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.
I think this schedule could be very nice / Call up the boys and crack a Miller Light / Watch the fight / Us girls are fun but stressful / Am I right? / And you got a right hand anyway
Overview: You knew it was a risk, dating a cop and all, but Sammy is different. Or, he was, at least. He was probably the best boyfriend you've ever had, the only one you ever saw yourself getting serious with. But then, he had to go and make buddy-buddy with the assholes in his department. Now your sweet boyfriend is gone and you're left picking up the pieces.
a/n: I actually got pissed at myself rereading this because she let him off way too easily at the end. So it's been revamped and, in my opinion, I think she gives him a proper amount of hell (Also, note the lyrics of this song, it’s going to be following those slightly misogynistic points for the first section of the plot)
more at: Belle’s 3k Extravaganza
wc: 12.7k
By no means are you the type of woman to throw on an apron and go all June Cleaver for a man. However, Sammy seems to be the exception to your rule. The first time you surprised him with dinner, there had been such earnest gratefulness in his eyes that you couldn’t help yourself. Every time you think of how stressed he gets at work, how much hell he receives on patrol, you just get the urge to take care of him.
It’s bad enough you’re spreading it for a cop, now you can add traitor to feminism on the list. Who can blame a girl, though, when he’s got biceps like those? Every time you see him, you just want to sink your teeth in him. Mark your territory for any doe-eyed woman that tries to flirt her way out of a ticket.
Most of your time is spent at his place so you can cook for him like you are tonight. Usually, while you wait for the food to finish, you find yourself cleaning up a little. The way he practically drops to his knees every time you take care of him has your sixth sense going off.
You know it’s coming soon, him asking you to move in with him. Your female spidey-senses are primed to go off the second you find a man ready to commit. It is such a rare trait nowadays.
It would be smart to say yes to him; you practically live with him already. But something is holding you back. No matter how much you care about him (maybe even love him), there is this gnawing thought that’s been plaguing you. Everything's been going good.
Perfect, even.
You’re crazy about each other, your fights are always resolved quickly, and he does anything he can to make you happy. But things are too easy, too conflict-free. Something bad is coming, you just know it.
The lock clicks on the door, and you find yourself smiling, already untying your apron. Turning the heat down on the stove, you turn in time to see Sammy walking in. His face lights up as he sees you.
He drops into your embrace the second you open your arms. You laugh a little, shifting your hips so his holster isn’t digging into you. He mutters into your neck how much he missed you, and you feel the rest of your carefully enforced independence shrink away.
It’s inevitable. You’ve gone full housewife.
“How was work?” You ask, dragging your hand through his hair as he pulls back. He shrugs you off, and you sigh, realizing this is going to be a man-no-talk-about-feelings night. He huffs and tosses his jacket on the kitchen island.
Your gaze narrows, and you click your tongue once. Sammy’s eyes widen before he picks it up, moving it to the entryway closet. Where it belongs.
“Good boy,” you murmur, smirking when you see the color that grows on his cheeks.
He comes up behind you, arm winding around your waist. You glance down at his thick forearm and physically hold back the urge to dig your teeth into him. “God, sweetheart, this looks amazing,” he lets out a breathy exhale as he watches you finish up dinner. You grin, making him a plate as he lets go and takes a seat at the island.
“Beer?” You ask, already getting it for him. I’m a traitor to my people, you think as you hand your man a cold one to go with the steak dinner you’d cooked. You’re making yourself your own plate when you catch him frowning at the stove.
“What’s wrong?” He finally looks over at you and raises his brows. “I thought you liked this,” you tell him, nodding toward the food.
He lets out a scoff and gives you an incredulous look. “‘Course I do, are you kidding? I love anything you cook.”
You fight back your smile at such simple praise. “Alright, why do you look like someone pissed in your beer, then?”
His face screws up and you can’t help but laugh. Almost sheepish, he rubs the back of his neck, no longer meeting your eyes. “Got a couple guys from the station coming over.”
Shrugging, you finally take a bite of your dinner. Compliments to the chef, you think smugly. “What’s the big deal? Ben comes over all the time.”
Sammy moves his food around his plate and you glare down at the action. “They might be a little hungry.”
You let out an astonished scoff and he shrinks back with that boyish grin on his face that makes it nearly impossible for you to be mad. “Jeez, what am I, Sammy? Your girlfriend or maid? You know I don’t cook for any man.”
He glances down at his plate and then back at you with a pointed look. Rolling your eyes, you wave him off. “This is a rare exception because we have such amazing chemistry in bed. I swear, if you were an inch smaller down there, you’d be nuking stouffers.”
Sammy lets out a small huff of laughter that makes the constant tight feeling in your chest ease ever so slightly. “Glad to know what I’m worth. I’ll just order a pizza.”
“Shut up,” you tell him, already digging around in the fridge for some food to make his friends. You cut open a pack of kielbasa and toss it in a pan, your dinner going forgotten on the counter. Pointing a spatula at Sammy you warn him, “Don’t get used to this.”
He laughs at the sharp look on your face, his smile dropping when you pinch your lips, openly glaring at him. “Of course, sweetheart.”
You turn back to the stove with a weak sigh. “I’m only doing this because you’ve got that pathetic kicked puppy look on your face.” Quietly, he makes his way up to you, arms once again tugging you into his firm chest.
“I promise,” he mutters into your neck, pressing a soft kiss there that has your stomach flooding with warmth. “I’ll make this up to you with my amazing bed chem,” he mocks. You laugh but it trails off as you melt further into him, an ache between your legs getting stronger the longer he kisses you.
“You play dirty,” you mutter, and he smiles against your skin, knowing exactly what he’s doing.
The guys he invites over seem nice enough. They’re loud, brash, and a little abrasive in the way your dad’s old friends used to be. Nothing you can’t handle or don’t expect from a group of off-duty cops.
Though, your skin does crawl when you set the food out in the living room and you realize just the type of men you’re currently serving. Never ever again, you swear to yourself. There’s a knock at the door and you go to open it.
A little piece of you relaxes when you look through the peephole and find Ben waiting on the other side. He smiles as you tug open the door. “Hey,” you greet, already pulling him into a hug. He presses a brief kiss to your temple and wraps his arm around your shoulder, pulling you back into the apartment. “You have no idea how relieved I am to see you,” you tell him.
“Yeah?” He lets out a low whistle as he takes in the disaster area that is Sammy’s kitchen. “When’d you have time for all this?” He chuckles, plucking some of your leftover steak and popping it in his mouth.
“When I skipped dinner,” you grumble, ignoring the concerned look he shoots you. “It’s just a one time thing,” you tell him. “Sammy’s seemed a little off lately, I figured he needed an easy night.”
“Yeah,” Ben walks up to you, hand once again finding your shoulder. “I’ve noticed that, too. Was getting a little worried.”
Any further conversation is interrupted as someone shouts, “Beer!” from the living room. You shoot Ben an astonished look that he only laughs at.
“Hey, sweetheart,” Sammy trails off, eyes narrowing at Ben’s completely platonic touch on your arm. He walks over and swats his grip away, tugging you back into his chest.
You let out a short chuckle at the amused look on Ben’s face. “I’ve been designated the beer wench,” you tell Sammy. He scowls, brows furrowing as he scoffs.
“I’ll take care of it.” He reaches over for the dinner you’d abandoned and places it firmly in your hands. “Finish eating, sweetheart.” He doesn’t leave any room for argument, redirecting you to a seat as he points at Ben. “You’re with me, come on.” Ben shoots you one last grin before he helps Sammy carry the beer into the living room.
The living room gets louder the longer they stay. For the most part, you manage to ignore it, flipping through your book as you pick at your dinner.
“We need more dip!” Your brows furrow and you look up with a scoff. There’s no way they think you’re actually going to bring them any. Right?
Shaking your head, you settle back into your seat and resume reading. “Dip!”
“Fuck me,” you mutter, shoulders tense as you work to ignore the assholes in Sammy’s living room.
It’s not much longer until Sammy’s walking into the kitchen. His brows raise when he spots you at the table. You give him a tense smile that’s met with a confused frown. “I thought you were in my room.”
You shake your head, “Nope. Been in here the whole time.”
Sammy glances between you and the living room with a cute little furrow between his brows. “Can you hear us in there?”
“Oh yeah,” you scoff. “Loud and clear.” Your point is almost instantly proven by a loud round of jeering laughter that makes your skin shrink back.
“Oh, well,” he hums, digging through the fridge to grab the dip. “How come you didn’t bring this?” He asks, holding up the container.
Your eyes narrow sharply. “Maybe because it’s not the fifties and they’re grown men who can walk their asses into the kitchen themselves. Besides, you’re the only one I’m sleeping with, you’re the only one who gets to ask for it.”
A grin breaks out on his face as he walks over to you. You lean forward, chin tilting as his hand slides around your shoulder to cup the back of your neck. “I’ll get them under control,” he promises, pressing a lingering kiss against your lips.
You just nod, head tilting as you admire his ass as he makes his way back into the living room. With a heavy sigh, you force yourself out of your chair and start cleaning up the disastrous array of dishes.
Your hands are pruny and dried out by the time you’re done. So, with the most reluctant gait, you force yourself out into the living room to fetch your favorite lotion. A football game is playing on the TV at an obscene volume, but they seem to be ignoring it in favor of whatever card game they’ve got going on.
Ben shoots you a small smile as he catches you creeping around the perimeter of the living room. Just as you’re about to sneak out, he calls your name, cutting through the buzz of chatter. “Gonna join us?”
His smug grin is met with a stare that promises death. “Oh, sure,” you grit out, wishing you could choke him out. Sammy waves you over and you perch on the edge of the couch’s armrest. “You winning?” You ask, glancing over his cards and finding yourself completely lost on whatever game it is they’re playing.
One of his buddies lets out a loud laugh and Sammy’s cheeks go red. You’ll take that as a no. The guy reaches over, slapping Sammy’s shoulder. “Hey, who knows, maybe your little lady can be a good luck charm.”
“Don’t love that,” you whisper to Sammy as he takes you by the waist and pulls you onto his lap.
“What,” he teases, “you don’t like being my little lady?”
You slap at his shoulder and he just laughs. You make yourself comfortable, head resting in the curve of his neck as you watch a few more rounds of this odd game play out. It doesn’t seem that anyone’s particularly good at it. Every turn ends with someone muttering something obscene under their breath.
When your brain has reached its threshold for drunken cheers, you turn your lips toward Sammy’s ear. “I’m going to bed,” you tell him. Already struggling to keep your eyes open.
He peers over at you, eyes a little wide. “You’re staying the night?”
You pull back, slightly offended by his tone. “Don’t I always?”
Something shifts on his face, this fleeting emotion that he doesn’t let you get a decent read on. “Yeah, yeah,” his tone is too light, so casual you don’t believe it. “I just don’t want us being loud and keeping you up.”
You just shake your head and press a firm kiss to his cheek. “You know I sleep through anything.” Balancing slightly on his shoulder, you push yourself up to your feet.
“Calling it quits?” Ben asks, looking just as bored as you are. You just offer him a tired smile and move to head to Sammy’s bedroom.
“Hey, sweetheart, you mind clearing some of this away so we can use the table?” Turning, you’re shocked to find one of Sammy’s buddy’s addressing you. Although, you’re not sure how you can be certain considering he doesn’t even look at you when he’s speaking, eyes too focused on his cards.
“Excuse me?” You mutter, so taken aback you forget to tell him off.
“You’re a doll,” he dismisses, swiping one of the other men’s cards. Stunned by the audacity and such blatant dismissal, you actually find yourself doing what he asks. It feels wrong as you bend down and scoop up the plates. You practically made them a feast, the least these assholes could do is help you clean up.
With a low huff and a pointed glare at Sammy, you take the dishes into the kitchen. You don’t even want to clean them. You’ve already spent half an hour doing that tonight. But the idea of all this food being dried on the ceramic tomorrow disturbs you just enough to grab the sponge.
Ben walks in from the living room, a couple of plates and glasses in his hands. He drops them by the sink and you send him a grateful smile. “Thought you were going to bed,” he muses, digging around in the fridge for another beer.
A little bit of shame curls in your stomach as you clean up after the men in Sammy’s apartment. “Yeah,” you shrug. “I just don’t want to worry about this in the morning.”
He lets out a snort which snags a laugh from you. “Why would you worry? This ain’t even your place.”
Your hands still, soap and soggy crumbs dripping beneath your fingers as you hesitate to meet his eyes. “Well,” you force a cheeky smile and shrug. “Not yet, at least.” God, how pathetic are you?
He holds his hands up, surrendering even though you can see there’s more he wants to say. You watch him as he heads back into the living room and drop the dishes in the sink. You’re done for the night, you’ve done far more than you even wanted to. Sucking in a sharp breath you dry your hands and try to head back to bed.
A quick, “Beer!” has you pausing at the threshold of the kitchen. It pains you, but you’re already in here and you don’t feel like looking petty in front of Sammy’s friends. Grumbling under your breath about men and getting off their fat asses, you pluck a beer from the fridge and plop it in the first outstretched palm you see.
The man chuckles while Ben shoots you a surprised look. “Nice, Sammy. You’ve got her well-trained. Must’ve learned from the first marraige.” Your jaw actually drops as you stare at the balding man addressing your boyfriend.
Another one pipes up, his laughter making your skin crawl. “Everyone knows the first is just a starter. It’s not until, at least, the third that you actually land a decent broad.”
You suck your teeth, staring pointedly at Sammy while you wait for him to pipe up. When he doesn’t, a low chuckle leaves you. “Hear that, baby? You got one more after me.”
Sammy finally meets your eye, just barely. His head ducks down as he shrugs. “They don’t mean it like that.” You let out an astounded gasp, looking around for anyone to support you on just how insanely backwards this whole conversation is. But the only one who will meet your eye is Ben and his stupid face just says “I told you so.”
“Right, okay.” You finally make your way into Sammy’s bedroom, just to grab your bag and turn your happy ass right around. “I’m going home, Sammy,” you call over your shoulder.
“Wait- What?”
You hear Ben let out a little laugh while you grab your coat from the hook. “Hope you’re ready to get reacquainted with your right hand, man.” His tone is malicious.
It’s strange, going to your own place after work. Not immediately starting on dinner. It’s a slight wake-up call that you’re committing too much of your time to a man who hasn’t even asked you to move in yet.
Still, that doesn’t make you miss the smile he always greets you with any less. Tossing your coat on the back of your couch, you head into your kitchen. Your cabinets are hardly stalked, the majority of your meals taking place at Sammy’s apartment. Meaning your dinner tonight is going to be expired ramen and some saltines.
You’ve had worse.
Your phone rings just as you toss the ramen in the microwave. Glaring down at the screen you watch Sammy’s picture light up. Crossing your arms, you lean back on the counter and wait for it to stop. He immediately calls back and you decide to let him stew a bit. You allow three ignored calls before you finally pick up on the fourth.
“Hey, sweetheart, where are you?” He’s doing a horrible job at masking the stress in his voice and it almost makes you smile.
“I’m at my place. Where else would I be?” You turn to the microwave, watching as the water bubbles and froths over the lid of your ramen cup. Grimacing, you redirect your attention to Sammy. More importantly, the leftovers you know he has and you really want to dig into.
“With me,” he supplies, laughter light and uneasy.
You hum a little and shake your head. “I don’t know. Is this because you miss me? Or is it just because I’m so well trained?” You make zero effort to hide the venom in your tone. He should know he screwed up. He should have also already figured out that he was going to be put on a week-long sex probation after last night.
Sammy lets out a low groan and you can picture the way he probably slides his hand across his jaw, eyes clenching shut. “I’m really sorry about that, honey. I swear, I told them off the second you left. I just got drunk and…”
“And… acted like the sort of jackasses I’ve already spent a lifetime dumping?” You supply for him.
He lets out another low laugh and you hate how you find yourself smiling at the sound. “Exactly. So, would you come over? Let me make it up to you?”
You let out a sharp breath, eyeing your boiling dinner with disdain. “You’re lucky I don’t have anything to eat over here.”
You let yourself in with the key Sammy gave you. Not an invitation to move in, just an easier way for you to get in before him and have dinner ready. Maybe his friends were right, he does have you trained.
Shaking away the disturbing thought, you narrow your eyes as Sammy walks out of the kitchen. He gives you that familiar smile of his you love and it takes every iota of self control not to return it.
He frowns when you don’t reciprocate. “Really, sweetheart?”
“What?” You take your coat off, kicking the door closed behind you.
Sammy shoots you a flat look, palm finding a spot on your lower back as he guides you into the kitchen. “Is this how we’re playing it tonight? You want to be passive-aggressive?”
You scoff, some of your anger easing as you realize he’s made dinner, tonight. “I actually just prefer aggressive-aggressive, you should be happy I’m being passive.” Sammy just laughs and presses a firm kiss to your temple.
“You’re impossible, you know that?” You hum, watching as he grabs two plates and drops them on the dining table. You follow him, moving to take a seat when his hands snake out and take a hold of your waist.
“What’re you-” There’s no stopping the laugh that bubbles out of you as he tugs you onto his lap. And that knowing smile he sends you means he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. “Yeah, I’m the impossible one,” you scowl, but it’s defeated by the smile tugging at your lips.
He reaches up, brushing some hair over your shoulder as he shifts you in his lap. He’s got a better view of your face now, his expression softening into something sincere. “I really am sorry about last night, hun. There’s no excuse.”
You bite your lip, arm lifting to wind over his shoulders. Inside, you’re still fuming, raging at him for not even attempting to defend you, just letting those guys speak to you like you were some maid. But you’ve spent years being the “cool” girlfriend, always letting shit slide so that guys don’t get tired of you after a month.
So, instead of doubling down, you lean down and kiss him. “It’s fine, Sammy,” you tell him.
Unfortunately, the cool girl syndrome has and always will be a chronic blight on your life.
“We, uh, have a schedule, now,” he tells you. His eyes drop from your face, fiddling with a stray thread on your sweater, instead.
You swat his hand away before he ruins the hem. “What do you mean?”
“Every Thursday night,” he tells you, head resting against your shoulder as you pick at the food he made. “There shouldn't be any more surprise drop-ins for you.”
You let out a huff that he tenses at. As much as you want to object, you’ve been on the receiving end of one of his rants when he was first divorcing Tammi. She had never wanted to go to his office functions. Never wanted to meet any of his cop buddies. She was always so neurotic and steadfast in being as separated from his work as she could be.
You didn’t want to do that. You weren’t looking to be the girl that shit on her man hanging out with his friends just because you don’t like them (cool girl strikes again). You don’t want his friends to be right, you don’t want to just be the stepping stone while he looks for the third wife.
“Alright,” you acquiesce and he perks up. That stupid, crooked grin almost makes it worth it. “But that bar-wench shit isn’t ever happening again,” you warn him, tone icy as you pull him back by his hair, forcing him to meet your eyes.
