i'm begging for more secret relationship bau!reader and aaron ❤️🔥😩
snooze
sneaking around on a case 🤭🥰🥰 cw; bau fem!reader, established relationship, a lot of fluff <3
Your alarm barely had time to ring before you reached over and killed it, fingers moving on instinct, afraid the sound might carry through the walls and wake up the neighboring team members. For a moment, you stayed perfectly still, listening, half-expecting footsteps in the hall or someone to burst through the door with far too many questions.
Outside, the day is already heavy; mist clings to the windows, and a dull gray light seeps into the room, casting everything in a slow, gloomy haze. It'd be all too easy to fall back asleep, especially with the sound of rain hitting the window.
You stretched, a small noise leaving the back of your throat before you turned, facing Aaron. He lay beside you, his features calm and unguarded in sleep.
A small smile tugged at your lips, your expression softening as you took him in with a quiet gentleness that made your chest ache.
"Aaron." He stirred at his name, one arm finding you and drawing you closer. Tightly. A breathless laugh escaped you, "I have to get up."
He groaned, groggily asking, "what time is it?"
"It's nearly six," you whispered, a hand reaching up and running your thumb across his cheek. It's rough with the faint layer of overnight stubble. "I have to get back to my room."
You didn't typically do this - share a room when on a case. Usually, the two of you were better about keeping certain boundaries in place. But given the gruesome nature of the case, sleeping alone hadn’t felt like an option. Alone in the dark, with nothing to ground your thoughts, your mind had too much space to run and fill in the worst possible images.
It was around midnight when you finally gave up, throwing the covers off and slipping down the hall to his room. You knocked once, and the door opened almost immediately - like Aaron had been lingering on the other side with the same idea, moments away from making the trip to your room instead.
He sighed softly into his pillow, bargaining, "ten more minutes."
"Ten more minutes means risking a potential run-in in the hall." Your eyebrows lifted, a knowing, playful note in your voice. It also didn't help that you’re wearing his t-shirt - a dead giveaway. "Besides, I need to shower."
“Shower here?"
You let the question remain unanswered, leaning in to press a quick kiss to his lips. He hummed softly against your mouth. "Go back to sleep," you instructed, your voice a murmur. "You can get at least another half hour in."
"I don't think anyone'll be up at this hour."
"Better not to risk it."
You eased out from under the covers, careful not to jostle him, his t-shirt slipping lightly against your skin as you straightened. But you’d barely taken a step when his hand found yours. His fingers curled around your wrist, tugging you gently back onto the mattress and drawing you in. His mouth met yours in a slow, deep kiss.
You melt back into him; limbs loosely tangled, feet brushing beneath the sheets as the kiss lingered - absentminded in the way only half-awake affection can be. His hand drifted lazily along your side while your breathing settled into the same slow rhythm. The moment felt unhurried, suspended in that hazy space between sleep and morning, like the day could wait a little while longer.
When the two of you pulled apart, Aaron spoke with smug satisfaction. "Looks like I got my extra ten minutes."
You huffed a laugh, "you're persuasive, I'll give you that."
Before he can draw you back in again, you quickly gathered your things. You moved carefully through the darkness, watching your step to avoid stubbing your toe on any furniture, not wanting to subject Aaron to the brutal glare of the lights just yet.
You glanced back before exiting. Aaron’s propped up on his elbows now, watching you. His hair's a mess - even more disheveled now thanks to your hands - poking in different directions.
"And I’ve gotta give you time to get yourself together. I know the effort it takes to make sure you look distinguished instead of just sexy."
He chuckled at your teasing, warmth flickering in his expression as his brows knit slightly. "Same time tonight?"
"If you’re lucky," you replied, a definite yes hidden in your tone as you gave him a look that didn’t try very hard to be stern. "I’ll see you soon."
summary - your break up with jack causes more than just emotional scars
warning - angst, medical inaccuracies, medical trauma, cardiac arrest, reader has hair long enough to curl and breasts big enough to put in a bra
part two
an - this was originally a robby fic but changed to jack. inspired by the condition takotsubo syndrome. i will make a part two!
masterlist
The break up had come out of nowhere. Sure, you’d had some arguments but you were under the assumption that the conversations that followed, the compromises and tender affection had corrected the issues you were fighting about in the first place. He’d come home after work. You’d prepared a breakfast, choosing all of his favourite dishes to surprise him after what you knew would have been a horrific shift. He’d come in, completely drenched from his walk home in the morning rain. Shoving his bag on top the wooden table to his right, head falling against the door as he pushed it closed. You’d already got out a dry set of clothes and towels ready for him, the items laying neatly on your shared freshly laundered bed.
You stepped into the hallway, heart faltering at the way he was carrying himself.
“My love, I’ve laid out some stuff for you, why don’t you go have a shower whilst I finish getting dinner ready?” He didn’t reply, just continued staring up at the ceiling.
“I think I need to step back from this. From us.” Those statements caused the first pang, like an invisible hand reaching into your chest and gripping your heart tightly. You stumbled back, gripping onto the doorframe. Your actions caused the vase he’d got you on your first anniversary to clamber to the floor, glass splintering around your bare feet. He’d immediately looked towards the sound, eyes flittering from yours, which were now filled with tears to the blood now erupting from your skin, small shards sticking out.
“Shit-“ he walked towards you. You took another step away, wincing as the glass crunched under your soles. “Stop moving.” he pleaded. He could see the way your chin had begun to tremble, the way you were trying to hold it all in.
“I think you should leave.” you managed to spit out.
“Please, sweetheart. Let me help you clean up.” He went to reach for you again but you stood your ground.
“I’m a doctor, Jack. I know how to clean myself up.” You turned the best you could, gently staggering over the broken vase into the kitchen, a trail of crimson following behind you. Every step you took caused a sting to flood over you. You could hear him following you, the glass nothing against his combat boots.
“I want to talk. I don’t want this to be like this. I-“
“Like what?” You took a seat at the breakfast bar, bringing one of your feet into your lap the best you could. “You have clearly thought about this a lot and have already decided what you wanted. So why bother?” He took it upon himself to reach into the medicine cabinet, pulling out all the necessary equipment.
“I just want a break. I don’t want to be in a relationship right now. I can’t give you what you deserve.” He hands over the kit. You snatch it away, beginning to lay it out against the granite side.
“So after two and a half years you’re just done?”
“Things have changed.” he sighed. You ignore him, choosing to don the latex gloves and start cleaning the wounds that littered your skin. He watches you flinch as the antiseptic brushes over the cuts. He wants to help, wants to take over and give you all the love and care you deserve. But he knows he’s not in a place to. Not permanently.
He’d silently observed you wrap the bandages over your feet, taking the plush pink socks he’d dug out of the clean washing basket in the laundry room. You hadn’t said anything as you gently got down from the bar stool, reaching for the dustpan and brush to begin sweeping the broken glass. He’d chosen to leave you to it, going to the bedroom to sort out the bag he didn’t want to pack. He could hear your sobs, his heart breaking at the sound. He knew he was doing this for you. He needed help. He needed to be better for you, free from the terrors of his past that plagued his mind. That meant letting you go. Maybe the universe would bring you back together again when he was in a more solid place.
“I’m staying at Michael’s. If you need anything.” He mumbles, bag straps tight in his grasp. You were sat on the couch, staring at the photo frame that sat above the fireplace. The fireplace that made you want to buy the place when you first discussed living together nearly a year ago. Dana had ordered a blown up version of your favourite photo of the two of you. You’d been at some medical gala not long after you got together. You were looking towards the camera, however Jack’s face was turned towards you, love and adoration flooding his eyes.
When you didn’t acknowledge him again, he hesitantly took a step towards your side, pressing a gentle kiss into the soft curls you’d done earlier that night. You were still in the soft satin skirt you’d put on especially for him, however it was now creased and crumpled. His action caused the tears to begin falling again, shoulders shaking as the sobs took over.
“Please get out.” you begged, clutching against your chest as it ached. He obliged, grabbing his keys he’d dropped earlier before quietly shutting the door behind him.
That was 8 weeks ago. The pain had persisted. You were a senior resident and had been for years. You knew the red flags your body was presenting but you didn’t have the energy to give it space in your mind. He’d kept the distance and you’d respected it. Limiting your interactions at work. Switching to the day shift much to the chagrin of Michael Robinavitch, who was trying to stay out of the situation the best he could.
Parker had called out, an issue with a family member she needed to sort out, leading to Dana asking if you were free to work a double or at least until they could call someone else to cover. You’d hesitantly agreed, an uneasy feeling settling in your chest as you prepared to work with Jack for more than 20 minutes.
You’d done well, remaining professional during assessments and always ensuring there was at least one other person in your conversation. However at hour 18 of your shift, you’d crumbled. Your eyes gazed over the department, stopping on the two figures stood by the scrub machine. They were deep in conversation, head thrown back in laughter. The pain erupting across your chest deepened. The night shift attending and the day shift senior resident looked as natural as anything. Her hand rested against his bicep, his lingering just beside her hip. You could see even from your position nearly 10 metres away that she was slowly clenching her fingers around his flesh. If he was bothered, he didn’t make it known.
You tried to tear away from the display, returning your attention to the tablet in your grasp. The 45 year old female presenting with severe abdominal cramping had been discharged nearly 12 minutes before. A simple case that needed a simple chart, however your brain could not do its job. Instead running a hundred miles an hour at the sight of the love of your life and the girl everyone thought he wouldve ended up with getting chummy .
“Sweetheart, you don’t look the best. You feeling ok?” Dana’s shoulder gently nudged yours, already reaching up to rest her palm against your forehead. “You look a bit pale.” She moves her hand down to feel your cheeks, before returning it back down to her side.
“I’m fine.” you mumbled, trying to block the spreading agony. “I just need a minute.” Her face fell into a softened expression, sliding the device across the desk towards herself.
“Go take a break, you clearly need it.” You look up to observe the cause of your discomfort, noticing they had taken a step closer to one another, torsos only inches away from each other.
“Dana,” the tears had formed quickly. She followed your line of sight towards Jack and Samira, an angry huff leaving her lips.
“Jesus fucking Christ.” she muttered, throwing her arm around your back, beginning to lead you away. You made it to an empty room across the floor without drawing attention to the mascara running down your face. “You’re going to stay in here until I say so. Got it?” you nod at her, taking a seat on the edge of the bed.
“Thank you,” you sniffed, accepting the tissue box she’d pulled from the inventory drawer. “I’m just being dramatic. I’ll be fine in a bit.”
“I know you will,” she patted your knee, giving you a quick wink. “I’ll try and snag a sandwich on the way back to you. No tuna, right?”
You’d sat in your own thoughts for another 10 minutes before you realised Dana had probably got side tracked. The heaviness on your chest had increased, your pulse racing and you swear you could feel the way your heart was beating in your ears. You’d been tempted to hook yourself up to the EKG machine that had been left in after the last patient had been discharged. You’d reached for the electrodes when a loud crash sounded behind the closed curtain. You stood just as wave of dizziness hits, and you can feel the sweat dripping down your face despite the cool air of the ED. You sway, gripping the nearest surface, fighting the urge to collapse. Your stomach churned violently, and a nauseous panic began rising in your throat. Time stretched. Each second a fight. Each breath a battle.
You grasp for the blue scratchy fabric separating you from the chaos of your workplace. It gives, revealing everyone going about as normal. You can vaguely make out a number of your colleagues, however your vision is going as quickly as your balance. The pain is no longer just in your chest, you can feel it everywhere. Your body was screaming, and in that moment, you’d never felt more desperate and utterly powerless at the same time.
Langdon notices you first. You’re clutching the sliding door 10 metres away, figure hunched tight towards the metal. He taps Mel’s shoulder, getting her attention before sprinting over towards you.
“What’s wrong?” He asked, looking you up and down for injuries. You can’t catch your breath enough to reply, mustering up just enough energy to snatch the fabric of your scrubs that sat against your chest. He doesn’t even think before he throws his arms under your knees, lifting you up onto his torso and spinning on his feet. “Dana, I need a trauma room!” he yelled, running towards the desired room. His raised voice alerting numerous other people to the situation.
“Trauma 1 is open!” she’s already stepping along side him, watching as he lowered you onto the gurney. Hands instantly reach towards you, clipping various devices to your paling body.
“I want an EKG now.” Langdon demands, shears heavy in his hands as he cuts up through your black scrub top. He spoke a silent apology to you, continuing to slice through the lace middle of your grey bra, leaving your chest completely bare to your colleagues.
“BP is 179 over 102, O2 is 89% and heart rate 112.” You can hear Princess relaying your vitals. You can barely focus, your thoughts scattered, racing between fear and confusion.
“She’s been having chest pains for weeks. She’s been trying to hide them but I can see it in her face. It’s ever since-“ Dana’s voice trails off at the body now stood in the doorway.
“EKG reads a STEMI.” The rest of the room continues.
“Ok, aspirin and heparin now. It’s going to need a PCI. Someone call Cardiology.”
Jack’s gaze falls to your shaking frame, watching as his colleagues work above you. He hears you gasping through the oxygen masks. Mel is already beginning to insert the tube in your arm for the treatment.
“Abbot, you can’t be in here if you’re going to be biased.” Robby’s voice cuts over the noise of the machines as he takes over from his resident. Jack hadn’t even noticed he’d come past him. Jack’s eyes flicker up to his friend’s, wincing when he’s already looking directly at him.
“She’s-“ he mumbles, hands getting sweaty under the grip of his cargos. “Is she going to-“ his words get caught in his throat.
“We’re going to do everything we can,” Robby nods.
A loud continuous beep rings out, flooding the room with anxiety.
“Asystole!” Princess yells. Frank doesn’t wait for a command, immediately locking his hands and positioning them over your bare chest, pumping up and down.
“Fuck,” Jack mutters, his body taking a step towards the scene.
“Get him out of here.” Robby yells to anyone who would listen. Jack feels Dana’s grip on his arms, pulling him backwards. Her quiet words of attempted comfort go in one ear and out the other, he couldn’t care for what she was saying. His mind fills with the sound of your ribs cracking under his colleagues hands as he attempts to get your heart working again.
“Please,” his balance falters and he stumbles towards the ground, falling into the charge nurse’s embrace. “Please save her.”
summary you and jack have always been a hands-on, can’t-keep-your-hands-off-each-other kind of couple—until you decide to commit to a month-long “detox.” no sex, no touching, no shortcuts. jack feels like the least sought after man in the land. (ao3)
(inspired by sabrina carpenter’s my man on willpower (2025)!)
tags/warnings MDNI (18+) explicit sexual content, age gap (mid-20s / 50s), established relationship, living together, unprotected p in v, oral (f/m, m/f) handjobs (mutual), mentions of masturbation, praise & teasing, domestic, hospital/medical stuff / orthopaedics (r3), wellness / “spiritual” themes, r. can do splits, santos being santos (mentions of santos/garcia breakup), robby lowkey ur third lol, healthy, sane relationship, more romcom than angst (much less sad than the actual song) (written by a law student, not a doctor—medical accuracy idkher)
wc 16.5k words
“I’m sorry,” Jack says slowly, like he’s trying very hard to be reasonable, “I’m still… a little lost here—what exactly are you doing?”
You don’t turn around from the stove. You know that tone. Measured and suspicious. The same one he uses when a story from a patient doesn’t quite add up, or when he’s looking for you to notice what he has noticed in your words.
“I’m doing a detox,” you say, plating the pasta with unnecessary precision. “So—you know, yoga, no alcohol, no drugs, no screens, no shopping, no sex, no soda—”
“—right there,” he cuts in.
You pause, glancing over your shoulder. “…No soda?”
He doesn’t even blink. “No. The no sex.”
You turn back to the counter, like this is completely normal. “What, you can’t handle a month without sex?”
Jack doesn’t bite—doesn’t rise to it like someone your age would. He just watches you, lips pursed, arms folded, weight settled into one hip, expression flattening into something more deliberate.
“Not when it’s without you,” he says, simple.
You huff a small laugh, trying to shake off the way it lands somewhere inconvenient in your chest. “That’s flattering. That will get you very far.”
You slide his plate toward him. He doesn’t take it yet.
“It’s not like I won’t miss it,” you add, softer now. “Same as alcohol. Same as everything else.”
“Yeah,” he says, pushing off the counter finally, crossing the kitchen in a few easy steps. “Difference is alcohol’s not making you come in under ten minutes, and four times in an hour.”
You shoot him a look—sharp, immediate.
He shrugs, already reaching past you into the fridge like he didn’t just say that. “It’s a valid comparison.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“You love it,” he shrugged, knowing, grabbing the cheese. “Point is - you know, it’s a big difference.”
You try not to smile. You fail, a little.
“I just—” you sigh, taking the cheese from him, grating it over your pasta. “I want to do something that requires actual discipline. Reset a bit. Clear my head.”
“Hon,” he says, quieter now, leaning his shoulder against the counter beside you, close enough that his arm brushes yours, “you work ortho and you’re an R3. You’re up for thirty hours at a time, you operate on broken bones for fun, you look amazing, you’re healthy—what part of you needs more discipline?”
You glance at him. He’s looking at you properly now. Not teasing.
You soften a fraction. “It’s not about that.”
“Then what is it about?”
You hesitate. Just a second too long.
“…It’s just a month,” you settle on. “Four weeks. Thirty days. We’ll live.”
He studies you. You can feel it—clinical, almost. Like he’s trying to diagnose something you’re not saying out loud.
Then—
“And this is just penetration?” he asks.
You freeze.
Your silence is loud.
Jack exhales, slow, disbelieving, dragging a hand down over his mouth. “Goddamn.”
You busy yourself with the plates again. “It’s part of the program.”
“Program,” he repeats flatly. “Who the hell put you up to this?”
“Santos. and McKay. We all agreed to do it together.”
That earns you a look.
“…Santos,” he says, like he’s deeply reconsidering several life choices. “Of course this has Santos written all over it - getting you into a nun-cult thing.”
You laugh despite yourself, handing him his bowl. “It’s not a cult. It’s a detox.”
