, baking him shit, like Huckleberry does for—“
“Shut up Trinity!”
You both snicker.
“No dice,” You sigh, “I can’t bake for shit. Recipes never have enough context. They’re never specific enough.”
“Two tablespoons of sugar isn’t specific enough for you?”
“You’re not helping.”
Trinity holds up her hands in mock surrender. “To be fair, I never agreed to help. I just said we’d both be here if you wanted to come over.”
“I think you should just ask him.” Dennis pipes up.
He shuffles off the couch and slides into the second chair at the kitchen island adjacent to you. “Dr. Abbot is a straightforward guy. He appreciates honesty. Doesn’t beat around the bush. I can’t imagine him being truly upset that you tried to fix a problem.”
“I want to, but that’s like. Too straightforward. What if—“
“Oh my god,” Trinity moans, “Just ask him. Or fuck him. Do something so I don’t have to hear about it anymore.”
You frown, opening your mouth to object, then close it with a sigh.
She’s right.
You have to just move on. Either deal with it or deal with it by… not dealing with it. Talk to him or don’t.
Easier said than done.
—
It takes two more shifts of unrequited awkwardness for you to finally reach your limit. At a certain point, probably when you almost snapped at him for hovering (doing his job) while you were trying to intubate a patient, you realize that you cannot, actually, just get through to him via stubborn determination.
Damn.
So when you have a second, you corner him in one of the quieter hallways. The conversation has the potential to be horrifically embarrassing and mortifying, so it’s best if there’s no audience.
“Do you have a minute, Dr. Abbot?”
He glances down at his watch, then crosses his arms and leans against the opposite wall.
He doesn’t talk (unnerving, annoying) and his sharp, ever analyzing gaze makes your skin prickle as you cross your hands behind your back and mirror his position, leaning against the wall.
He’s so irritating. He won’t even give you a fucking inch. There’s nothing to go on.
“Did I do something wrong?”
For the first time since you became a resident in the ED, he makes an expression: surprise.
“Why do you think you did something wrong?”
“Because you won’t fucking talk to me!” You hiss, absolutely fed up with Dr. Jack Abbot, “Half the time you only look at me when you think I won’t notice. You don’t talk to me unless it’s required for teaching, and even then, it’s short and stilted. I’ve seen how you interact with literally every other person who works here. I know you can be nice. You’re just not nice to me, and I’d like to know why.”
You pause. “And you took my beer!”
There’s a moment of silence, and then there’s a breathy, almost wheezing sound that takes you a minute to place.
He’s laughing.
Jack fucking Abbot starts laughing.
You honest to God want to kill him.
“Sorry,” He says, eyes sparkling with mirth and shoulders loose, “I can see how all of that can be taken negatively—“
“How else was I supposed to take that.”
Jack levels you with a look, and you shut your mouth. “But it was not my intention.”
He just stops speaking there, like that’s a perfectly adequate explanation and not at all vague and almost more disconcerting.
“So…,” You drawl, “What was your intention?”
Something interesting, a little more heated than just analytical sparks in his gaze, and he tilts his head, eyes flicking up and down your body.
Under the silence and scrutiny, you resist the urge to squirm in place, hands squeezing themselves in an effort to subdue the itch.
“You hate confrontation.”
Your chest feels like a cinder block just slammed onto it. “What?”
“You,” He levels a finger at your chest, “Hate confrontation. You hate it so much that you lie about yourself to people instead of saying things they might not like.”
You laugh nervously, voice high and reedy. “A lot of people do that. I don’t think that’s a crime.”
“It’s not. But it doesn’t exactly make me want to trust you with my residents. With my team.”
“You’re worried I’ll what? Get somebody in trouble? Do something shitty?”
“I’m worried that something is going to happen to you, and you won’t tell anyone about it.”
The hallway grows silent. In this distance there’s beeping, someone shouting orders, a child crying. But not in the five feet of space you, Jack, and the conversion currently occupies.
“Why do all of this?” You gesture vaguely to the space between you two, unwilling to be more specific. He does not deserve the itemized list you assembled in your head.
“I wanted to see if you’d confront me about it or not. Confirm my suspicions.”
“That’s—“ You wrinkle your nose, “Actually kind of shitty of you.”
Jack just hums.
“So what now? Did I prove myself to you?” Your tone is mocking.
He scoffs, “God, you really hate confrontation, don’t you?”
Your skin prickles again. “No.”
“Lying again.”
“Shut up.”
He knows how uncomfortable he’s making you. He’s doing it on purpose. And right then and there, you decide you don’t care what Jack Abbot thinks, because if Jack Abbot is going to be a self-assured asshole, Jack Abbot can go fuck himself.
Your pager going off saves you from verbalizing any of this, and with one last glare, you’re gone.
—
If Jack was an obnoxious lurker before, it doesn’t hold a damn candle to how he behaves now.
He’s just. Everywhere. Around every corner. Driving you crazy.
When you bring this up to Trinity, she looks at you like you’ve finally lost it.
Which. Okay. You probably have. But that’s beside the point! The point is…
…The point is that Jack Abbot is getting on your last nerve and you really don’t have any to spare. Life has been stomping all over the other ones, so the singular nerve Jack is stabbing with his annoying pointed looks and almost lingering touches and stupid little questions (“Hey, that was a rough one, are you alright?”) is just worn out. It doesn’t have anything left to give. You don’t have anything left to give.
But, like you were brought up to do, you keep right on giving. And working. And smiling.
Because it goes a little something like this: There’s no one to pick you up if you fall. You pick yourself up when you fall, and you’ve gotten pretty fucking good at it. All of your friends (read: Trinity and Dennis and maybe Mel) are doctors, which means you all have shitty work/life balance and no one would even be available if you called and said “Hey, every morning I lie awake and stare at the ceiling and convince myself to get up while listening to Hallelujah by Jeff Buckley, after which I will inevitably cry on the bus to work. Would you mind helping me with my laundry?”