Sammy nods eagerly, “I know, baby. We’re just gonna order pizzas from now on, you won’t have to do a damn thing.” Your gaze narrows into something sharp and he offers a timid smile. “And for the rest of tonight, I’m at your beck and call, promise.”
Slowly, you loosen your grip on his hair, running your fingers through the curls. And the way he preens when you call him a “Good boy” almost makes you think his friends won’t be a problem.
There’s a game on the TV, soccer or football, you don’t know. Sammy’s got it turned down low so you can focus on your book. He’d dropped onto the couch an hour ago and hasn’t found the energy to move since.
Peering over the edge of your book you watch as he pulls your legs into his lap, eyes never leaving the TV. A little smile curls on your lips as his hands idly stroke over your skin. He doesn’t even look like he’s aware he’s awake and he still needs his hands on you.
You hide behind your book as your smile grows. Asshole, making you all flustered over something so small.
Really, though, it’s not your fault that all your exes were pieces of crap. That now your standards are so low you think a man respecting your “no” is a sign of saintliness.
Just as you settle back into your book, Sammy’s door slams open, loud footsteps sounding through the entryway. Your heart jumps to your throat, legs jolting as you try and get a look over the couch. Sammy’s hands tighten around your legs, stopping you from bolting. Despite the way you can feel your heartbeat in your abdomen and are about to soil yourself, Sammy looks utterly unbothered.
“Where you at, man?”
“Shit,” you hiss at the unnecessarily loud voice coming from the door. Grabbing your phone you check the date and, sure enough, it's Thursday. Like an idiot you’ve already forgotten that he and his buddies are now on a strict schedule. You’ve been getting good at staying away or making yourself unavailable during his Thursday night games. Not tonight, though.
The bald cop, Tony, you think his name is, makes his way to the living room. He eyes you and Sammy, cackling when he sees your legs in Sammy’s lap. “Shit, man,” he slaps Sammy’s shoulder. “She’s got you whipped.”
It’s almost subtle, the way Sammy brushes you off, reaching up to greet the man with one of those bro hugs. But you know him too well, you’ve gotten too good at recognizing the slight flush on his face is embarrassment. As if showing your girlfriend affection is something to be ashamed of.
No wonder they’re all divorced.
Curling completely into yourself, you watch Sammy jump up, heading into the kitchen to greet the rest of his friends streaming in. At the very least they’ve decided the dining table is a better place to play than the living room. That way you don’t have to sneak past them when you try to head into Sammy’s room.
With something venomous burning inside you, you pick up your book again. You’ll just ignore them, read, and go about your night like they aren’t a newfound plague on your peace. As they all settle, it grows increasingly difficult to try and drown them out.
They’re filling the apartment with expletives and insults straight from the eighties, clearly none of them are any good at whatever they’re playing. You’re not even sure why they get together. You’ve never witnessed one successful game.
Through the tin of rowdy men, you manage to make out a knock on the front door. You can’t imagine it’s anyone from this group, they prefer just busting through like the Kool-Aid man.
Sitting up, you tilt your head, trying to hear if anyone’s moving toward it. Another knock and then Sammy’s shouting, “Babe, can you get that?”
“Babe?” You scoff, nose wrinkling as you push off the couch. Sure, you’ll get the door he’s five feet from. You send him a glare he doesn’t bother acknowledging as you throw open the door.
Ben’s waiting on the other side with an easy grin. He’s balancing an obscene amount of pizza boxes as you pull him inside. “Glad you’re here,” you tell him, taking half of the stack from him.
“Thank you,” he mutters, trailing after you into the kitchen. Without even thinking, you’re grabbing plates, already pulling out slices for the others.
Ben gives you an odd look, leaning against the island, head tilted as he watches you. “You’re turning domestic.” His tone is teasing, but it’s not friendly. It seems like a warning.
Swallowing thickly, you shrug, too embarrassed to meet his eyes. “It’s not that big of a deal.” You pause, finally looking up at him and he offers you a knowing smirk. “Right?” You whisper, suddenly unsure of yourself.
“Sure,” he grins, taking some of the plates for you. “Whatever you say.”
“You’re such an ass,” you hiss, following him into the dining room. His shoulders shake a little as he laughs and you roll your eyes. Sammy gives Ben a brief greeting, smiling up at you when you pass him his plate.
You toss Tony’s plate on the table with barely enough control to not have the glass shatter. Just as you begin to walk off, his arm snaps out, hand wrenching your wrist back. “Ow,” you curse, frowning down at the tight grip.
“How about a beer, sweetheart?” He doesn’t even look at you.
You’re just about to tell him off when Sammy’s voice cuts through the chatter. “How about you keep your hands to yourself, Johnson?” The rest of the guys go quiet, looking up from their cards with nosy intrigue. Sammy’s just staring at Tony, and you swear you’ve never seen him so angry.
You’ve heard him yell before, sometimes into the phone, a lot of the times when he’s ranted to you. But this was a lot colder than what you’ve experienced. Too calm to be safe. Slowly, Tony’s disgusting, clammy hand releases your arm.
Sammy doesn't look away, cards splayed carelessly on the table as he leans forward. “You touch her again and we’re gonna have a problem. Got it?”
God, that’s hot.
Tony cows under Sammy’s glare. He shrugs, picking up his cards and muttering how he didn’t mean anything by it. You just scoff, glaring down at the bald bastard. Then, just as you’re thinking about dragging Sammy into the bedroom for being so commanding, he laughs.
Your lips part in astonishment, Ben’s head snaps to him with a furrowed brow. Sammy reaches over the table and slaps Tony’s shoulder. “Ah, come on, man. I’m fuckin’ with you. No big deal.” The other men let out stilted laughter, trying to get over the sudden tension.
Sammy looks over at you, “Right, babe?”
No, it’s a big fucking deal. If I feel those clammy palms one more time, I’ll cut off his fat fingers and serve them to you all on the next game night.
And stop fucking calling me that!
“Whatever,” you mutter, eyes narrowing at him as you swallow every venomous word down. Your dignity burns as it tries to crawl its way back up your throat. But, you force it down, making yourself turn around before you say something you regret.
But, then, Tony chuckles. “Well, the beer, sweetheart?”
That fraying thread of self-control unwinds just a little more as you turn around to glare down at Tony. “You got legs, don’t you? Go get your own fucking beer.”
One of the other guys pipes up, snickering at you like you’re just a little dog yapping at them. “You on the rag or something? Just bring us another round.”
At this point, you don’t even look to Sammy for help. You already know he’s not going to do jack shit. He’s clearly too much of a pussy to snap back at guys with seniority over him. “Pigs,” you mutter, not caring if they hear as you storm off to the bedroom.
The door to Sammy’s room is closed in a poor attempt to block out the noise that’s starting to give you a migraine. You can still hear them, laughing and making fun of each other like they didn’t just humiliate you. Like they didn’t just drag your sweetheart of a boyfriend to the dark side.
You glare down at your phone, an article about that jackass Tony glaring back up at you. You’ve seen multiple bodycam videos, smaller articles, all about this asshole who uses excessive force and has been involved in multiple internal affairs investigations. Sammy might have a shorter temper than most, but he’s not corrupt and he doesn’t just casually hang out with pieces of shit like this. He definitely doesn’t play about someone putting their hands on you. There’s something about this whole situation that seems wrong. You just haven’t figured out what, yet.
The door slowly creaks open and you look up with a scowl. Sammy never checks on you when these guys are over. So, it’s not much of a surprise when you see Ben poking his head inside. “Hey,” he offers a tentative smile.
You sit up, patting the spot on the bed by the footboard. “What’s up?” You ask, anger simmering down slightly as he drops himself beside you.
“So,” he flexes his hands, gaze darting to the door before landing on you again.
You give him a shaky smile. “What’s up, Ben? You’re acting weird.” You tilt your head and shrug. “Weirder than usual.”
He lets out a low laugh, nudging you with his elbow. “Shut up.” For the first time since game nights began, there’s a genuine smile on your face. “What do you think of Sammy’s new buddies?” He nods toward the dining room and you scoff. Whatever face you make clearly says everything you haven’t because he sucks his teeth and nods.
“Yeah, I’m not much of a fan, either.”
“What the hell is going on? I’ve never even heard half their names before and suddenly they’re infesting our apartment.” Ben’s brows perk at the slip up and you shake your head, brushing it off.
He rubs the back of his neck, shifting further up the bed. “I don’t know, there was a change in the shift rotation, we’ve been seeing a lot more of them lately. I can’t believe he’s actually getting along with the assholes.”
“Yeah,” you laugh, but it does nothing to mask the hurt in your voice. “How the hell do you think I feel?” He looks over at you, expression softening at the pain on your face. Carefully, he wraps an arm around your shoulders, pulling you in for a brief hug.
He seems hesitant to even touch you, probably out of respect for Sammy. But you’ll take whatever comfort you can get, as small as it may be.
Just as you rest your head on him, the bedroom door creaks open completely. Sammy walks in, brows furrowed and a scowl on his face as he takes in the both of you. “Was wondering where you went,” he mutters, glaring at the arm Ben has around you.
Ben lets out an awkward sigh, slowly letting you go. You almost complain, but you don’t feel like dealing with any more machismo drama tonight.
“What’s going on?” Sammy asks, closing the door behind him as he steps into the room. He stands in front of you both, arms crossed in that way that usually makes you want to bite him. But your attraction to him tonight has been severely and utterly depleted.
“We were just discussing the impeccable manners of our guests,” you joke, trailing off when he doesn’t even crack a smile.
“My guests,” he corrects, tone painfully sharp.
“Right, well,” you stutter, completely unsure of yourself. You’ve had too manny slip ups tonight. You’ve allowed yourself far too many moments of delusion thinking that Sammy might actually take the relationship a step further.
Ben jumps in, a scowl on his face as he gets to his feet. “You’re acting like she doesn’t practically live with you, man. Cleaning the place and-”
“Butt out,” Sammy snaps, taking a step closer to Ben. You can feel it brewing, the tension that always seems to linger between them. They’re one pissing contest away from just beating each other bloody.
“Hey, you know,” you get up and stretch with a dramatic yawn. “I’m pretty tired, think I might go to sleep.” Sammy’s eyes dart toward yours before he takes the hint, scoffing as he storms out of the room.
Ben shoots you one last look before he follows after him. In the wake of their absence, something like shame seems to fill you. Your relationship is deteriorating right before your eyes, slipping through your fingers. It feels like you’re just letting it happen. Should you be doing something more?
Is this just a phase he needs to go through?
He did skip the whole bachelor pad thing after his divorce, pretty much already ready to date you. Maybe some part of him never got to expel that chauvinistic resentment of Tammi and he’s doing it now. Not that it makes it any better.
Turning off the lamp, you lay down over the comforter and force your eyes to close.
Barely a few hours later, you can feel the bed dipping behind you. Sammy’s arms wind around your waist, careful as they pull you into his chest. He’s trying not to wake you, completely unaware that you’ve been up the past few hours debating the future of your relationship.
There's a part of you that thinks you've figured out why he's acting like this, why he would ever possibly hang around these clowns. But it's not good enough to excuse how he's been behaving.
“They gone?” You grumble, holding stubbornly to your pillow so you don’t give in and turn around to hug him.
“Yeah,” he hums, the noise vibrating against your back. He pulls you closer, lips slowly trailing along your neck, hands dipping to the waistband of your shorts. Your eyes narrow and you bite back a scoff. He can’t seriously think he’s going to get lucky tonight?
“Just need to clean up,” he tells you, hands pausing their descent. The silence between you is loud, it takes a moment before you catch his meaning.
“When the hell did I turn into your maid?” He stiffens behind you, arms tightening around you. “Not my guests,” you spit out, “not my fucking problem.”
“Oh, baby,” he rolls you over and you hold tight to the pillow. He frowns down at it as it pushes him back from you. “I didn’t mean it like that,” he promises, attempting to tug the pillow from your hands.
You kick out at his ankle and glare. “What did you mean it like? And what was all that with Tony? You’re just going to pretend like it wasn’t a big deal?”
With a low grunt, he wrenches the pillow from your hands. You scowl as he pulls you into him. “I’m really sorry, honey,” he whispers, brushing some hair off your cheek. “That was just…” You raise your brows, so fascinated with whatever BS excuse he’s got this time.
Sammy just sighs, forehead falling against your own as he gives up entirely. “Pathetic,” you whisper. “You’ve got nothing?” Your finger digs into his side and he lets out a low laugh.
“No, nothing.”
“Well then-”
“‘Cept this,” he cuts you off, lips finding yours as he rolls over, taking you with him and settling you comfortably on his lap. You can’t help the little moan that slips out, hips Pavlov’d into immediately moving against his.
His hands drift down, palms finding your ass as he pulls you tighter against him. “You do not play fair,” you mutter against his lips. He just lets out another laugh, thrusting up into you and shocking another moan from you.
“Never said I did,” he teases, hands already reaching for the hem of your shirt. With a defeated sigh, you relent, sitting up and peeling off your top. His hands trail up your body, rough callouses ticking the sensitive skin as he cups your breasts.
You fist his shirt in your hands, dragging him up to meet your lips. “Off,” you demand, tugging at his t-shirt. Sammy’s quick to oblige, soft muscles of his abdomen flexing as he tears it off. What little patience he has snaps as you finally take off your bra. You can't help the laugh that tears out of you when he grabs your waist and flips you over, pressing you into the pillows.
His lips carve a path down your body, skin igniting under every touch as he hooks his fingers into the band of your shorts. “Let me make it up to you?” He asks, shoulders already parting your thighs.
You consider it, he does look handsome between your legs like that. But there’s a barbed hurt in your chest, and humiliation from earlier tonight that makes your tongue knot.
Mouth souring, you shake your head and pull back. “No,” his face falls and you can’t help the cruel laugh that slips from you. You tug him up by his chin and offer a sharp smile. “No sex until you get your little buddies under control.” His jaw drops before his head is falling to the crook of your neck.
“You don’t play fair,” he grumbles, and you can feel just how unfair you’re being by how tight his boxers are.
“Never said I did,” you hum, pressing a kiss to his temple and rolling over. Sammy follows, arms winding around your waist as he mutters to himself.
He can clean his apartment by himself. He can cook his own meals and talk shop with his friends as much as he wants. But he does not get to disrespect you and think everything’s going to be fine and dandy.
You’ll just have to discuss this with him when you’re both not pent up and disappointed.
Your head is resting on his lap, his hands idly stroking along your spine when he laughs. You peer up, curious as you try and catch a glance at his phone. “What is it?”
“Come here,” he pulls on your arm and you sit up, curling into his side. “Just some stupid shit from the guys.” He offers you his phone and you take it, stomach already burning with anticipation. Please just be Ben being a sweet dumbass and not something horrible.
T > Rookie lost it on me today
J > That one’s got a stick up her ass
T > I swear to God I can’t even get through a goddamn conversation without her calling me a Pig.
Your stomach knots itself completely as you glance over at Sammy. He’s already turned his attention to the TV, completely unaware of your internal meltdown. Then, the kicker, Sammy, replying to J’s message.
Pretty sure it’s just a tampon
It’s immediately followed by one of those morons sending a gif of Miss Piggy losing it.
Not only did your man just make a goddamn period joke, they dragged Miss Piggy into this. How the fuck dare they?
You toss Sammy’s phone onto his lap and he lets out a slight groan as it nails his groin. “What,” he trails off at the look on your face. “Oh, come on, sweetheart. It’s not that big a deal.”
Crossing your arms, you put as much space between the two of you as you physically can. “You really think that’s funny?” Sammy rolls his eyes, turning back to the TV and ignoring you. “Fuck that,” you hiss, reaching over and turning it off.
Sammy’s glare is sharp and for the first time he looks like he has no interest in you. That look on his face is just flat, empty as he waits for you to get your rant over with so he can go back to his game.
“So, you agree with that shit?” You demand, heart pumping a little too fast.
Sammy’s head sinks back into the couch cushions with a heavy sigh. “No, come on, leave it alone. It’s just a joke.” Tears sting your eyes as you're reminded of every failed relationship. Every moment you were dismissed or appeased so they could just go back to whatever they want, not giving a damn about how you feel.
“Seriously, Sammy. When I’m upset and just happen to be on my period, do you just dismiss how I’m feeling? Pretend to give a shit so you don’t have to deal with me? When I’m upset do you just think I’m being ridiculous?”
You’re honestly not trying to start a fight. But you’d grown up around the type of men who knew blaming it on your cycle was the best way to shut you up. The most effective way to invalidate your feelings and make you feel so small. You need to know if the man you care so much about has secretly been that sort of man this whole time.
Sammy scrubs his hand down his face and lets out an incredulous laugh. “This is different,” he defends, staring at you like you’re overreacting.
And maybe you are, maybe you aren’t. At this point, it doesn’t matter, because there is no excuse for just how much he’s changed over a few weeks. “How is it different?”
Sammy just shakes his head. He gives you a flat look and scoffs, turning the TV back on. You purse your lips, biting your tongue so the tears don’t spill. “I don't like your new friends.” He either doesn’t notice how choked up you sound or doesn’t care.
“Good thing you’re not my mom,” he mutters.
“No,” you stand up and he sighs. “Just your live-in maid.” Sammy lets out another tired sigh, head sinking into his hand as you collect your things.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m going home, Sammy. “ And as the door slams behind you, he doesn’t try to stop you.
As you head to his apartment, making sure it's not a Thursday, you have to build yourself up. Give yourself a dozen pep talks before you manage to crawl up the stairs.
You’re going to sit down. You’re going to have a conversation. After a copious amount of research on his new friends, you've come to your own conclusion. This has to be some sort of undercover shit he's doing for internal affairs to try and bust these asssholes. But that doesn't change the fact that prolonged exposure to their behaviors has shifted who he is as a person. Changed him into a man you want nothing to do with.
He should have given you a heads up. Told you to stay clear for a few weeks while he works on this. Anything other than throwing you into this deep-end blind.
By the end of the night you’re either going to be single, again, or have the man you care about back.
Tonight, you knock instead of using your key, just needing another minute before you face him. When the door opens, you’re caught off guard by the wide smile on his face. “Oh, thank god.” He reaches out, arms wrapping around your waist as he tugs you into him.
“Uh, hi,” you smile, taken aback by the sudden surge of affection. You barely have a moment to hug him before he’s pulling back.
“Guys are coming over tonight,” he tells you, and your heart drops to your ass as the door closes behind you. “Think you could whip something up for us, baby? I didn’t have time to call the pizza place.”
You’re stunned, absolutely gobsmacked by his audacity as he pulls you into the kitchen. While you’re frozen, jaw permanently dropped, he pulls off your coat and positions you in front of the stove. He even goes so far as to tie on your apron for you.
“I thought you guys meet on Thursdays?” You mutter absentmindedly, blindly pulling ingredients out of the fridge.
“Had a change of plans today,” he presses a kiss to your cheek, and then he’s gone. A minute later you hear his shower start up. You stare down at the stove for a long time before you finally move.