“It’s a sexless cult,” he mutters, taking the bowl.
You nudge his hip with yours. “You’ve survived longer droughts.”
“Yeah,” he shoots back immediately. “In the army.”
You grin. “Oh, here we go.”
“You’re really gonna do this to me?” he says, following you toward the couch. “Make the disabled veteran relive his worst years?”
“Your worst years were not lack of sex, be serious.”
“Debatable.”
You snort, dropping onto the couch, tucking your legs under you. He sits beside you, close—closer than necessary, knee knocking into yours, like he’s testing the boundaries of this already.
You hand him a fork.
“It’ll be good for us,” you say, softer now. “Builds character.”
He looks at you sidelong. “I have enough character.”
“You could always use more.”
“Yeah?” he murmurs.
His hand comes up—absent, habitual—resting warm at your knee, thumb brushing once, slow. Not even thinking about it. Your breath catches before you can stop it.
His mouth twitches, just slightly. Not quite a smile.
“…Fine. I’ll do whatever I can to support you in this… detox, thing,” he says.
You smile, even though his calloused hand is rubbing softly against your skin, warm, rough and inched maybe a little further onto your thigh. “I appreciate that.”
He leans back into the couch, finally picking up his fork, but his hand doesn’t move from your leg.
A pause.
Then—
“We can still watch Housewives?” he asks, like this is the real negotiation.
You let out a breath, tension cracking just enough to smile. “Housewives stays.”
“Right,” he nods. “Good. Thought you were gonna take everything from me.”
You roll your eyes, nudging him with your shoulder. “So you think you can handle this?”
“‘Course I can handle this.”
★★★
“I can’t handle this,” Jack says.
Robby doesn’t even look up as he checks his watch, pulling up his sleeves as they step outside, already smiling like he’s been waiting for this. “It’s just a month, man. Cool it.”
“It’s not just a month,” Jack shoots back, arms folded, pacing a tight line along the bay, outside the ED. “It’s a month without her. There’s a difference.”
Robby snorts. “Oh, I’m sure there is.”
“I’m serious,” Jack says, sharper now. “You don’t get it—you don’t—” he gestures vaguely, frustrated. “When you have her, she’s— she’s everything. It’s not just sex, it’s…. well, it is, but it's also more, it's... deeper? No, it's... you know, I mean—”
“—you were about to say something amazingly poetic and then ruined it,” Robby cuts in, amused.
“Yeah, well,” Jack mutters. “We have sex four to five times a week. Minimum three. And now?” He throws his hands up. “Nothing. She won’t even let me spoon her.”
Robby pauses.
Then looks up slowly.
“…Spooning.”
“Don’t,” Jack warns.
Robby’s grin breaks wide. “Jack Abbot. Spooning. Are you the big or little one? Or does it switch?”
“Oh, shut up.”
“That’s… wow,” Robby shakes his head, impressed. “It’s a cute image.”
Jack drags a hand over his face, already irritated. “Not even—nothing. It’s like I’m in a goddamn monastery.”
“Voluntarily celibate,” Robby nods. “Very spiritual of you.”
“I did not volunteer,” Jack snaps.
“You stayed,” Robby counters.
Jack glares at him, then looking out into the evening. “Where the hell are they? They said two minutes.”
“Relax,” Robby says, still enjoying this far too much. “Also— five times a week? Christ, having that kind of libido at your age?” He clicks his tongue, an exhale. “Impressive. You should get that checked out.”
“Forget that,” Jack mutters. “She’ll kill me if I’m talking about this.”
“Oh, so there’s still fear. Good. That’s healthy.”
Jack exhales sharply, jaw tight, eyes flicking back out toward the ambulance bay.
“How long’s it been since you two…?” Robby asks, vaguely gesturing, curious as to how his friend is already so wound up.
Jack hesitates.
“…Two days.”
There’s a beat.
Robby stares at him. “…Two days,” he repeats.
Jack doesn’t answer.
Robby lets out a disbelieving laugh, shaking his head. “You’re kidding me.”
“I wish I was.”
“You’re like this after two days?”
Jack shrugs, already keyed up. “Look, I mean, that is including any kind of touch and sexual actions, alright—”
“That’s pathetic,” Robby says, still grinning.
“I know,” Jack snaps, pacing again now, faster. “I know, it’s—this is ridiculous. She won’t even kiss me, barely hugs me. She’s… walking around like nothing’s changed—”
“Yeah,” Robby hums. “Almost like she’s not the one with the problem. Just let her ride this out. You expect her to put on a nun costume?”
Jack shoots him a look. “You're not helping.”
“I’m not trying to,” Robby says easily.
Jack exhales, running a hand through his silver waves, agitation sitting just under the surface now. He glances out again, scanning for lights, for movement.
“Where the hell are they?” he mutters. “They said two minutes.”
Robby straightens a fraction, checking his watch again. “Traffic, maybe—”
“Ambulance crashed!”
The shout cuts through the bay, and their conversation is finished quickly as they race out with nurses to help.
★★★
Jack Abbot was a strong man, in many respects.
He’d seen enough—done enough—to have a working relationship with pain, with loss, with the kind of things that hollow people out if they let it. He wasn’t perfect, but he was… steady. More emotionally literate than most men he knew—Robby included, which wasn’t exactly a high bar, but still.
He knew how to sit in discomfort. Knew how to carry it. Knew how to endure.
But this. This thing you were doing…
The thing about you was, he’d never really had to hold back before.
From the moment you’d settled into his life—properly, fully, toothbrush next to his, your things in his drawers, your presence in every corner of his apartment—he’d made a decision: you get all of him. Whatever he has, whatever he can give, whenever you want, it’s yours.
That includes the easy things. The soft things.
And yeah—sex too.
It wasn’t the foundation of your relationship. Not even close. Two years together, six months living side by side, working different departments, different hours—you loved each other in ways that had nothing to do with sex.
But – Christ. It didn’t hurt that the sex was very good.
And you—young, bright, all sharp edges and softness in the right places—you’d woken something up in him he hadn’t realised had gone quiet. Made him feel… not younger, exactly, but awake.
Kept him on his toes. Made him care, in small stupid ways—like going to the gym on his off days so he could keep up with you, so he didn’t feel like he was lagging behind when you dragged him out into the world.
You were tactile in a way that blurred the line between affection and need. Always finding him. You always managed to make him feel like the centre of any and all desires.
Hands on his arm when you passed. Fingers hooking into his belt loops when you walked past him in the kitchen. Leaning into him mid-conversation like gravity pulled you there. Curling into his side on the couch, half on top of him, legs tangled, absentmindedly tracing patterns over his chest like you didn’t even realise you were doing it.
You’d climb into his lap without asking. Kiss him just because you could. Start something in the middle of nowhere—half a joke, half not—just to see the way he’d react.
It didn’t go unnoticed. Robby had picked up on it within the first few weeks.
Some shitty bar down the road with shittier beer, end of shift, nothing special—and all Jack could do was watch you.
“The hell did you find her?” Robby asked, leaning against the bar, eyes flicking between Jack and where you were across the room, laughing too loud at something Ellis had said, drink loose in your hand.
Jack followed his line of sight without meaning to. It softened him, visibly.
“She found me,” he said, like that explained anything. Took a sip of his beer. “Cafeteria. First week at PTMC.”
Robby hummed, unconvinced. “Right. Of course she did.”
Jack shrugged, trying for casual. “She’s… enthusiastic.”
Robby glanced back at you, just in time to see the way your attention shifted mid-conversation—like something had tugged on you. Your eyes landed on Jack immediately.
Locked. And then—there it was. That smile. Not polite, not social. Specific.
“Yeah,” Robby muttered. “That’s one word for it.”
You were already moving.
Didn’t even finish whatever you were saying, just peeled off like the rest of the room had lost its relevance. Straight line to Jack, weaving through people without hesitation.
You slipped into his space like you belonged there, like you always had.
“Hi,” you said, bright, a little breathless. “Missed you.”
Jack blinked. “You’ve been gone fifteen minutes.”
“Felt longer,” you shrugged, already reaching for him—fingers brushing over his bicep, then squeezing, slow and appreciative, like you were reminding yourself he was real. “I love this shirt.”
Robby snorted into his drink. He knew that shirt. Cheap, slightly too tight on purpose. Jack had once tried to pretend it wasn’t a strategy. Apparently, it was working.
You didn’t move away. If anything, you leaned closer—hips brushing his, hand still on his arm, thumb dragging once like you couldn’t quite help it.
Robby watched the exact second Jack stopped pretending this wasn’t affecting him.
“You busy?” you asked, softer now.
You tilted your head, smiling like you already knew the answer.
Then you leaned in.
Close enough that Robby couldn’t hear, but not subtle about it either—your mouth brushing Jack’s ear, your hand tightening slightly on his arm as you murmured something low.
Whatever it was, Jack went still.Immediate. A shift. Shoulders tightening, breath catching, eyes dropping to you like he needed a second to recalibrate.
Robby raised a brow. You pulled back like nothing had happened, smile sweet, completely unbothered. Jack set his beer down.
“We’re heading out,” he said.
Robby stared at him. “You just got here.”
“Yeah,” Jack replied, already reaching for his jacket. “We’re done.”
Jack had called it the honeymoon phase. It wasn’t. It just… evolved.
You stayed exactly as enthusiastic as he’d first described—just more efficient about it. More integrated into the rhythm of your lives. Somehow worse, if you asked Robby.
And when you were stressed—which was often, given Ortho, given your hours, given you—it got worse. Or better, depending on who you asked.
You’d come home wired, exhausted, brain still running at full speed—and instead of shutting down, you’d go straight to him. Like he was the off-switch. Like being close to him, touching him, feeling him, was how you came back to yourself.
You didn’t overthink it. You didn’t ration it.
And now nothing. He’s not sure if he recognises you.
It’s not just the sex. That’s the worst of it, sure. The obvious absence. But it’s everything else that’s starting to wear on him. You’re thorough with it. Annoyingly disciplined.
★★★
Day Six.
He gets home just after eight in the morning, dead on his feet, the kind of tired that sits behind his eyes and dulls everything out.
The apartment’s not quiet. That’s the first thing.
The second— You.
On the floor in the lounge, in the middle of a yoga mat, moving through a pose like this is something you’ve always done. You quit yoga a year ago. Said it was boring. Said you couldn’t sit still long enough.
And yet here you are. And Santos is with you. Which is… its own problem. There’s a lot to unpack there.
Why does Santos know where you live?
Why is Santos doing yoga?
Why are you wearing that—some tight, soft, barely-there athleisure set that looks like it was designed specifically to make his life harder?
“Hi, baby!” you call, bright, easy, like nothing’s changed, as you both move into cobra.
“Gross,” Santos mutters under her breath.
“Hey, hon,” Jack says, voice rough with fatigue as he steps in, toeing off his shoes.
The coffee table’s been shoved aside, the TV playing some overly calm instructor guiding you through it like this is a wellness retreat instead of his living room.
He walks over anyway—automatic, like always. Bends down, aiming for your mouth—
—and you shift just slightly.
It’s subtle. Anyone else wouldn’t clock it. But he does.
His kiss lands on your cheek instead.
You don’t even break the pose.
“No kisses during yoga, interrupts my zen,” you remind him lightly.
A beat.
“Right,” he says, quieter. “Forgot about that.”
There’s the faintest pause—just enough to feel it.
“Feels like it’s all the time lately,” he adds under his breath. Then, correcting himself, “But—yeah. I get it.”
You hum, already moving out of cobra like nothing’s happened.
He straightens, slower now, glancing at Santos.
She rolls her eyes.
“Next pose,” she says flatly.
You shift without hesitation.
“You should shower, then have some breakfast,” you tell him gently, already moving into child’s pose. “I made oats. They’re in the fridge.”
“Oats?” he repeats. “Since when do you eat oats?”
“It’s good for your gut, heart health, digestion, blood sugar,” Santos answers, not looking up. “Cleansing in some cultures.”
Jack blinks at her. “…Right. I’ve been a doctor for twenty years. Think I’ve got gut health covered, Trinity.”
“I don’t think your army rations count as a gut health plan,” she shoots back.
You let out a small laugh into the mat.
“I thought you said oats were for Victorian children and farmers who hate themselves,” Jack adds to you.
“They are,” you mumble. “But these have honey and cinnamon.”
Santos chimes. “And spite.”
Jack just stares at the two of you for a second.
Looking at you—folded into the pose, calm, deliberate. Not reaching for him. Not pulling him down. Like he’s background noise.
“Okay,” he says finally, a little clipped. “You two… have fun.” He drags a hand over his face. “I’m gonna sleep for about five hours.”
He turns, already heading for the bedroom, shoulders a little tighter than when he walked in.
You glance up, watching him go.
There’s a beat of silence.
Santos shifts beside you into a side plank, already shaking slightly. “Jesus Christ.”
You follow, steady.
“He seems… stable,” she says.
“He’s a bit grumpy,” you reply. “We haven’t touched in nearly a week.”
Santos’s head snaps toward you. “So?”
“We’re touchy people.”
“Right,” she nods once. “I hate happy couples.”
You huff a quiet laugh.
“This was your idea, by the way,” you remind her.
“Yeah, and it’s a good one,” she says immediately. “I needed to not text Garcia at 2AM and ruin my life again.”
“You could just… not text her.”
Santos looks at you like you’ve said something deeply stupid. “Oh, yeah. Genius. Why didn’t I think of that?”
You smile slightly.
“She blocked me last night,” Santos adds, flat.
“Oh.”
“Yeah. ‘For her peace.’” She makes air quotes with one hand, nearly losing balance. “Which is crazy, because I’m incredibly peaceful.”
“Well, this detox thing is a great idea. You’ll cleanse yourself of her.”
“Evil lesbians are not for the weak.”
“Hon, where are those scented candles?” Jack calls from the hallway, voice carrying through the apartment.
“I threw them out,” you call back. “They release benzene. Cleansing, remember?”
There’s a pause.
“…Of course you did,” he mutters, just loud enough.
Santos snorts as you both move into the next stretch, threading your arm under your body.
“Bit much, isn’t it?” she says.
You exhale into the mat. “I am going to be so aggressively cleansed by the end of this, you’d consider me the Virgin Mary.”
★★★
Day Nine.
Virgin Mary, my ass.
That’s all Jack can think as he leans in the doorway for a second too long, watching you at the counter. Pink, ridiculous, barely-there panties.
The ones from Valentine’s. His t-shirt hanging off you like it belongs there, cut just high enough that every small shift of your hips flashes skin he knows too well. Music hums low from the radio—something easy, something you’re half-swaying to as you chop vegetables like this is just… normal.
He’s been up maybe five minutes. Has to leave in thirty. And he’s already half-hard. He pushes off the doorway anyway. Walks up behind you like muscle memory.
His arms come around you slow, familiar—settling over your waist, pulling you back into him. He feels the way you soften immediately, that slight melt into his chest like your body still knows him, even if you’re being… whatever this is.
You startle just a little, then relax.
“Hey,” you murmur, turning your head slightly as he drops his chin to your shoulder. “You’re up.”
“Mhm,” he hums, already pressing his mouth to your neck.
He doesn’t even pretend restraint. Just goes for it—slow, lazy kisses wherever he can reach, nosing along your skin, breathing you in like he’s been deprived, because he has.Which—he has.
“What’re you making?” he asks against you, voice rougher than he means it to be.
“Food prep,” you say, though it comes out softer than that. A little breath slipping through when he finds that spot under your ear.
“Shit—Jack,” you add, quieter now, the knife slowing in your hand. “You can’t.”
He smiles against your skin. Not nice about it.
“I can’t,” he repeats, low. “Or you can’t?”
His hands move without asking—sliding under the hem of his shirt on you, palms warm against your stomach first. Familiar. Testing.
You inhale sharply. He doesn’t stop. Just keeps going—slow, deliberate—up over your ribs, feeling the curve of you, the heat of your skin, until his hands settle over your chest. Not rough. Not greedy. Like he belongs there. Because he does. Or he did.
Your hand stills completely on the counter.
“Jack,” you say again, but it’s weaker this time. Less conviction, more breath.
He presses another kiss just below your ear, voice dropping.
“Been real good about this,” he murmurs. “Haven’t I?”
You don’t answer.
Because he has. You're not making it easy, after Santos suggested to have more fun with it. So, sure, you go for panties and shirt, maybe even the barely there nightgowns you bought a while back, feeling as he is completely still besides you in bed.
His touch shifts just slightly—not pushing, not crossing a line, but close enough to remind you exactly how easily he could.
Your head tips back a fraction before you catch yourself.
“No,” you say, firmer now, even as your body lags behind. “Nope. No, can’t. I’m staying cleansed. My book says even too much contact can make you unfocused.”
He exhales slowly, like he’s dragging himself back by force.
“Unfocused.. alright,” he mutters. “Whatever you want.”
But his hands don’t move right away. You finally set the knife down, turning in his arms so you’re facing him. Big mistake.
Because now you’re looking at him properly—sleep-rough, hair a mess, jaw shadowed, eyes still heavy but fixed on you like you’re the only thing in the room. And you know that look. You’ve felt what follows it.
“You should get a hobby,” you tell him quietly.
“Yeah?” he says, not looking away.
“Maybe pottery,” you shrug. “Something that isn’t being a SWAT medic and—” you hesitate just slightly, “—fucking me or whatever.”
His hands slide down your sides, slower this time. Reluctant.
“But I really like my hobbies,” he says, voice low, rough around the edges. “Especially fucking you, or whatever.”
The way he looks at you when he says it—like he’s imagining you in the most vulgar of situations—makes heat climb straight up your neck. You hate that it works.
He doesn’t move.
“Jack.”
“Just one kiss?” He asks.
You open your mouth to say yes, but you bite your lip and think for a second. You lean in pressing a deliberate kiss to his cheek, hand up to his neck, feeling how he melts under your touch.
You fingers briefly fidget with the grey curls at the nape of his neck, as his fingers dig slightly into your hips. You pull back.