Okay. Well. Trinity would probably show up if you asked because once she decides that you’re her friend she’s really intense about it (she’s a bit like a Doberman or some other dog like that, not that you would ever tell her) and Dennis probably would too, but only because he never says no when someone asks for help so it kind of just feels like you’re taking advantage of him. Mel is far too busy juggling being an ED doctor and caring for Becca for you to even think about asking her without feeling intense, soul crushing guilt.
So yeah. You don’t really have a best friend, unless one would count the singular romance book you’ve read so much the spine is completely fucked and the pages are yellow from years of travel and rereading. Counting any book as a best friend is probably very pathetic. But hey, don’t fix what isn’t broken.
So you have a system and a method and crying before and after work every single day is totally, completely normal, healthy, and sustainable. Probably even more so in the medical field, and especially since you’re a PGY1. Interns gotta suffer and all that jazz.
Jack Abbot does not need to make the suffering worse by existing near you constantly. Things are really honestly bad enough.
“Hey,” Trinity grabs your arm as you’re going by during a mellow shift, grip not tight enough to hurt but enough to be a bit past uncomfortable, especially for a girl not used to physical contact, “You good?”
‘No,’ You want to shout, collapsing on the floor in a heap of bones and tears, ‘I haven’t done laundry in so long that I’ve started wearing my cleanest dirty socks instead of washing more. I don’t have the energy to spend my days off doing anything productive, but every time I sleep instead of doing chores the anxiety eats me alive. I can’t sleep at night because the guilt makes me so nervous sometimes I throw up. Sometimes I don’t wash myself in the shower and I just stand in the water until it gets cold. Every day I wake up with the same headache, and then I take medicine for it, but by the time it’s gone I’m going to bed and then I wake up with it all over again. I think my liver is shot from over-the-counter medication usage. Everything hurts. I’m so tired.’
Trinity needs you to be okay. Trinity is too busy and under too much stress to worry about you. She needs you to be okay. Everyone needs you be okay.
“Mhm!” You nod, lips spread wide, “Pretty good day actually, all things considered.”
It’s not a total lie. The headache relief you’ve been taking religiously is kicking in faster than it usually does today.
Trinity scans your face, looking for signs of a lie, and she must find something (not shocking, it’s very hard to pretend that everything isn’t awful when Everything Is Really Awful) because her grip tightens minutely and she does that pursed lip thing she does when she’s worried and about to express it through anger or bitchiness.
“Don’t fuck with me. I don’t want to find out you’re like, doing drugs or something stupid like that. If you’re having a hard time—“
“Trin,” You interrupt, skin prickling uncomfortably as she implies that you’re not capable of handling things on your own, “If I need help, I know I can ask for it. And look,”
You tap your unbroken collection of glitter gel pens still intact in the front pocket of your scrubs. “It’s gotta be a good day. I still got my glitter.”
She wrinkles her nose, but drops your arm. “I don’t even know why you keep those. You can’t use them on like, anything. It’s against hospital policy.”
You shrug. “Glitter is a great motivator and mood elevator. Plus, kids love ‘em.”
You manage to feign something important coming up and duck out of the conversation and then, when the coast is clear, dart into one of the lesser used bathrooms and tuck yourself in the darkest stall.
Even in a hospital, toilet seats are disgusting, but you can’t quite summon any actual disgust as you plop down on the white porcelain, only lightly cracked, and cradle your exhausted head in your hands.
You have to keep going. There is no alternative. There is no other option.
Your chest feels tight and loose at the same time, and your skin feels clammy and wrong. Everything feels wrong. The lights are too bright and the material of your scrubs is scratchy and awful, and the longer you sit in the stall the more you want to throw up.
Someone knocks on the door before you get the chance to move down to your knees and start worshipping the porcelain altar. Assuming it to be Mel, who sometimes has a habit of showing up at the wrong time, you open the stall door to reveal none other than Jack Fucking Abbot.
You stare at him blankly for a few beats, too bewildered to feel sick. “You’re not allowed to be in here.”
“In the men’s bathroom?”
“This isn’t the men’s bathroom.”
“The sign on the door would say otherwise.”
Embarrassment brings the nausea back tenfold. You hold the stall door in a white knuckle grip to keep yourself upright and from hurling onto your boss.
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry, I swear I didn’t do this on purpose—“
Jack raises an eyebrow, his hands folded behind his back. Military man, right.
“Clearly.”
You stumble forward. “I need to go—“
“Woah, down girl. I didn’t knock because I cared which toilet you use. You work here. Use whatever toilet you want. Preferably not the one in the attending’s lounge.”
“There’s an attending’s lounge?”
“No.” He grins, a devilish upturn to just the corner of his lips.
“Oh,” You pause, then catch up to the rest of what he said, “Then why’d you knock?”
“Cause it kind of sounded like you were dying in there, and I’d rather if you didn’t.”
“Why not?”
“The paperwork, for one. Two, Santos would probably shank me.”
“Ah.”
“Also,” He shrugs, “I’d miss you.”
You scoff. “No you wouldn’t.”
“I would.”
“You don’t like me. You don’t even trust me.”
Jack gets this pinched look on his face; his lips pull down, his brows furrow and he narrows his eyes, just a bit.
He opens his mouth to respond when the door bangs open.
Jack doesn’t even look up before he’s barking:
“Find another bathroom.”
“But I have to—“
“Find another bathroom or I’ll cut your dick off.”
The guy grumbles away, but Jack never takes his eyes off you. It’s unnerving— to be the sole focus of his attention.