You whip up a feast for him, a last meal if you will. Because you don’t need a conversation anymore. You know exactly how this night is going to end. Might as well give him something decent to eat while you dump him.
The guys start to flood in while he’s still in the shower. They don’t take their shoes off, tracking mud across the linoleum, something Sammy can look forward to cleaning up on his own. They don’t greet you, acknowledge your existence, just grab a beer and carry on.
Feeling numb, you dig through the fridge, finding an expired carton of milk that smells nauseatingly like sulfur. You pour it into your pan, expression flat as the clumps begin to slough out.
The door opens again, you can hear the person taking their shoes off and know who it is before he walks in. “Need any help?”
You don’t turn to face Ben, just toss a handful of vegetables into the pan. “Don’t eat the dip,” you warn him.
“Uh,” he lets out an awkward chuckle. You turn, eyes narrowed as you shake your head. “Well, shit, alright. You got Visine in there or something?”
“Might as well,” you shrug. Slowly, eyes a little wide, he backs out of the kitchen. You just swallow down another wave of fiery rage as you brew up a crime against cooking. But, it will absolutely give them diarrhea for the next week, so you’ll pardon yourself this one time.
Your anger and hurt just builds and festers with every call for beer. Every shouting bought of laughter that makes your shoulders jump and your head throb. By the time Sammy makes it out of the shower, your mind has been entirely made up. Humiliation has gone cold and turned your blood to ice as you stand in his kitchen.
No part of you melts or swoons when he comes up to you with wet curls and presses a kiss to your cheek. His hands hover over your waist, brows furrowing when you don’t turn to reciprocate. You quietly plate his food, giving him an extra serving of dip, and pass it off to him.
“Hey,” he puts the plate on the counter, voice low and soft. “What’s wrong?” He tries to get you to look at him but you stay stubbornly rooted in place, idly pushing the food around in the pan.
“Were you ever going to ask me to move in with you?”
He goes stiff, backing up with a frown that somehow breaches your walls and makes your chest ache. Never been good with rejection, you remind yourself, poorly attempting to build those walls back up. “It’s a little soon, don’t you think?”
You can’t look at him. The second you do, you know you’re just going to cry. You finally thought you were good enough for someone. That someone actually liked you, flaws and all. But, like every other relationship you’ve had, you were just deluding yourself.
Sucking your teeth, you just nod. “Are we okay?” He asks, taking the food and backing up.
“Fine,” you tell him, turning to bring the rest of the snacks to the dining room. Sammy takes his seat, still looking worried as you set everything up. Ben reaches for the dip and you swat his hand, his eyes widen slightly as he remembers your warning and he backs off.
The last plate you set down is with barely any care. You’re angry and hurt, about to leave the one relationship you really thought would last. So, a little sauce splatters on the guys shirts. Not enough to do permanent damage, but enough to have them bitching.
“Damn it!”
“What’re you blind?”
Smiling, you straighten up and let out a sharp laugh. “Alright, I’m done.”
Sammy frowns, hand tightening around his fork. “With the food?” Oh, and that poor pathetic ounce of hope in his voice makes something in you burn.
The TV is blasting behind you and it’s just another noise adding to the pain in your head. You pick up the remote, shutting it off for a moment of peace. Immediately, the grown men in front of you boo, one even tosses a napkin at you, hand reaching for the remote.
And you just… snap.
“Shut up. Shut the fuck up! Jesus Christ, I am so sick of this, of all of you.” They go quiet as you slam the remote on the table, plates trembling. “You are grown men, you want a beer, then you go get it your goddamn selves. And before any one of you fuckers says some shit about me being on my period… I want it to be very clear that I have never been dryer in my life than I am looking at you pathetic excuses for men.”
Sammy stands as you undo your apron, tearing it off and tossing it at him. But you’re not done, it’s just pouring out- everything you didn’t say. Everything you held back for a man who never really wanted you.
“God, you wonder why the female rookies don’t like you people! It’s because everytime she performs better than you, everytime she calls you on your shit, you undermine her and blame it on the ‘rag.’ You’re just pathetic little men who can’t handle a woman who is secure in her job because it reminds you of just how small you are.”
Your face is hot, chest heaving as you stand there, staring at them all. You’re sure they’ve seen this meltdown before. During their divorce proceedings, watching as their marriage fell apart or their daughters stopped talking to them. But, for once, they are blessedly silent and you feel like you can actually breathe again.
There’s laughter and you look up to find Ben leaning back with a grin. He surveys the other’s faces and lets out a low whistle. You’re almost tempted to laugh with him.
Then, Sammy reaches for you, hand hesitant as it lands on your shoulder. “Sweetheart-”
“No,” you snap, voice quieter now. He flinches as you slap his hand away, hazel eyes wide and shining with hurt. “I am done with you, Sammy. Alright?”
“What?” His eyes dart to the others and he takes a desperate step closer to you. But you just shove him back. “Hun, let’s talk about this.”
“No, no I’m done doing that. So, uh, enjoy cracking a beer with the boys without the drama of your untrained woman. You’ve got a right hand, what the fuck else do you need me for?” You grab your purse and shake your head.
Sammy chases after you but you’re not letting him weasel his way out of this again. You’d made a promise to yourself. You’re leaving single tonight, he’s had far too many chances to get his act together.
Just as you’re running into the parking lot, you hear footsteps racing toward you. You whip around, watery glare turning confused when you see Ben catching up with you. “Hey,” he calls out your name and you let out a tired sigh as you stop.
“Look,” he darts in front of you, slightly out of breath. “As entertaining to watch as that was, what’s happening… It’s not what you think.”
“I know,” you interrupt him.
His mouth droops before snapping shut again. “Huh?”
“It’s got to do with an investigation, right?” Slowly, he nods, infuriatingly surprised by you connecting the dots. “Yeah, I figured that out a while ago, Ben. But he didn’t give me any warning before he turned into this Don Draper wannabe. He didn’t prep me or just keep me out of this. This all being a part of something bigger doesn’t change or excuse how humiliated he made me feel.”
Ben wants to say more, you can see it on his face. His arm lifts before falling limply to his side. With a sigh, he runs his hand over his face and offers you a sorry smile. “Do you need a ride home?” He asks softly.
“No, but I appreciate it.” He nods, and you blink, eyes burning as you stare down at the pavement. Hesitantly, his hand lands on your shoulder, softly squeezing before he backs up.
“Take care of yourself.”
You hum, throat too tight for words and wait for him to go back into the building before you let the tears fall.
When you wake up the next morning, your eyes are crusted from crying too much and your head is throbbing from, again, crying a ridiculous amount. Blindly, you grope around your nightstand until you find your phone.
It shouldn’t be a shock that Sammy’s reached out, but the amount of missed calls on your screen is a number you didn’t think you could ever reach.
He’s also blown your messages up. The majority of them promising to explain his behavior. Asking you to call him. Give him one more chance (he’s had plenty). And then there are ones where you can tell he’s starting to get pissed off that you’re just ignoring him.
Serves him right.
Your thumb twitches against the call back button. Almost wanting to hear how he’s going to explain this away. But you force yourself to put the phone down. You swore to yourself, no more cool girl BS. You’re not going to just let him treat you how he did and get away with it.
So, as difficult as it is, you mute his notifications. You don’t have it in your heart to block him, not yet. But you can at least spare yourself the misery of watching his picture light up your screen every ten minutes.
Occasionally, though, throughout the week you have a moment of weakness. You’ll check to see just how much more he’s reached out and then listen to a few voicemails. They all relatively sound the same:
“Please, sweetheart call me back” and then you’ll hear Ben in the background “Man, this is pathetic” Sammy will tell him to shut it and, again, plead for you to just give him a minute of your time.
When you start to feel really lonely, when your bed is just too cold and too big, you almost do it. You’re so close to just calling him so you can hear something other than the quiet of your apartment. This space that has become foreign to you because Sammy’s place was becoming home. And then, you’re reminded of how he treated you, what he took from you both by not just giving you a heads up on the investigation. And you put your phone down, hurt and angry all over again.
By weeks end, your friends call you out to go to a club with them. They don’t know you broke up with Sammy, they think you’re still the perfect couple. Which leads to a night filled with painful, barbed reminders of how alone you are now, while your friends bemoan how perfect and sweet your relationship is.
You should have told them the truth before you went out with them. But they’ve witnessed so many messy breakups from you. They’d probably just blame you. If you can’t keep a decent guy like Sammy than it has to be you whose the problem.
So, after a long night of playing the designated driver (because you’re the only one happy and dating someone, in theory) and being reminded of how amazing your relationship used to be… You’re already in a foul mood when a passing cop decides it’ll be funny to get a handful of your ass.
Not just a slap or a quick squeeze, either. This man puts both palms, cups your cheeks, and nearly lifts you in the air he squeezes so tight. And you, completely ignoring his badge, treat him how you would any other creep.
You deck him.
Suddenly your face is pressing against the hood of a patrol car. Your friends are shouting “We’re recording this, babe!” And you’re being cuffed and thrown into the back of their car.
But, hey, at least your friends recorded it.
“Whoa!” Ben is the first one to see you as you’re pulled into the station. You’d consider yourself lucky if seeing him didn’t mean Sammy was around somewhere.
“What the hell are you doing?” He snaps at your arresting officer while the piece of shit jerks your arm out of socket.
“She assaulted an officer,” his partner pipes up. Your gaze goes to the deep black bruise ringing his eye and you grin.
“All right,” you huff. “Like he didn’t assault me first.”
Ben’s eyes dart between the both of you, his jaw clenching when he sees the marks on your arm from your rough detainment. “What happened?” He asks you, holding up a hand when the cop tries to talk.
“I was out with some friends and this asshole thought he could just stick his hand up my dress.”
“Didn’t take much,” that bitch smirks. “Look at the length of that thing-”
“Hey!” Ben snaps and it catches the attention of some of the others milling around. “That’s enough. Now let her go.”
“I’m sorry, what?”
Ben pushes the guy away, taking his key and working off one of your cuffs. “This is Sammy’s girl, you’re lucky I’m the one that found you, not him.”
The guys eyes widen and he backs off with a huffy sigh. “Shit, I’m sorry.”
“Oh,” your stomach rolls with disgust. “But if it were any other woman, you’d still somehow make yourself the victim? I see I only hold value when there’s a man attached to my name.”
“Alright,” Ben puts his hand on your back, turning you before you provoke another fist fight. “I’m sorry about that.”
He sits you down at his desk and watches you carefully. “I should file a lawsuit,” it’s an empty threat but you seriously considered it on the ride over.
Ben snorts, eyeing you up and down carefully. “How’ve you been doing?”
“Fine,” you shrug. “About as well as anyone is after a breakup.”
Ben leans forward, elbows braced on his knees, a seriously concerned look on his fac. “He’s falling apart.”
“Ben…”
“Seriously, and not just because you poisoned him with spoiled dip,” that brings a small smile to your face. Ben returns it for a moment before his face settles into something more serious. “I don’t know how much more I can take. He’s snapping at any little thing. He won’t stop bitching at me. I’m losing my mind.”
“Look,” you rub your wrist and look away. “Am I being booked or not? I want to go home.”
Ben sighs and scrubs a hand down his face. “You’re not getting booked.”
“Thank you,” and before you can even get up, he’s grabbing the loose handcuff and snapping it to his desk. Your eyes widen, stomach sinking as you tug futilely at it. “Ben,” you hiss. “What the fuck?”
“I’m sorry,” he shrugs off his jacket, laying it over your lap so your dress doesn’t ride all the way up. “But I can’t take this anymore.”
Your jaw drops as he walks off and you know exactly where he’s going. “Traitor!” You shout at his back, he gives you a sarcastic thumbs up that almost make you wish you had a gun.
You’re sitting there for about ten minutes before Sammy’s rushing up. Most of the guys in here know you, but the few that don’t keep asking how much a night will cost. You’re starting to think it might be time to retire this dress.
“Hey,” your name rushes from him in one panicked breath. “What’s happening? Why are you cuffed?”
You suck your teeth and give him a sharp smile. “Your partner decided to play Cupid.” Sammy’s brows furrow, his hands already working on taking the cuffs off.
“Yeah, but why are you here?” He asks, thumbs brushing over the split skin of your knuckles. You jerk your hand back before his soft touch weakens your resolve. Sammy frowns and you can’t make yourself meet the hurt look in his eyes.
“Some asshole grabbed a handful outside The Strip tonight.”
“What the hell were you doing over there?” His tone is far too sharp for a man you’ve already broken up with. Eyes narrowed, your face snaps to his.
“Tone,” you snap. Sammy’s jaw clenches but he backs off a little. “I was out with some friends. Still, being near that place doesn’t just give guys an excuse to grope me.”
Sammy takes a hold of your arm, pulling you away from Ben’s desk and leading you toward an empty room. “I’m not saying it does. I just thought I’ve told you a lot about staying away from there. You know how many half-naked girls we’ve had to pull from their alley?”
“Jesus,” you huff, pulling your arm away as he closes the door. “I got it. I was trying to go home, anyway.”
“Why-” Sammy stops himself, taking a deep breath as color grows on his cheeks. You wait for another lecture but he seems to love proving you wrong. “Why haven’t you called me back?”
Your jaw slacks, an unintelligible garble of words stuttering its way free. “Seriously?” You land on, voice pitched with anger. Sammy’s eyes widen, glancing through the windows of the room to make sure no one’s paying attention. Taking in a deep breath, you force yourself to keep your voice mellow.
You really don’t need to be arrested tonight. Again.
“Sammy, that’s why you dragged me in here? Not because a cop copped a feel?” His expression falls flat at your poor excuse for a joke. Fuck me, then, God forbid you try and ease the tension.
“Obviously I’m upset about that, sweetheart. But it’s not your fault and it’s not you I’m going to be telling off for it. I’ll deal with him later.” You’re sure that means Sammy’s going to beat the guy half to death and Ben will have to clean up the mess.
“Right now, I want to know why you’re just pretending I don’t exist. Like we haven’t been dating for six months.”
Your feet are aching from the obnoxiously tall heels you took out tonight. Not bothering to look at him, you take a seat at one of the desks and peel them off, letting out a low sigh of relief. Sammy just watches with his arms crossed, clearly at the end of his thread.
“Look, babe, I don’t know what you’re not getting about me being done with you, but we’re through. No sex. No calls. No texts. This is what happens when people break up, Sammy.”
Sammy lets out a stressed sigh, lips pulling down as he drags his hand through his hair. “You don’t understand. I had to act like an ass, baby, I’m-”
“Working on an investigation?” You finish, giving him an unimpressed glare. “Yeah, Sammy. I’m not a moron, I figured out why you were acting like a chauvinistic pig all of a sudden. The problem here isn’t that, it’s the lack of communication that led to me being completely humiliated.”
His arms drop to his sides and he just stares, mind spinning as he struggles to figure out a way out of this. Spoiler, there isn’t one.
“I don’t- What do you want me to do, hm? What can I do to make this better?”
You’re ready to dismiss him when you catch an officer’s eye through the window of the room. They’re all out there, his buddies, the asshole that arrested you. Watching and trying to pretend like this isn’t the most interesting thing that’s happened tonight.
Slowly, you drag your gaze back to Sammy, a cruel smile pulling on your lips. “Beg.”
He stills, eyeing you warily. “What?” His tone is incredulous, slightly taken off gaurd.
You shrug, “You really want me back?”
“You know I do.”
“Aright, beg.” You tilt your head, wondering if he’s actually capable of swallowing down his pride.
Slowly, Sammy takes another step closer. “Please, sweet-”
“Hm, no,” you click your tongue, shaking your head in disappointment. “Do this properly, Sammy. On your knees.” His jaw clenches and it's audible how he swallows. Sammy turns toward the blinds and you sigh. “Blinds open. Unless you’re just full of it?”
“You know I’m not,” he grits out, cheeks flushing as a few officers fail to hide their peeping. You almost think he’s going to give up. Before you can scold him for taking too long, he’s dropping to his knees in front of you.
Your eyes widen imperceptibly and it’s an effort not to give away your shock. Sammy’s hands skate over the smooth skin of your legs, squeezing around your calves. “I fucked up, honey, I know that. I will do anything I can to make up for it, just, please, give me another chance.”
It’s a power rush, having such a domineering man on his knees in front of you. That boost to your ego is almost enough to make you cave. But you know Sammy, he can certainly do better than this. He just hates the idea of any of his men seeing it.
Pursing your lips, you lightly kick your leg out. “Put my heels on for me.” He huffs, clearly upset by the lack of response, but he listens anyway. Getting to your feet, Sammy follows, expression expectant.
You pat his shoulder in that condescending way men always do to you. “That was cute, hun. But I’m not changing my mind. You want to fix this, you’re going to have to work a little harder than that.”
Sammy doesn’t object, just scratches at his jaw and lets out a disbelieving sigh. You give him a sharp smile before you make your way to the door. “You're unbelievable,” he calls after you. You shrug, not bothering to look back as you make your way out of the station.
A week after your “arrest,” you’re flipping through channels when a familiar face catches your eye. Tony, the crapbag that Sammy had around, has been arrested. As well as a bunch of other game-night regulars. Extortion, violation of civil rights, spoliation, and a list as long as your arm that just keeps on going. Truly, they are the epitome of scumbags.
You can understand why Sammy was so bent on getting them put away. Even if it came at the risk of your relationship. As much as that makes him a good cop and an honorable man, it doesn’t make him a better boyfriend.
Still, you find your hand inching toward your phone, finger hovering over his contact. You bite your lip, debating the risks when someone knocks on your door. Frowning, you toss your phone on the couch and get up to take a look through the peephole.
It’s like he’s got a sensor for when you’re feeling weak.
Sammy stands on the other side, hands shoved in his pockets as he rocks back on his heels. You step back with a huff and glance down at yourself. Taking an extra minute to hike up your shorts and adjust your boobs, you throw the door open.
“Can I help you, officer?”
He scoffs, lips pulled in an endeared grin. “Still mad, I take it?”
You pause, taking inventory of emotions. The sting of humiliation has eased slightly since you practically put him on a leash at the station. And you do genuinely understand the motivations behind his behavior, you just wished he hadn’t executed it all so stupidly.
“No, I’m not angry, Sammy. I just wish you a happy life of erectile dysfunction and involuntary abstinence.” Pulling back, you go to close the door when he slips his boot inside. Glaring up at him, you frown. “Got a warrant?”
“Enough,” he scolds, pushing the door open. You stumble back with an affronted noise. “You’re not breaking up with me.”
If it were any of your other exes, you’d probably be terrified right now. But he’s not being malicious or threatening to stalk you or take out your family if you don’t unblock him. Instead, there’s almost a slight thrill coming to life in you.
“What?” You scoff.
“I’m not agreeing to this,” he says simply, eyeing your skimpy pajamas with an appreciative gleam in his eye.
You scoff and cross your arms,“That’s not how this works, Sammy.”