“I’ll try pottery,” he mutters.
You smile—small, controlled. Infuriating. Then he lets you go. Barely.
You watch him walk off toward the bedroom, running a hand through his hair like he’s trying to shake it off, his own shirt fitted against him, rising, tight against his biceps, and the second he’s out of sight—
You exhale. Your grip tightens on the counter, head tipping forward for a second. This is... harder than you thought it’d be.
It’s him. The way he moves around you like it’s instinct. The way your body still answers before your brain catches up. The way one kiss feels like a warning.
If you touch him properly—if you let yourself lean into it even a little—you know exactly how it goes. There’s no halfway with him. There never has been. You've struggled to hold back with him.
You both work too hard, sleep too little. You orbit each other—shared meals, late-night TV, quiet mornings when they exist. He’s steady, solid, always there. And sex has always been part of that too.
You press your lips together, shaking your head slightly as you keep chopping, trying to focus. You should’ve fought harder on the point about no sex, but Santos seemed so pitiful, you don’t have the heart to tell her you broke or to lie.
Cleanse. Reset. Prove you’ve got discipline. Prove you’re not just running on impulse and instinct and whatever feels good in the moment. Focused...ness. All that.
It’s just you’ve never seen him like this. Not like this kind of worked up. Not this restless, this… needy. Your thighs press together instinctively, heat lingering, annoying and insistent.
“God,” you mutter under your breath, grabbing the knife again like that’ll ground you. “Pathetic.”
★★★
Day Twelve.
“I cannot tell if you’re being serious right now,” Robby says, standing beside Jack in the elevator as they head down from the roof.
Jack doesn’t even look at him. “It’s psychological warfare.”
Robby scoffs. “Oh my god.”
“I’m serious,” Jack insists, dragging a hand over his face. “I can’t think straight. It’s like… cognitive impairment. I should get tested.”
“You need to get a grip,” Robby replies.
“You don’t get it,” Jack mutters. “You haven’t had a relationship like this in—what, a decade? More? This isn’t casual. This is… routine. Structure. Stability.” He gestures vaguely. “We live together. We’ve got a system.”
“A system,” Robby repeats, flat.
“Yes,” Jack says, defensive. “And she’s dismantled it. Completely. No warning. Just—gone. Overnight. You know her, she's all over me usually. And I’m a touchy guy, man, I feel like a sunflower without sun. She is my sun.”
Robby exhales through his nose. “It’s been two weeks.”
“Twelve days,” Jack corrects. “That’s long enough to destabilise a man.”
The elevator dings. Doors open. A couple of nurses step in.
Jack lowers his voice, but not his intensity.
“She won’t even cuddle with me,” he mutters. “Do you understand that? Cuddling. Baseline intimacy. Gone. She almost slept on the couch the other night because she thought she might—”
He cuts himself off as one of the nurses glances over.
Jack exhales sharply, jaw ticking. “It’s like… all that energy I spent with her, is just… Like I’m all—”
“Do not say pent up,” Robby murmurs.
“I’m pent up, man,” Jack says anyway, under his breath. “I don’t—”
“Jesus Christ.”
“And she keeps wearing—”
“—and that’s our stop,” Robby cuts in quickly as the doors open.
They step out into the corridor, quieter now. Both hit the sanitiser on instinct.
Jack rubs his hands together, restless. “She’s doing it on purpose.”
“No, she isn’t.”
“She is,” Jack insists. “She knows exactly what I like. The shirts, the—lack of shirts. The shorts. The yoga. The fucking… tiny nightgowns. Sheer, too. Door open when she showers. It’s targeted.”
“Or,” Robby says, dry, “she’s a twenty-something woman existing in her own home.”
Jack ignores that. “And then—nothing. Won’t touch me. Won’t let me touch her. She kissed me on the cheek three days ago, and I was gonna… ruin my pants like an idiot. I feel like a teenager.”
Robby snorts. “You sound like one. She showers with the door open?”
“I’ve done tours,” Jack goes on, either ignoring or not hearing Robby’s query, quieter now, almost incredulous at himself. “I’ve been shot at. I’ve dealt with death at its worst. And somehow this is what’s got me pacing like a lunatic at three in the morning.”
Robby stops walking.
Grabs his shoulder.
“You hear yourself, right?”
“…Yeah,” Jack mutters. “Hearin' it.”
“Good,” Robby says. “Because it’s insane. And I’m tired of it, brother.”
Jack exhales, trying to reset—then his gaze shifts past Robby’s shoulder.
Locks. You.
At Central Four, mid-discussion with McKay and Mel, one hand braced lightly against a patient’s lower leg as you check the alignment on a fresh below-knee cast—thumbs pressing along the tibial crest, eyes flicking between the limb and the patient’s foot for perfusion. Focused. Calm. Explaining as you go, that steady, assured cadence you’ve grown into over the past couple years.
You look good. You always do, but—today is… worse. Yeah, he’s definitely pent up. Jack’s jaw tightens. Robby follows his line of sight, spots you, then looks back at him.
“You really look like a kicked puppy right now, bud.”
“Don’t.”
“I mean it,” Robby says. “It’s palpable.”
Jack exhales sharply. “I’ll be right back.”
“You aren’t going there.”
“I’m just gonna ask my girlfriend about her day.”
“No, you’re gonna say something deeply unprofessional to your girlfriend in the middle of a ward round,” Robby corrects. “While Shark is somewhere nearby, sensing weakness.”
“Right, ‘course, you’ve interrupted my plan to give her head in the middle of the ED,” Jack says, sarcastically, then a brief beat of thought. “God, If she asked me to I probably w-”
“-We need boundaries, man,” Robby says. “I don’t… You have fun with that.”
“Relax. It’s fine, we’re both clocking off now. Once she wraps up, we’re outta here.”
Jack glances back at you again. You laugh softly at something McKay says, adjusting the cast edge with careful fingers, smoothing it down. Your hand lingers just a second as you explain something to the patient—voice warm, easy, reassuring.
Mel nudges your shoulder, subtle, and tips her chin toward Jack.
You look up. Catch him. Smile. It’s small, but it lands.
Jack stiffens like he’s just been called to attention, gives you a tight nod—controlled, restrained—then abruptly turns and heads toward the station with Robby.
Robby snorts under his breath. “That was painful to watch.”
“I told you. Psychological warfare.”
McKay smirks a bit as she watches Jack retreat.
“What’s that about?” McKay murmurs, rolling her stool a little closer to the patient bed.
“Our detox program?” you say lightly, refocusing as you check distal circulation again. “Not a fan.” You glance to the patient. “Any numbness or tingling, ma’am?”
“No, love. Feels fine,” she says, half-distracted by her phone.
“Good,” you nod. “Let me know if that changes.”
McKay hums, folding her arms loosely. “Ah. The celibacy portion not going down well?”
You let out a quiet breath. “Not particularly. And I’m not being super easy on him about it either.”
“Yeah,” she says, dry. “Can’t imagine why.”
You suppress a smile, smoothing the cast. “Everything else is good, though. I’m committed now.”
“Mm,” McKay says. “Santos bullied us into it.”
“Santos encouraged it.”
“Santos got dumped and decided everyone else should suffer,” McKay corrects.
“That’s not—” you start, then pause. “…entirely inaccurate.”
Mel watches all of this with mild fascination, then looks back at the cast. “Um—can I try wrapping the next layer?”
You brighten a little. “Yeah, of course. Come here.”
You shift off the stool, making space. “Alright—support here,” you guide, hands hovering near hers. “Keep your tension even, don’t gap it.”
Mel nods seriously, concentrating.
McKay glances between you and the half-set cast, then back at you. “Are you feeling detoxed?”
You huff a quiet breath. “A little. More flexible, improved sleep, and a deeply irritated boyfriend.”
“Holistic wellness,” McKay deadpans.
You smile despite yourself. “And you?” you ask.
“Nope,” she sighs. “But Harrison’s loving the yoga mat, so at least someone’s thriving. And I wasn’t getting laid anyway, so—no real sacrifice on that front. But the no screens thing is doing wonders. I can feel my brain gaining another wrinkle.”
You snort softly, nudging Mel’s hand. “Smoother there—yeah, that’s it. Keep the overlap consistent.”
Mel adjusts, careful, precise, tongue just slightly between her teeth in concentration. McKay watches her for a second, then leans in a fraction closer to you, voice dropping just enough—
“He looks like he’s about five minutes from a breakdown.”
You don’t look over. “He’ll be fine.”
“Mm,” she hums. “He keeps looking at you between charts.”
“He always does that when I’m down here,” you say, a little softer.
“Yeah,” McKay replies. “Not like this.”
You ignore that, focusing instead on Mel’s technique. “Good—now just secure it there. Don’t pull too tight.”
Mel nods, finishing the wrap neatly. “Like that?”
“Perfect,” you say, genuinely pleased. “Nice work, Doctor King.”
Mel beams, small but proud. Behind you, you can feel it again—Jack’s attention, flicking back over, catching, lingering even when he forces it away.
You keep your eyes on the patient. But you’re aware of him. Constantly. And across the room, Jack shifts his weight, jaw tight, trying—and failing—not to look again.
Later, he finds you around the ED. You’re mid-conversation with Santos, focused, explaining something on the chart.
Jack walks up beside you, close enough that your arms brush. You don’t react. Don’t even break your sentence.
“…so we stabilise first, then reassess once imaging’s back—”
He waits. Nothing. Not even a glance. Santos clocks it immediately. Raises her brows.
“…Hi, Dr Abbot,” she says, dry.
You finally look up. “Oh—hey.”
He stares at you.
“…Hey, just... checking in,” he says, somewhat shy now.
You smile, polite. "All good here." Then turn straight back to Santos. “Anyway—like I was saying—”
He stands there for a second. Then another.
Robby, from across the station, watches the whole thing with poorly concealed amusement.
“…You gonna be okay?” he calls out.
Jack doesn’t look at him. “No,” he says flatly, before walking off.
★★★
Day Eighteen.
You’re supposed to be detoxing. Self-restraint. Discipline. Clarity.
Apparently, that also includes driving your boyfriend quietly insane in your living room.
“You need to be doing that right now?” Jack asks as he finally drops onto the couch, exhaustion dragging at him. Scrubs half-off, shirt discarded somewhere along the way before he drags a fresh one over his head, lazy, spent.
You don’t even look at him. “I can stop if you want,” you say, adjusting your stance—hands walking a little wider on the mat, hips tipping higher as you settle deeper into downward dog, covering a good half of the TV screen.
He watches the shift. The stretch. The way your shorts ride up just enough to be completely fucking useless.
He exhales slowly, dragging a hand over his face. “No, no—carry on. This is great. Very relaxing.”
You hum like you believe him. You don’t.
He leans back, head tipping against the couch as he reaches down, taking off his prosthetic with practiced ease, setting it aside. His body finally settles—but his eyes don’t.
They stay on you.
Track every adjustment.
You shift again—one leg lifting, extending behind you before you draw it through, slow, controlled, foot landing between your hands. Your back arches slightly as you ease into it. Jack’s jaw tightens.
“Park’s been on my ass lately,” you say, like this is normal conversation.
“Glad someone has,” Jack murmurs.
You shoot him a look.
“I’m sorry, baby, I’m just… distracted, I don’t know” He says, somewhat earnestly, dryly. “What is it about Shark?”
“He’s not as bad as you guys make him seem, he’s just got tunnel vision," You try, slowly repositioning. “But he can be such a dick sometimes. No concept of tact. I missed one chart the other day, and he ripped me a new one in front of the med students.”
And then you slide down. Slow. Controlled.
One leg extending forward, the other back, lowering into a full split like it’s nothing—hips sinking, spine straight, hands resting lightly on your thighs.
Jack actually goes still. That’s new.
“…Right,” he says, quieter now.
You keep talking. Like you haven’t just changed the entire atmosphere in the room.
“And I was gonna snap,” you continue, calm, measured, “but I did that breathing thing from the book. Actually worked. I didn’t react. I just… sat in it and breathed, five to two.”
“Yeah,” he says, voice a little rougher. “Looks like it’s working great.”
You shift out of it fluidly, folding in, then rolling onto your back—knees lifting, falling open as you stretch through your hips, one hand braced lightly on your stomach as you breathe through it.
Jack leans forward slightly before he catches himself, hand dragging over his jean clad thigh, like he’s trying to reset.
He’s trying to be good. You can see it.
Trying to sit still. Trying not to react. Trying not to reach for you.
You keep going anyway.
“So then Isla comes into the break room—did you know she’s getting divorced?” you say, drawing one knee closer, holding it there, breath catching just slightly at the stretch.
“Do you need help with that?” he asks, too quick.
“Nope,” you say immediately.
You don’t look at him.
Because you know exactly what that would do. You know exactly what this looks like from where he’s sitting. You know exactly what he’s thinking about, because you’re thinking about it too—the way he’s had you like this before, hands on you, holding you in place, your body not your own for a while.
You switch legs, pushing through it again, slower this time.
“Do you think he cheated?” you ask.
“Who?” His voice is tighter now.
“Isla’s husband.”
“Yeah,” he says after a beat. “Maybe.”
You let your leg drop, exhaling as you roll up, sitting back on your knees. Arms stretch overhead, spine lengthening, chest lifting.
Jack looks away this time.
Briefly.
Then back.
Like he can’t help it.
“I taught her the breathing thing,” you go on. “She calmed down immediately. I could totally pivot into this, you know. Wellness, mindfulness—”
“Yeah,” he cuts in, too fast. “You should absolutely do that.”
You glance at him now.
“Yeah, I’ll give up years of med school and fixing bones to teach whiny people how to lock in,” You joke.
“Whatever you want to do, baby,” He nods, eyes looking down at you on the floor, mind literally anywhere else.
“You look like a kicked dog right now. Was the yoga too much?”
“I’m fine,” he insists. “Robby said the same thing. Maybe I just have a pitiful face.”
You don’t disagree with that.
You look at him. Really look.
He’s not relaxed. Not even close. Shoulders tight despite the way he’s sitting, fingers flexing once against his knee like he needs something to do with them. His gaze flicks over you, then away, then back again like it’s a losing battle.
You stand, cross the room, and settle beside him, curling your feet under you so you’re facing him properly.
He immediately turns his head slightly away, like that helps.
“Thank you for putting up with this,” you murmur, softer now, even though it’s just the two of you. Then, almost casually—“Have you touched yourself at all?”
His inhale is sharp enough to answer before he does.
“No,” he says. Then, like he’s committing to honesty instead of dignity: “Figured we’re in this together. Minus… everything else. I can’t not do a line of cocaine before I go into work.”
That earns a small smile from you.
“Responsible of you,” you say.
“Have you?” He asks.
“Nope.”
“Are you struggling at all? Because it’s… you know, you… you really seem very comfortable with all this. This cleansing thing.”
You inhale sharply. “I’m doing great.” You lie.
“I feel like you’re forgetting how good our sex is,” He says.
You raise your brows, give it thought. “Or… I’m free from such… baseless temptations.”
“Baseless temptations had me eating you out for three hours, three times a week. Which in our line of work is a lot. And, at my age, a cardio workout.” He reminds.
Your tongue darts to your lips, eyes flicking away from him like it helps you regain control. It doesn’t.
“I should go,” you say, too casually. “Errands.”
Jack nods once, like he’s trying to behave. “Two more weeks.”
“Two more weeks,” you repeat.
You lean in and press a quick kiss to his cheek.
It’s small. Controlled. Safe.
Except it isn’t, because it’s the first real contact in ten days and your body reacts like it’s been starved of oxygen. Like you didn’t realise how much you were holding your breath until you finally touched him again.
He turns his head slightly before you fully pull away.
Just enough. Just enough to trap you in that in-between space—faces inches apart, his breath warm against your mouth, his eyes locked on yours like he’s waiting to see if you’ll fold, head tilted, just a bit, curious.
You shouldn’t.
You press your mouth to his. It’s chaste, sweet, PG. Lasts maybe three seconds, and it’s not long enough for him as you pull away, as if you’ve rewarded him, but he can’t help but be greedy when it comes to you.
“You can do better than that, baby,” he says quietly.
“Mm,” you reply, steadying yourself. “I can’t.”
A pause.
“Promise I won’t do anything,” he adds.
You look at him for a second too long.
Then you nod.
His hand comes up immediately, settling at the back of your head—gentle, anchoring, familiar in a way your body reacts to before your brain does, mouth agape. His thumb brushes your cheek once, slowly, briefly moves to your jaw and chin, over your bottom lip, your mouth opening, almost instinctually, but he moves it back to your cheek, not entertaining it further.
You kiss him again properly.
It starts off controlled—your mouth on his, testing, like you’re still trying to keep it within the rules you made for yourself. The moment he kisses back, the rules seem very silly. No hesitation, no easing in—just straight into it, like your bodies already know exactly what they’re doing, falling into step all over again.
Your hand lifts like you’re going to hold him off, going to stop it but it just hangs there uselessly, mid-air.
His mouth is on yours harder now, deeper, tongue sliding in like he’s done waiting for permission. Slow, but not gentle. Familiar in a way that makes your stomach drop—like your body reacts before your brain even catches up.
A small sound slips out of you without meaning to.
His hand at the back of your head tightens, fingers in your hair, not yanking but holding you exactly where he wants you. His other hand shifts at his crotch, you barely glance down at the corner of your eye, seeing as his palm moves over his hardening length beneath his jeans.
He exhales into your mouth, rough. “Damnit.”
You kiss him back harder, mouth opening more, his tongue dragging against yours again, slower this time but deeper, like he’s checking how far you’ll go if he just keeps pushing like this.
You make another sound—low, breathy—and he feels it immediately. You can tell by the way his hand tightens at the back of your neck, thumb pressing in like he’s grounding himself there, like he needs something solid to hold onto before he loses the plot completely.
“Mm—no more,” you manage, pulling back slightly, dazed. “No more. Errands. Oxygen. Meditation. Focus. Detox. Okay? Okay.”