You’re the first to break the now tense silence of the bathroom.
“That seemed a bit extreme.”
“I’m not a man who does things by halves.”
“No,” You sigh, “I suppose you’re not.”
Jack cocks his head to side, almost predatory. More methodical than anything. He looks at you— really looks at you. Shamelessly drags his eyes up your body, likely cataloguing every mystery bruise, frown line, eye bag, freckle, and all the million lines of exhaustion that seem etched on your very being, right down through the bones and marrow.
He sighs, crossing his arms before leaning back on the opposite wall of the bathroom.
“What am I going to do with you?”
His words instantly have you on edge, bristling at all the unsaid things behind his tone.
“I’m not something to be dealt with. I’m a person, not some fucking—“
“You’re like a stray cat,” He interrupts, “Always hissing. Do I need to win you over with treats? Should I start bringing canned tuna?”
“You’re an asshole.”
“And you’re drowning.”
Just like that, all the humor gets sucked from the room, replaced with the cold, sharp grip of reality. Suddenly exhausted by the weight of it all, you drop back down onto the toilet seat.
Jack gives you a few moments to respond, get angry, or defend yourself, but you don’t. He’s too good at reading you, it seems. What is there to say?
When you don’t speak, he does.
“Did you think no one would notice?”
“No one has.”
“Am I no one?”
You lean back, closing your eyes and awkwardly resting the back of your head against the wall and the back of the toilet.
“You’re nosy.”
If this were any other moment, any other scenario with any other person, you would never ever act so contrary. But you’re tired and Jack seems to bring out the worst in you.
He makes an amused huffing noise. “You’re good at what you do, I’ll give you that.”
“What, exactly, am I doing?”
“Pretending.”
You scoff. “Fuck off.”
“Come on, sweetheart. How much longer are you going to do this to yourself?”
You lift your head off the back of the toilet. “You act like I’m killing myself:”
“You are,” His inclined his head, “Just really slowly.”
You scrub a hand down your face.
“Look. I understand why you think you have to care, but you don’t. I’m just going through a rough patch. I’ll get through them like I always do. I’m not gonna crash and burn or endanger myself or do whatever it is you’re worried I’m going to do, okay? So you can leave me alone. I’m fine.”
Jack doesn’t get to respond, because the second the words are out of your mouth the nausea that’s been churning in your stomach since you made it to the bathroom rises all at once, and you barely have time to slide off the toilet and turn before you’re throwing up hard enough to almost choke.
The worst part is that you forgot to eat lunch so your stomach is woefully, painfully empty. You’re throwing up nothing but bile, throat burning and tears streaming down your face.
“Alright, come on,” A warm hand rubs soothing circles on your back, and if you weren’t busy hurling your guts out, you’d marvel at the feeling and juxtaposition between the Jack you know, who’s all cold indifference, and the Jack currently holding your hair out of your face while you vomit.
“Let it out,” He soothes, hand still rubbing, “Don’t fight it. It’ll be over soon.”
“I hate throwing up.” You choke, coughing and gasping.
“No one does. But you’ll feel better when it’s over.”
Over feels like it’s never going to come. But eventually your stomach stops clenching, you manage to stop heaving, and you’re slumped over the toilet, sucking down gulps of air, sweat beading on your forehead and the back of your neck.
“This,” You mumble in between gasps, “Means nothing.”
You can’t see Jack’s expression, but his response is so quiet you almost miss it.
“Okay.”
You can’t see his face, but you know this isn’t over.
—
Jack sends you home once you’re capable of standing on your own two feet without shaking like a newborn fawn.
(“You can’t send me home.”
“Yes I can. You’re not allowed to come back to work after throwing up in the bathroom.”
“We both know I’m not the only person to do it.”
“Yeah, but I haven’t caught the other people in the wrong bathroom and held their hair back while they vomited.”
“…”
“You only have two hours left anyway. Go home.”)
The problem lies in the fact that the buses aren’t running yet, which means that you can’t, actually, get home. Your house is an hour away on foot. An hour you’d normally be capable of walking, but your phone is almost dead, you’re exhausted, and you still feel a little weak because of the vomiting.
So after retrieving your things from your locker, you find yourself sitting on the little bench outside the PTMC, waiting for the minutes to tick by. If you didn’t bring at least one book with you everywhere you go in case of emergencies (like this one) you probably would have just walked into oncoming traffic.
It’s cold out and your jacket is cheap so you have to burrow into it, hood up to retain any semblance of warmth. It would be almost cozy —huddled in your jacket, watching the city go by, tucked into your favorite romance book— if the shift hadn’t gone the way it had and if a grueling bus ride and half mile walk didn’t await you once the buses finally start running. Waiting for you beyond that is just chores and an empty apartment.
Your fingers tighten on the edges of your book.
“Why the fuck are you still here?”
You jolt in place, cracking your neck over to the side and blinking blearily.
Jack. Again.
He makes an expectant face at you as if to say ‘Well?’ when you don’t answer immediately.
Your eyes dart back and forth nervously, even though you know you haven’t done anything wrong. “The buses aren’t running yet. It’s an hour walk to my house.”
Jack scrubs a hand down his face and curses under his breath.
“How long until your bus gets here?”
You check your phone. Shit. Only four percent left.
“And hour and a half. Maybe a little longer if it’s running behind more than usual.”
He seems put out by your answer, as if the bus’s heavily fluctuating schedule is of personal consequence and offense to him.
“Um,” You start, both uncomfortable at having been caught reading a romance book in public and at the general air of frustration Jack seems to be venting at the moment, “I’m fine. I have my book. I don’t mind waiting.”
Jack just sighs.
“Do you really think I’m just going to leave you out here, in the cold, after you threw up in the bathroom, to wait for the bus, for nearly two more hours?”