He shrugs, “Tough.” When he takes another step closer, you’re almost tempted to run, to drag this out a little longer. But his arms are already winding around your waist and he’s heaving you over his shoulder before you even get a chance to blink.
“Uh, Sammy,” you grasp at his shirt as he marches through your apartment. “What the hell are you doing, you neanderthal?”
“I’m going to make it up to you,” you lift your head and peer around him to see he’s walking you straight into your room. Oh, that’s how he’s going to play this. “Then,” you let out a shocked laugh as he drops you on your bed.
His grin widens at the sound as he grabs your ankles, pulling you even closer to him. “I’m going to ask you to move in with me.”
Your heart races as your expression falls. Your gaze darts to his eyes, trying to figure out if he means this or if this is just a last ditch effort to get you back. “What?” You shake your head, but he doesn’t let you pull away. “Sammy, do you really mean this?”
“‘Course I do, sweetheart,” he brushes a strand of hair off your cheek and leans down to kiss you. Your arms wind around his shoulders off muscle memory.
But you force yourself to pull back, noses brushing as you take a good long look at him. “I’m not playing housewife anymore,” you threaten.
He lets out a little laugh and nods. “I’m gonna take care of you, honey. Don’t you worry.”
And god help you, you actually believe him, but it still doesn’t feel right. “No,” you whisper. Sammy draws back, brows knit in hurt as he shakes his head. “No,” you scramble back from him, arms wrapping around your stomach as you shake your head.
“This isn’t how it’s going to work anymore. You don’t get to fix our problems with sex. Or just decide the course of our relationship. You fucked up, you made me feel like shit. For the first time, I felt safe with someone, and you just took that from me.”
Sammy’s face falls and he takes a seat on the edge of your bed. His head falls into his hands as he lets out a broken sigh. “I’m so sorry,” you believe him. There’s shame, disgust with himself in his voice, but that doesn’t fix this.
“I’ll move in with you, Sammy,” you promise, and his head lifts. “But not anytime soon. I think… I don’t think I’ve been honest about who I am. I’m so used to putting on a show, to trying to keep someone’s attention, I haven’t been myself. I want you to be with the real me. To actually see me, not this glamorized version of myself perfectly made for your gaze.”
“Honey,” he reaches over, taking your hands in his. “Of course I see you. You’re not as good actor as you think,” you let out a watery laugh while he rubs his thumbs across the back of your hands. “But I’m a patient man.”
You shoot him a look and he offers you that boyish smile you love. “I can be patrient,” he swears.
Nodding, you lean forward, brushing your lips against his. “Okay,” you whisper.
“Okay?” he questions, not quite believing you. You smile and let your head drop to the crook of his neck.
“But if you ever treat me like that again… Not even Ben will be able to find your body.”
Sammy lets out a little chuckle, it cuts off as you pinch his side. “Trust me, I believe you.” You lace your fingers with his and let out a small sigh. A fresh start might be the best thing for both of you. The both of you could do with learning to be independent outside of your relationship. And he really needs to know what you look like not being the cool girl before he makes such a big promise as being with you for real.
You’re not planning on making it easy on him. But you have an odd suspicion he might be into that. And anyways, how were you ever expected to say no to a man with arms like these?
Doppel-banger: a double of a living person who you wouldn't hesitate to tap
summary: five times you think you stumbled upon jack abbot vs. the one time it's actually him
tags: shawn hatosy universe, brett richards, sammy bryant, andrew "pope" cody, terry mccandless, titus dandforth, jack abbot, terry is lowkey creepy, titus mentions sacrificing somone, brett sammy and pope are all nice, canon pope staring, second hand embarrassment, younger fem!reader but age is not specified
notes: okay, so I had this idea of making a full oneshot about a reader mistaking pope for a concussed jack for an entire day, but the I thought it'd be really funny to make a collection of all the major shawn characters. i haven't seen any of the tv shows, but i read so much fan fiction, I am sorry if some of them are ooc, if you'd like to join my permanent taglist please comment on this post ! enjoy!
word count: 9.6k
By the time you finally escaped into the ambulance bay, the Pitt had descended into the fog that made everyone vaguely mean and snappy to each other.
A car had decided to plow through the front of a convenience store three blocks away just before noon, which somehow evolved into a gas leak, a grease fire from the kitchen next door, multiple smoke inhalations, and one man who’d managed to impale his own hand on a display rack while trying to “help.” The Pitt had been drowning ever since with no floaties in sight. Stretchers lined the hallways, Robby was barking orders over the chaos, and a med student was getting publicly destroyed for contaminating a sterile field.
Your entire body ached with exhaustion, and it wasn’t even 2:30 yet. Your scrub top clung uncomfortably to your back, your ponytail was halfway falling out, and the iced coffee you’d brought six hours ago had long since melted into a watery disappointment sitting untouched at the nurses’ station under Dana’s watchful eye.
You only stepped outside because you needed thirty seconds where nobody was actively bleeding near you.
The bay smelled faintly like smoke and gasoline, engines rumbling low beneath the distant screams of sirens out in the city. Paramedics moved around in practiced patterns, unloading equipment while firefighters lingered near one of the firetrucks parked crookedly next to an ambulance. You barely paid attention at first, too busy rubbing at the ache gathering behind your eyes.
You had started to walk back toward the Pitt but stopped entirely when you saw him; well—the back of him anyway with his broad shoulders and dark, soaked curls resting against his nape. Even if you couldn’t see his face, he somehow was able to stand out in a crowd even surrounded by firefighters in full turnout gear. One hand braced against the side of the engine while he spoke to someone beside him, his jacket stretched over his shoulders.
No matter what, you’d always be able to spot Jack Abbot in a crowd.
Your eyes dragged slowly over his newfound bright yellow firefighting gear, the reflective stripes glinting. The heavy boots and radio clipped to his chest had you pausing and staring for a solid three seconds, mind trying to process how exactly the man had apparently gone from night shift attending and SWAT medic to volunteer firefighter without mentioning it to anyone.
But more importantly, mentioning it to you.
Actually, when you thought about it, knowing Jack, the change tracked perfectly. The man already had a self-sacrificial streak a mile wide. Of course he’d look at one incredibly dangerous side quest and think You know what would make my life even better? Fire.
A deeply offended laugh escaped your lips, and without thinking too hard about it, you started moving toward him.
“Seriously, Abbot?” you called out over the noise of the bay. “You take one shift off and suddenly you’re fighting convivence store fires now?”
The man beside him glanced over first, obviously confused, but Jack turned more slowly, still halfway shrugging out of his jacket as you continued your approach.
“No, because SWAT clearly wasn’t stressful enough for you,” you continued, tired enough that the words just kept coming. “You looked at armed standoffs and thought, wow, my life is missing a little spontaneous combustion.”
By the time you reached them, the stranger standing beside him was openly staring at you in amusement. Meanwhile, Jack had gone very still.
That should have been your first warning.
But against all self-preservation, you planted your hands on your hips and kept going. “Do you know how insane it is that this is how I’m finding out? I had to see you standing next to a fire engine like some kind of hot, emotionally unstable calendar shoot—”
Jack finally turned fully toward you, and your brain stopped functioning completely.
Because the man in front of you was not Jack Abbot.
In your defense, he was close enough to knock the air from your lungs for a second. He had the same dark, hazel eyes, the same rough kind of handsomeness that looked better the more exhausted and grimed up they got. They even had the same intimidating build that made people move out of their way without a second glance.
But somehow, this man looked older that Jack, more self-assured in a way that only grew as he looked deeply entertained by your humiliation already unfolding in real time. The silence stretched until the firefighter next to him snorted loudly into his fist.
Your stomach dropped straight through the floor.
“I’m flattered you think I’m hot.” The not-Jack’s mouth twitched slightly. “But is it a bad time to mention my name’s not Jack?”
Heat flooded your face so fast it physically hurt. “No,” you breathed, horrified out of your mind. “No, no, no.”
Now the firefighter beside him was fully laughing, turning away entirely as though witnessing your embarrassment firsthand had become too much for him to handle.
You covered your face with both hands. “I need someone to hit me with an ambulance immediately.”
“That feels awfully dramatic,” the man said.
Your eyes found him through the slats of your fingers. “You have my attending’s face.”
“I’m starting to gather that.”
“You even stand like him,” you accused, voice muffled by your palms. “Which is apparently enough for me to lose all critical thinking skills.”
He laughed softly, low and rough enough to make the situation somehow worse. “Well,” he said, “in fairness, you seemed pretty confident.”
You lowered your hands just enough to glare at him. “Because I really thought my friend had secretly joined the fire department.”
The stranger folded his arms across his chest, turnout jacket hanging loosely from one hand while he studied you with open amusement. “So this Jack guy—he always gets yelled at like this by you?”
“Only when he does something stupid.”
“I’m starting to think I should meet him.”
You shook your head, hands finally dropping back to your sides. “You abso-fucking-lutely should not. I think seeing both of you in the same room might kill me instantly.”
He grinned wildly, quick but devastatingly effective enough it sent tingles up your spine.
Great. Fantastic. Love that for you. One Jack Abbot was hard enough to not stare at as is; having them both in the same room would actually cause a spontaneous combustion of your body.
You sighed heavily, dragging a hand down your face. “Okay. Wonderful. I’m gonna go crawl into oncoming traffic now if you don’t mind.”
Before you could make your great escape, he stuck out his hand toward you. “Captain Brett Richards.”
You looked at it suspiciously for a second before taking it. His grip was warm, firm, and rough with callouses in all the right places. You gave over your name reluctantly, still unable to fully look him in the face without feeling embarrassed all over again.
Unfortunately for you, he spoke again, timber all deep and ragged. “For the record, I was gonna let you keep going.”
Your eyes snapped to his hazel ones. “What?”
“I wanted to see how long it took you before you noticed.”
“You are a bad person, Brett Richards.”
“I’m a curious person. There’s a difference.”
“You stood there and listened to me accuse you of having a hero complex.”
“Seemed important to you.”
“I’ve been publicly humiliated!”
“Just humiliated between me and my friend. I don’t think that counts as the public.”
You pointed at him accusingly. “You’re creepy.”
“What?”
“The tone you’re doing right now.”
Brett blinked. “What tone?”
“The exact same tone he uses when he thinks I’m being ridiculous.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You sound exactly like him too.”
Now he looked offended. “I do not.”
“You absolutely do. You’re even doing the whole arms cross and puffing out your chest while simultaneously stretching your neck to look taller.”
The other firefighter chimed in. “Honestly, Brett? She’s kinda right.”
Brett looked over, absolute betrayal on his face. “Whose side are you on?”
“Definitely not yours.”
You laughed loudly, fatigue finally cracking enough to let something lighter through. At the same moment, your phone buzzed in your scrub pocket. You pulled it out, eyes widening at the incoming message.
Jack:
Running late. Scene turned into a disaster. Save me a trauma room before some other resident does something stupid.
“I bet you two text the same,” you grumbled, shoving your phone back into your pocket before looking back up at him.
He laughed outright at that, shoulders shaking slightly. “Sounds like you know this man intimately. Do you possibly have a type? Or do you grumble at every silver fox in your area.”
You glared at him as best you could. “I don’t have a type. Do not make this my problem.”
“Feels like your problem already.”
“Oh, we absolutely aren’t doing this today.” Still, a smile grew on your face before you started backing toward the ambulance bay doors again. “I’m leaving before this gets more psychologically damaging.”
Brett called after you easily, “Tell Jack Abbot I’m apparently his hotter firefighter version!”
You stepped dead in your tracks and slowly turned around. “. . .You know what?” you said thoughtfully. “I actually think saying that out loud near him might start a physical fight.”
Brett’s grin widened. “Now I definitely want to meet him.”
_______________________
The worst shifts always seem to end quietly and not anywhere close to peaceful. The Pitt, you liked to think, was incapable of achieving peace. Even now, close to midnight (almost five hours after your shift “officially ended”), you left behind blaring monitors, patients in needed of doctors, and exhausted coworkers who had just started to trade sarcastic insults at the station just to stay awake. But compared to the disaster the evening had started, the hospital had tasted almost manageable to where you believed they had everything handled.
Your feet dragged as you stepped out through the ambulance bay doors, the night air cool against the lingering heat trapped beneath your scrub jacket. The city smelled faintly damp from rain earlier in the evening, asphalt still dark under the lights.
You leaned against the brick wall beside the entrance for a second, closing your eyes briefly.
Today had been brutal in the particular way only emergency medicine could manage. There had been too many patients, too many families crying in the halls, too many moments where things almost went wrong before somebody caught it at the last second. You’d spent more than twelve hours keeping yourself stitched together with caffeine and momentum, and now that things finally slowed down enough, your brain had apparently decided to stop all regular functions, effective immediately.
Which was probably why, when you spotted a familiar figure standing near one of the patrol cars parked on the other side of the street, the pieces fell into place, your brain beaming Oh, Jack just left too?
Jack stood with his back partially toward you, shoulders slumped slightly beneath a dark jacket while one hand rested against the roof of the cruiser. His head tilted down toward the coffee in his hand, dark curls shadowed in the lack of street lights.
You didn’t even think before walking toward the warm, familiar build that held the same tired posture Jack adopted after a nasty shift, almost preparing his body to show up the next day anyway.
“Please tell me,” you called out tiredly, “that your shift was somehow worse than mine so I can feel better about my life choices.”
Jack glanced over at the sound of your voice, but you kept talking before fully seeing his face.
“Because if I have to hear one more over pompous med student stay the words ‘technically speaking,’ I’m actually going to commit a felony.”
A low huff of amusement answered you. “Long night?”
“Long life is more like it,” you corrected, finally stepping slow enough to see him properly.
You froze when he fully turned, because the universe apparently had a personal vendetta against you for probably your past life’s sins. Because once again, the man standing in front of you was not Jack Abbot. Yes, he was close enough to make your stomach drop for a second. His eyes glinted with the same sadness Jack’s did. He even had the same rough exhaustion written lines around his mouth. However, this man looked like someone who absorbed the weight of things instead of fighting against them.
Also, now that he was turned to you, his officer badge and uniform stuck out like a sore thumb.
And unlike Brett earlier in the week, this stranger didn’t look quite as amused by your mistake. He just looked tired.
You stopped short of the cruiser, horror crawling slowly up your spine. “Oh.”
He blinked once before taking a slow sip of coffee. “Bad start to the conversation?”
“Fuck me; I did it again,” you muttered to yourself.
“Again?”
You covered your face briefly with one hand, humiliation already blatant on your face. “There’s apparently two other guys walking around Pittsburgh with your exact face.”
“Well, that sound concerning.”
“I’m very concerned for my mental status.”
The corner of his mouth twitched, subtle enough you almost missed it.
You let out a defeated sigh, face turned toward the sky, before gesturing vaguely toward him. “You are not Jack Abbot.”
“Nope.”
“Perfect.”
“You wanna try my name instead?” There wasn’t even a hint of annoyance in his voice. If anything, he sounded mildly curious about the situation unfolding in front of him.
You laughed weakly, hands lightly tapping your thighs. “Honestly, I think I should just stop talking to strangers forever.”
“You always this extreme when mistaking people for another?”
“Only when I keep finding multiple emotionally exhausted men who all look exactly like my attending.”
That earned you a slightly more noticeable smile as he pushed away from the patrol car, holding out one hand toward you. “Sammy Bryant.”
You shook it, still staring at him in disbelief. “I’m sorry, Officer Bryant, but this is all still genuinely ridiculous to me.”
Sammy glanced down at your hospital badge as you gave him your name. “You work inside?”
“Unfortunately.”
“Late shift?”
You shook your head. “You could say that. I started at seven this morning.”
His eyebrows lifted. “And you’re still standing?”
“Barely.” You looked down at your body. “I think my soul high tailed it out of there around hour nine and never came back.”
A soft laugh escaped him, quieter than Brett’s hand been, but still holding the same warmth that made you feel comfortable.
You mentally made a decision before leaning back against his patrol car beside him, rubbing at your eyes with one hand. For a moment, neither of you spoke and just listened to the faint noises of the night.
Sammy took another sip of coffee before nodding toward the hospital. “Was it busy today?”
A long, shuddering breath whistled through your lips. “One trauma after another. Half the city apparently decided today was a great day to make terrible healthcare decisions.”
“Sounds about right.”
“And one student almost gave a patient the wrong dosage because he was trying to impress our boss.”
“We caught it before it happened, but still.” Your hair moved slowly across your forehead as you shook your head tiredly. “At some point though you just start wondering if everyone should stop touching things altogether or find some patience before they kill someone.”
He hummed softly in agreement, hazel eyes drifting toward the street. “You probably already know, but that feeling really doesn’t ever go away.”
You glanced over at him, taking in his face properly. Like your Jack, Sammy seemed to carry the same heaviness about him, like emergency services hadn’t been kind to either of them.
“How long have you been on the force?” you asked quietly, taking his uniform details in as your eyes roamed.
“Twelve years.”
“Explains your expression.”
At least he didn’t sound offended when he asked, “What expression?”
“The one that says humanity was a big mistake.”
He chuckled lowly. “Yeah,” he admitted. “You nailed that one perfectly.”
A faint smile hooked onto your lips before your head tipped back against the cruiser window behind you. “Jack has that look too.”
Sammy looked over. “The guy I apparently share a face with?”
“Yep.” You looked down at your hands, fingers picking at the skin around your nails. “Him and this firefighter named Richards.”
“What does Jack do?”
“He’s the night shift attending, and he volunteers as a SWAT medic during his free days.”
Sammy nodded along, understanding settling across his face as he listened. “That tracks.”
“You say that like you know him.”
“Don’t need to.” He shrugged. “You can tell what kind of person someone is by the jobs they stay in too long.”
For a second, you watched him quietly beneath the moonlight, struck again by how strange this whole thing felt. It wasn’t because he looked like Jack—though that continued to be deeply unsettling—but because talking to him felt easy in the same dangerous way talking to Jack always did; honesty dripping from their mouths the more tired they got.
Similarly, Sammy studied you for a moment before speaking again. “Are you okay?”
His question caught you off guard. Again, that genuine earnestness they both seemed to have bled through even if Sammy had only met you moments ago.
Your eyes traveled back down to your hands for a second before a half laugh bubbled softly under your breath. “You ever have one of those days where you think maybe everyone should stop needing things from you for like . . . twenty-four hours?”
“Yeah,” Sammy answered. “More than once. My ex-wife used to call me all the time, and I just begged for break.”
It was now your turn to wince. “Logically, I know it’s a terrible mindset to have as someone working in healthcare, but after the fifth screaming family member and the third guy trying to leave with an IV still in his arm, I’m starting to reconsider my commitment to helping people.”
“You’re tired,” he said simply.
“I think cranky is a better term for what I’m feeling right now.”
“You’re human.”
You glanced back up at him. “You know, you’re both annoyingly and suspiciously good at this whole peptalk thing.”
“Me and Jack?”
“Yeah. You have this calm voice thing. It’s irritating.”
Sammy smirked into his coffee cup. “Maybe you just trust guys who look too tired for life.”