“Okay,” he hums back, like he agrees, but he doesn’t move his eyes off you.
You’re both breathing heavier than you should be for a kiss that’s supposedly not doing anything.
He drags his tongue over his lips, slow, watching you properly now. Then his hand drops from your neck and he leans back a fraction—except he’s not actually done. He’s just shifting, exhaling through his nose like he’s trying to reset and failing.
You glance down.
He’s already adjusting himself, palming himself through his jeans, at the feeling and sight of you, far from subtle at all. His eyes flick between your face and your reaction like he’s half curious, half done pretending this isn’t affecting him.
You just stare for a second, hair slightly messier now from his grip, lips swollen, clearly trying to act normal and not really succeeding. Your eyes linger as you watch him become harder under the denim.
“Baseless temptation?” he echoes, dry, almost mocking, interested by your seeming entertainment.
“You’re ridiculous,” you mutter, swallowing, standing up like that fixes anything. “I’m going. Errands.”
“Mm,” he says, already unbuckling his belt properly now, like he’s given up on dignity for the moment. “That.”
You clear your throat, turning away too quickly. “Yeah. That.”
“Great detox, honey,” he calls after you, voice low, almost satisfied, like he’s both impressed and completely fucked by it.
You don’t look back when you walk out.
★★★
Day Twenty Two.
You were even stricter after your brief lapse on Day 18.
Santos had spiralled a bit after Garcia tried to re-enter her life—one text, then another, then a “just checking in” that meant absolutely nothing and everything at the same time. And Santos, for all her bite, was still soft where it counted. So she doubled down.
We resist.
You weren’t going to be the weak link in that. Not when she was white-knuckling her way through it.
So you didn’t argue. Didn’t say that your situation was devolving.
So. Yoga, reading, no screens—none of it was enough anymore. Not because you were failing, but because you’d started treating this like something to actually get through properly.
So you added structure.
Cooking, mostly. Proper cooking, technically normal, but now with a kind of performative discipline to it. Whole-food, vegetarian-heavy meals that smell intense enough to make Jack pause in the doorway like he’s trying to decide if he’s being punished or supported.
You explained something about how Santos had plenty of recipe choices, these were the best. He dreaded knowing the worst.
You’ve always cooked. So has he. It’s part of your relationship—easy, domestic, something you both fall back on without thinking.
But wow, the past three or four days have been a steady rotation of “cleansing” meals that are aggressively healthy in a way that feels almost personal and cruel.
You’ve also tightened everything else.
Early nights. Early mornings. You’re not avoiding him exactly—you’re just very efficient with your time now. No lingering in shared spaces. No sitting too close on the couch “by accident.” No hand brushing his back when you pass him in the hallway, even though that one clearly takes effort.
The hardest part was that you kept missing out on Housewives.
“Hon, you sure?” Jack had tried one night, hovering in the doorway. “It’s the mid-season finale.”
Pitch black room. Eye mask on.
“Tell me about it tomorrow,” you’d said.
He’d watched it alone. Hated it.
Even the small stuff has become intentional.
You’ve started drinking herbal tea that tastes like wet grass just to prove a point to yourself.
He’s started making coffee louder than necessary just to annoy you.
And still—you function.
You were both high-energy people—incapable of just sitting still without developing a new hobby or mild personality trait.
The apartment was proof: books half-read, yoga mats permanently out, easels you didn’t touch, Jack picking up SWAT shifts “for fun” like that’s a normal recreational activity.
And, historically, you’d had a very reliable outlet for all that excess energy. Now that’s been… aggressively decommissioned. So it lingers. In your body, in his shoulders, in the space between you—tight, charged, and just annoying enough to make everything feel a little harder than it needs to be.
The call comes down fast and ugly—trauma bay already prepped, voices sharp, movement tighter than usual.
Open tib-fib. High-energy. Motorcycle versus ute, no helmet.
You’re already pulling gloves on as you move, snapping them tight against your wrists, pace quick to match the rhythm of the room. Doctor Park is a step ahead of you—of course he is—already at the bedside, already assessing, already ten steps into the problem.
Robby and Jack linger to the side, Whitaker working the patient while they observe, supervise. Robby’s still here past his shift—because of course he is.
“Walk me through it,” Park says without looking at you.
“Mid-shaft tibial and fibular fracture, likely comminuted,” you reply immediately, eyes scanning. “Significant displacement. Possible vascular compromise—foot looks pale, delayed cap refill.”
“Good,” Park says shortly. “Check dorsalis pedis. Posterior tibial.”
You nod, moving in.
The leg is… bad. Angulated wrong, skin stretched too tight over something that shouldn’t be pressing there. Blood everywhere, soaked through layers Whitaker is trying—earnestly—to keep under control.
You don’t flinch. You tilt your head slightly, studying it like a problem you already want to solve, something in you clicking into place.
“Dorsalis pedis faint,” you say, fingers pressing in. “Posterior tibial—hard to appreciate.”
“Mm,” Park hums. “We reduce now.”
Behind Whitaker, Jack stands with his hands clasped behind his back, posture loose but attention razor sharp. Tracking everything—monitor, patient, Park.
You.
He hasn’t seen you all day. You left before he got home—left him in a cold bed, a note about oats, and absolutely nothing else. And now, every time he does see you, it feels deliberate. Like you’re making it harder.
Three weeks of this… discipline.
And now you’re here, calm, focused, humming under your breath like you haven’t been systematically ruining his life, like his muscles aren’t taut without getting to feel you under him or on him.
Jack’s jaw tightens.
“Traction,” Park says.
You nod, hands steady as you take hold above and below the fracture. “On you.”
“Now.”
You pull—firm, controlled. There’s a shift. A sickening, mechanical realignment as bone slides back into place.
Whitaker visibly winces.
“Better,” you murmur, almost satisfied.
Jack exhales through his nose. “Hold it,” he says, stepping in just slightly. “Pulse?”
Whitaker checks, brow furrowed. “Stronger. Still thready, but—better.”
“Good. Splint.”
You glance up—just briefly—and catch Jack already looking at you.
Not subtle. Not tonight. Something heavier in it. Sharper. Like he’s been holding onto something all shift and hasn’t decided where to put it.
You hold his gaze for half a second.
“Doctor,” you say, light.
He tilts his head a fraction. “Nice work,” he says, dry. Then, without missing a beat—“You leave that… green-orange situation in the fridge?”
You blink. “Are you—seriously?”
“I got four hours of sleep,” he shrugs. “I’m allowed one grievance.”
You briefly glance to Park who doesn’t seem to care or mind your minor chatter with Jack, looking at the monitors with a hardened gaze.
“It’s vegetable soup,” you say, adjusting your grip. “It’s good for you. Anti-inflammatory.”
Whitaker glances between you, confused. “Soup? Do you two live together?”
Jack ignores him completely. “Tastes like punishment.”
“Funny,” you say. “You seemed very into punishment a few weeks ago.”
Robby lets out a short, sharp laugh from the other side of the bed. “Oh, I’m awake now.”
“Not helpful,” Jack mutters, not even looking at him.
“You started it,” you shoot back, breath steady despite the strain in your arms. “Also, Robby likes my soup. Don’t you, Robinavitch?”
Robby raises both hands. “I’m not being... triangulated into whatever this is.”
“You’re making bone broth for my best friend now?” Jack goes on, like he didn’t hear that. “That’s where we’re at?”
“It’s not bone broth,” you correct. “And maybe I’d cook for you if you weren’t so moody—”
You cut yourself off, refocusing as the splint is brought in.
“Keep traction steady,” Jack says, tone snapping cleanly back to clinical—but there’s an edge under it now. “You’re drifting distal.”
You correct it immediately. “Better?”
“Yeah,” he nods. “Don’t let it shorten.”
Park finally glances back down, unimpressed. “If you’re both done flirting—”
“This is not flirting,” Jack and you say at the same time.
A beat.
Whitaker frowns. “…What is happening?”
Robby snorts. “I’ll tell you about it later. Celibacy ritual.”
“Robby,” Jack says, warning.
“What?” Robby shrugs. “I’m just saying. There’s context.”
“You told Robby?” you shoot at Jack.
He opens his mouth—
“I heard from Santos,” Robby cuts in, enjoying this far too much. “And McKay. Whole department knows you’ve gone monk mode.”
You scoff. “It’s not monk mode, it’s a detox.”
“Yeah,” Robby nods. “Abbot’s detoxing from joy, from what I can tell.”
Jack exhales sharply. “Can we focus?”
“You are the one who brought up soup. Besides, this guy’s gonna be fine. If he wasn’t, Shark here would’ve bit one of your heads off,” Robby shoots back.
Whitaker looks even more lost, Park stands off the side, giving Robby a brief glare before nodding back to you to continue.
“Angle your wrist,” you tell him, cutting through it. “You’re losing medial pressure.”
“Oh—right—sorry—”
“It’s fine. Just don’t let him bleed out.”
“Right. Yeah. Prefer that.”
Jack hovers just behind your shoulder now—close enough that you can feel the heat of him, the shift of his weight when you adjust yours.
He leans in slightly, voice low, for you.
“Breakfast tomorrow,” he murmurs. “Is it gonna be more… anti-inflammatory punishment?”
You don’t look at him. “Depends.”
“On?”
“How much you told Robby.”
He exhales a quiet, disbelieving breath, your words just for each other as the others get to work. “Just the basics. Nothing bad, just the weird bunny mask roleplay you’re into,” he jokes. “And I am not moody.”
“Debatable.”
“Reactionary to my dire circumstances some might say,” he mutters.
“You’re ridiculous.” You remark.
There’s the smallest pause. Then, softer, a bit quick, to make sure you know he means nothing bad by it—
“You look lovely, by the way. And I’d eat oxygen if you made it for me, promise. I love all your cleansing meals.”
You don’t respond to that. Not here, a small smile twitching at the corner of your lips.
“Secure it,” Park says, already moving on mentally. “Get him upstairs.”
You guide Whitaker through the final positioning, hands precise, controlled.
Jack steps back, watching you finish the job.
Still looking at you like that.
By the time you strip your gloves off, the room already shifting on, Robby’s watching you. Not subtle about it, an amused hint behind his tired eyes.
“When do you clock off?” you ask, tossing the gloves.
“An hour ago,” he says. “I stay for the live show now. Better than anything on TV.”
You huff. “How is he doing?”
Robby considers that, eyes narrowing like he’s actually weighing it up.
“Clinically?” he says. “Great. On top of it, always is. It’s annoying.”
“And not clinically?” you prompt.
He tilts his head. “Mm… a little rougher than usual,” he admits. “But he’s dramatic. You know ‘im.”
You grin. “Yeah, I do. It’s cute.”
“That’s certainly a word for it,” he mutters, jerking his chin subtly across the room. “Because he looks like he’s about to file a formal complaint with God.”
You follow the glance—Jack, shoulders tight, jaw set, mid-conversation with Park like he’s holding himself together out of sheer professionalism.
You look back, unfazed. “It’s temporary.”
Robby studies you for a beat, then huffs a laugh. “You’re enjoying this.”
You don’t even try to hide it. “A little bit. It’s fifty-fifty. It’s fun seeing him worked up, it’s annoying because we do have great sex. And I know that isn’t TMI for you because he tells me worse about your sex life.” You pause, then add, “Didn’t realise Hastings was so freaky.”
“Jesus,” Robby exhales, scratching at his beard. “You’ve been around him too long.”
“Occupational hazard,” you shrug.
He shakes his head, but there’s a smile tugging at it now despite himself.
There’s a small pause, then—more casually—
“Soup was good, by the way.”
You blink. “The vegetable one?”
“Yeah,” he nods. “Don’t tell him I said that.”
“He called it punishment.”
“He’s wrong,” Robby shrugs. “I had two bowls.”
You brighten, just a fraction. “See? Someone has taste.”
“Let’s not get carried away,” he says. “It’s still soup.”
You laugh under your breath.
He glances around, then back to you. “I think Shark’s already ditched you,” he adds, nodding toward the empty space where Park had been.
You swear quietly. “Fuck. Whatever. Nice seeing you.”
“You too,” he says, stepping aside.
You pass Jack on your way out, offering him a light, professional smile like nothing’s off at all.
“See you at home in a few hours.”
He watches you go, something unreadable flickering across his face.
“Love you,” he calls after you anyway, voice a little rough, arms folded as the room empties out.
“Love you too,” you say as you hurry out, not turning back.
You’re gone. Whitaker stands there for a second, still blood-specked, brain clearly lagging behind everything that just happened.
“I’m… still a bit confused about—” he gestures vaguely between where you were and where Jack is now, “—that.”
Jack shoots him a look. Then Robby. Then just shakes his head, already walking.
“Hey, what have you told her about me and Noelle?” Robby asks, following after, quiet, a bit antsy now.
Jack shakes his head immediately. “Nothing much, just the leash stuff you’re into. Anyway, I think you’re sleep deprived, man. Time to clock off, daywalkers.”
★★★
Day Twenty Nine.
“So, how’re we doing?” you ask, already halfway into the break room fridge like it’s part of your job description.
McKay and Santos are at the table with lunch. McKay looks as composed as ever—tired, but functional. Santos, on the other hand, looks like someone who has emotionally moved on from her entire relationship with Garcia but hasn’t informed her nervous system yet.
“Great,” Santos says immediately. Then, after a beat: “I stopped yoga.”
You glance over. “Why?”
“Pulled my calf,” she replies. “Turns out inner peace is physically unsafe.”
“Unfortunate,” you say, finding Jack’s labelled container and closing the fridge.
McKay watches you sit down. “That his lunch?”
“Yeah.”
“Doesn’t he need that later?” she asks.
“He’ll order takeout,” you say easily. “I’m doing him a favour. He keeps eating the stuff I make, even though I know he hates it, I think he thinks suffering is his virtue.”
Santos snorts. “He and Garcia would get along in a really unbearable way.”
You glance at her. “You miss her.”
She points at you with her fork. “Don’t.”
“You brought her up first.”
“That’s because you brought up food and suffering in the same sentence,” she shoots back. “It’s a trigger.”
McKay, calmly: “You both need to stop talking.”
You ignore her. You exhale, rubbing at your temple. You feel… weird. Wired. Like your body’s trying to replace one habit with ten others. You’ve thought about buying something three separate times this morning. Shoes, candles, a ridiculous blender you don’t need. You haven’t, obviously. Discipline. Wellness. Enlightenment.
“Where’s Robby?” you ask. “I can split this with him.”
“Talking to Gloria,” Santos says. “Looks like he’s in a mood. Snapped at Whitaker.”
“Great,” you mutter. “Two moody old attendings. Love that for you guys. I think Park might actually be more regulated than either of them.”
McKay doesn’t push it, just turns her attention back to you, calmer. “You’ve been very… consistent with this whole detox thing. Very controlled. Composed.”
Santos squints at you. “Almost spiritual, honestly. It’s impressive.”
You blink. “It’s just discipline.”
McKay hums. “Most people don’t call not having sex for a few weeks ‘discipline.’ They call it ‘being busy.’ Or just not having a high libido.”
You sigh, too quickly. “I’m just… glad it’s nearly over. I think Jack’s actually counting down the days.”
McKay tilts her head slightly at that but doesn’t bite yet, a slight purse in her lips. She makes eye contact with Santos. Santos bites back a smile. McKay begins to shake her head, as if reading her mind..
Santos, however, immediately does.
“So,” she says, leaning forward, “what’s he like?”
McKay shoots her a warning look over her fork.
“What?” Santos says, unbothered. “I’m curious. You thought of it too.”
“Like… personality-wise?” you try.
Santos waves a hand. “No. Don’t be boring.”
McKay mutters, “Oh God.”
Santos continues anyway, delighted now. “Like sex-wise. Come on. There has to be a reason he’s walking around like a man personally victimised by fucking… yoga and vegetables.”
You nearly choke. “Santos—”
“What?” she says. “I’m just saying. There’s clearly a secret here. He’s what, fifty-something? Night shift ED attending? You know how fucked you have to be to be the attending on night shift? Robby level fucked up. And you’re—” she gestures vaguely at you, “you. So either he’s got some hidden advantage or you’ve all been lying to yourselves.”
McKay, dry as ever: “Please stop talking.”
Santos ignores her. “Am I wrong?”
You stare at her.
“That’s not an answer,” she says.
McKay finally looks at you properly now, faintly amused despite herself. “You do not have to answer that.”
“I’m not going to answer that,” you say immediately.
Santos leans back, offended. “Okay, so it’s missionary.”
You blink. “And that's my cue to leave.”
“Doggy?” she tries. “Am I warm? Am I cold?”
You stand up. “I’m very happy for you and your recovery from Garcia, truly.”
McKay actually smiles now. “This is why I eat alone.”
Then, casually—
“Do you guys have threesomes with Robby?” Santos adds. “Got a vibe there.”
You don’t even hesitate. “Constantly. He’s actually the glue holding the relationship together. Into weird shit.”
McKay exhales through her nose.
Santos tilts her head. “I don’t believe you.”
“That sounds like a you problem. We host swinger parties, come by next Thursday if you want.”
Santos rolls her eyes, somewhat disappointed by your sarcasm. At that exact moment, Dana walks in. She stops, looks between all of you, then sighs.
“Oh no,” she says, immediately clocking the energy. “We having a party? What are youse talkin’ about in here?”
“Nothing,” McKay says instantly.
Santos says at the same time, “Abbot’s sex life. Featuring Robby, too.”
Dana physically recoils. “Oh Jesus Christ, why?”
You look at her like salvation. “Help.”
Dana points at Santos without hesitation. “No. Absolutely not. I’m not bein’ dragged into whatever this is.”
Then she looks at you, and her whole face softens a little. She gives you a nod, as if to ask if you’re well. You give a nod back, a small smile.
Dana claps once, decisive. “Alright. Trauma two. You two. Now. Move it.”
Santos groans. “You’re ruining my research.”
Dana points again. “Move. It. Out.”
★★★
Day Thirty Two.
Your schedules have always been a mess.