You wince. “Well, it doesn’t sound great when you put it like that.”
He works his jaw. “Have you eaten?”
“No…?”
He shakes his head.
“Come on. You’re coming with me.”
—
“I have to admit, this isn’t where I thought we were going.
Thirty minutes later finds you seated on the cracked vinyl seat of a booth in a cheap diner, staring at a menu and rationalizing spending your last $15 on what will probably be mediocre pancakes.
Jack is seated across from you, already two mugs of coffee —black, but oddly enough, decaf— and not even bothering to pretend to look at his menu. He either comes here often or doesn’t care to act like he isn’t staring at you.
Probably both.
“Where did you think we were going?”
Steam curls out of your own untouched mug of coffee —ordered for you by Jack, also unfortunately decaf— and you debate just getting up and running out of here.
Too bad you’re too exhausted to run anywhere. Jack’s probably banking on that.
“I don’t know,” You shrug, setting the menu down, “Maybe to Gloria’s office to write me up or something.”
“What would I even be writing you up for?”
“Disobeying direction? I’m sure you could come up with something.”
The waitress chooses that moment to appear, notepad in hand. “Are we ready to order?”
Jack rattles off his order, and then two sets of eyes turn to you expectantly. Before you can order the single fruit bowl you were planning on getting (the cheapest thing on the menu) Jack pipes up:
“Order whatever you actually want. Not whatever you think is cheapest or easiest.”
The waitress, a middle aged woman who has probably seen much worse than whatever the two of you have going on, just chuckles lightly under her breath.
You hesitantly list the item you’d been eyeing and thank the waitress.
It isn’t until after the menus have been taken and Jack’s coffee re-upped for the third time that you manage to courage to speak.
“You didn’t have to do this, you know.”
“I know.”
“No, I mean,” your fingers curl on the edge of the table, desperate for something to hold onto, “I can’t— It’ll be awhile until I can pay you back. I barely made rent this month.”
“Do you think I would take you to breakfast and then make you pay?”
“Yes…?”
“You’re not touching the bill, kid. I’m a gentleman.”
“Oh,” You didn’t really see that coming, “Okay.”
Jack gets a funny expression on his face, then resumes his drinking coffee and glancing out the window routine.
“So,” You say after a beat, “Was there something you wanted to talk about…?”
The silence just feels so awkward. It’s killing you.
He raises a brow. “Do you want to talk?”
“I’m asking you.”
“And I’m asking you what you want to do. What do you usually do when you come out to eat?”
“I don’t? Eating out is expensive, so. But when I do it’s usually by myself, so I end up just reading.”
Jack gestures to your bag beside you. “Don’t let me stop you.”
“What?”
“Read your book.”
“But that’s— isn’t that boring for you?”
He sets his mug down. “I didn’t bring you here because I wanted something from you. I brought you here because you had a shitty day and it seemed like you could use some cheering up. If reading makes you feel better, then do it.”
You have to look out the window to avoid his gaze. You don’t understand how your perfectly crafted facade just crumbles into fucking dust around him. How he manages to see right through you at every turn, how he manages to uncover every lie and every half truth.
“How did you even know I like diner food?”
“Because I pay attention to you.”
You finally look back over at him, arms folded across your chest; not really defensively, more like you’re trying to hold your entire body together by sheer force of will.
Jack’s lips twitch. Not really a smile, but almost. “You bring it up every time Santos wants to get food after a shift. She always says no, because she hates it, but it never stops you from suggesting it.”
It’s just one detail. One tiny, inconsequential detail that he’s apparently memorized and held onto because to him, it’s important. For some impossible to understand reason, he seems to care.
"Also," He shrugs, "I'd miss you."
You scoff. "No you wouldn't."
"I would."
“Do you hate me?”
Jack looks back at you, seemingly startled by the abrupt question.
“No.”
You take a deep, shuddering breath.
“Okay.”
—
“You did what?”
You wince from your spot lying face-down on Trinity’s couch.
“Not so loud, Trin. I have a headache.”
She ignores you, seated on the floor almost directly in front of you. “So you’ve gone from hating each other to going on a date?”
“It wasn’t a date,” You groan, “We spent almost the entire time in silence. I read my book and he stared out the window and did… whatever it is men like him do when they stare out the window.”
“Brooding,” Trinity says, “He paid. That means it’s a date.”
“No it doesn’t!”
It doesn't. It totally doesn't. Just because Jack said he doesn't hate you doesn't mean he likes you either. There are a lot of emotions in between hate and love. Like toleration, for example. Mild amusement. Exasperation. An appropriate amount of annoyance.
Trinity pokes you on the back of your head, having none of it.
"He likes you. Why else would he willingly hang out with one of us after work?"
"He goes out for drinks in the park sometimes." You mumble.
"Yeah, after an MCI."
What Trinity doesn't know is the events leading up to breakfast at the diner, because that would involve telling her about the whole throwing up from anxiety in the men's bathroom directly after a mini-panic attack because she confronted you about your unhealthy lifestyle (which all just sounds a lot worse than it is), so there isn't really a way to give her the kind of context necessary to get her off your back and dissuade her from her (insanely insane) belief that Jack likes you. Romantically.
"Trust me Trin, he was just being nice. Nothing romantic about it."
It was kind of romantic. Just eating surprisingly good food in the company of someone you don't need to pretend around, enjoying being in the company of another human being without worry or expectation.
Not that she needs to know that.
"Jack doesn't do nice. Have you seen him? What happened to the hating?"
You shrug. "You'll just have to ask him, because I don't know."
You do know. He told you. Explained it.
It doesn't make sense.
Trinity throws her hands in the air dramatically.
"Whatever. You two are impossible."