“Maybe I need therapy.”
“That too.”
You laughed a bit harder at that than the joke deserved, but exhaustion always made you a bit slaphappy. Once the sound subsided, the two of you fell back into a comfortable silence. Sammy stayed leaned beside the cruiser, quiet in a way that didn’t feel awkward, and you realized that the comfortableness was probably the strangest part of the whole ordeal.
As a senior resident, most people demanded every ounce of energy from you. Conversation. Reassurance. Attention. They picked it all apart until a hollow shell of yourself went home to recharge for another day. But standing here with him felt easy in the same way standing beside Jack did after a nightmare shift. There wasn’t pressure to perform, zero expectation to be cheerful, just silent understanding between two people trying to survive difficult jobs.
Sammy finally glanced toward you again. “Whoever this Jack guy is,” he said casually, “he must be worth confusing strangers over.”
“That’s still up for debate.”
“But you still like him.”
You opened your mouth to argue before realizing you had no real defense against that, and Sammy absolutely noticed. A knowing sort of amusement flashed briefly across his face before he looked back out toward the street and the Pitt again, giving you an out without pressing further.
You sighed dramatically. “Unfortunately I do. He’s annoyingly competent.”
“Dangerous trait to have.”
And he does this thing where he acts like indifferent while actively solving all the problems.”
“Real terrible guy.”
You rolled your eyes fondly. “He’s just the worst.”
Sammy laughed quietly, and you smiled before finally pushing away from the cruiser.
“I should probably head to my car before somebody sees I’m still here and decides they need me to pull a double.”
His eyebrows rose. “Probably.”
“It was nice to meet you, Sammy.”
“Likewise.”
As you started in the direction of the parking lot, Sammy lifted his coffee slightly in farewell.
“And hey,” he called out after a few steps.
You paused and turned back toward him with a raised eyebrow.
“If you run into another one of us,” he said dryly, “maybe lead with the name first!”
Your laugh echoed across the bay as you flipped him the bird to which his boisterous laughter also joined in with yours all the way to the parking lot.
_______________________
By the fifth twelve-hour shift in a row, the Pitt stopped feeling real.
Time blurred through patient rooms. Daylight disappeared without warning. Meals became whatever you could hork down before another trauma alarm went off. Entire conversations slipped from your memory the second someone started coding. By three in the afternoon, the Pitt finally settled into a lapping wave instead of a tsunami, something easier to wade through instead of drown in.
You’d be done in four hours.
That’s all you could think as you found yourself wandering the full surprisingly empty area near radiology with a vending machine coffee clenched in one hand and your pager clipped crookedly to your scrub pants after catching another consult.
The coffee tasted burnt enough to qualify as chemical warfare.
You drank it down anyway.
Your shoulders ached as you rounded the corner toward the quieter hallway leading to imagine, gravity pulled extra heavily at your limbs. Most of the overhead lights had dimmed this far from the trauma bays, leaving the corridor washed in soft blue-gray shadows only broken by the occasional flicker of a light lucky enough to have had its bulbs changed recently.
That was when you spotted Jack sitting alone against the wall near the windows.
Your steps slowed automatically.
Even half-curled into one of the uncomfortable chairs that had been brought in from check-in, you found the familiar dark curls along his forehead and broad shoulders hunched beneath a black sweatshirt. His long legs stretched out in front of him while his hands rested loosely clasped together between his knees.
Your mind should have caught up by now that there was a 95 percent chance that the Jack in front of you was not actually Jack. The past two times, the odds had been against you. Even as you approached, you honestly weren’t sure if he actually was Jack.
But his Jack-Abbot shape and Jack-Abbot demeanor mixed with your weighted exhaustion overrode every caution light fast enough you continued to walk steadily towards him.
“You know handoff’s not for another four hours, right?” you asked tiredly. “Or are you here early again to save the day?”
Jack’s neck twisted as he looked up at you, and for one brief second, your brain short-circuited again.
Three and oh.
You found yourself truly wondering if you had the most absurd luck in finding the men who shared unsettling similarities (hazel eyes, rugged kind of handsomeness, a stillness that carried respect that could command a room) or if you were just unfortunately a Jack-Abbot-doppelganger magnet.
In this instance, you wished for neither because this one looked sad.
Where Jack’s exhaustion usually kept him sharp and tightly wound, this stranger looked just as weighed down as you felt. His expression stayed completely unreadable as he stared at you, hazel eyes fixed so intently on your face that you had stopped walking altogether.
You paused in front of him. “Oh no,” you whispered. “I did it again.”
The man continued staring at you silently, and you stared back. After a beat, he slowly tilted his head just slightly to one side in a movement so subtle it almost felt animal-like. Your stomach dropped.
“I’m going to take a wild guess and say you’re name isn’t Jack.”
Still, he said nothing; such a stark difference from Brett’s flirty amusement and Sammy’s conversational abilities. He just watched you.
You laughed weakly into the silence. “Okay, statistically this is getting insane.”
He blinked once before his gaze dropped briefly to the coffee in your hand before lifting back to your face. “Is that good?”
His voice was the thing to catch you off guard. Where Jack could bark orders quicker than he could blink, this man spoke slowly, careful with his words like he though each one over before letting it leave his mouth.
A startled exhale flew from your mouth. “No. But, I think I’m legally dead at this point, so what I put in my body really doesn’t matter.”
Another long pause settled in the space between you, and he didn’t seem bothered at all by it. If anything, he seemed pretty comfortable inside it unlike everyone else you knew (including yourself).
You shifted your weight awkwardly. “Sorry. Again. I thought you were someone else.”
He methodically nodded once, already having figured that part out. “The same someone else?”
“Damn, there’s enough resemblance now that people are starting to notice patterns.” You glanced toward an empty chair beside him before looking into his eyes with uncertainty. “Can I sit, or will I disturb the quiet zen you have going on back here?”
Another pause.
“You can sit.”
You lowered yourself carefully into the chair beside him, fatigue instantly sinking deeper into your bones the second you stopped moving. The burnt-gas-tasting coffee warmed your palms while the quiet hallway stretched around you, distant hospital noises muffled enough to sound almost unreal this far away from the Pitt.
Beside you, the stranger sat perfectly still like he was scared to breach an invisible wall of containment. After a few moments, you began to noticed the differences between him and Jack. He avoided looking directly at the lights. His fingers slowly rubbed against each other every few seconds like he needed the repetitive motion to stay grounded. He kept a careful distance between himself and you.
“Are you waiting on somebody?” you asked gently.
His eyes shifted toward you, intense enough that it almost felt like physical pressure.
“My brother,” he answered after a second. “He got hurt.”
Concern softened through your exhaustion. “Is he okay?”
He gave another small shrug. “He’s alive.”
His words may have been flat, but you could sense the ache badly enough that you heard it anyway.
You nodded. “That’s usually a good start around here. Can’t do much on a dead guy.”
A small almost-smile curled his lip.
You took a small sip of your coffee and grimaced before the liquid even reached your throat. “Holy fuck that’s terrible.”
His eyes looked down at the cup.
“How can anyone call this coffee when it tastes like somebody filtered dirty water through cigarette ash,” you informed him.
He stared at you for a half second longer than most people would have before asking unexpectedly, “Why are you still drinking it?”
You giggled softly. “Because I still have a few patients to get through before handoffs.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah. I feel the same way.”
A silence settled again, soft and comfortable where you found yourself glancing sideways at him occasionally while you sat there. Up close, the resemblance to Jack somehow became even more unfair. However, you guessed this is how Jack looked around 10 years ago with brownish-red hair and fewer wrinkles. But yet, the same feeling that both men carried too much responsibility around like extra weight strapped to their shoulders pulled at your heartstrings.
Also, where Jack’s emotions tended to sit close to the surface—irritation, protectiveness, frustration—this man kept everything buried so deeply you almost wondered if he realized that his expressions gave him away at all. Because despite how blank his face stayed while he either stared at the floor or stared at you, his eyes were devastatingly easy to read.
Lonely, your brain supplied.
You tore your eyes away. “So,” you said quietly after a while, “do you have a name, or should I keep mentally referring to you as Not Jack the Third?”
He pursed his lips. “Andrew.”
No nickname.
Not even a last name.
Just Andrew.
You smiled faintly. “Well, Andrew, for what it’s worth, you’re significantly less judgmental about mistaken identity than the last two.”
“The last two?”
“Long story.”
He nodded once like that answer satisfied him completely. Another few minutes passed quietly before your pager suddenly buzzed against your hip hard enough to make you jump. Andrew’s eyes tracked the movement carefully.
“Do you need to go help people?”
“Yep. Part of the job’s charm.”
“You’re tired.”
“There’s no rest for the wicked.” Your head tilted. “Or me for that matter.”
He looked at you again with that same strange, steady focus. “You should sleep more.”
“You sound like Jack.”
Andrew tilted his head slightly. “Is that good?”
“Yeah,” you answered softly. “It’s very good.”
His gaze lingered on your face for another long moment before he finally looked away first. You stood slowly from the chair, adjusting your pager against your waistband.
“I should go save the hospital from itself,” you muttered sarcastically.
Andrew nodded once. Then, just before you turned away completely, his voice stopped you again. “You looked happier when you talked about him . . . your Jack.”
You blinked before slowly looking back at him. Andrew sat exactly where you’d left him, hands loosely clasped together, sad eyes fixed on you under the dim hallway lights. He wasn’t flirting or trying to charm you; he was just stating something he’d noticed. His honesty hit harder than it probably should have.
You smiled warmly back at him. “Have a good rest of your day, Andrew.”
His gaze followed you all the way down the hallway until you disappeared around the corner and back into the Pitt.
_______________________
By now, you should have known better.
Key words: should have.
Three separate incidents should have been enough to teach your brain not to immediately trust broad shoulders and tired hazel eyes in low lighting, and yet apparently your never-ending exhaustion had burned away whatever survival instincts you normally possessed. At this point, the universe seemed committed to producing endless variations of the same emotionally damaged man just to see how many times you’d embarrassed yourself before learning.
Unfortunately, tonight really wasn’t helping your judgment.
Rain hammered steadily against your windshield as you pulled into the near-empty parking garage attached to the hospital, the concrete levels echoing faintly with the sound of tires and distant thunder. Your night shift was supposed to start soon, give or take an hour, but a last-minute emergency surgery had called you in early just in case Jack was held up or if the rain got too much for you to drive safely in.
All you wanted was to get inside, get your Dunkin from Shen, and live through this shift so that your following two days off were nothing but pure paradise.
Instead, you killed the engine and sat there for a second staring blankly through the rain-streaked windshield while tiredness settled heavy behind your eyes.
The parking garage was mostly empty this late at night. Lights buzzed overhead, washing the concrete levels in pale gray while rainwater dripped steadily from the ceiling near the ramps. Somewhere farther down the row, a radio played faintly form another parked car.
You grabbed your bag from the passenger seat with a tired sigh before climbing out into the cold damp air. The moment you were at full height, you spotted Jack leaning against one of the concrete support pillars a few rows over. You froze, hand still gripping your car door.
At this point, his face shouldn’t have been as shocking as it was, your stomach dropping every single time you got to lay eyes on him and his salt-and-pepper curls and sexy build partially hidden under a dark jacket while one hand rested causally in his pocket.
The faintest hint of This is probably another horrifyingly convincing copy of him. And honestly, who even knew anymore.
Jack glanced up at you as you started to walk; your footsteps echoed slightly. His face was partially shadowed by the buzzing lights. And before your brain could fully catch up, your own mouth betrayed you first.
Et tu, Brute?
“If you turn out to be another stranger, I’m actually gonna lose my mind.”
Jack’s eyebrows lifted slightly before the corner of his mouth curled into something that looked far too pleased.
“Well now,” he drawled, voice salted with a southern accent that instantly threw you off balance, “that ain’t usually how good-looking women start conversations with me.”
You stopped short, because absolutely nothing about that voice sounded like Jack or confident Brett or sweet Sammy or quiet Andrew. This one was different with something slick underneath his drawl like he found the entire interaction entertaining before it had even properly started.
“Oh no,” you muttered under your breath, arms wrapping around your middle to somehow protect you from his eyes.
The now stranger pushed off the pillar slowly, watching you with open amusement as he stepped fully into the lights. And unfortunately, the resemblance to Jack got worse the closer he got. Same face shape? Check. Same hazel eyes? Check (but his sent the wrong kind of chill up your spine).
However, unlike the others, this man looked at you like he already knew exactly how attractive he was, and that automatically made him the worst one to be around.
You narrowed your eyes suspiciously. “Gotta take a wild guess and say your name isn’t Jack Abbot.”
A wild grin slowly spread across his face. “No, ma’am but sounds like I oughta thank him for the introduction.”
You actually groaned aloud. “I cannot keep doing this.”
“Doin’ what?”
“Finding men who all have the same face.”
“That so?”
“Yes, and frankly it’s getting psychologically damaging.”
The stranger laughed softly, low and self-satisfied enough to make your skin prickle slightly. The same quiet internal warning that told you when patients were about to become aggressive before security even notices was sending a tingle up your arms.
You shifted your bag higher on your shoulder. “Okay. Great. Nice meeting you, mysterious parking garage man, but I’m gonna go before this gets more embarrassing for me.”
“Funny,” he said casually, “seems like you started this conversation pretty confident.”
You paused. “That was before you spoke.”
His grin widened somehow. “Little disappointed?”
“Concerned, actually. Very concerned.”
He laughed again, stepping away from the pillar entirely. “Damn, darlin’. You always this mean to strangers?”
The nickname landed wrong in your chest. Just the way he said it felt off. It wasn’t flirty, it was possessive, almost like he’d skipped straight past normal conversation and decided familiarity for himself. It all felt wrong; he felt wrong. Caution slowly sharpened under your exhaustion.
Still, you forced a polite smile. “Only the ones lurking dramatically in a hospital parking garage.”
He pouted, bottom lip jutted out dramatically. “You hurt my feelings a little.”
“You’ll survive.”
“Oh, I think I will.” His hazel eyes trailed up and down your body while he spoke.
Your stomach tightened faintly. This man felt dangerous in a way that had nothing to do with physical violence and everything to do with manipulation. Every work out of his mouth seemed like he’d already calculated it before he said it. The others had felt human and even awkward at times, but they had been grounded below it all.
This one, you understood a bit too late, was that he’d realized you were uncomfortable almost immediately and was enjoying watching you squirm under eyes that normally made you feel safe.
He tilted his head slightly, eyes moving over your face with unsettling ease. “So this Jack guy,” he said conversationally, “boyfriend?”
You sneered. “That’s none of your business.”
“Mhm.”
“Do you ask invasive questions to every woman you meet in parking garages?”
“Only the pretty little ones.”
You physically recoiled a little. “Ew.”
Somehow that only amused him more. “Do you always look this suspicious, or am I special?”
“You’re definitely something.”
Another slow grin spread across his face, but his eyes stayed sharp and watchful. You took a small step backward instinctively, and his gaze dropped to the movement. The awful feeling that he noticed everything tightened your chest.
“You got a name?” he asked.
Normally, under any other circumstance, you would’ve answered immediately. But something stopped you this time. The hesitation must have shown on your face because sick amusement flashed across his face and morphed into a look of interest.
“Smart girl,” he murmured.
Your spine stiffened.
The man straightened slightly before offering you a lazy, sleazy half-smile. “Terry. Terry McCandless.”
You nodded once carefully. “Okay . . . Terry. I’m gonna leave now.”
“Before tellin’ me yours?”
“Yes.”
His eyebrows lifted slightly at your blunt answer before he laughed under his breath, shaking his head like you’d surprised him. “Well,” he drawled, “now I’m definitely curious.”
You started backing slowly toward the Pitt, grip tightening around your bag’s strap. Terry noticed that too. For one long second, neither of you spoke. Rain echoed heavily through the garage, the entire level suddenly feeling far too empty. Terry tilted his head slightly again, studying you with blatant interest.
“You know,” he said casually, “most women would’ve already left.”
You forced a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Most women probably have better instincts than I do.”
“Mm.” His gaze lingered on you another second too long, so unlike how Andrew had watched you with a quiet curiosity. Here, Terry looked at you like he was hungry. “I don’t think that’s true.”
Suddenly, you understood with startling clarity exactly how dangerous his personality could become with the wrong person.
You took another step backward. “Goodnight, Terry.”
He smiled again, easy and handsome and entirely untrustworthy. “Night, darlin’.”
You didn’t breathe properly again until you got through the doors leading to the Pitt. And even then, as you walked down the hall and took a glance back toward the concrete pillar where he’d been standing, Terry was watching you the whole time.
_______________________
You hated when Robby voluntold you to attend hospital fundraising events.
The Pitt survived on donations almost as much as caffeine and trauma surgeons with superiority complexes. New equipment, expanded programs, research grants: all of it depended on wealthy people occasionally deciding to feel generous for tax purposes. However, that didn’t mean you wanted to spend your Friday night pretending to enjoy lukewarm champagne while hospital executives paraded donors around like show dogs ranked somewhere below “paperwork” and slightly above “food poisoning” on your list of favorite activities.
The ballroom glittered obnoxiously around you, gold light reflecting off crystal chandeliers while a string quartet played softly near the stage. Doctors mingled through clusters of wealthy sponsors in expensive dresses and tailored tuxedos, all perfectly polished smiles and practiced networking.
Meanwhile, you stood near the bar in horrifically high heel that you knew were actively trying to murder your feet and wondered if you could fake your own death before dessert was served.
“You look positively thrilled to be here,” a familiar, deep voice sounded behind you, causing you to sigh in desperate relief.
Without even turning around, you lifted your champagne flute toward him. “Jack, I swear if you’re actually not you and just another man with your face, I’m walking directly off the roof of this hotel.”
“Well now I’m interested.”
Your stomached dropped as you turned around slowly.
At this point, it honestly felt biblical like a divine comedy staring you as the leading role.
The resemblance hit just as hard as the others had: same hazel eyes, same shoulder width, same cutting-edge jawline, same good looks that apparently existed in endless horrifying variations across Pittsburgh. But where Brett had been charming and Sammy had been grounding and Andrew had carried that quiet sadness around him like a shadow and Terry had been intensely creepy, this man looked completely insane.
Sure, he exuded a I’m probably the wealthiest mother fucker in this room attitude. His black tuxedo was tailored perfectly across his shoulders, curls styled to perfection away from his face, large ring-adorned hands holding a crystal whiskey glass. He was rich, polished, and handsome enough that half the women in the ballroom had probably already given him bedroom eyes twice.
But there was something deeply unwell behind the hazel glint.
He smiled slowly. “How many of us are there?”
You stared at him in exhausted belief. “Enough that I’m considering neurological testing.”
“How funny it is that you’ve met them all.”
“I wouldn’t say funny. One of your little clones in a parking garage looked like he might actually kill me to swing a jury.”
Instead of reacting like a normal human being—wincing or flashing sympathy—the man had the audacity to laugh a rich, warm, delighted sound that absolutely did not match the deeply unsettling energy radiating off of him.