Some weeks you overlap perfectly—same shifts, same hours, brushing past each other in hallways, stealing five minutes in empty consult rooms, syncing like it’s easy. Other weeks, like this one, you exist on completely different timelines.
Park needs you flexible. Jack is the schedule. So you miss each other.
You leave just as he’s getting in. He leaves while you’re dead asleep. Nights bleed into days, days into nights, and suddenly it’s been forty-eight hours of doubles and you’ve communicated more through texts and post-it notes than actual words.
Eat something.
You too.
Left food in the fridge.
Miss you.
Jack finally makes it back into the apartment, adrenaline high shaking in his veins, excited to finally see you, feel you.
He shuts the door behind him, exhales—and then pauses.
“How are you cooking after working that long, baby?” he calls out, already loosening up as he moves toward the kitchen. “Challenge is over, I am going to give you the best damn head of your life and then cuddle like—”
“I’d cuddle with you,” Robby says from the stove, “but I’m busy right now. Preferably not the head part, though.”
Jack thinks for a moment, a slow nod.
“…You are not my girlfriend.”
Robby glances over his shoulder, unimpressed. “I like to think of us as work husbands, but yeah. Good observation.”
Jack just stares at him for a second, processing.
Then—“Why are you in my apartment?”
Robby sighs, turning back to the pot like this is his burden to bear. “This is not turning out well.”
He gestures vaguely at the spaghetti bolognese like it’s personally offended him.
“I followed her recipe,” he adds.
Jack moves further in, slower now, dropping his bag, still trying to catch up, somewhat antsy as he taps the counter repeatedly. “Where is she? She texted me she was home.”
“Shops,” Robby says. “Said she needed a few things. Asked me to start this because she didn’t wanna get changed and dirty her clothes, a surprise, or something.”
A beat.
“I think I’ve screwed this up,” he admits.
Jack sinks onto the stool at the island, scrubbing a hand over his face. “How do you fuck up spaghetti?”
Robby turns to him, dead serious. “Who puts that much sugar in a sauce?”
Jack doesn’t even hesitate. “She does. It’s good.”
Robby squints. “It feels offensive.”
“It’s not,” Jack mutters. “It’s… you know, balanced.”
Robby gestures at the pot again. “It’s dessert.”
Jack leans forward, peering into it like he’s assessing a trauma. “Did you reduce it?”
“…Did I what?”
Jack looks at him slowly. “Oh my God.”
“I stirred the thing, I don't know,” Robby defends.
“Yeah, I’m sure that helped,” Jack says dryly, already pushing himself up despite the protest in his leg. “Move.”
Robby steps aside with zero resistance. “Be my guest, chef.”
Jack takes over, grabbing a spoon, tasting it, making a face—not terrible, but not right.
“You didn’t salt it properly,” he says.
“I salted it.”
“You absolutely did not. I can even smell the absence of salt.”
Robby watches him work for a second, then glances at him sideways. “You look like shit, by the way.”
“Feel like it,” Jack mutters.
“You two haven’t seen each other?”
“Not properly.”
Robby nods once, like that explains everything. Then—casual, but not really—“Once you finally get laid and stop being so damn dramatic, I need help with Noelle. Bring your girl if you want, I told her the two of you’d meet. Tomorrow night?”
Jack doesn’t even look up. “My girl and I will be very busy, if all goes well, so, unlikely.”
“…I hate knowing things about you,” Robby mutters.
Jack huffs, stirring the sauce.
The front door clicks open. Both of them look up.
“Robby, you didn’t salt it—I can smell it,” you call out immediately as you step inside, toeing off your shoes.
“Salting it now, sweetheart,” Jack shoots back, not missing a beat. He flicks Robby a look. Robby scoffs.
You come in fully then, arms loaded with shopping bags—Victoria’s Secret, a couple of clothing stores, something small and overpriced in tissue paper. You were pretty keen to break that no shop rule, apparently.
“When’d you get back?” you ask.
“Five minutes ago,” Jack says, already moving toward you. “You walk? I would’ve picked you up.”
“I was trying to surprise you,” you say, smiling. “Robby wasn’t supposed to be part of it.”
“Shocking,” Robby mutters.
You barely register him—because Jack’s right there, closer now, and you really do not care about some cleansing shit anymore. You grab his shirt and pull him in, kissing him quick—warm, familiar, a little rushed like you’re making up for lost time in a single second.
You pull back just as fast.
“You look like shit,” you tell him, joking and dry.
“Yeah,” he says, softer now. “You look… really good.”
His hand slides up, brushing through your hair, lingering there a second longer than necessary.
You clear your throat, stepping away first. “Okay, how bad did he fuck the sauce?”
“I did not fuck the sauce that bad,” Robby says.
You move to the stove, peering in, grabbing a spoon. Taste. Pause.
“…It’s not that bad,” you admit. “Maybe a bit more sugar, not enough salt.”
Robby throws his hands up. “Of course it does. Why not throw chocolate in there while we’re at it?”
“Don’t tempt me,” you say lightly.
Robby exhales, grabbing his jacket. “Alright. I’m off. Dana’s gonna love that I delayed my shift because I was domestic here.”
“Tell her I said hi,” you call.
“I’m not telling her anything,” he mutters, heading out.
He pauses at the door, glances back at the two of you—at the way you’ve both unconsciously drifted closer again without noticing.
“Don’t give him a heart attack. At that age you never know,” he adds.
“Out!” Jack says.
Robby leaves.
The door shuts.
And just like that—
It’s quiet. No monitors. No pages. No interruptions. Just you and him. You don’t move at first, still standing by the stove, spoon in hand. He’s leaning against the island, watching you. Really watching you.
“Day Thirty Two, by the way,” he says.
“Really? Didn’t notice,” You shrug.
He nods, coming up besides you, watching as you stir the sauce.
“This is gonna take ages. He didn’t reduce anything. Useless,” You murmur, mostly sarcastic, as you look at it.
“Oh, you know Robby,” Jack sighs. “Can’t do anything right.”
You put the lid on top, lowering it to a simmer. You hum to yourself, feeling Jack’s eyes on you.
“C’mere,” he says.
You step in between his legs, your gaze dragging over him as his hands catch your waist, pulling you in. His grip is heavy, grounding, sliding over your hips like he’s relearning the shape of you after weeks of not touching.
“This alright?” he asks, quieter now—though his hand dips, squeezing your ass through the thin fabric of your dress.
You nod.
“Speak,” he adds, low.
“Yes.”
That does something to him. You see it—jaw tightening, breath shifting, his eyes darkening as they move over you slowly, deliberately. Chest. Lips. Eyes again.
“What am I gonna do with you?” he murmurs.
His hand comes up, sliding to the back of your neck, fingers spreading there, warm and steady. He tilts your face up, thumb brushing along your jaw, holding you in place like he’s taking his time deciding something.
You can’t quite read him. It’s too much at once.
His thumb drifts lower, pausing at your bottom lip. You hesitate—barely—but he notices.
“Go on,” he murmurs, giving a small nod.
You do. Tongue slow, tentative at first, wrapping your mouth around the digit, then steadier, your focus slipping as his breathing changes—subtle, but not enough to hide it. His shoulders pull back slightly, tension running through him like he’s holding himself in check.
He exhales, eyes still locked on you.
“Yeah,” he mutters under his breath.
“Want another?” he asks after a second, voice rougher now.
“Mhm.”
He moves his index and middle, thumb dropped to your chin, your saliva coating your jaw slightly as you suck the digits. He watches you for a beat longer, like he’s considering pushing it further—then drags his hand away instead, jaw tightening again.
“Bedroom,” he says, quieter, but it lands just as firm.
His other hand slides down your side, lifting the hem of your dress just enough to make his gaze dip—brief, restrained—before he turns you, your back to his chest, guiding you away.
“I’m running on an adrenaline high from work, I’m gonna fuck you, then we’re gonna cuddle and sleep for twelve hours,” he adds, voice low behind you. “That sound good to you?”
You turn your head, looking at him behind you. “Love you too,” You give him a quick kiss to his lips, feeling him smile from that.
You head down the hall, already pulling the dress up and over your head, not looking back—but you can feel his eyes on you until you disappear.
Behind you, the stove clicks off.
A second later, you hear him move—quick now, like whatever control he had left is running out.
“You know, I was talking to Santos about our whole… challenge,” you start, slipping your dress off and draping it over the chair. You catch your reflection in the mirror, thumb swiping under your eye to fix the faint smudge of mascara. “Turns out she lasted all of ten days before she slept with Garcia.”
He huffs a quiet breath against your shoulder, voice rough where it meets your skin. “So all that torture for nothing?”
“Torture’s dramatic,” you murmur, but there’s a smile tugging at it.
“You did it on purpose,” he counters, hand sliding up to cup your tit, squeezing through the fabric of your bra like he’s testing a theory he already knows the answer to. “Walkin’ around in those… stupid shorts, the yoga, that little nightgown—won’t even kiss me, won’t even touch me.” His thumb drags slow, deliberate. “You know what that does to a man? That kind of taunting?”
You let your head tip back against his shoulder, soft, unbothered on the surface even as your breath shifts. “I think I’ve got an idea.”
“Yeah?” His mouth finds the space under your ear, kisses turning slower, heavier—less rushed now, more deliberate. He sucks at your neck, groaning low when you push back into him, feeling the way he’s already half-hard under your touch.
You turn suddenly, hands braced on his shoulders, guiding him back until his knees hit the mattress. “I lied,” you admit, pressing him down to sit. “About not touching myself.”
His brows lift, something amused and dark flickering there as his hands move instinctively—reaching behind you, unclipping your bra with practiced ease. “You? Lie?” he mutters, watching as you pull it off and toss it aside. “What happened to Miss Wellness Mary Magdalene?”
You barely get a breath out before his hands are back on you, over your tits, fingers pinching at your nipples, rougher now, less patient—palming, shaping, like he’s reacquainting himself. His mouth follows, pressing to your tits, tongue warm, stubble dragging just enough to make you jolt.
“It’s bullshit,” you breathe, the words breaking as he closes his mouth around your nipples, the sensation sharp and grounding all at once. “I was miserable the whole time.”
“Yeah?”
“Mm. The vegetable soup was shit. I miss my phone. Yoga is boring. I like tequila,” you say, feeling his chuckle vibrate against your skin as he kisses over your sternum.
“What else?”
“I like sex,” you tell him, whimpering as his teeth drag over your nipple briefly, the sharp tug making your core clench. His other hand travels over your stomach to the pink panties, fidgeting with the sides of the material over your hip.
You climb onto him, knees spreading wide beside his thighs, your body hovering just above his. “I really like it when you touch me. I like touching you. I like when—” He cups your clothed pussy, his palm pressing firmly against the damp fabric.
“You like that?” he wonders, voice low and almost casual, watching as you moan at the contact, your arousal soaking through the panties instantly. “Speak, sweetheart.”
“You know I like that,” you gasp, grinding down against his hand instinctively.
He nods. “Damn right I do,” His fingers slip beneath the edge of your panties, tracing the slick folds of your pussy with deliberate slowness, teasing the entrance before pushing one thick digit inside you.
The intrusion is warm and welcome, stretching you just enough to make you clench around him. He curls it slowly, stroking that sensitive spot deep within your walls, the pad of his finger rubbing in firm, unhurried circles that make your thighs tremble and your breath hitch.
You rock against his hand, chasing the building pressure. He adds a second finger without warning, scissoring them gently to open you up, then pumping them in and out with deliberate thrusts—shallow at first, then deeper, his knuckles brushing your clit on every inward slide.
His thumb finds your clit, circling it with rough, insistent pressure, alternating between tight loops and light flicks that draw out breathy cries from your lips. The wet sounds of his fingers fucking you fill the room mingling with your moans as he watches your face intently, eyes dark with hunger, drinking in every twitch and gasp.
“How about this? You like it when I fuck you with my fingers?” he asks, his voice a gravelly rumble, free hand gripping your hip to steady your grinding.
“Mhm,” you whine, riding his hand harder now, your pussy fluttering around the invading digits as they twist and probe, hitting that spot again and again.
He slides in a third finger, gently stretching you out, the fullness making you gasp as he kisses at your neck, lips hot and sucking lightly on the skin. You moan into his mouth when he claims your lips in a messy kiss, tongues tangling as his fingers maintain their rhythm—curling, thrusting, spreading you wider with each pass.
He varies the pace, slowing to a torturous drag that lets you feel every ridge and vein on his fingers, then speeding up to plunge deep and fast, his palm slapping wetly against your mound.
“That’s right, atta girl, doin’ so well, aren’t you?” he murmurs against your throat, nipping at the pulse point while his thumb resumes those relentless circles on your clit, pressing harder now, building the ache into something electric.
He watches as you ride his fingers, your juices dripping down his wrist, the obscene squelch growing louder with every movement.
“What’d you think of when you touched yourself, honey? You thinka me?”
You nod frantically, words caught up in your moans, your walls clenching tighter around him. “Uh-huh,” you whine as he curls his fingers deeper into you, hooking them to stroke that bundle of nerves with precision, his other hand sliding up to pinch and roll your nipple, adding sparks of sensation everywhere.
He keeps you teetering, easing off just when you get close—pulling his fingers almost all the way out before slamming them back in, thumb pausing its circles to let the tension simmer. Then he ramps it up again, fingers pistoning faster, thumb vibrating against your swollen clit. Sweat beads on your skin, your breaths coming in short, desperate pants as the coil in your belly winds impossibly tight.
“C’mon, baby, let go f’me,” he murmurs, kissing at your neck with open-mouthed presses, his teeth grazing your earlobe.
He feels as you tense and tighten around his fingers, hips bucking erratically, thighs quivering you come undone, jaw agape as your body stills over him, warm and melting.
“You come when you touch yourself?” he asks, quieter now.
His hand leaves you, trailing over your hips as he guides you back onto the bed. You go easily, breath unsteady, the anticipation settling into something heavier as you lie there, bare and waiting.
You shake your head.
“You?” you ask, your hand drifting instinctively over yourself, fingers trailing over your core, testing the sensitivity, your eyes flicking back to him.
He gives a short shake of his head, rolling his neck once like he’s trying to keep himself together.
“Still got enough in you?” you murmur, a little teasing. “Or did that shift kill you?”
He huffs a breath—half laugh, half something tighter. “I’d find the energy,” he says, stepping out of his scrubs, not taking his eyes off you. “Don’t worry about that.”
You watch him move, slower now but deliberate, like he’s pacing himself instead of rushing it.
“You wanna take that off?” you start, glancing down to his prosthetic.
He follows your gaze, then looks back at you. “In a minute,” he says, already leaning over you again. “Wanna make sure I remember what you taste like first.”
He slides a pillow beneath your head, then gently eases your knees apart. You give a small nod. When his tongue traces slowly across your center, your body responds instantly—back arching, breath catching. His palm presses firmly against your stomach, keeping you anchored.
“Stay still f’me, can you, baby?” He murmurs against you, barely enough for you to hear.
You gasp his name between ragged breaths, managing to nod yes, your fingers threading through his salt-and-pepper curls. His mouth moves against you with deliberate patience—soft yet demanding—and your lungs empty completely, replaced by something molten and urgent.
“Atta girl, you feel good yeah, baby?” He hums.
You nod fast. Your thighs tremble against his shoulders as he tastes you with unhurried determination, as though time has ceased to exist beyond this bed, beyond this moment. When his tongue finds that perfect rhythm, that perfect spot, coherent thought dissolves into desperate pleas that barely form words.
He groans against your center, vibrating against you as you claw at his nape, nails digging into his sun-kissed, freckled skin with desperate urgency. “God, fuck, I missed this,” you say,
His tongue, slick and insistent, flicks against your clit, drawing out your orgasm with relentless precision. You feel the heat of your release coating his tongue, his lips, and he devours it hungrily, as if it's the sweetest nectar he's ever tasted.
“Please, please, fuck,” You mumble, brain foggy as his tongue sweeps over you with a kind of desperation of a starving man.
His fingers digging into your hips, holding you in place as he feasts on you. You can feel his hot breath against your sensitive flesh, his tongue delving into every crevice, every fold as you come undone, moans loud to the point where you throw your hand over your mouth, biting down into your palm.
You let out a shaky breath, head back as he kisses your inner thighs, gentle, stubble coated in your orgasm before he climbs back over you, kissing you, deep, as you taste yourself on his tongue.
“Once I wake up—after fucking you—obviously,” He murmurs against you, sloppy tongues colliding. “I’ll do that for three hours, until you can’t walk, alright?”
You moan at the thought, nodding. You believe him because he’s done it on many occasions. You think he just likes doing it to get you to go to sleep sometimes or knock you out and he can take care of you or something. That and he just entirely gets off on you.
“Fuck willpower,” He says against you as he briefly tests your folds with fingers over your sensitive clit, watching your mouth open in a small whine, lashes fluttering, another hand pulling your body even closer, as you wrap your legs around his waist. “Fuck being cleansed, alright?”
“Mm,” You say, watching as he swallows, you’re watching maybe the toll of his shift start to come back physically and you move your hands to his cheek, away from where’d he place them above your head.
You don’t say anything, just still him briefly, eyes wide, a nod, a check in. He nods, mouth twitching in a smile.
He hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his boxers, pushing them down with a practiced ease born from years of undressing after long shifts. His cock hard and eager, his breath hitching as you wrap your hand around his length, your touch sending electric shocks through him.
You spit into your palm, the wet sound echoing in the quiet room, and he groans, a low, guttural sound that vibrates through him. Your hand moves over his cock, slick and smooth, your fingers tracing the veins, your thumb rubbing over the sensitive head. He curses under his breath, a string of words that would make a sailor blush, his hips jerking forward, seeking more of your touch.
“Shit… fucking hell– You keep doing that this is gonna a lot quicker than I mentally planned for.” He tells you.
“What’d you mentally plan for?” You chuckle, a low, sultry sound that sends shivers down his spine, your hand never pausing in its slow, torturous rhythm.