She finally withdraws, leaving you to wallow in your headache-induced misery by yourself on her couch.
Your phone vibrates on the floor next to you, and you groan, rolling further over to hide yourself in the crack of the couch, shunning the light like the reclusive vampire you are.
Your phone vibrates again.
“Dennis,” your voice is muffled by the couch cushion so it ends up sounding more like ‘denim’, “Can you please see who’s texting me and tell them to fuck off?”
Dennis, who was eating cereal at the tiny table near the kitchen when you first showed up fifteen minutes ago and has pointedly stayed silent throughout the entire exchange between you and Trinity, finally speaks.
“Your phone is two inches away from your hand.”
“I have a headache I don’t wanna look at the screen.”
You feel rather than actually see him roll his eyes, but then there’s the clink of a spoon against a bowl and the faint sound of socked —you’ve genuinely never seen him ever be barefoot under any circumstances, no matter what, he’s always wearing socks— feet as they make their way over to your temporary pit (couch) of despair.
There’s a quiet rustle as he picks up your phone off the floor.
“Oh.”
You whine, dramatic and upset. “What?”
“Um,” He grabs your shoulder, slowly rolling you over and away from the back of the couch, “It’s Jack?”
“What!?” You screech.
You throw yourself up, wincing as you immediately regret it when the pain in your head doubles, take a steadying breath to ignore it, and then grab the phone from Dennis’s outstretched hand.
You turn on the phone and— yep. Sure enough. A text from Jack, complete with the stupid picture of a dinosaur you made his profile picture. Because he’s old.
(It was funnier at the time.)
Somewhere behind you there’s a crash, and then the thump thump thump that can only mean a person running towards you at dangerous speeds for sock covered feet on cheap linoleum.
“Incoming,” Dennis mutters.
“Did I just hear that right?” Trinity gasps, nearly giving herself blunt force trauma via the back of the couch, “Did Jack just text you?”
“I don’t know!” You cry.
“How do you not know! Your phone is right in your fucking hands!”
“I’m tired! Stop yelling at me!”
“Guys!” Dennis shouts, holding up his hands, “I refuse to spend my day off listening to you two argue over the validity of romance with our attending. Give me the phone.”
He snatches the phone without waiting for a response, quickly typing in your password (if there was ever a moment you regret telling him in case of emergency…) and opening the text.
He makes an incredulous face at the phone before saying:
“He asked what you’re doing today.”
Trinity claps once. “Fucking called it!”
“Trinity!” Dennis snaps, before sighing and tapping at your keyboard, “I’m telling him that you have a headache and you’re at our place and to please not text again—“
“No!” You squeal, launching yourself off the couch, arms outstretched, but your legs tangle over each other and you fall and slam, gloriously and beautifully, face first into the coffee table.
“Oo!” Trinity winces, covering her mouth.
“Oh my god!” Dennis balks, “Are you okay?”
“Just give me the fucking phone.”
Peeling your face off, you grab the phone, squinting at the screen and ignoring the black spots in the corner of your vision.
hi, you type, I’m at Trinity and Dennis’s. Did you need something?
You hit send before you can talk yourself out of it.
“We,” You haul yourself to your feet and stagger over to the kitchen table, “Will never speak of this.”
“I definitely am. When I’m the maid of honor at your guys wedding, I’m gonna give a speech and be all ‘you guys, she gave herself a concussion the first time he texted—‘“
“There will be no wedding!”
“That’s just what you think.”
Your phone vibrates again, signaling a response.
Just wondering how you were doing. Surprised to hear you’re not holed up in your apartment reading something.
Ah, sexy old men and their correct grammar and punctuation when texting. Shouldn’t be endearing.
“What’s he saying?”
“Go away!”
You tap out a quick response.
Not today unfortunately lol I have a headache so no reading for me
Isn’t this the sixth day in a row you’ve had a headache? Should I give neuro a call?
You stomach flips.
nooo I’m fine i get them all the time
That’s not exactly reassuring.
I went to the doctor for them awhile ago apparently they’re normal
Who?
if I tell you, are you going to call him and make him send over my chart?
Yes.
Your heart is starting to pound a fluttering beat in your chest, and you hunch over your phone.
then i’m not telling you. it’s fine, really
they usually go away when i take over the counter stuff
So your plan is just to destroy your liver?
pretty much
We need to work on your planning skills.
we?
I’m not doing all the work.
Now stop looking at your phone. Drink some Gatorade and take a nap.
this is a resident apartment there’s no gatorade here just redbulls
Have either of them buy you one. I’ll pay whichever one it is later. Go to sleep. You need it.
You turn off your phone, shuffling back over to the couch and flopping down onto it.
“I’m taking a nap. Jack wants one of you to go buy me a Gatorade. He said he’d pay you back later.”
“He said what?”
—
You end up sleeping the entire day away, which should have screwed up your sleep schedule, but thankfully you live in a state of perpetual exhaustion and are fully capable of falling asleep anytime, anywhere, no matter how much you last sleep. It’s a gift.
Shockingly, the shift you work the next day is actually much easier to survive and your smiles aren’t nearly as forced. Go figure. Who knew that getting an appropriate amount of sleep would be so helpful?
“Somebody’s in a better mood today.” Jack mutters as you sidle up next to him under the board.
“I’m pretty sure I slept for like, fourteen straight hours. Thanks for the Gatorade, by the way. I woke up around hour three, chugged it, and then went back to sleep. No headache when I woke up!”
“Wonderful,” He drawls, “It’s almost like taking care of yourself is actually beneficial.”
“I take care of myself plenty.”
He casts you a sidelong glance, expression pinched.
“When was the last time you drank water without being prompted?”
“That’s different.”
“Okay,” He dips his head, “When was the last time you ever felt truly relaxed?”