“Oh, I already like you,” he announced.
You took a cautious sip of champagne. “Somehow that made me less comfortable instead of more.”
“I get that a lot.”
You hummed. “Yes, I’m sure you do.”
He stepped closer easily, like your personal space was more of a suggestion than a rule. “And what exactly did this Jackdo to earn so such a reaction?”
“His face apparently exists just to humiliate me in public.”
“Do you seek his face out often?”
“Seems like it’s seeking me out more.”
“Ah. One of those situations.”
Your eyes narrowed questionably. “You say that like you know what I mean.”
“I know what obsession looks like, little dove.” Before you could respond, he extended his whiskey glass slightly toward you in a mock toast. “Titus Danforth.”
Oh.
Oh no.
For the first time, you actually recognized the same; not personally, obviously, but the Danforth family practically owned half the city at this point. Generational wealth that seems sketchy with endless political influence and charities where people pretended billionaires cared about humanity because they funded pediatric wings occasionally.
You straightened your shoulders and mused over his name in your mouth. “You’re that Danforth.”
His grin widened. “Now, don’t sound too accusatory, or I might think you have a deep resentment towards me already.”
“Who’s to say I haven’t always had a deep resentment.”
“Good.” He took another sip from his glass without breaking eye contact. “Most people here are too scared to insult me directly.”
“And that doesn’t concern you?”
“It mostly entertains me.”
You glanced toward the ballroom crowd again, briefly trying to find Robby and considering escape routes. However, Titus seemed to carry Terry’s unnaturally uncanny ability to notice things like that.
“Relax,” he drawled lazily. “You look like I’m planning to sacrifice you to Satan or something.”
A chill ran up your spine. “Are you?”
He looked down at you over his nose. “I’m still deciding on that.”
You blinked at hi, slowly. “I’m sorry. What?”
Titus looked downright delighted by being one the receiving end of your scrunched up face. “Oh, come on. You’re at a billionaire fundraiser. You have to know at least half these people are one blood ritual away from immortality.”
A look of horror washed over your face as your blood ran cold. He stared back, visibly trying not to laugh.
“You’re joking,” you finally decided on with a small, uncomfortable laugh.
“That’s the fun part.” He tilted his head slightly. “You really can never tell.”
Oh, absolutely not.
Every single alarm bell in your body started ringing simultaneously in a way that hadn’t happened yet. See, Terry hadn’t felt as dangerous as he was calculated and manipulative. Titus felt like mad chaos draped in designer fabric, like someone had handed a deeply unstable man unlimited money and simply hoped for the best.
“You have the exact same face as someone I trust,” you informed him cautiously, “and you’re doing irreparable damage the longer this conversation continues.”
“How will you ever recover?”
“Hopefully the moment we go our separate ways.”
Titus laughed softly again before gesturing out toward the ballroom. “So, what’s your role here? Underpaid attending? Morally exhausted nurse? One of those residents constantly on the verge of collapse?”
“You guessed all of those so confidently it’s a bit concerning.”
“I donate to hospitals constantly, and I’ve watched enough caffeine addictions develop in real time to identify the species.”
Despite yourself, a small giggle escaped, to which Titus noticed instantly. And the look on his face afterward morphed into something even more dangerous.
“So you are capable of laughing,” he murmured. “You look less miserable when you do that.”
The words hit unexpectedly hard because Andrew had said almost the exact same thing days earlier. However, when Andrew said it, it sounded like he did out of a deep concern, but when Titus said it, it sounded like you were a small bug under a microscope. Apparently, this entire cursed lineup shared one collective personality trait, and it was psychoanalyzing you against your will.
You pointed at him. “No. You don’t get to do that.”
His eyebrows lifted innocently. “Do what?”
“You are not allowed to suddenly become emotionally observant when you were just talking about devil sacrifice thirty seconds ago.”
“Is it a sin to be attentive?”
“It’s a sin to act like you care when obviously I’m merely just a game to you.”
Titus grinned into his glass. “Oh, I definitely like you.”
Before you could spit back another insult, another man suddenly appeared beside you with the kind of smooth interruption that felt almost rehearsed. You silently thanked everything that could hear you when the familiar height towered over you.
“There’s my favorite resident,” Robby announced as he took your right side.
You glanced over at him and tried not to melt at the sight of his navy suit that looked slightly less expensive than Titus’s but worn with significantly more exhaustion in the way Robby existed in. His expression softened as he looked down at you. You could have hugged him on sight.
Robby’s brown eyes, normally filled with kindness, bore fiery into Titus’s. “You don’t mind if I borrow her for a moment, do you? I think one of our department heads was looking into speaking to us on behalf of our emergency department.”
His lie was painfully obvious but deeply appreciated on your side. You started stepping away before Titus could start another conversation about ritual sacrifice, however, the sound of his voice made you pause and look back just as Titus was pulling out a sleek black checkbook from inside his tuxedo jacket.
Double oh no.
He scribbled something quickly before tearing the check free and holding it out toward you between two fingers. “For your hospital.”
You stared down at the number and tried not to faint on the spot.
“Titus—”
“What?” He looked genuinely amused now. “You people keep fixing rich idiots after yacht accidents. Consider it gratitude.”
“That is way too much money.”
“Probably.”
“You cannot casually hand people checks equivalent to a small lakeside house in Italy.”
“Sure I can.” His lips twitched into a smirk. “Watch me.”
You hesitated before slowly taking in.
Robby clanged at the amount over your shoulder and physically winced. “Holy fuck. Gloria’s going to be floored.”
Titus lifted his glass again with a lazy smile. “See? Devil worship pays well.”
You backed away after that. “Okay. I’m going to leave before you buy me a cursed mansion that makes me blow up or something.”
“How did you know that was next on my list?”
“It seemed very on brand.”
Thankfully, Robby took the break in conversation to steer you safely toward the other side of the ballroom, champagne still in one hand and a horrifyingly large Danforth charity check in the other.
Once the gap was large enough, Robby leaned down enough to whisper, “Tell me I’m not seeing things, and that he didn’t look exactly like Jack.”
You let out a large, exasperated sigh. “Robby, you have no idea.”
_______________________
At this point, you genuinely believed the universe was mocking you. There was no other sane explanation for the past few weeks.
One doppelgänger had been weird coincidence territory. Two had been unsettling. Three had crossed into psychological combat. Four had nearly gotten you murdered in a parking lot. And the fifth had tried to recruit you into what might’ve been a satanic cult before handing you a charity donation large enough to make a hospital board cry (Gloria did indeed faint as well).
You were simply done.
Officially. Completely. Done.
Which was exactly why, when you stepped out of the hospital just after sunrise (the result of a last-minute night-shift swap) and spotted a familiar figure leaning against the hood of a dark truck across the street, your immediate reaction wasn’t relief but unequivocal annoyance.
The city still looked half-asleep around you, pale morning light stretching across damp pavement while your exhausted coworkers shuffled toward their cars clutching coffee cups like lifelines. Your overnight shift had run disastrously long, leaving you tired enough that your thoughts felt wrapped in cotton. The added lack of a Jack Abbot didn’t do well to settle any wants of seeing the man again with your own two eyes.
And standing there beneath the weak gold light of sunrise was yet another salt and pepper-curly-haired man with nice shoulders and light hazel eyes.
Unbelievable.
You didn’t even break stride this time.
“Nope,” you called out while crossing the sidewalk. “Absolutely not. I’m not doing this again. You can’t pay me enough.”
The Jack-a-like straightened at the sound of your voice.
You pointed at him warningly before he could speak. “I don’t care if you’re emotionally repressed, weirdly observant, secretly corrupt, or involved in a ritual sacrifice. I’m done talking to Jack Abbot doppelgangers.”
A long silence followed before he said one word.
“What?”
You frowned at his voice and the way it felt familiar in your ears. None of the others had ever quite managed to get Jack’s timber down correctly. Your steps slowed, and the man pushed away from the truck fully now, confusion pulling at his features while dark circles sat heavily beneath his eyes like he hadn’t slept in days.
Your chest tightened achingly so, because that—that was Jack Abbot, actually Jack Abbot.
Your Jack.
For one horrible second, your brain refused to process it properly. After weeks of running into twisted reflections of him everywhere, seeing the real thing suddenly felt almost unreal itself. It made you suspicious.
You scoffed at him. “Okay. Which one are you?”
Jack stared at you with somehow even more confusion, your name coming out oddly through his lips. “Excuse me?”
“The firefighter was flirty. The cop was emotionally stable. The quiet one stared at me like a sad shelter dog in one of those ASPCA commercials. The southern one was definitely corrupt. And the rich one threatened me with devil worship.” You pointed accusingly at him. “So what’s your thing, and please make it quick because I obviously need more than six hours of sleep.”
Jack stared at you in complete silence.
“. . . You met a rich version of me?”
“You have no idea how bad this has gotten.”
“Sweetheart, what are you talking about?”
The utter bewilderment in his face finally settled something inside you, because none of the others had ever looked at you like that.
Brett had looked entertained.
Sammy had looked understanding.
Adnrew had looked curious and quietly lonely.
Terry had looked scheming.
Titus had looked delighted with a new play thing.
But Jack?
Jack looked at you like he’d been waiting long enough out here for you to start getting worried, like seeing you finally emerge from the Pitt had made him relax just enough. Suddenly, it all clicked at once.
“Oh.”
Jack’s brow furrowed deeper. “What?”
“You’re actually him.”
“Yeah?” He sounded almost offended. “Who else would I be?”
A helpless laugh escaped you before you could stop it as you visibly deflated, exhaustion and pure relief tangling together so suddenly it made your eyes sting.
Jack took a step closer, your name falling from his chest. “Hey. You okay?”
His immediate instinct to take care of you was what did it. It wasn’t his face or his voice or his tired eyes or broad shoulders or any of the things that the other had shared. His concern for your wellbeing that had seemingly been stitched directly into his bloodstream no matter how tired he got. Your throat tightened unexpectedly.
Jack’s expression softened as he moved closer. “What happened?”
“You happened,” you informed him weakly.
“That really didn’t explain anything.”
“It does in my head.”
“Which is terrifying.”
You laughed again softly, rubbing tiredly at your face before looking back up at him. Now that the real Jack stood in front of you, the differences felt almost embarrassingly obvious. Brett had been warm but too easygoing; Sammy had been grounding in a way that felt comforting but oddly distant; Andrew had carried gentleness around him so openly it hurt to look at; Terry had weaponized familiarity until it felt dangerous; and Titus had turned charm into performance art.
But above all, Jack felt safe.
Even as he was standing there exhausted and grumpy in front of you sleep-deprived with yesterday’s hoodie thrown over a wrinkled scrub top, something about him always made your world quiet enough to where it felt manageable, like you could get anything done without worrying about the next moment.
You stared at him for a long moment before realizing he was still waiting for an explanation. So, unfortunately, your exhausted brain chose honest-to-God honesty.
“You know what the worst part was?” you asked softly.
Jack crossed his arms in front of his chest. “I’m scared to answer that.”
“They all looked like you.” You voice quieted slightly. “But none of them were you.” You glanced away, trying to organize thoughts that had apparently been building for weeks now. “Brett was nice. Sammy was . . . easy to talk to. Andrew was sweet in this sad kind of way. Even the crazy rich one was weirdly funny.” You huffed out a tired laugh. “And every single time I kept thinking maybe that was why my brain kept confusing them for you.”
He stayed quiet.
“But each time, they failed horribly at being Jack Abbot for longer than a two-sentence introduction.” You looked back up at him with glassy eyes. “Because all they had was just your face. They didn’t have the way you make everything feel less awful when you walk into a room. They didn’t have the way you pay attention to people even when you pretend that you’re annoyed. They didn’t have the way I never have to wonder if I’m safe with you.”
Jack looked caught off guard.
“I kept meeting all these parallel versions of you,” you continued softly, exhaustion making everything spill easier than normal, “and every time something still felt missing.” Your mouth twitched faintly. “Turns out it was just . . . you.”
He kept quiet for a long moment as the morning traffic hummed somewhere down the street while patients and employees alike trickled from the Pitt’s doors. You bit your bottom lip, waiting with anticipation for him to say something.
Finally, very quietly, he spit out, “You compared me to a satanic billionaire before saying all that.”
A tired giggled burst out so suddenly it nearly doubled you over. “You can’t believe how thankful I am that it’s actually you this time.”
Jack shook his head slowly, but you caught the way his mouth softened slightly. “C’mere.”
The words barely left his mouth before he was reaching for you, hand gripping your forearm lightly before pulling you forward against his chest with the kind of familiarity that made your entire body finally relax for the first time in days.
That was another difference too.
None of the others had ever felt like home.
You buried your face against his chest with a tired groan. “If another man with your face talks to me this week, I’m filing a police report.”
Jack’s chest shook slightly beneath your cheek. “Again me?”
“Wouldn’t be entirely you,” you mumbled. “Just your face.”
A quiet laugh rumbled through him before his hand settled against the back of your head.
“C’mon,” he murmured. “I’m taking you home before you start hallucinating more versions of me.”
You tilted your head back just enough to look up at him. “You promise you’re the real one?”
Jack stared down at you for one long second.
“Did any of them kiss you?”
A blooming warmth covered your face. “What?”
“The firefighter,” he said evenly. “The cop. Satan guy.” His jaw tightened. “Did any of them kiss you?”
“No,” you admitted quietly. “Wouldn’t let them either because they weren’t you.”
His hand slid gently against your jaw before he kissed you like he’d been thinking about it the entire conversation. His lips felt warm; the kiss careful and tired in the same way you both were but all the same steady.
When he finally pulled back slightly, your forehead resting against his, nose brushing along the skin right under his eye, you smiled weakly.
“Okay,” you said softly out of breath. “Yeah. Definitely the real one.”
Jack laughed quietly against your mouth. “Are you 100 percent sure?”
You pretended to think for a second before shaking your head. “Nope. Gotta kiss you again just to be sure.”
He smirked before pulling you back into another soft kiss.
Sammy Bryant x Reader: Sammy is always one bite away from a meal before his radio or partner yanks him away. So, the reader recommends him a good spot to get food after work….it just so happens to be their apartment complex…
(I just want him to be well fed, I adore soft/young Hatosy so much and Sammy just makes my heart ache)
Lots of food talk, light mentions of missed meals, overworked Sammy, mutual pining/flirting/yearning. Reader is slightly shy, especially with relationships (despite flirting with Sammy), Sammy has a fat crush on the reader and vice versa. Just shameless fluff n flirtin.
(Let me know if you lot want a part two for this!)
9am, Sammy had started his shift a few hours ago, and thankfully it had been relatively quiet on the streets. Taking the advantage of the quietness, he and his partner pulled in to their usual haunt for food.
For Sammy, this was great as it meant two things; one, a hearty breakfast, and two, getting to visit you.
-------
You poured some more coffee for the regulars, turning when you hear the chime to the doors of the diner opening up, Sammy walking in with his partner.
“Morning” You smiled at the pair, lingering a little on Sammy. It was no secret that you had a little thing for him, your co-workers certainly ribbed you for it.
Is it the uniform that does it for you?
Maybe the handcuffs?
He does come here a lot, think he might have a little crush on you.
Lately, it had been noted that minutes after ordering or even receiving a plate of food, Sammy would be hauled off on duty, the sound of his radio going off with a fresh job or his partner grabbing him to hurry up, leaving a sizeable portion of food behind. This had been happening so much recently that you had begun to worry that Sammy wasn’t getting anything proper to eat, save for snacks and candy from the vending machines at the station.
“You actually gonna finish something this time?” You said over your shoulder as you went behind the counter.
“Believe me I would eat ten plates if I could.” Sammy sighed as he sat on his stool and patted his stomach.
“Not my fault its been crazy out there lately” His partner shrugged.
“Well, make the most of the quiet spell. What you havin?” You asked as you took out your notepad.
You looked up from your notebook at Sammy and his partner, then at his radio as it crackled with an incoming message. As he exchanged glances with his partner, you turned around to pour two coffees out in to the to-go cups.
“Jesus fucken-“ Sammy sighed and shook his head, pressing the receiver on his radio “This is South, what you got?”
"We got a break in five minutes North of your position, unarmed but it’s heating up. Can you get down there and check it out? "
You watched Sammy visibly slump over his robbed breakfast. He looked at you with a forlorn expression etched into his features, but he smiled fondly as you held out coffee for him, then his partner.
“C’mon, we’ll pick up something after” His partner said, clapping a hand on Sammy’s shoulder. “Thanks for the coffee honey” he added with a wink at you as he got up and left to head back out to the car.
Sammy stood up and adjusted his uniform before taking the coffee.
“Maybe tomorrow I’ll at least get to look at the food” He chuckled pitifully, anticipating his delicious, hot breakfast now to be replaced with a pitiful bag of Reece’s pieces or doritos from an overpriced vending machine.
“Hey, wait a sec!” You called over as Sammy began walking.
He halted and watched you trot out from behind the counter whilst writing something down on your note pad.
“After your shift, you should try this place. Tonight. Open 24-7, they do great food.” You said, tearing out the paper and handing it to Sammy.
“What’s it called?” He frowned as he looked over the address, unfamiliar with the area.
“It’s just a little hole in the wall kinda place, I know the owner, if you get lost my number is there, I’ll give you directions if you get stuck.”
Sammy tilted his head a little as he scrutinized the paper before looking at you with half a smirk. It seemed like an elaborate effort just to get in and have a meal, but if you recommended it, then Sammy had no reason to doubt it was solid.
“M’kay…thanks” He nodded, his eyes roaming over you before he jolted as his partner pressed on the squad car horn.
“Promise you’ll check the place out tonight. The good stuff gets served at eight.” You nodded as you tapped the tip of the note between Sammy’s fingers.
“I will, I will” he nodded “Eight, got it. Thanks, and thanks for this” he said gesturing to the coffee.
“Any time” you smiled and watched as Sammy headed out to the squad car, where his partner shook his head and grinned between you and Sammy, who swatted his partner’s arm and gestured for him to ‘just drive’.
You smiled at the interaction, and whilst you returned to behind the counter, you began to plot your plan even further.
——-
It was eight fifteen.
Sammy squinted at the address you had written as the taxi pulled up to the side of what appeared to be an apartment complex. There was no visible sign of a restaurant, hole in the wall or otherwise.
Just….apartments.
He got out of the car, paid the driver, and looked over the building before fishing his cell phone to dial your number.
“Hello?”
“Hey, s’me, Sammy-“ he cringed as he awkwardly introduced himself. Of course it was him. You knew his voice.
“Hey, you find that place okay?”
“Well…m’not sure” he said, looking around at the neighborhood. “I…Im at an apartment block…you sure you gave me the right spot?”
“Yeah, that’s right, you gotta go into the building, then buzz for apartment 20.”
“Its an apartment?” Sammy questioned, looking up at the building again, counting up the windows to number twenty where a light was on inside.