“Well, six hours of foreplay,” he moves his cock over your pussy, gliding it over your folds, amused by your gasp of a moan. “Six hours of shower sex, kitchen, couch, each. Obviously six… emotionally… intelligent, beautiful conversation about life and marriage. Ever thought about wanting a third?”
“I don’t know, have you?” You murmur, watching as he taunts you as he moves his cock over your pussy, the head slipping through your folds, coating itself in your wetness. You gasp, your back arching, your hips lifting to meet him. He groans, his eyes fluttering closed, savoring the feel of you.
“Christ,” He murmurs, absentmindedly, then, with a slow, steady push, he slides into you, his cock filling you completely. You moan, your nails digging into his back, your body arching into his. “Maybe. I don’t know. We can talk about this later.”
He’s still for a moment, body hot and warm above you as his hand grips onto your hips. You let out a shaky breath and smile. “You alright there, old man?”
“Heavenly,” he says quite earnestly, leaning to kiss you down at your neck. “Missed this. God, it’s like you’re made for me. So goddamn perfect.”
You clench slightly at his words, hearing as he groans at that, vibrating against your skin. A moment passes before you start getting desperate for action.
“Please move, baby,” You ask, looking up at him with eagerness.
“‘Course, whatever you want, sweetheart,” He kisses your lips softly, before moving.
Pulling out slowly before sliding back in, his pace steady and sure. With each thrust, he swallows your moans with his kisses, his hands tangling in your hair, his body pressing you into the mattress. You can feel every inch of him, every ridge and vein, and it's perfect.
His tongue dances with yours, exploring your mouth, tasting you. His hand tangles in your hair, his grip firm but not painful, tilting your head back to deepen the kiss. You moan into his mouth, your body arching into his, your nails digging into his back.
He pulls back, his breath ragged, his eyes dark with desire. "You feel so good," he murmurs, his voice hoarse. "So fucking good."
You can only nod, your words lost in the pleasure that's coursing through your veins. He starts to move faster, his hips snapping forward, his cock sliding in and out of you with increasing urgency. You can feel the pleasure building, the tension coiling in your belly, your pussy clenching around him.
His hand travels from your hair to your face, cupping your cheek, keeping your eyes on him. You gasp, your eyes fluttering closed, your body arching into his touch. He groans, his cock twitching inside you at the sight of you losing yourself in his touch.
He gently moves two fingers down your chest and stomach, landing at your core, above where he fucks you. He circles your clit, his touch firm and steady, drawing tight circles that make your hips buck off the bed. You let out a low moan, your body tensing, your breath coming in short gasps.
He can see your arousal coating his cock, your slick gathering around the base, and it spurs him on. He leans down, his lips finding your ear. "You like that, don't you?" he murmurs, his voice low and rough. "You like feeling me stretch you, filling you up?"
“Yes, yes, mhm,” you try, nails moving from his back to his biceps, hard and taught beneath your touch.
He starts to move faster, his hips slamming into you, his cock sliding in and out of you with increasing urgency. You can feel the pleasure building, the tension coiling in your belly, your pussy clenching around him.
His weight edges off just enough, bracing more through his arms and left side, breath going a touch uneven where it presses against your shoulder. Not stopping—he’d push through it if you let him—but compensating. You feel it.
Your hands slide up his back, slower now, anchoring “Take it off, baby,” you murmur softly, glancing down toward the prosthetic. “You’ve had it on too long.”
He eases to a stop, controlled, careful not to jostle you as he shifts his weight fully off. You guide him back with you, hands steady at his sides, both of you moving without needing to overthink it—this part practiced, familiar.
He settles against the pillows with a small exhale, rolling his shoulder once as if resetting himself. You stay close, one hand resting at his hip, the other brushing briefly up his chest—grounding, not rushing him.
He reaches down, undoing the prosthetic with efficient movements, years of muscle memory. There’s no awkwardness to it, no self-consciousness—just a small release in his face as it comes free. You take it from him without comment, setting it at the foot of the bed like you always do.
“Better?” you ask, thumb tracing idly along his side.
He nods once, eyes flicking back to you, something softer under the edge of want. “Yeah. C’mere.”
You shift back over him, settling in close again, your knees bracketing his hips, easy and familiar. You lean down to kiss him, long and sweet, less immodest as your other ones, maybe. Just maybe, as his hands immediately find your ass, helping your back arch into him, cock still hard as you slide over it, folds wet and sensitive.
“God, you’re–” He groans as you bite at his bottom lip, pulling it back, as you kiss down his chest. “Gonna be the death of me.”
You lean down, your tongue flicking out to taste his skin, tracing a path down his chest, over his stomach, until you reach the V that leads to his cock. You look up at him, your eyes meeting his, and you can see the anticipation in them.
You take your time, your tongue sliding over his shaft, from base to tip, feeling him pulse under your touch.
“Great way to go,” he murmurs as he watches you.
You take him into your mouth, feeling him slide over your tongue, your lips stretching to accommodate him. He groans, his hand finding your hair, not pulling, just gripping, as you take him deeper, your mouth warm and wet. You can feel him, hard and throbbing, and you know he's close, with how his arms tighten and tense, fingers tighter on your scalp.
You pull back, your tongue flicking over the head of his cock, tasting the precum that beads at the tip. You sit back, straightening your spine, and look at him. His eyes are on you, hungry and intense.
You spit on his cock, watching as the saliva slides down his shaft, making it glisten in the soft light. You rise up, your knees bracketing his hips, and lower yourself onto him, feeling him slide into you, inch by inch.
“Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck,” you whimper as you settle on top, nails over his chest.
He groans, his hands finding your hips, holding you in place as he thrusts up into you. You can feel him, deep and hard, filling you completely. You start to move, your body rolling and grinding against him, your hips moving in a slow, steady rhythm.
His hands roam over your body, one staying on your hip, guiding your movements, the other trailing up your stomach, over your breasts, squeezing them, his thumb brushing over your nipple. You gasp, your head falling back.
His thumb circling your nipple, sending jolts of pleasure straight to your core. He starts to talk you through it, his voice slow and steady, a counterpoint to the fast, hard rhythm of your bodies. "You're so fucking beautiful, riding me like this. God- so tight and wet for me, aren’t you, sweetheart?"
His words send a shiver through you, your body tensing, your breath hitching in your throat.
“Yeah? Yeah, that’s right, that’s right," he mutters. “C’mon, baby, right there f’me, you’re doing so good.”
“Please,” you moan, hips grinding down against him.
“You need help, honey? Just ask,” He sits up, his chest pressing against yours, his breath hot on your neck. He reaches between you, his fingers finding your clit, rubbing tight circles over the sensitive bundle of nerves.
You whine, your body arching into his touch, your hips moving in time with his fingers.
“C’mon, words for me,” he says, breathing heavily against you as he finds himself closer to the edge at how you clench down on him, tight and warm.
“Wanna cum,” you pant, your body tense, your breath coming in short gasps.
“Again? So greedy,” he mocks. “Go ‘head, you can do it”
His words push you over the edge. You move, your body rolling and grinding against him, your hips moving in a fast, frantic rhythm. You can feel it, the pleasure snapping, your body convulsing, your nails digging into his back, your mouth open in a silent scream.
"Good girl," he groans, his body tensing, his cock pulsing inside you. He follows you, his release hot and hard, filling you completely.
You collapse onto his chest, your body spent, your heart pounding in your ears. He wraps his arms around you, holding you close, his body still trembling with the aftermath. You can feel his heart beating in time with yours, and you know, in this moment, everything is right.
You stay there a little longer than you mean to, half sprawled over him, your cheek pressed to his chest, skin still warm, damp, real. His arm is draped around you—loose now, heavy with exhaustion—but his fingers keep moving anyway, absentminded, tracing slow patterns over your back like he can’t quite stop touching you yet.
Like he doesn’t want to.
You draw lazy shapes over his shoulder, connecting freckles you already know by heart, like it’s something you’ve done a hundred times—because you have.
“I love baseless temptations,” you murmur.
Jack lets out a quiet laugh, the sound low in his chest, vibrating under your cheek. “Yeah,” he says, voice rough but easy. “Me too.”
There’s something softer in it now. Not the edge from before. Just… him.
You shift slightly, listening to his breathing settle, feeling the way his body gives into the mattress—finally. Like he’s been holding himself upright all day and only now gets to stop.
“Fourteen hours,” you mumble, almost to yourself, remembering your insane schedules. “And you still managed to—”
“Don’t finish that sentence,” he cuts in, dry.
You grin against his skin. “I was gonna say ‘impress me.’”
“Sure you were.”
“I was,” you insist, lifting your head to look at him properly. “Honestly, I thought you’d pass out.”
He cracks one eye open at that. “Have a little faith.”
“I do,” you say, brushing your thumb over his jaw, softer now. “I also have eyes. You look like you got hit by a truck.”
“Feel like it,” he mutters.
“Mm.” You lean down, press a brief kiss to his chest—nothing urgent, just there. “Still did good.”
He exhales a quiet laugh at that, head tipping back. “Christ. It’s alright, I’ll probably crash in twenty minutes. Took tomorrow off, at least.
You watch him for a second—really watch him. The lines of tension finally easing out of his face, the way his shoulders have dropped, the way he looks… settled. Not asleep, not yet. Just here. With you.
It hits you again, softer this time, how much of him is usually in motion—pulled in a hundred directions, needed everywhere at once—and how rare it is to have him like this. Still. Letting himself be here, with you, without reaching for the next thing.
You smooth your hand over his chest, slower now, grounding.
“You gonna keep up the meditation thing?” he asks, voice rough with the edge of sleep.
You huff quietly. “Probably not.” A beat. “Unless you’re suddenly interested.”
“Mm. I think I’ll stick to therapy,” he murmurs. Then, after a second, a little more awake—“You still think I need other hobbies?”
You glance at him, mouth curving. “No. I’m actually very supportive of your current hobby.” You lean in, kiss him soft. “Big fan. Please continue exclusively.”
He laughs into it, low and tired, something easy settling back into him.
“I’ll be right back,” you add, brushing your thumb along his jaw. “Gonna clean up, check the spaghetti. You’ll eat something, then we’ll watch Housewives in bed. Deal?”
“I can help, I’ll—”
“—Stay,” you cut in gently, pressing him back into the pillows. “I’ve spent a stupid amount of money while I was out this morning, this is more for me than it is for you, trust.” You tell, already slipping out from under the sheets.
You move around the room in one of his old shirts, easy, familiar—tidying, grabbing what you need, the quiet domestic rhythm of it settling everything back into place. It’s almost meditative, in a way that none of the actual meditation ever was. This is the version that works for you: him in the bed, you in the room, the soft comedown of it all.
When you come back, he hasn’t moved much. One arm over his eyes, breathing slower now, like he’s finally letting himself drop. You sit beside him, brush your hand over his chest again, then pass him a bowl.
“Eat, quick, before it gets cold,” you say.
He obeys, because of course he does, getting through a few bites before setting it aside with a quiet exhale.
You keep going, perched cross-legged beside him, the normalcy of it comforting after a month of physically pushing him away to be cleansed, when ironically, you feel more cleansed than ever to be near him.
There’s a pause.
“So,” you begin. “What was that thing you said? Earlier? About a third?”
He chuckles. “I was just kidding, hon,” he says, a little rough, like he’s not fully back yet. He presses a lazy kiss to your head. “Why?”
You tilt your chin up slightly, watching him. “I don’t know.” Your head ring vaguely with Santos’ words from the other day. He reads pretty quickly where your train of thought is going.
“Hypothetically. If you had to pick someone.” You ask.
He looks at you properly now, narrowing his eyes just a fraction like he’s trying to read the angle. Like there’s definitely a wrong answer here and he’d quite like to avoid it.
You just hold his gaze, completely neutral.
A beat passes. Something unspoken flickers between you—quick, familiar.
Who would you pick?
Who do you think I’d pick?
Are we about to say the same name?
“…Robby,” you both say at the same time.
There’s a pause. Then Jack lets out a quiet, disbelieving huff of laughter, shaking his head against the pillow. “Jesus Christ.”
You grin a little, unable to help it. “I mean—objectively—”
“He’d be… fucking insufferable about it,” Jack cuts in immediately. “You know he would.”
You refrain from commenting, leaving your spaghetti aside, as you open your computer. Jack groans, dragging a hand over his face. “He’d give me notes or something.”
You’ve got Housewives on your computer. It’s obviously the New York one, still early days - Season 4.
“So what happened in the mid-season finale again?” You ask as you settle against him.
“I barely remember, honestly,” He sighs. “Ramona’s being difficult, someone brought the wrong wine, it’s a mess. Cindy is great, though.”
His arm tightens around you again, a quiet, grounding squeeze.
The episode keeps playing. His commentary gets more frequent—dry, half-interested, pretending he’s above it while very clearly tracking every single detail.
You let it happen, tucked into him, warm, fed, a little tired in the best way.
Cleansed, in a way none of the yoga or herbal tea ever managed. Just this—him, you, the low hum of something ridiculous on screen, and the easy, familiar weight of being exactly where you’re meant to be.
a/n: i love this song! I got this though from when i watched a robby x abbot tiktok edit to my man on willpower, and if im desperate for inspo i go to my tiktok edits and see if i can spur some ideas, and i was like, oh maybe abbot like not fucking you or something because of some self care thing and i was like, god he’d never do that. he’s fucking whenever, life is short, he would want to treat his partner as much as he can mentally and physically handle i think. And then i was like. Wait, lets switch the beat…. anyway i had to restrain myself from writing more orlike writing everyday and unpacking different interactions. i wrote a scene where'd try to seduce you with his "slutty pyjamas" (his army uniform) and you gaf or something but i felt too much 2nd hand embarrasment. im so tired i have triivia to go to now i have no idea if this is good i just want it done so i caan study and work on the lawyer series!
summary: no one at the pitt knows you and jack are separated when you show up to the emergency room during a particularly chaotic shift, with a number of dubious symptoms that force you and jack to reconcile. (4k)
characters: jack abbot / wife!reader, jack abbot, dana evans, the pittlings
contents: established relationship, grumpy!jack, protective!jack, angst, hurt/comfort, not proofread cw for mentions of divorce, medical procedures, and pregnancy
( NAVIGATION ) | ( MASTERLIST ) | ( AO3 )
You make a reluctant trip to the PTMC with a two-week-old headache and the remnants of last night’s argument with Jack.
You don’t see the man when you first walk in, which you’re slightly grateful for, even though you know that a crowded E.R. is hardly ever a good sign. You feel the swelling noise and bustling bodies pressing hard on either side of you as you freeze in place by the entrance, trapped within a sea of rushing doctors and transporting patients. Dana, who had spotted you the second you walked in, rushes to your side to keep you from drowning in it entirely.
“Hey, hun,” the older woman greets in her usual gritty deadpan, wearing the weight of the long day all over her face as she rounds the work station to meet you.
“Hey, D— Lupe sent me through,” you murmur, just barely audible over the noisy emergency department. You point behind you to the double doors towards the waiting room, but don’t take your eyes off the surrounding chaos as Dana ushers you the short distance to the front desk. “Jeez, you guys are busy today, huh?”
“You don’t know the half of it, honey,” Santos huffs distantly, from where she stands before the overhead monitor with a few other residents. It takes her a second too long to realize her slip-up, and her half-up ponytail sways behind her as she flashes you an apologetic grimace. “Shit. Sorry. I just— I hear Jack calling you that all the time, and it just slipped.”
You burn at the mention of his name. You hope it doesn’t show on your face.
“It’s okay,” you assure her with a dismissive wave of your hand. “Trust me— I’m used to it.”
“We’re never too busy for you, hun. C’mon. Let’s find you a room,” Dana assures with a gentle pat on your arm. She cranes her neck and shouts across the work station, “We got anything open, Princess?”
The woman bends at the waist to check her computer, then calls over her shoulder, “Psych 1 should be.”
“One of you find Abbot, will ya?” Dana asks the younger residents, peering at them over the top of the glasses sitting low on her nose as she escorts you down the hall. “Tell him his wife is here.”
You tense instinctively under her touch at the turn of phrase — a bitter reminder of the stack of divorce papers on the coffee table back home, which says that pretty soon you won’t be Jack’s wife anymore, or his honey. You dread telling his coworkers almost as much as you dread signing the wretched thing.
“Oh, that’s not necessary,” you assure her with a wavering grin. “It’s nothing, D, really.”
“That’s what they all say, hun,” the woman rolls her eyes.
The remaining residents share weary looks once the two of you have disappeared into the crowd — because telling Abbot his wife is in is one thing, but telling him in the middle of the unforgiving chaos of a rather brutal shift is entirely another.
“Well, I have a patient to check on, so…” Santos trails off, ambling backward with her thumb cocked over her shoulder. She spins on her sneaker and dismisses herself with a curt wave. “Later, losers.”
“Look at this place, we all have patients to check on,” Whitaker scoffs, then cowers at the expectant looks he gets from the two women at his side. He swallows hard, adam’s apple bobbing. “But, yeah, I… I have to go, too…”
Samira laughs as she watches the blonde scurry off behind Santos.
“What’s his deal?” she scoffs and turns over her shoulder to look at Mel. Her dark brows furrow when she finds the girl backing slowly away. “Dr. King?”
“Oh, I’ve already completed all my rounds, I just… don’t wanna do it,” Mel confesses, forgetting to lie. She grimaces and turns away. “Sorry…”
Samira watches them go with a confused look twisting her features. She doesn’t understand their apprehension, or their subtle looks of sympathy — as if she’d just gotten stuck diffusing a ticking time bomb.
“O-kay, I guess I’ll do it then…” she mumbles under her breath and turns on the heel of her sneaker, starting the hunt for Dr. Abbot.
Dana stashes you in a small room on the farthest end of the E.R., away from all the chaos on the opposite side, which has since been reduced to a muted droning behind the shut door. She leaves the curtains drawn and the lights dim to ease the unwavering migraine she knows you’ve been sporting for some days now — which inevitably means it’s been plaguing you for at least a week or more before you told anyone about it.