You give him a beaming smile, so wide it hurts. “We’re not going to talk about this right now!”
“You started this conversation. I’m trying to do my job.”
You snort. “You’re waiting to see if someone else is going to take the sunburn guy.”
“Are you accusing an attending of cherry picking?”
“Of course not. Just observing, sir.”
Jack’s turned to look at you now, head tilted up, hands folded behind his back.
When you say sir, his eyes flick down to your lips, and then his jaw tightens.
The air suddenly becomes charged, the space between you two filled with something too electric to be air.
It smells like aftershave, hospital antiseptic, wanting, and something that’s distinctly masculine.
You look away first, swallowing hard past the sudden dryness of your mouth.
“You know,” You say, crossing your arms and looking up at the board, “Trinity thinks you like me. Romantically.”
“Mm.”
“I told her that was dumb,” You babble, “Obviously it’s not true, but. She won’t let it go, so if she says something, just ignore her. Or not. Whatever you want.”
“Why wouldn’t it be true?”
You whip your head around so fast you’re pretty sure something cracks. “What?”
“I mean,” Jack’s voice is gruff as he shrugs once, “Is that really so unrealistic?”
“Of course it is,” You sputter, “You don’t like me.”
“I’ve actually never said that. That was a conclusion you came to on your own. I distinctly recall telling you that I don’t hate you.”
“Just because you don’t hate me doesn’t mean that you like me, let alone— like that.”
Jack tilts his head, almost predatory, and all that sharp tension rushes straight back in.
“Like what?”
Something hot and dangerous is starting to unfurl in your chest, untethering from where it was previously lodged deep behind your ribs, out of sight, out of feeling.
“Code Blue en route, ETA two minutes.”
Jack jerks his head in the direction of the ambulance bay. “You gonna go get that?”
“Uh,” You’re pretty sure you’re stroking out, having a seizure, or something, because the only thing you’re capable of comprehending is the fact that Jack just not-so-subtly implied to actually liking you. Romantically.
“Get going then.”
You scurry away, hot all over and absolutely done with emotions in their entirety.
—
The rest of the week is hell on Earth. Perks of being in your twenties.
Things could be worse though!
Kind of.
It’s just that it’s been several days since Jack basically confirmed Trinity’s suspicions on romance and you can’t stop thinking about it. Obsessively.
It’s bad.
Bad enough that when Mel asked if there was any way you could cover her shift, you said yes.
“Okay,” Dennis stage-whispers as you’re downing your third coffee of the day, miserably charting at the nurses station, “I feel the need to ask how bad things can possibly be if you’re covering a day shift.”
“Mel asked.”
Dennis blinks incredulously. “You love Mel, but not enough to work a day shift voluntarily.”
“What exactly are you asking me here?”
“Did you and Jack hit a rough patch or something?”
“Keep your voice down!” You hiss, ducking your head as if you can hide from Princess and Perlah, “And for your information, no. We didn’t. I just wanted to do something nice for Mel.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“I don’t need you to believe me.”
Day-shift crawls on in a whirlwind of chaos and a level of dumb-fuckery that can only be achieved from the hours of 8 a.m to 8 p.m. As usual, the place is understaffed, overcrowded, and filled with a lingering sense of impending doom.
By the time night-shift starts filtering in, you’re ready to completely give up and start a new life a sheep rancher in New Zealand. It’s always been the plan if being a doctor didn’t work out.
Jack finds you in the locker room once the handoff is over, sitting on the little bench in the same position Dennis found you in earlier. Face in your hands, heels in your eyes, methodically counting breaths and wondering if that fluttering feeling in your chest is from caffeine consumption or sleep deprivation.
It’s fine. Your fine. Everything is fine.
“You don’t look too good.”
“I’m—“
“Don’t say you’re fine.”
“But I am,” You grit, “I just need a minute.”
“Okay.”
There’s the distinct sound of Jack’s slightly uneven footsteps, and then there’s a warm weight pressed against your side.
You take another shuddering breath that feels less like breathing and more like placing a single brick in a wobbly foundation.
“Shouldn’t you be out on the floor?”
“I don’t work tonight.”
You raise your head just enough to look at him. “You don’t? I thought I saw you on the schedule. Why are you here if you don’t work?”
Now that you’re looking at him and not starburst patterns on the back of your eyelids, you can see that he’s wearing casual clothes, not scrubs, and he doesn’t have his usual army-issue backpack with him.
“I got Shen to cover me. I came here for you.”
Your next breath in almost gets stuck in your chest, air struggling to move past that alive and wriggling thing that keeps moving every time Jack is around.
“What’d you do that for?”
The barest hints of a smile tugs at the corner of his lips. “Dennis called me. He said you’d need picking up after your shift.”
Shame, guilt, and embarrassment flood your veins, turning your blood into sickly-sweet poison that makes your stomach roll and twist.
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry, I have no idea why he did that. You really didn’t have to drive all the way over here, I swear I didn’t tell him to call you or something like that—“
“I know you didn’t,” Jack soothes, voice a rumbly, smooth timber that washes over your permanently-frazzled nerves like a balm, “Which is why I came.”
“I don’t understand.”
Jack stands, pulling your bag and change of clothes out of your locker.
“I’m going to ask you a question, and I need you to be honest with me, so you don’t have to answer it again. Can you do that for me?”
You nod once.
“Words.”
“Uh— yeah. Yes.”
“Good.”
Thank god the locker room is empty— everyone’s either on the floor or already left for their homes.
He closes your locker down, shoulders your bag, and hands you your clothes.
“Is it easier for you to accept help when you don’t have to ask and don’t get the chance to say no?”
It sounds so pathetic, hearing it laid out like that. The ugly guts of you; cut open, laid bare, and marked for research. Exhibit A, the inside of the girl no one ever needed to worry about.