“Just do it if you want to eat” You chuckled on the end of the line before hanging up on him.
Sammy looked at his phone in confusion, but regardless he approached the front door. He pressed for apartment 20 and was instantly let inside. It was a nice building, clean and quiet, a stark difference to the usual complexes Sammy visited during duty.
He gradually got up the stairs to apartment 20, where he gently wrapped his knuckles on the door.
What sort of restaurant is in an apartment complex?
How the hell did you even know about it? There’s no signs, no directions to even hint that-
The door opened, and there you stood, in sweats, a vest, flannel, hair tied up and away from your face. Sammy stood dumbfounded as you smiled at his bewildered image. His senses were immediately flooded with a delicious aroma; herbs, garlic, butter, all wafting in from the heart of your apartment.
“Hey” he breathed eventually.
“Hi” you replied “You hungry?” You asked.
“Starving” he simply responded, and it made you grin a little at how sweet he looked.
“C’mon in then”
Sammy walked into your apartment, and it immediately felt warm, cozy, you. You took his jacket and hung it up before leading him in through the living room and towards your kitchen. Sammy’s mouth watered as the inviting aroma invaded his nose; three large steaks sat hissing in the frying pan, cloaked in butter, garlic and herbs, nestled between them were spears of asparagus, and to the side a pot of mashed potatoes.
“This…this is for me?” Sammy asked, still bewildered and not entirely sure that what was happening was indeed happening.
Did I hit my head at work and Im passed out right now?
Maybe I caught a bullet and this is heaven
“Technically yes, but selfishly also for me.” You shrugged as you pointed to a chair at the kitchen island for Sammy to use.
“How’d you mean?” Sammy curiously asked as he sat and watched you move around your kitchen flawlessly.
“For one, I had some garlic that needed used up -hate food waste-“ You said over your shoulder. “Secondly, you have barely had a chance to eat when you come in to the diner the last week or so, and by my reckoning, vending machine candy aint cutting it on the twelve hour shifts.” You smirked over your shoulder at Sammy.
“So the whole restaurant thing, ‘I know the owner’ was a ploy?” Sammy huffed in amusement at you.
“No…I do know the owner, in a manner of speaking” You impishly replied and gestured to Sammy’s left. “Toss me that pepper shaker” you said.
Sammy grabbed it and leaned over to hand you the pepper, observing as you sprinkled some into the potatoes before grabbing a little pot of mustard to spoon into the fluffy mix. His mind briefly dipped into dangerous territory when you pressed the pad of your middle finger into your mouth to sample the sauce you were now putting together.
“You want something to drink?” You asked, unaware of Sammy drooling a little internally at the combination of you sucking your finger and the prospect of getting a damn good meal.
“Uh y-yeah, yeah. What you got?” Sammy responded clumsily.
You quirked a brow at him and nodded to the fridge.
“There’s beer, wine, soda, whatever you can find you can have. Though I doubt protein shakes or redbull would work well with this on the palette.” You mused.
Sammy got up and opened the fridge. It was tidy, and well stocked, containers and tubs of what appeared to be ingredients all sharpied with names and dates on the lids.
“You really do have a little restaurant thing going on don’t you.” Sammy joked as he carefully plucked a bud from the six pack and leaned back.
“The kitchen staff at work keep extra ingredients for me if they have it going spare. Like I say, I hate waste, and they know I’ll use it for something. There’s rarely enough to use for customers, usually just enough for one meal, so giving it to a singleton works in their favour.”
“Mmhmm” Sammy hummed in acknowledgement, part of him latching on to the bit about you being a 'singleton'. “You want something?” He casually asked, gesturing to the fridge.
“Bring out that open bottle of white and a handful of the parsley.”
When Sammy didn’t respond, you looked at him and softly clicked your tongue with an amused smirk.
“The green stuff next to the carton of orange juice idiot” You playfully mocked him.
Sammy flushed a little but grinned as you felt comfortable enough to softly chide him. He grabbed the wine and what he now knew was parsley. He handed it to you, where you took it and began to skillfully chop some of it up before sprinkling it over the food.
Sammy couldn't help but feel drawn to you, casual and comfortable, in your own home and around him, as if he belonged there and had been in your home thousands of times before. He liked that you weren't exactly dressed up, you were just...you. It felt easy for Sammy to be around you. It certainly fueled his imagination of the two of your co-existing.
Sammy made himself useful by opening the screw cap to the wine and plucked an empty glass from the shelf above the countertop. He filled it up for you, and set it down on the island before sitting back in his own stool.
“You didn’t have to do all this” Sammy finally said, his fingernail picking a little at the label to his beer.
“Can’t have you starving” You shrugged as you leaned over to hand him a bottle cap opener for hid beer. “Besides, s’nice to have someone to cook for.”
This hit Sammy in the solar plexus. His mind immediately running away with the thought of coming home to you, sitting in the kitchen whilst you told him about your day, and you learned about his. Then tucking into a home made meal. It practically squished his heart with yearning for such a life.
“How do you like it?” You suddenly broke Sammy’s absent minded staring, and you smiled at him when he let out an innocent ‘huh?’ over sipping his beer.
“Your steak, how do you like it?” You clarified as you tapped a knife on the edge of the pan.
“Medium rare, please” he requested politely.
He felt a surge of pride as you nodded approvingly, and turned your attention to the pan. Sammy was going to offer to help plate up, but you were in the groove, in your happy place it seemed. Sammy never knew you cooked or even enjoyed it, he only knew that you served food.
“Here you go” You said and set down Sammy’s plate.
His eyes bulged out of his head near enough as he fawned over the meal before him. The steak was cooked and seared to perfection, the soft and fluffy mashed potatoes pressed up against the steak, decorated with lush sprinkles of parsley, all of which joined by the glistening, buttery asparagus spears alongside it.
“Here, I made us some red wine sauce to go with it.” You said as you sat down opposite Sammy at the island, placing down a little ceramic pourer with the deep, rich sauce within.
Sammy just stared at you, absolutely floored.
“What?” You asked nervously, breathy and amused at his comically shocked face.
“You can cook” he said simply.
“I guess I can” you sarcastically agreed with a grin.
“No like…you can really cook.” He repeated, and you couldn’t help but laugh at him. "Can you trick me into coming over for dinner more often?"
“Shut up and eat it.” You said, trying to brush off the attention from Sammy.
“Thank you. For this. I…I dunno how to repay you” He shrugged as he continued to look over his steaming, inviting plate of food. The last thing he ate was a stale bag of funyuns from his locker - how long it had existed in there he didn't know, he daren't think.
“Eat. Enjoy” you offered as you took your glass of wine and held it up.
Sammy tipped his bottle of beer, and carefully tapped it against your glass.
The pair of you ate, partially in silence. Sammy continuously praised your cooking, as if he had never eaten a meal in his life. You couldn’t help but feel proud and full of yourself as you watched him eagerly tuck in. You liked that Sammy ate, that he was filling his body back up and not living on candy and chips whilst trying to do the type of job he did. It was partly why him missing breakfast and lunch at the diner worried you. Why you organized this night for him. Despite your feelings for Sammy making you incredibly nervous, you felt the overpowering need to look after him take over the nerves.
“How are you not married?” Sammy abruptly said over his final forkful.
"Shut up." You shook your head and laughed him off.
“Seriously, just with cooking skills like this alone, by all reasoning you should be wifed up.”
“Guess Im a little more picky when it comes to men than food” you shrugged nonchalantly, despite feeling your cheeks practically glow at Sammy’s comment, and attempted to hide it as you ate.
“Jesus, if I married you, I’d be the size of a fucken house” Sammy said, and it made you both giggle.
“S’fine by me, I like a guy with an appetite.” Your comment left you before you could even think.
Sammy paused his fork midway between scooping up the remains of mash, savouring the way the meat melted on his tongue as his eyes looked you over.
“Save some room, I got us desert.” You quickly pivoted, breaking the brief silence between you both to get up from the island and move towards two plates covered in tinfoil, though it was mostly to hide your red cheeks from Sammy.
“Where the hell did you find time to make this, and desert?” Sammy said, leaning back to stretch.
“I didn’t really make the desert” You confessed as you turned to Sammy, brandishing the uncovered plates. “I got to take them home after work.”
Upon the plates were various leftover slices of pie and cheesecake.
Let me marry her. Please. Just let me marry her. I'll die fat and happy. Just let me marry this woman. Sammy thought to himself.
"You got room in there?" You jokingly nodded as Sammy patted his stomach a little whilst looking at the sweet deserts.
"You greatly underestimate how much I can eat woman." Sammy chuckled proudly as he packed away with ease the last of his food before placing his knife and fork atop of his plate.
"Gimme your plate and take these into the living room."
"No, no no." Sammy protested as he gently pushed your incoming hand away from his plate, taking it for himself as he got up. "I'll do dishes." He said.
"Sammy, I can't invite you up here and expect you to do dishes." You argued as you took your own plate and put it into the sink as it filled with hot, soapy water.
"Technically you didn't invite me, you tricked me. Also you can't get me up here, cook a delicious dinner and offer me a desert platter that would rot the fucken easter bunny's teeth, and not expect me to do the dishes." Sammy said as he stood beside you at the sink.
As a compromise, Sammy washed the dishes whilst you dried and tidied them away into the cabinets and drawers. Once finished up, you each took a plate of leftover sweets from the diner, and went into the living room where you parked on the sofa.
You couldn't deny how nice it felt, sitting with Sammy, in the comfort of your home. A mixture of satisfaction in knowing that he was fed and nourished, and that he was comfortable enough to stay, it made your heart sing. Still, you could feel your nerves bubbling away in the background, being so close to Sammy, finally, and alone in your apartment with him, away from prying eyes.
"I gotta say...this has been nice." Sammy said as he took a fork full of strawberry cheesecake. "Despite the elaborate scheme."
"You wouldn't have come otherwise." You smirked as you ate into a piece of apple pie.
Sammy frowned at you and shook his head.
"'Makes you think that?" He asked curiously, a slight edge in his tone as if being accused of something.
You looked up at him, on the spot, and a little panicked as he stared right at you.
"I...I don't really invite people around...for dinner." You shrugged. "It's also been a while since...I've had people...here...for dinner."
"People?"
"Guys." You clarified.
"So this is a date?" Sammy tilted his head as he teased you.
"No...I...I dunno." You said, feeling yourself grow a little self conscious, all your previous confidence and bravado seemingly melting away, leaving you vulnerable.
Sammy softened a little as he saw you awash with nerves suddenly.
"Y'know...I would have said yes to dinner if you flat out asked me." He said, taking a forkful of cheesecake.
"No you wouldn't." You shook your head whilst you ate.
"Oh no?" Sammy challenged. "Try me."
"What?"
"Ask me to dinner, show me what would you say." Sammy said, nodding to you with his fork.
You swallowed thickly and worried your fork between your fingers.
"Sammy."
"Yes."
"Would you like to have dinner with me."
"Yes." he said, "See, wasn't so hard."
You shook your head and smirked bashfully downward as you pushed some of the apple pie around your plate.
"When?"
"What?"
"When do you wanna have dinner together?" Sammy asked, when you looked up at him, he was still looking at you, though he had a soft and amused expression spread out across his face.
"I..no that...that was just us pretending." You frowned and gestured between the two of you.
"I wasn't pretending." Sammy playfully argued with a shrug.
"I didn't know that." You blanched. "I-I thought we were just talking about if I were to invite you. Not like...not like tonight like...like an actual date or something!"
You hadn't truthfully intended for this to turn into a date, it was just a gesture to show you cared about Sammy, that you wanted to look out for him. But...it made sense to be considered a date by all reasoning.
"Well hand write me an invite, send up smoke signals, train a carrier pigeon, a fucken barber-shop-quartet. Whatever you want...just tell me when you're free for dinner with me." Sammy urged.
You just looked at him. Completely dumbfounded. It amused Sammy to see you this way, tongue tied and at a complete loss for words. Normally when he was in the diner, you were able to back and forth with almost anyone, him especially. It was partly why both your colleagues teased you for having a not so subtle flirting thing going on.
"Next Thursday." You suddenly answered.
"I can do next Thursday." Sammy nodded in agreeance, grinning at you, as if he had just won the lottery. "See, you can invite 'people' round."
"D'you still want a hand written invite?" You sarcastically replied, licking your proverbial wounds of embarassment.
"Hey, don't act so butt hurt. I just played you at your own game is all." Sammy said, a crooked smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Now shut up, open your mouth and eat this." He said, taking the last piece of strawberry cheesecake and holding it out for you to take.
You looked it over, and took the final piece of your apple pie and offered it out to Sammy.
----
As the night wound up, you watched Sammy out the corner of your eye as he put on his jacket, meanwhile you put away the now empty plates after both of you demolished every sweet and sugary item on it.
"taxi is gonna be here in roughly five minutes." Sammy called through from the living room.
"Wait a sec, wait a sec." You said as you trotted through with a plastic container in your hands, offering it to Sammy.
"What's this?" He asked curiously.
"Lunch. Your lunch, for tomorrow." You said flatly. "Figured if you can't get breakfast in there, might as well have a decent lunch."
"Was that why you were cooking an extra steak?" Sammy asked incredulously as he opened up the warm container, instantly inhaling the familiar scent.
"Cant have you starving." You replied, repeating your earlier statement. "And...you're sure you still wanna...next Thursday."
"Look at you, Miss Confidence backing out already." Sammy smirked triumphantly as he closed the lid to his food back down and looked you over.
"I'm not backing out, just asking if you're serious. I don't want you to turn out like...like other guys." You said, slightly pathetic as you folded your arms self consciously.
"Hey, look at me." Sammy said, the sudden softness and low change in his tone made your heart flutter as you looked at him.
Sammy reached out to gently tip your chin up with his finger. The gesture was so slight and small, and yet it sent your nervous system crazy, like every nerve ending inside of you screamed out for more.
"Joking aside...I wanna have dinner with you...I wanna see you...more of you..." He said. "Cause...this was nice."
"It was." You agreed, your eyes briefly looking from Sammy's to his mouth.
"You look like you wanna kiss me." He joked flirtatiously, trying to lighten the mood a little.
"And you look like you've still got cheesecake in the corner of your mouth dumbass." You laughed breathily and turned away a little.
Sammy wiped his mouth whilst muttering a little 'shut up' at you. The sudden muffled sound of a car horn broke both of your laughing, the taxi was here.
"Well...see you tomorrow for breakfast." Sammy said as you opened the front door for him.
"If not, then Thursday." You said.
"Which reminds me; where do you wanna go eat on Thursday?" He said, his voice echoing through the stair well.
"I think I know a good local spot." You smirked as you knocked your knuckles on the doorframe to your apartment.
tags: sammy bryant x detective!reader, jake peralta/amy santiango relationship vibes, reader color-coordinates everything, loosely based on "the bet" from brooklyn 99, fluff, workplace teasing, they both want each other, non-linear southland timeline, also loosely based on this post (but I don't do infidelity sorry), there is use of y/n and l/n, 18+ MDNI
notes: I had so much fun writing this, so I hope you all enjoy! I'm also cooking up some requests and possibly another doppleganger post! like aways, if you want to be added to my permanent taglist, please comment here!
note pt.2: my requests are still open!
word count: 3.7k
“Suck on this, Bryant.”
Sammy barely had time to react before a pile of paperwork was thrown on his desk with the elegance of a herd of cows. The implication of the pile plus your voice meant that the stupid bet he had going on was going south and not in his favor at all. His hazel eyes traced up past the pile, up your dark purple blouse, and settled on the smug grin you decided to bless him with. He reached out and quickly thumbed through the stack.
“What the hell is this, L/n?” he spat, even if he knew exactly what it was.
Your hands glued themselves to your sides. “You know exactly what it is.” You leaned down a bit closer to meet his eyes. “But because you have seemed to forgotten, I’ll so graciously remind you.”
With a saunter of your hips, you walked over to the bullpen’s whiteboard. The black Expo marker made a satisfying squeak and pop and squeal as you added another tally mark to your side of the board, giving you a head lead by two. You capped the marker before turning around with another grin.
“Like I said: Suck on this, Bryant.”
Sammy gave a disbelieving chuckle, head shaking behind his hand as something stirred in his gut. The bet between you and him had been going for a month, and it was eating him alive to the point he just wanted it all to be over. However, the winnings were too good to pass up. He’d been wanting to knock you down a couple of pegs, so, if he somehow had more arrests than you by tomorrow, you’d have to do the one thing that seemed to grate your nerves more than your notes getting out of their color-coded perfection: go on a date with him.
Opposite of that, you had chosen your prize: his ex-wife’s 1967 Chevrolet Camero. Weird request to him, but the vintage car was one thing he’d won in the divorce that he actually wanted to keep since he was the one to put the downpayment on it. If you won that, he could kiss his sunset beach drives goodbye.
Sammy’s fist curled around his pen while Nate laughed quietly into his hand in the desk. You were good—probably one of the best detectives the LAPD had, but Sammy would rather die than tell that to your face. Ever since you’d joined last year, the two of you had been at each other’s throats in a “friendly” competitive way. In the first few months, Sammy pretty much hated the way you sucked up to the captain with a sweet smile and extensively written paperwork that had everyone cooing and thanking you for making their lives easier all while you’d turn and send him a devilish smile his way when no one else was looking.
It made him hot and bothered in a way that bothered him immensely.
You, the newbie, the overachiever, had made him feel things that no other woman—not even his wife—had felt before. Your ways made him want to be a better detective. So, he just had to get up to your level.
If you brought in a street gang, he needed to bring in two. If your paperwork was pristine, his had to be the neatest most organized paperwork the LAPD had ever seen. If you kissed ass to get your way, you best know that Sammy Bryant was about to kiss ass like no one had ever seen.
Hence, the bet that he was about to lose.
“You’re insufferable, you know that?” he muttered before leaning back into his seat, the leather creaking under his weight.
Your smirk only widened, and for once, Sammy wished he could kiss it right off your face.
“Oh,” you pouted at him, tone laced with a tease. “Don’t be like that, Bryant. Losing actually builds more character than winning!”
His face pinched. “I don’t think that’s how it works.”
“It a hundred percent does.” You crossed your arms, and Sammy had to rip his eyes away from the neckline of your blouse. “I’d just hand over the keys right now, ‘cause it looks like I’ve got this in the bag.”
Sammy eyed the whiteboard with faux wonder. “How many am I down by?”
“A measly two. Honestly, you insult me, Bryant. You’re this close with less than two hours left in the shift, and you’re just sitting here on your ass.” You glanced toward the clock mounted above the pen, letting your gaze linger there for a second to make sure he followed to see how long he had left.
Sammy let out a long, suffering sigh. “You counting chickens in that thick skull?”
You tisked at him. “Bryant, sweetheart, my chickens are already hatched and on their way to college by now. They, like me, are positively thriving.”
“Fuck, I hate when you get like this,” he groaned.
“Like what? When I’m right, and you aren’t? Pretty much every day of your life, right?”