You lie back against the angled exam table with your knees bent and your arms crossed over your eyes, feeling the pounding in your skull down into your bones. You struggle to even out your breathing and harder to relax — you tense on instinct when the door clicks open, and not just because every noise feels like a knife right to your temple.
Your stomach twists with the anticipation of seeing Jack, a sick sort of feeling at potentially having to confront the night before and the uncertain future ahead. You exhale a breath of relief when Robby slides in instead, letting in a sliver of white-blue light and a trickle of noise.
“Dana told me you were in,” he says in lieu of any real greeting, shutting the door behind him with his elbow as he reaches for the hand sanitizer on the wall at his side. He rubs it between his palms and wonders aloud, “You okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine,” you assure him despite the faint grimace that twists your features when you struggle to sit up straighter on the bed. “Don’t worry about me— What the hell’s going on out there?”
Robby exhales hard through his mouth, bearded cheeks puffing. “Huge wreck, right off the highway— You didn’t see it on the way here?”
“No,” you shake your head.
“Good…” he nods. “I damn near had a heart attack when Dana told me you were in— I’m sure Abbot’s head is gonna cave in when he finds out.”
He exhales a quiet laugh and waits for you to make another stupid joke in response, just like you always do. But you avert your gaze instead and shift uncomfortably on the thin mattress, like the mention of Jack’s name is enough to make you nervous.
“What’s going on?” the man wonders with furrowed brows. You give him a shocked sort of look in response, half-confused that he’d even know you and Jack were on the outs in the first place. He elaborates soon after, “Dana said you’ve been having headaches for a while now— so that means it’s been a week, at most.”
“You guys know me so well…” you deadpan with a pair of squinted eyes. “It’s nothing, Robby. Really. I just… Had another fainting spell. And usually I wouldn’t even come in for them, but Jack said if it happened again that he’d drag me down here himself, so… I figured I’d save him the trip.”
Robby’s dark eyes narrow at the cynical smile you give him.
“Well, I’m gonna save you the lecture about waiting this long to come in… Since I’m pretty sure you’re gonna hear it from Abbot anyway, so…”
“Thank you,” you sigh.
“You sure you don’t want me to tell him you’re in?” Robby presses tentatively. “He’s with another patient right now, but he’d drop it in a second if you—”
“No,” you shake your heavy head almost instantly, ‘cause you’re not so sure how true that is anymore — Jack hasn’t exactly been too keen on dropping his work these days, which is essentially the entire reason you’re in this mess to begin with. “I don’t wanna… worry him over nothing, you know?”
Robby has a sneaking suspicion that this isn’t nothing, and that there’s something you and Abbot aren’t exactly telling him, but he doesn’t press the issue now.
“Yes, ma’am…” he nods with a huff and drops down in the cushioned stool at your bedside, silently preparing himself for the hell Abbot’s gonna raise when he inevitably finds out you’re here.
Samira finds Dr. Abbot in Trauma 2, performing an emergency surgery on a patient whose pelvis was crushed in the crash, with Dr. Garcia and a crowd of other residents at his side. The younger girl slinks through the glass door into the windowless room, and doesn’t flinch at the overwhelming scent of blood and bitter antiseptic heavying the air inside.
She plucks a surgical mask from the dispenser beside the door and holds it over her mouth as she calls out a hesitant, “Dr. Abbot?”
“Little busy here, Mohan,” Jack answers without looking at her, elbows deep in the unconscious man’s open pelvis as he readjusts the metal clamps there. Bright crimson blood stains his gloves and the stomach of his blue PPE gown as he works with expert hands.
“It’s sort of important, sir…”
Jack says nothing in response; just gives the girl a silent, expectant look from behind the safety glasses sitting low on his nose.
“Your wife is here,” she tells him, dark eyes wild from behind the mask she holds over her mouth. “She’s totally fine, she’s in psych 1 with Dana, but she—”
“Since when?” Jack snaps before she can properly get the words out, flaring red-hot with an immediate worry and a suffocating tinge of regret despite Samira’s reassurances.
Flashes of the crash plague his anxious mind. He can’t help but picture you lying as limp and as bloody as the man before him now. The brutal image hits him as hard as the memory of the last thing he said to you the night before, right before you slept in separate bedrooms.
“Well, if my work schedule makes you so damn miserable, then why don’t you just sign the goddamn papers—?”
“Um… I’m not sure,” Samira answers with a waver in her voice. “About ten minutes ago, I think? I did a few rounds before I came in here, so—”
Jack stills suddenly in place. His head snaps in the younger girl’s direction, and Samira cowers at the hardened glare in his eyes.
“Is there a reason you didn’t come to me directly?”
Samira flinches at his unusually harsh tone. Her wide eyes flit between his stern ones and the anxious looks from the residents just behind him. “Well, she said not to… But then Dana said that I should, so I wasn’t exactly sure who to listen to—”
“Me,” Jack snaps. “You listen to the attending, who told everyone to come get him if his wife came in—”
He doesn’t have time to notice his slip-up, or otherwise correct it, when Garcia steps in.
“I’ll take over here,” the older woman says in her usual deadpan. “If you guys wanna argue like children somewhere else.”
Jack doesn’t argue as he steps back from the patient, peeling off his bloodied gown and gloves with suddenly anxious hands. He chucks the PPE in the biohazard bin with an obvious fire in his touch. The sudden shift in his usually calm disposition makes Samira’s chest ache, while Garcia grins behind her mask.
“Tell your wife I said hi, Dr. Rabbit,” the woman croons with a teasing lilt and a mischievous look behind her glasses.
“She’s still not interested, Garcia,” Abbot calls over his shoulder as he storms towards the door.
“Dammit…”
Samira cowers when Jack slides past her in the doorway, not looking at her once, like he barely recognizes that she’s there at all. She watches through the glass door as he disappears into the bustling crowd outside, hands balled into trembling fists at his sides.
“Don’t worry about him, kid,” Garcia sighs, half-distracted, as she fishes her bloodied hands in the unconscious man’s open pelvis. “He’s been on his period for about a week now, and we’re all paying the price for it…”
Samira’s chest deflates with a huff. “So, that’s why no one else wanted to do it…”
The two-minute trek across the E.R. feels nothing short of two years.
The entire walk there, Jack’s anxious mind struggles to discern what Mohan could’ve meant by totally fine. Were you just a little scraped up? Were you terribly injured, but at the very least alive? Was Samira trying to soften the blow, or did she truly mean totally fine?
Jack can’t help but picture the worst-case scenario, and he expects to find you hurt.
“No, I just kinda have this headache that comes and goes, you know?” he hears you say, right before he storms inside.
“Oh— And there it is,” Jack jokes when Abbot appears suddenly in the doorway, bringing in a wave of light and noise and unadulterated panic in with him.
Jack’s tight chest relaxes slightly when he finds you totally fine — lounging in a dim room with Robby at your side, laughing at his stupid joke as he draws dark red blood from the inside of your arm.
He’s relieved that you’re okay, of course, but the sight of you smiling — when Jack hasn’t quite been able to keep food down for days with the worry that you might be leaving him — hurts him in a completely different (and only slightly jealous) way.
“Oh, fuck…” you hear yourself say when Jack storms in like a white-hot flame. Because, sure, you’ve sort of made it a point to avoid the man at every turn, but you didn’t want him finding you like this.
You know what this looks like. You know it looks like you’re going behind his back and purposefully taunting him by going to his friends instead of straight to him. You know it hurts his feelings. And you may not like him so much right now, but you never want to see him sad.
“Yeah, 'oh fuck' is right,” Jack nods as he closes the door behind him, muffling the noise as the room goes dim again.
Robby inhales sharply through his nose. He can feel the sudden tension between the two of you pressing hard on either side of him. “Little pinch,” he murmurs to you, right before sliding the needle from your vein.
“Why didn’t you come get me?” Jack asks.
“Because you were busy,” you sigh, then mumble more quietly under your breath. “Go figure…”
“Why didn’t you call before you came—”
You fight the urge to rehash the fight from the night before and roll your eyes instead. “Because it’s not a big deal, Jack—”
“Yeah, I think I’ll be the judge of that,” the man concludes with narrowed eyes and biceps that strain against his scrubs when he crosses his arms over his chest.
Robby’s dark eyes flit between the two of you behind the glasses perched on his broad nose. When he’s sure the arguing has ceased, he looks over his shoulder at Abbot and begins to explain. “I’m doing an electrolyte panel to check for any imbalances— It’ll also help us rule out anemia and hypoglycemia.”
Jack nods, brows lowered in concentration. “Okay… What about—?”
“I was gonna do an ECG when the results came back,” Robby finishes for him. “Her heart sounds fine, but I’ll have to wait for a room to open up if the bloodwork comes back abnormal, and… Who knows how long that’s gonna be?”
“Alright,” Jack nods again. “Sounds good.”
Robby turns to you, brows raised expectantly. “Sound good?”
“You’re the boss, Robinavitch,” you shrug.
“Hear that, brother?” Robby scoffs as he rises from his stool, taking the vials of blood work with him as he heads for the door. He elbows Jack on the arm when he walks by and flashes the frowning man a smug grin. “I’m the boss.”
Robby opens and shuts the door behind him, and all the playful energy leaves with him. The subsequent silence feels borderline suffocating. You and Jack, barely breathing, try to break it at the same time.
“I’m fine, Jack—”
“I can’t believe this—”
You huff and tip your aching head back. “I’m fine. So you can go back and do whatever it is you were doing before. I’m sure it’s more important.”
Jack’s light eyes narrow into thin slits. His firm stature never wavers — arms crossed tight, sneakers spread shoulder-length apart — like he’s interrogating an enemy on the battlefield.
“What happened? Did you faint again?”
“Yeah…” you answer suddenly sheepishly, averting your gaze to a faded stain on the knee of your jeans. “It was in your shower chair this time. I think I had the water too hot.”
“I told you about the hot water—”
“I know,” you huff like a stubborn child. “And you also told me that if I passed out again that I needed to come in so… I came in.”
“I still wish you would’ve called me first,” he tells you — not angry this time, not truly, but still obviously hurt. “When Mohan told me you were here, I thought something bad happened to you.”
“Well, considering you told me to leave last night, I honestly didn’t think you really gave a shit anymore, Jack...” you confess with a smile you hardly mean.
“I told you to leave because you said you wanted to,” Jack argues through gritted teeth. “You act like I pulled that shit out of thin air— Like you haven’t been looking for an out for weeks.”
“An out?” you echo, a little louder than you mean to, as your face screws in offense. “You’re the one who’s never home, Jack. So if anyone’s been looking for a fucking out, it’s you— Fuck…”
You whimper when a white-hot flare surges suddenly across your skull, from temple to temple and down the base of your neck. You wince and close your eyes, tentatively tipping your head back against the bed once more.
Jack forgets to be angry in an instant. His chest stings at the pained look that etches across your features. His legs carry him to you before his brain has decided whether or not he should.
“What?” he presses, eyes wild. “What’s wrong?”
“My head…” you squeak out.
Jack huffs. “Here…”
You know he’s towering over you without having to open your eyes. You can feel him there, warm like a heater, and smelling of cologne and a long shift at the E.R. He braces himself with one hand on the mattress beside your head and covers your eyes with his free one. You don’t flinch when his gently calloused palm splays suddenly over the length of your forehead, pinky curving in the bend of your closed eyelids.
He couldn’t possibly count the number of times he’s done this over the years — hundreds, at least. It’s the only way he knew how to soothe your headaches when the medicine was taking its sweet time kicking in. It’s the pressure that helps, though you’ve always argued that Jack must have some secret healing superpowers that he isn’t telling you about.
You’re only able take your first good breath in two weeks when he’s finally touching you so gently.
“Better?” he wonders, half-detached but still strikingly soft.
You nod once beneath his palm and fight back the urge to cry when his thumb rubs softly over your temple.
“Contrary to popular belief, honey,” the older man murmurs. “I didn’t come in here to fight with you.”
“It always ends in a fight with us, Jack,” you sigh. “You know that.”
“I thought you were hurt,” he confesses, in a voice so soft it makes you feel like crying. “Bad hurt. When Mohan came and got me, I thought for sure you were involved with all the shit going on out there.”
“Well, I’m not… So you can go now…” you tell him in a trembling voice, which you’d rather blame on the lingering ache in your skull and not the fact that you don’t truly want him to leave — that you never really wanted him to leave.
You miss the quiet smile Jack gives you in response, because he can see right through you.
“Yeah, I’m not going anywhere, honey…” he says on a gentle exhale. “And I’m not signing those stupid papers.”
Your heart drops at the mention of them, at the bitter reminder of their existence, even though it’s been plaguing your every waking thought for some weeks now.
Your trembling hands reach for the one he holds over your eyes. You wrap your fingers around his wrist and knuckles, peeling his palm away to peer up at him with a glassy gaze.
“What do you mean?” you ask on bated breath.
Jack meets your weary look with a softer, sadder smile.
“Well, I just got about a… three-minute glimpse of what my life was gonna look like without you,” Jack sighs, in lieu of confessing all the gory worst-case scenarios he couldn’t quite get out of his head. “And, turns out, I’m not strong enough for that, so… I’m officially declining your divorce, honey.”
“Jack…” you protest feebly, features crumpling at his poor excuse for a joke, while his calloused palm slips from your forehead and cups gently over your warm cheek.
He ducks down to meet your gaze when you try to turn away, bending slightly at the waist and bracing himself with his free hand curled around the top of the mattress. His nose is mere inches from yours — you can feel each of his exhales fan across your chin. You couldn’t shy away from him if you tried.
“I’m serious, honey,” he says with a stern but no less sincere look swimming in his light eyes. “You were right— I’m working too much—”
“No, don’t…” you protest with a shake of your head, because the affirmation doesn’t feel as rewarding as you’d expected it to. Instead, it makes you feel a little sick. Your gaze falls to the dog tags slipping from the inside of his scrubs, glimmering in the darkness as they sway just ahead of you. Your fingers reach to fidget with the chain on muscle memory. “It’s your job, Jack. I shouldn’t dictate how much you work—”
“You’re my wife, honey. You shouldn’t feel second to my job, because you’re not,” he tells you, brows raised to his hairline. “So, I’ll— cut down on my hours, I’ll stop picking up so many shifts, I’ll… I’ll do whatever the hell you want me to do, baby, ‘cause I’m not going anywhere, alright?”
You feel his words physically, like a white-hot knife lodged in the center of your sternum and twisting.
You struggle to find the words to respond, just as you struggle to find the air in the room to breathe. Because you’ve spent weeks thinking you’d failed at your marriage, and now you’ve failed at failing your marriage. It’s a stupid tug of war that makes you hate yourself all the more.
“Well, maybe we should wait for Robby to get back…” you murmur quietly, shifting on the mattress beneath him. “You know, before we have this conversation or whatever…”
Jack ducks his head to chase your averted gaze, brows furrowing in confusion. “What the hell does Robby have to do with this?”
“I don’t know,” you shrug. “I might have, like, a super rare blood cancer or something—”
“Jesus,” Jack grimaces before you can properly get the words out, flinching away from you when you shatter the sincere moment. “Why would you say something like that?”
“I might only have a week left to live or something,” you retort with wide eyes, only partially playful. “So we might not even have to worry about any of this, you know? …Who knows?”
Jack meets your sparkling, half-crazed look with a firm scowl. “You’re real morbid, honey. You know that?”
“Well, what can I say?” you shrug and fight the urge to smile. “Your cynicism’s rubbing off on me, Abbot.”
Robby returns about a half hour later, to a room considerably less tense than it was when he left. He forgets to comment or otherwise pry about it when he slips inside, gaze averted to the glowing iPad resting on his palm. His free hand scratches at the grey patch in his beard — an anxious tic you’ve come to know well.
“Hey, uh—” he clears his throat behind his fist when the words get stuck there.
“Oh, shit…” you waver when the door clicks shuts behind him. “I was just kidding about the whole blood cancer thing, I swear—”
Robby’s brows lower in confusion. “…What?”
“Don’t listen to her,” Jack huffs, rising from the stool at your side for the first time in thirty minutes as he rushes to Robby in long strides — ‘cause he can feel the man’s trepidation like heat off a bonfire. “What did the blood work say?”
Robby inhales sharply through his nose as he passes the man the tablet. He crosses his arms over his chest and splays his right hand over the lower half of his bearded face. His wide eyes dart between the lit-up iPad and the edge of Jack’s profile, eagerly awaiting the man’s reaction.
You watch with your heart in your throat as Jack’s eyes flit wildly back and forth across the screen. His scruffy jaw slackens slightly in shock, and Robby nods slowly in a quiet concurrence.
“Okay, what the hell?” You shatter the heavy silence. “Are you guys just gonna communicate telepathically the whole time, or is someone gonna tell me what’s going on with me?”
“You’re fine— You’re totally fine,” Robby reassures you, gesturing wildly with his right hand. “Your bloodwork came back normal, but… There’s a high level of hCG in your bloodstream. And I think that’s what’s been causing your dizziness and fainting spells.”
“HCG?” you echo, eyes darting wildly between the two men in front of you. “What the hell is hCG?”
“Human chorionic gonadotropin,” Jack answers on instinct, half-strangled, and never once taking his eyes off the screen in his hands. “Means you’re pregnant, honey…”
You feel the world fall out from under you for the second or third or hundredth time that day. You hide your crumpling features behind your hands as your head falls back against the exam table. Your following words come out muffled.
☆ SUMMARY: Jack Abbot needs to put his lovin’ where his mouth is. You’re getting tired of his sugar talking.
☆ CONTAINS: A situationship from hell with your hot, older attending. Younger, fem!reader.
☆AUTHORS NOTE: My first Jack Abbot fic! This man has me in a chokehold and paired with my recent song obsession and being a few drinks in– I finally found the courage/motivation to write something. Please tell me if you enjoy it and would like more, all your comments mean a lot to me! Requests are open :)
Jack Abbot was a mean, mean man.