You don’t want to agree. You want to laugh it off, maybe run away from it. Sit up straight, wipe your face, take the bag from Jack and explain that this is all a big misunderstanding and you’re perfectly fine and he can stop worrying about you now.
“Yes.”
Jack doesn’t verbally acknowledge your response besides a single dip of his head, like he knows that if he does anything more it’ll turn your response into a confession and that’s just too vulnerable for the hospital locker room.
“I’ll drive you home.”
“I don’t mean to be this way, you know.”
The passenger seat of Jack’s car isn’t somewhere you’d ever imagined yourself being. Not even late at night or on the bus when you’re pretending to be someone else who’s better at chasing what they want.
“It stopped being intentional a long time ago,” your hands are fisted into the material of your sweatpants, nails digging into the fabric, “It was just the natural progression of things. I like being liked.”
What you don’t say, what becomes an unspoken truth that lingers in the air despite not being verbalized, is the survival aspect of it. Why and how a person fuses this kind of thing to their personality; to their life. The circumstances that makes the natural progression of things end it being better for everyone if you just don’t have needs.
“I know.”
“I know you know, I just… needed to tell you. Myself.”
It’s odd seeing Jack illuminated by streetlights instead of fluorescent overheads. It’s odd being able to watch his hand flex on the steering wheel, watching his forearm tense as he shifts gears in his old stick-shift.
“You like being told what to do.”
Your face heats, but you’re determined not to lose face now. Especially after managing to survive being emotionally flayed open, willingly, by him.
“It feels safe. If I know what yo— someone wants, then I can’t mess it up, and I can relax.”
You can practically see the gears turning in Jack’s mind.
“Makes sense.”
The rest of the drive is quiet, the silence only filled by the sounds of Pittsburgh around you and the gentle crackle of something from the radio turned down too low to hear.
And for the first time in longer than you can remember, you begin feeling something that approaches calm.
Jack doesn’t have any expectations. There isn’t any one particular way he wants you to act or expects you to behave like. There’s nothing he wants you to do.
So you do what you want to do.
You relax.
—
In the weeks following Jack driving you home, there is a quantifiable shift in behavior between the two of you.
He starts pulling back.
It strikes you as odd first, and your natural inclination is to pull back too— to guard the soft, vulnerable bits you’ve showed him in case he throws them back at you.
But then you realize what he’s doing.
Instead of telling you how to proceed on a case when you come to him for advice, he asks you questions and steers you to the answer. He holds back when he’s evaluating a case with you, patiently following your lead and only interjecting when necessary.
He’s making space for you try new things and learn without fear of rejection. Building your confidence bit by bit.
It feels more intimate than sex.
After much deliberation, screaming into your pillow, and Reddit forum searching for HR violations, you decide to get him a card. Because he’s actually been really kind and helpful and he makes you feel like you can actually survive residency.
“What’s this?”
“A thank you card.”
You’re staring at your shoes, eyes flicking up and down between Jack’s face and the floor.
“What for?”
“It says it in the card.”
You scurry away, attaching yourself to the closest patient to avoid seeing Jack’s face when he does finally open it.
But when you look back, he’s just staring at it, a small smile on his face.
—
It’s the card that does him in.
Jack hasn’t made his feelings for you a secret, despite your unwillingness to see him as anything other than standoffish in the beginning.
He came on too strong at first— that was his fault. He didn’t yet understand how imbedded your need ran and how long it’d been since anyone bothered to look deeper.
He’d hoped, at least, that you were letting Whitaker and Santos help, and though you let them closer than most, it was clear you still seemed intent on holding up yourself and everyone around you on your own.
But it wasn’t just that. It was the way you oozed kindness— like it was a byproduct of your existence. He watched you get so wrapped up in being the perfect resident, perfect friend, perfect person, that no one ever stopped to let you know how good you were just by being.
He hadn’t planned on developing feelings or anything of the sort. At first, you’d just been one of his residents. Smart and capable but lacking confidence in yourself to fully commit. Then there was that MCI, and drinks in the park afterwards where he’d painfully watched you sip a beer you clearly hated, and everything just clicked right into place.
He never intends to flirt with you. It just happens. He can’t help himself. He’s a weak fucking man when it comes to you.
And then you bring him a card. A fucking card. To thank him for doing his job as an attending, a job he should’ve been doing better from the start. It has an illustration of bananas on it and says “Thanks a bunch!”.
He knows he’s completely gone, then. He was capable of being in denial before, could delude himself into thinking that what he felt was casual, but the sight of you before him, hands nervously wringing, your glitter gel pens sparkling as they caught the light was just the final nail in the coffin.
He allows himself a modicum of flirting on a day to day basis, mostly because if he couldn’t tease that real smile out of you at least once per day, he’d lose his mind.
Sometimes he takes you back to the diner, especially on longer days where none of your smiles reach your eyes and you start obsessively uncapping and capping your gel pens.
Even though you think it “looks dumb” you’ve also taken to sitting shoulder to shoulder with him in the booth, and he pretends he can’t see you sneaking fries off his plate because he knows how much effort it takes you to ask him if you can sit with him instead of on the opposite side.
Then he starts driving you home during a string of bad weather after you start sneezing from walking in the rain everyday, but even after the storm passes and the weather clears up he still finds you at the lockers, every day, car keys in hand. No matter how many times he does it, you always look so happily surprised that he’s still offering.
As if he’s not wrapped around your finger.
One day, after things have been mellow for awhile, Whitaker calls him and says that neither he nor Trinity have seen you in three days and you called out of work.
So naturally, as a calm and collected man, he showed up to your house.