That earned you a few giggled from the detectives that seemed more into this bet than either you or Sammy were. All of the female detectives had already asked to take a ride in the car when you won, because in their mind, there really was no competition.
“No,” Sammy almost whined. “I mean when you’re smug. It’s not a very becoming look on you, detective.”
“Well, detective,” you sent back his way, “I happen to look my best when I’m winning. And if that means smugness comes with it, then I’m fucking hot right now.”
The look he sent you should have burned a hole straight through your forehead, but all it did was make your heart flutter. Because in just the same way you didn’t know you made Sammy feel things, Sammy Bryant had your heart from the moment you stepped foot into the precinct. Back then, he’d been married, and all your hopes and dreams had been crushed. However, the day he walked through without that metal band around his ring finger, you swear the sky had literally opened up with angels singing.
Unfortunately, you’d been too deep in the back and forth that at this point, you believed he hated you, that him asking you out on a date would be the most humiliating thing on the planet simply because Sammy Bryant could never be interested in you.
You tapped the marker thoughtfully against your chin. “You know, I’ve actually been looking at custom license plates.”
Sammy’s head snapped up so quickly it was a wonder he didn’t pull a muscle. “No.”
Your tongue ran across your bottom lip. “Oh, yes.”
“No.”
Your head tilted. “I was thinking something that screams that I’m the best detective this side of California.”
“You don’t even own the damn car yet,” he sneered, though there really wasn’t any heat behind it.
“Yet, Bryant. But in exactly—” You pushed out your hand, so that your watch flashed brilliantly in the lighting. “One hour and forty-five minutes, I will be the new owner of your car. How does BY3 SAM sound? I think I’m digging that one.”
This time, Nate actually snorted. Sammy turned to his partner with a glare that could send the man six feet under if he could. There was absolutely no way he was going to let you drive off in that car if he had anything to do with it. He sat in his chair, eyes never wavering from your figure as you stalked back toward your desk.
“You think you’re funny,” he muttered loud enough for you to hear.
You looked up with a smile. “I think I’m actually fucking hilarious.”
When you turned toward Lydia, Sammy took a moment to look back up at the clock. Six-thirty; the time had the corner of his mouth tugging up instead of down. Remember, no matter how high you stepped or how low you stooped, he was always doing the same. The moment you turned back to face him, your stomach dropped at the sight of his small minuscule smirk. If there was anything you knew for certain about Sammy, it was that he didn’t smile when he was losing.
Sammy didn’t smile when going through his divorce.
Sammy didn’t smile after arresting the kid he was trying to help.
Sammy didn’t smile when you took the moment to make sure that he knew you were better.
But now, with almost an hour left of the bet, he was smirking like he knew how this would end. You hated seeing it and the feeling had you curling in on yourself. Your chair squeaked when you turned his way.
“What?”
Sammy hummed before shaking his head. “Nothing.”
“No; not nothing,” you imitated his deeper voice. “Bryant, what the hell is that look on your face?”
He shrugged and leaned back into his chair, now looking far too relaxed for a man who should have been preparing his five-paper long farewell speech to a beloved vintage car. It had been a cheap shot when you’d first asked for it, and you didn’t even think he would agree at first before he begrudgingly shook your hand. When he agreed, you thought you had this in the bag. Now you weren’t so sure as you were almost an hour ago.
Suddenly, his smirk grew almost ten times larger. “L/n, do you ever get a feeling like something good’s about to happen?”
You narrowed your eyes. “What the hell are you going on about? You’re acting weird.”
He looked up at the clock and held up a wide-spread hand before tucking in his thumb. A strange tension settled over you to the point it became too impossible to ignore. For a second, your confidence wavered, and it was enough to make you glance toward the entrance. Sammy tucked his pinky under his thumb, and your brows furrowed at the movement.
“Bryant? What are you doing?”
His ring finger joined his pinky, and his grin widened. Somewhere in the depth of your mind, a warning bell began to ring loudly.
“Bryant?”
His middle went down, leaving only his pointer raised toward the sky. It was only when that one went down too that the bullpen doors burst open so hard they slammed against the wall. You turned so hard your hand whipped your cheeks after you settled. Your eyes widened as a flood of uniforms poured inside at once, escorting suspects in handcuffs, carrying filled-to-the-brim duffels, and shouting over one another as they navigated past your desk like some kind of horrific conga line right out of your worst nightmare.
“Twenty-three arrests from a gang task force operation. All of them had multiple felony warrants and so happened to have lots of evidence,” one of them announced.
Your smile was wiped off the planet.
And standing in the middle of the surging bullpen motion, was Sammy Bryant, smirking like a man who had just personally witnessed divine intervention. You knew it was over. The division that these gang members had come from were under Sammy’s belt and not yours. Each one was an added tally to his side, which he seemed to know since he was now stalking toward you, eyes lidded like he’d just bitten into the most decedent cake he’d ever tasted. He only stopped a breath away from you, smirk so sultry that it could make the strongest woman swoon (you included). Not breaking eye contact, he took the marker from your grip and drew twenty-three shaky lines on his side of the betting board.
He leaned in close and whispered, “I think I just won.”
You were now full-on glaring. “This is cheating,” you hissed.
“You made the rules, sweetheart.”
“Fuck the rules.”
“Awwwww, but you loved the rules thirty minutes ago.”
Somehow, your glare deepened. “They weren’t actively ruining my life thirty minutes ago now, were they?”
For one moment, time stopped between the two of you. The next, the department also seemed to stop as the bet finally ended the clock hit 7 pm. Then, to your absolute horror (or right out of your favorite dreams), Sammy threw an arm around your shoulders and tugged you into his side.
“Attention, everyone!” he called out while you buried your face in your hands. “As you all know, mine and Detective L/n’s bet is officially over, which means that yours truly will be taking this one out on the date of her life!”
Your ears burned at the hoots and hollers that sounded out and echoed through the room.
“You didn’t even ask me out correctly,” you grumbled.
Sammy gasped loudly and placed his unoccupied hand over his chest. “The horror. How could I?”
To even further your embarrassment, Sammy rounded to your front and took both your hands. This time, you actually had to look him in the eyes while he spoke.
“Would you do me the honors of going out with me on a date this Friday, detective?”
You pursed your lips before nodding slightly. “Fine, Bryant.” You all but ripped your hands out of his and walked away. “But you better be on time!” you shouted over your shoulder. “And in the Camero!”
_______________________
Sammy had expected you to act like you hated every moment of the time spent with him on Friday evening. He expected you to stay in your work clothes, give him snippy conversation, and threaten him to never speak of the whole ordeal ever again after he dropped you off.
However, to his surprise, you walked out of your house in a dress that hugged your figure so well that Sammy had to shift his pants just a bit as you got closer. He was now thankful he’d chosen to change out of his work suit and throw on something that hadn’t been worn around a dead body or sweated in while chasing a suspect. Your makeup had even been done different; the eyeshadow was darker, your eyeliner pointier. During the job, he noticed you kept things on the more subtle side, but if this is how you showed up for a date that shouldn’t matter, he honestly never wanted you to go out with any guy other than him ever again.
He at least headed your warning and opened the passenger door for the Camero. Sammy tried to swallow his smirk when you grumbled a small thank you before slipping into the seat. The second the door shut, however, you tried your hardest not to sneer at him.
“Don’t get used to that, Bryant. I’m still pissed at you.”
“Used to what, sweetheart?”
“My endless gratitude, sweetheart.”
Sammy chuckled as he started the engine before pulling out onto your street road. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
You let the purr of the car fill the silence that settled after he turned onto the main street. For the first time since the start of the bet, this was the first time the two of you had been alone without your coworkers to act as a buffer. It was just you and the man you’d been silently pining after while actively covering any whiff of emotion toward him with careless teasing and sharp biting. Somehow it was more nerve-wracking than chasing armed suspects.
To fill the quiet, you reached for the radio, only to have Sammy lightly smack the top of your hand. You pulled your hand back to your chest with a dropped jaw.
“Um, ow? What the fuck, Bryant?”
He didn’t even take his eyes off the road when he answered. “I know exactly what kind of music you like, and I cannot be hearing that shit right now.”
You crossed your arms, strategically pushing your chest together in attempts to distract him. “Oh, yeah? What kind of music do I listen to, asshole?”
“That sad-girl pop music that teen girls listen to whenever they’re going through their third breakup of the month.”
You scoffed loudly. “Be aware that you just insulted me and my entire future lineage.”
Sammy laughed loudly, the sound hitting you square in the chest. Because underneath it all, you were wishing that this could have been under normal circumstances, that he had asked you out without having to make a whole bet about it. Not wanting to let him in with a softness of your features, you turned toward the window and gazed at the passing blurred city lights.
“You look beautiful, by the way,” Sammy said after a moment.
Your eyes widened, but you didn’t make a motion to look back at him. “Careful, Bryant. I might start thinking that you actually mean what you say.”
Sammy huffed. “Would that be so bad?”
“Don’t make it weird.”
“I’m not making it weird.”
Your head lolled along the headrest so that you could face him. “You just said that I look nice. Are you sure you didn’t hit your head on the way here?”
“I’m sure. Just thought you’d like the compliment, jeez.”
Without thinking, you let your eyes linger on his side profile and trail his sharpened jawline. Everyone noticed that he had dropped weight soon after the divorce. Whether it had been not enough time to actually cook meals after getting home or type of self-improvement one wants after a big chance, Sammy slimmed down to the point he didn’t look like an I’ll-make-sure-your-daughter-get-home-safely-sir man anymore and more of a your-daughter-calls-me-daddy-too stud. Where married Sammy was handsome and puffy, single Sammy was about to be eaten by badge bunnies.
You made yourself believe that was no room for you anywhere.
The car dived back into silence for a moment before both yours and Sammy’s phones rang loudly. You rolled your eyes as you answered.
“This is L/n.” You listened carefully before cursing loudly. “Shit. Fine. Fucking whatever.” You hung up and sighed. “Change of plans. Sal wants us on that Ramirez stakeout tonight.”
Sammy slammed a palm on the wheel before yanking it in the opposite direction of the restaurant. “Guess this just means you still owe me a date, L/n.”
“In your dreams, Bryant.”
Twenty minutes later, the two of you were parked half a block away from a run-down apartment building watching a suspected drug runner’s front entrance. The glamor of the evening had long been evaporated back into the atmosphere. Your pointer finger picked at one of the sequins on your hemline as you kept your eyes on the door. Thankfully, your heels had been kicked off the moment Sammy parked. Likewise, his jacket was now draped across the backseat.
When nothing happened for the next handful of minutes, you leaned back into the seat. “You know, as far as first dates have gone, this somehow isn’t the worst one I’ve been on.”
Sammy lowered his pair of binoculars to glance over at you. “Somehow I highly doubt that.”
“Believe me. Boys are stupid,” you muttered. “One time, one of them thought I was lying about being a detective, so I called in his name and apparently, he had a warrant out. I arrested him in the middle of dinner.”
“Seriously?” Sammy chuckled.
“Seriously,” you echoed warmly. “I don’t have the best luck with dates. I think this—on technicality—is my first date in almost a year.”
“Again, I highly doubt that.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
He took another glance at you before bringing the binoculars back up. “I mean, with the way you look, there must be a gaggle of guys trying to take you out.”
The sequin caught in your nail. “The way I look?”
You were totally egging him on, but for once since meeting Sammy, you wanted to press, wanted to get him to actually look at you without a look of distain on his face.
“I was being honest when I said you looked beautiful.”
Your bottom lip caught between your teeth. “You’re not supposed to hand out compliments to people you hate, Bryant. It gets oddly confusing.”
Sammy froze for a moment before fully turning toward you. “I don’t hate you.”
You scoffed. “Sure. Whatever you say.”
“No?” Sammy’s confusion was clear as day on his face. “I don’t. If anything, I respect the hell out of you. Do you irritate me sometimes? Yes. But I have never once hated you, Y/n.”
It was your turn to freeze as you stared into his hazel eyes. “But—but every time I bring in a suspect or—or turn in paperwork, you look at me like I pissed in your cheerios!”
“That’s because it’s easier for me to pretend sometimes because the truth I want could never come true.”
You shook your head. “No, Bryant, you don’t get to spout off this proverb bullshit at me because—what?—you can’t just tell me the truth.”
He looked back toward the house. “I am not doing this here.”
A groan of frustration pulled from your chest. “Yes, you are doing this here. Don’t test me, Bryant, I will literally get out of this car and walk home because you can’t man up and—”
The sentence died instantly when Sammy’s lips pressed against yours. He dropped the binoculars in his lap to allow his big hands to carefully cup your cheeks and hold you steady. With nowhere else to go, you melted against him, lips finally moving against his in reciprocation. Your hands grasped at his sides, and if it wasn’t for the center consol, you would have swung a leg over his lap. When oxygen became too much, you pulled away from his lips, chest heaving in heavy pants to the point he could feel your hot air against his lips. The feeling made him want to pull you right back in.
Months of bickering, competing, teasing, and pretending to loathe each other more than Elphaba and Galinda in the first act of Wicked all melted away into something desperate, something that made your fingers itch to pull him against you.
Sammy pressed his forehead against yours. “Does that make you believe me now?”
You hummed in response. “This doesn’t mean that you’re on my good side, Sammy.”
He smirked once before leaning back in for a small peck. “I’ll get on your good side soon enough, sweetheart. Might even one day get my own color-coded section in your folder all to myself.”
Summary: The only time you get to enjoy your dinner at PTMC is when you head to the roof, only for a certain night shift attending to start joining you.
A/N: Cheesy af and probably done before. Jack is old, yada yada yada. Just over 1k words. Had to get this out of the drafts because idk what else to do with it.
Through His Stomach
The cafeteria food sucks. Everyone knew this.
Except you.
On your first day, you had brought your own lunch to work at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Centre, but hadn’t had a chance to even look at it never mind eat it.
On your second day, you found an opportunity to slip down to the cafeteria for a bite and resolved never to do so again.
On your third day, and every day after that, you brought food from home, sneaking nibbles here and there before getting dragged back into the whirlwind that was PTMC.
But a few months into your time as the hospital’s newest psychologist, you discovered the best place to eat more than two mouthfuls at a time was the roof.
And a few months after that, you discovered that eating on the roof meant you’d have company.
Dr. Jack Abbot. Night shift attending in the ED. He had interrupted one of your evening meals, and seemed put out when he found his spot already taken. His annoyance seemed to fade when you offered him a home made cookie. After that, you found yourself cooking for two.
***
“You know, you can just tell me what you want to eat and I’ll make it” you said, handing him the Tupperware container full of pasta salad.
“You’re not my personal chef, green beans. Besides, I like the surprise” Jack said, taking the plastic tub, his fingers brushing yours.
“Suit yourself” you murmured, but couldn’t help the tiny smile that bloomed when you heard your newest nickname. Every night you saw him, you got a new one to add to your list.
“Thanks, peanut”
“What you got tonight, tiramisu?”
“Not bad, apple pie”
You munched on your food quietly, looking out at the darkening Pittsburgh skyline. You and Jack worked different shifts; you were ending your day while he was starting his, but you never minded staying an extra hour or two if it meant you got to watch the sunset with him.
“You never thought of culinary school?” Jack asked after a moment.
“At one point, I guess. But it’s so stressful. Like, ‘The Bear’ or something” you said, shrugging slightly.
Jack looked over at you, the red glow of the evening dusting his salt and pepper hair with copper. His silence told you everything; he had no clue what you were talking about.
“The Bear. You’ve never seen it? It’s a show about a restaurant and the main guy is like- super stressed and… just watch it, Jack. First season is good” you said, trying to keep your amusement off your face.
“You say it like this isn’t super stressful” Jack said, motioning down to the hospital below them.
“Well, I mean… it is. But, I know what I’m doing” you said, shrugging again.
“You’re one confident doctor” he smirked, enjoying your nonchalance.
“Oh, like you’re not? I know what they call you down there, cowboy” you laughed quietly.
“So you’d be a confident chef too” he said, nodding quickly.
“The second someone sent back a plate, I’d lock myself in the freezer. At least if you don’t like something, you’ve never said it” you snorted, glancing down at his mostly finished container.
“You’ve never made anything I don’t like. Your cooking is the best” Jack said quietly, his voice low and gruff as usual.
“You’re sweet” you murmured, and looked back at the skyline, hoping that the slowly growing orange dusk disguised the flush rising to your face..
A silence fell over you both as you both finished up your meals. Jack always tucked everything back into your little reusable grocery bag neatly, and that night was no exception. Again, your fingers brushed as he took your container from you.
“You gonna watch that with me then?” Jack asked after a long moment.
You look over, a bit surprised. But he’s looking right back at you, his gaze steady.
“You want to watch The Bear with me?” You asked, eyebrows raised.
“Yeah, green beans. And then we can go out for a dinner you don’t have to cook” he continued, still looking at you seriously.
You paused, blinking quickly. Was Jack asking you out? For real?
“Now, don’t think I’m being a creepy old man-” he began, huffing quietly, his eyebrows quirking up.
“No, no I don’t think that at all- that sounds good. Sorry, I was just surprised-” you said quickly, feeling your heart rate spiking in your chest.
Jack scoffed quietly and looked back at the skyline for a moment before looking back at you.
“I’m not that old, I know what a Netflix and chill is, and this isn’t it-”
“What?” You laughed suddenly, taken aback.
“Yeah, I know. You put on a show and invite a girl over- but I’m a grown man, we can go out for dinner because I like you, green beans, and I’d like to do this properly-” he said.
You couldn’t help but laugh, feeling a buoyancy fill you as you took in his words.
“I like you, green beans”
Jack frowned at you, as if offended by your laughter.
“I’d love to watch The Bear and go to dinner with you” you said, unable to keep the smile from your face. You turned back to the view, still feeling the warmth of your blush on your face.
“Alright then, we’ll go. Figure out our schedules” Jack said, looking out at the view as well.
“God, lookin’ at me like I spit out your food” he mumbles after a moment, shrugging slightly.
“I was just surprised, I told you” you said, a quiet chuckle leaving you.
“I don’t know how. I wasn’t climbing these stairs every night just for dinner, I like hanging out with you too, you know-” Jack continued, his eyebrows raising again.
“I know, I know, I like hanging out with you too” you said reassuringly.
A brief silence fell over you again. Comfortable, like usual between the two of you.
“You know, it’s not even on Netflix. It’s on Disney” you quipped.
jack "i'll pay for it" abbot (a.k.a. the sugar daddy-verse)
jack abbot x f!reader
series warnings: afab!reader, sugar daddy/sugar baby dynamic, age gap (reader's exact age is not specified), power dynamic (in relationship and at work), reader is described to wear makeup and dresses, and other stuff that i will add here as i write more!
*****
the drugstore
two things
confessions and confections
*****
*this series doesn’t really have an endpoint. it might eventually come to a conclusion (if i feel like i’m just reheating the nachos), but until then it’s just going to be snapshots of their developing relationship :)
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