You’d answered the door after the third time he knocked (which was great, because he was gearing up to force the door open) and you just looked miserable. Your hair was a mess, you head blanket wrinkles imprinted onto your face, and your eyes were puffy.
“Jack?” You’d mumbled, squinting your eyes against the not very bright light in the hallway, “Why are you at my apartment?”
“No one’s heard from you in three days.”
You wince. “I swear I meant to text Trinity. I just have a bad headache.”
His fingers twitch towards a penlight he doesn’t have. “How bad?”
“I don’t know. Like a seven on the pain scale?”
“Jesus— I’m coming in.”
“Nooo,” You cry, but shuffle back from the door and put up very little fight as he ushers you to the couch.
Your apartment is….. exactly as messy as he’d imagined a resident who lives alone would be. For someone who doesn’t drink enough water, there are an incredible amount of beverage bottles and cans littered about.
“Do you have headache relief?”
You gesture to the kitchen. “Cabinet furthest to the left.”
While rifling through your very disorganized medicine cabinet, he spies an orange prescription bottle with your name on it, dated for the previous year.
“Why do you have a prescription for a high level antihistamine?”
“Stop snooping. It’s for my migraines.”
“You’ve had a prescription this entire time and you’ve been taking all that over the counter shit?”
“Stop being mad,” You mumble into the couch cushion, “My migraine meds put me to sleep, so I can’t take them when I’m working. Plus I don’t have any refills left so I save them for when it’s really bad.”
“You called out of work and haven’t left your apartment in three days and you don’t consider this bad?”
“Could be worse. Could be throwing up.”
He sighs. Sets the bottle on the counter, breathes in once, then lets it out slowly. Imagines all the ways he could murder whoever made you think suffering alone for three days is preferable to asking for help.
“I’m going to help you back to bed,” He starts, voice low as he rounds the couch, “And then you’re going to drink some electrolytes, have a snack, and take your meds. Okay?”
The migraine has clearly taken it out of you, because you put up zero fight as he manhandles you to your feet and helps you drag yourself back to your bed.
“M’ sorry my apartment is a mess. I was supposed to clean it.”
“I’m not judging, sweetheart,” He says, tucking the blankets up around you, lips twitching as you make grabby hands for a giant triceratops plushie that looks to be the size of your upper body. “I’m gonna make you a snack, so try to stay awake until I come back. Can you do that?”
“Mhm. I’ll try.”
“Good girl.”
He manages to find a cucumber in your fridge, cuts it into slices and then adds a few pieces of lunch meat for protein. Last but not least, he snags a bottle of blue Gatorade from your pantry.
(He only knows they were there because he bought them for you a few weeks ago.)
He doesn’t make you sit up to eat, but instead scoots you a little ways away from the edge of your bed so there’s space for the plate.
You slowly nibble your way through, taking little sips of Gatorade when he nudges the bottle into your hands.
You finish the cucumbers, eat most of the lunch meat, and drink half the Gatorade before burrowing back into the blankets and declaring yourself done.
“Can I have my sleep mask please? I think it’s on the floor under my nightstand?”
“Of course you can.”
After your face mask is on and the curtains closed, he gives you the correct dose of your meds and gently shuts the door to your bedroom.
He fires off a quick text to Whitaker (he doesn’t have Santos’s number) that says you’re fine, stuck in bed with a migraine, and that he’s handling it.
And then he gets to work.
Two hours later your apartment is clean, your laundry is started, and Jack’s relaxing on your couch, aimlessly watching the news.
He hears the door creak open but knows you hate feeling on the spot, so he keeps his gaze trained on the tv even as he hears the sound of you shuffling over to the couch.
And then you pause.
“Jack.”
“Yes?”
“Did you clean my apartment?”
He finally looks over to you, and when his gaze reaches your face his stomach drops.
You’re crying.
He hauls himself off the couch (he’s thankful that he put his leg back on a few minutes prior) and stops in front of you, arms twitching at his sides with the need to fix, help, to stop whatever it is that’s making you cry.
“What’s wrong? Did I overstep?”
“No,” You warble, voice wet, “I just haven’t had the time or energy to clean in here for so long, and it’s been stressing me out so bad I avoid staying here during my off days. It’s just really, really nice of you.”
You look at him, eyebrows pinched and eyes wide with worry, “I— I’m not sure how to repay you for all of this. I know you said going to the diner was fine, but this is— a lot.”
“Sweetheart,” He starts, bracing one hand on the side of your face, thumb deftly sweeping across your cheek and wiping away the quickly drying tears, “I’m not doing any of this because I expect you to repay me. I’m doing it because I care about you and I want to see you happy.”
You sniff hard. “This is a lot of work, though.”
“I like doing it. I like taking care of you.”
Another sniff. “It doesn’t seem very fun.”
“I told you. You’re like a cat. Had to coax you over and now look at you,” he thumb rubs circles over your cheekbone, “Practically purring.”
You wrinkle your nose. “I don’t know if I like this metaphor.”
“Get used to it.”
You sigh, dramatic and long.
“I suppose I’ll allow it.”
“Oh, you’ll allow it, huh.”
You fold your hands behind your back, rocking back and forth on your heels. “Yes. I’ll allow it.”
“Well, aren’t I lucky.”
Later, when you’re lying on the couch, two movies into what Jack thinks is an unofficial early 2000s rom-com marathon (your favorite genre) you turn to look up at him from your spot tucked into his side.
“This is romantic, right?”
He presses a lazy kiss to your forehead, because he knows how much you like physical affirmations as well as verbal ones.
“Yes.”
“You’re serious about this?”
“You need confirmation?”
“I’d rather have it in writing, but this will do for now.”
He huffs a breathy laugh, tucks you closer to his chest.
“I’ll put it in writing for you later.”
You hum, pleased, and snuggle back into him, letting out a content sigh.