Cruel in a way you could only be when you're unaware of the pain you’re inflicting on others.
Perhaps it was your own fault, growing attached to someone who always had his good foot out the door, but how could you not when he fucked you so good?
Your bedroom is painted in a warm yellow hue from your table lamp, the sound of panting breaths filling the air, as well as the sheets rustling when you pull the covers up to cover your bare chest.
Daring yourself to cast a glance at Jack, you’re met with the sight of his side profile, his halflidded eyes fixed on your ceiling. Silver stubble forms a shadow over his sharp jaw, the lines on his face from aging doing nothing to deter your heart from what it wants– in fact, it makes it clench in longing instead.
You reach out tentatively, your fingers brushing a salt and pepper curl from his sweat-covered forehead, a light, translucent sheen illuminating his face.
The touch seems to snap Jack out of his reverie, and in the blink of an eye he’s sitting up on the edge of your bed, fetching his shirt from your floor.
You have to keep yourself from physically wincing when he reacts to your touch as if it's poison, when not deeply embedded in lust. Where he won’t be able to justify it as something done in the heat of the moment, rather than a conscious decision when the heat has simmered down, leaving only the warmth.
Jack Abbot doesn't do warmth. Warmth is what makes leaving hard. It’s the very reason his apartment lighting is always dimmed down low, his AC always a bit too chilly, and his mattress a comically large one– empty, always bedded on one side and cold.
It makes it easier for him to get up in the evenings before work, when he doesn't have to worry about missing the warmth.
You can't miss something you don't have.
Only he does have it when he’s tangled in your sheets and his senses are overwhelmed by everything that is you. You who is ridiculously kind, even hours into a night shift where the kindest of souls eventually have been bested by the wicked hour, unbelievably smart, by far the smartest out of any of the other third-year residents and on top of that, devastatingly beautiful.
Especially after he’s ruined you, leaving you flushed, glassy eyed and dangerous. If Jack doesn’t leave now, he’s not sure he ever will and you’re clearly not in any state to understand that you don’t actually want an old man weighing you down when you should be living your life.
No, Jack had already been selfish enough in allowing himself to partake in this rendezvous and allowing his thoughts of you to form into reality.
So he forces himself onto the edge of your mattress, reaching for his discarded clothes.
With his back turned to you, it’s easier to be cruel.
You watch as his back muscles ripple from the action of putting his shirt back on, resisting the urge to grab his arm and pull him back into bed and into your arms.
Instead, you sit up, leaning against the headboard as you clutch the covers closer to your chest, suddenly aware of the fact that you’re naked while he’s clothed– yet another reminder of the distance between the two of you.
You clear your throat softly, the sound piercing in the otherwise silent room.
“Leaving already?” you ask, pretending to be casual but missing by a mile.
Jack briefly falters at the sound of your voice, before his hands go back to fastening his prosthetic onto his thigh.
“Got work tonight,” he says gruffly, grimacing at the feeling of the harsh metal against his skin after hours of having it off.
You pick on a loose thread on your comforter, briefly glancing up at his tense frame.
“You could always stay, you know. I live closer anyways–” you say lightly, testing the waters.
Jack continues to fiddle with the straps of his prosthetic, before fastening it in finality. You can see the way his demeanor shifts, just from the way his shoulders suddenly square, and you’re proved right when he stands up and walks over to where you're sitting against the headboard.
Jack stops in front of you, waiting to see if you'll meet his gaze by yourself. When you don't, he reaches out, lightly nudging your chin.
Your eyes flicker to his hazel ones, head tilted up towards his frame towering over you. A small, wry smile is stretched across his lips and you already know you’ll accept whatever his next words will be without any objections.
“You know I can’t, kid,” he says, before combining his parting words with a final blow: a soft touch of his hand cupping your cheek, thumb rubbing it absentmindedly, like he's trying to soothe you before you even get to react.
He leans down and you almost think he's going to press his lips to yours, bracing yourself by closing your eyes,
Instead, he presses them to the crown of your head, the touch lingering a moment longer than usual, and just like that you’re back in his grasp.
Jack pulls away afterwards and starts to make his way out of your bedroom.
You quickly swipe a shirt off your floor, slipping it on and hurrying after him just as he begins to put his shoes on by your front door.
“Can't you just stay?”
The words tumble past your lips before you can stop them and you already know how pathetic you look standing before him, practically begging him to stay.
Jack, to his credit, doesn’t make you feel embarrassed, not until he speaks again anyways.
“I had a good time tonight, pretty girl,” he says, standing up straight as he steps towards you, warm hands grabbing your waist and tugging you closer and completely disregarding your previous words. “How about I text you after work and we get some breakfast, hm? On me.”
And there it is again.
Sweet and easy, wrapped up in something that almost sounds like care.
Your body betrays you first, leaning into his touch before your brain can catch up, hands instinctively finding his sides as he pulls you in like nothing you said matters more than what he’s offering you now.
Something just out of reach.
You swallow, looking up at him, searching his face like maybe this time it’ll be different. Like maybe he means it in a way that lasts longer than a few hours.
“After work?” you echo softly.
Jack smiles, a small, reassuring and practiced smile. His thumbs brush slow circles against your waist, distracting you. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “I’ll text you. We’ll get something good, yeah? I know you like that place down the street from the ED,”
Something in your chest moves at that and you can’t help but search his gaze for more, only to be met with what you can tell is thinly veiled restraint.
“We were supposed to go there last week,” you remind him, stiffening slightly at the memory of facing yet another disappointment in the hands of Jack Abbot.
“Honey, you saw how swamped we were at hand offs–” Jack retorts , hands squeezing your waist for emphasis and eyebrows furrowing as his voice lowers into that delicious rasp that makes you weak in the knees.
“You don’t have to do this, Jack.” you interrupt before you somehow end up letting him walk all over you again. “The whole – I’ll make it up to you – thing, pretending that you care,”
“I do care. Wouldn’t be here if I didn't,” Jack counters easily, a hand slipping up your waist, over the length of your frame and cradling the area between your neck and shoulders. “Where’s all this coming from anyways? I thought we were past that sort of talking,” he continues while his nose nudges your temple, his breath warming the side of your face when he speaks.
You still for a moment, before letting out a soft breath, leaning into his touch.
Yeah.
You should have known the conversation would lead nowhere other than right into his arms once again.
Forcing a smile onto your face, you nod, pulling away a bit.
“Yeah, you’re right. Sorry, I’m just tired,” you say, briefly meeting his gaze before your eyes are cast down again.
Jack doesn’t argue when you pull away and lets his hands fall to his side once again. His eyes flicker across your unconvincing smile, but yet again, doesn’t say anything.
Instead he nods, slinging his backpack over his shoulders.
“Get some rest, kid. I’ll see you at work,”
The emergency department is buzzing when you walk through the doors of the ambulance bay.
It’s a distraction you welcome, letting the loud noise and the natural flow of people lead you to the patient board where the rest of the dayshifters are standing around, waiting for the night shift to start rounds.
Trinity Santos takes one good look at you before nudging you with her shoulder.
“You look like shit,” she says openly, her words earning a small, genuine laugh of disbelief bubbling past your lips.
You give her a narrowed glare, shaking your head.
“Thanks, Trin. Please, don’t stop with the compliments,” you mutter dryly, reaching for a chart.
Trinity snorts, crossing her arms as she leans in, voice lowered and gaze unwavering.
“Seriously, though. You good?”
You nod, giving her a tight lipped smile, before Shen starts to lead the flock of you to put you up to date on patients from the night shift.
“Peachy,” You manage to force out, thankful for the distraction sign-out rounds gives you.
Shen’s voice fades in and out as he runs through the list, the room numbers, vitals, pending labs– all of it blurring together just enough that you have to force yourself to focus.
“Alright, that’s everyone,” he finishes, clapping his hands once before the group starts to disperse into the usual controlled chaos.
You grab a random patient, dismissing yourself from the group as you make your way to the computers to order some labs.
Letting out a quiet breath, you adjust your grip on the chart as you turn– only to end up running right into Jack.
Jack quickly stabilizes you, grabbing your arm.
“Easy,” he mutters, holding on a moment too long before letting go.
You clear your throat, barely sparing him a glance.
“Sorry,” you mutter, already pushing past him and heading towards the computers again.
Jack blinks, his gaze following your frame as you coldly brush past him. He stills momentarily, before going after you.
A brief glance across the floor, making sure no one's paying too much attention.
It almost makes you scoff out loud.
Jack lingers next to where you’re standing by the computer, and pretends to read a chart, flicking through the pages.
“So," He begins, "You’re just not gonna talk to me?” he queries, voice low like he doesn't want anyone hearing, but still targeted enough for you to know that he's speaking to you.
You resist the urge to roll your eyes, jaw clenching when you respond.
“I’m working, Abbot–”
“Abbot?” he scoffs, eyebrows raised incredulously as he finally turns to face you.
Your fingers still on the keyboard, as you let out a sigh, finally turning around to meet his gaze.
“What?” you ask flatly, even though you know exactly what.
Jack stares at you like you’ve just said something absurd, something that doesn’t quite fit into the version of you he’s used to.
“You don’t call me that,” he says.
You shrug, turning back to the screen, pressing the keys with more force than necessary.
“We’re at work. And you are Jack Abbot, are you not?”
“Don’t be a smartass. You know what I mean–”
“Do I?” you scoff, muttering under your breath as you force yourself to continue typing, even as your palms grow sweaty under his watchful gaze.
His brows pull together and he drops the chart completely, stepping closer to you– officially crowding you now.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Jesus Christ– do you really want to do this right now?” you say in disbelief, finally giving up on pretending to actually write anything.
Jack’s tongue prods the inside of his cheek as his eyes search your face. Nodding, he motions to the breakroom.
“We need to speak, doctor,” He says just loud enough to appease any eavesdroppers, and you don’t have it in you to hide your irritation anymore as you storm past him and into the breakroom.
Leaning against the countertop, you watch as Jack closes the door behind himself, his freckled arms crossing as he stands in front of you, enough of a distance to make it professional if anyone were to come in.
“So we talk when you want to and don’t whenever you don’t feel like it?” you press, not pulling any punches any longer.
You were tired of the false promises and excuses.
Jack’s jaw tightens at that, something flickering behind his eyes– annoyance maybe, or something closer to being called out
“Quit with the sarcasm and say what you want to say,”
You laugh in disbelief, eyes narrowing as you stare back at him, equally irate.
“Oh that’s rich coming from you!”
Jack’s expression hardens at that, something sharp settling into his features.
“Then say it,” he shoots back, voice low but edged now. “Because clearly you’ve got something to get off your chest,”
You push off the counter, arms dropping to your sides as you step a little closer, closing the gap just enough that it doesn’t feel distant anymore.
“You don’t get to stand there and act like I’m the one making things complicated,” you say, each word measured but laced with frustration. “You come and go whenever it suits you, you don’t spend the night, but you send flowers when you cancel on plans. You– you do just enough to keep me around but the second I have the audacity to expect anything, you shut me down!”
Your chest tightens with each word, but you don’t let up. You can’t let up, not now.
“You think I don’t see it?” you continue, quieter now but cutting deeper. “The things you say just to soften the blow when you eventually end up disappointing me again? Well I do. And it’s bullshit, Jack,”
Jack lets you speak, the only evidence of him even listening to anything you’re saying is the way his shoulders square while you call him out, or his hand flexing where it grips his bicep. His voice is low, almost like he's trying to calm you down.
“You’re blowing things out of proportion– I told you what this was from the beginning. ”
It just pisses you off further.
“And then you went and blurred the lines!” You exclaim, eyes widening wildly. “You can’t fuck me all night then ignore me at work,”
Jack shakes his head, pulling away like your words are physically affecting him. His face scrunches up, like what you're saying is something vulgar– not the truth.
“Jesus, kid– keep it down,”
“What, am I wrong? That’s what you do, you make all these rules for me, not staying the night, barely acknowledging me outside the confines of a bedroom, then you put protein bars in my scrubs, send me flowers and tell me that you lo–”
“That was a one time thing. I got lost in the moment–” Jack interrupts, casting a glance at the door to make sure no one is accidentally getting a show.
“Oh, grow up,” you hiss, shoving his chest lightly.
The words are ironic coming from you, and you successfully stump him for a few seconds before he steels himself, closing off once again.
“Right,” he hums, his eyes flitting across you, taking in your crossed arms, harsh glare and the way your cheeks are flushed in annoyance. Jack ignores the pit forming in his stomach. He’s much too old to be arguing like a teen over relationships– or a lack thereof.
“I thought we came to an agreement. I mean– I told you what I can and can’t give you,”
You laugh a sharp and humorless laugh.
“Right.” you repeat. “I’m making things up then?”
He doesn’t react to the sarcasm this time. Just watches you, like he’s waiting for you to settle back into something easier– something manageable.
“I’ve been clear with you from the start.” he continues. “And if you can’t handle it anymore, that’s fine too,” he adds.
You go still for a second, almost like your body needs time to catch up with how neatly he’s just reduced everything.
It.
Like you haven’t been spending all your mornings off with him, like he hasn’t cooked for you in his otherwise empty apartment– like he doesn’t turn off the damn police scanner when you’re with him.
Not a relationship, but an it.
“Fine,” you say quietly, fists clenched at your sides as you reach your breaking point. “I can’t handle it anymore,”
“So what, you’re done? Over one argument, you’re just going to throw away our…” Jack falters, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his cargo pants.
“Our what?” you counter, eyes finally meeting him again. “What are we, Jack?”
Just say it. Say it and I’m yours.
He doesn’t.
Jack stays quiet.
☆ END NOTE: AH it feels like it’s boring, sorry just had to finish this.
Jack meets the new nurse Robby's been fawning over, only to then take the next couple of nights to pathetically cope with what he's feeling for the peppy, sunny young woman he's just met.
✭・.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・
You don't know the lengths to which he'd go.
Jack finds you. You're a new nurse working the night shift for the first time, and even though his introduction to you is you dead asleep at your desk, his time stuck with you and your eccentric, peppy behavior doesn't stop him from realizing your capabilities that are beyond what you should be able to do. With that, there's something about you that manages to grasp onto him despite what Jack knows best, to the point where even he's not willing to let you go for the sake of staying sane. For the sake of staying himself.
WORD COUNT: 7.9K || SLOW(ISH)BURN!! EVENTUAL SMUT (p in v sex, rough, unprotected) graphic depictions of violence, assault, death, and blood. Abuse (Not from Jack) Jealousy, obsession, possessive behavior, Dr. Robby x Reader if you squint like there's no tomorrow. Age gap (the reader is just younger than Jack, you can decide by how many years). Mentions of suicidal behavior. Manipulation (is it manipulation if Jack really believes what he's saying??). Delusional behavior (That Jack is very much aware of and hates himself for, but delulu be deluluing). Very inaccurate depictions of the healthcare system and medical terminology.
This is probably my one and only Jack Abbot fic, if his characterization is off, I'm sorry...let's just chalk it up to him being too much in love, like how he does here <3
✭・.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・
Robby, my brother.
I don't even know where the fuck to begin. But I am so, so sorry. For everything. Please. Take care of her.
————————————————
Although there is solace in the darkness, that doesn’t mean there aren’t monsters hiding in it. It almost feels too fucking childish for him to think like this, but it’s too easy.
This night tempts harm. It tempts Jack to hold himself too tightly, or to hide his tension away in his anger.
He already readies himself for the slight guilt he’ll feel when he’s too harsh and quick in correcting mistakes while taking too long to give credit when it’s earned. But tonight?
The few outwardly kind things about his soul can’t make their way to his bones and eyes…but what’s the truly awful thing about this shift to make Jack feel as if there’s violence and internal misery around every corner of the hospital?
“Oh, Abbot, I was wondering–”
“Sorry, not now.”
No patients have died. No patients are near death.
Jack has failed no one yet, and yeah, thinking that staying true to his vows of medicine as the most terrible thing about tonight is shitty, so fucking shitty that it goes against the said vows that have consumed his instinct to work and manage the ones who need help, but to him, he just remembers the worst about what’s steady about him.
That sometimes he’s not steady, that even on good shifts and quiet nights, his pain will make its way back to him.
This is trauma.
It’s never new, but sometimes wordless, nameless in the feelings that are brought to a boil, like now, and there-fucking-fore, it’s much easier to hide in the dark as it waits for Jack to get comfortable in his skin. Apparently, this is progress according to his therapist.
That it’s good that his trauma finds way into even the best of shifts because that means he is comfortable enough to let it in on the good days, that he’s not beating the worst of his emotions into a little box he’ll save for opening up on a shit shift as he makes his way up to the rooftop.
Well, sure as hell doesn’t feel like progress, but he has to trust the therapist he pays 120 dollars an hour.
“Abbott, the patient in room three, the elderly man with a breath like death, is there a possibility-”
“Sorry. Not now. My bladder is turning against me.”
“...Didn’t need to know that.”
“Okay. Sorry, I’ll never make a quip as long as I live.”
“Not now” is his phrase for the next ten minutes, and he’ll feel a slighter slight guilt in how he’ll take a breather in the bathroom, or next to the vending machine, because there is a job to be done and it’s not hiding in the dark with his monsters.
But Dr. 240-bucks-for-80-minutes says these breathers are needed for Jack to be the best at his job. For others. Something like that.
Unfortunately, Dr. 240 bucks for 120 minutes is right. Jack tries not to choke on the breath he can’t let go of. He tries to stay strong because he’s here at his job, so he tries to keep the walls standing up right and unblurred, which he should be able to do on good days. Easily.
It’s almost a strong stride to the bathroom until the nurse's station. Jack slows in his step, brows slightly furrowing as he looks around. Only by eyes, not by the turn of his head.
And like that, under the scene of unprofessionalism, the way he feels is no longer unbreathable. So.
Thank you for that.
He doesn’t notice how quick he is to turn his sights back on you. This girl. No, this woman, just a younger woman…a nurse he’s never seen before.
You’re dead asleep. He means dead asleep. There’s no other name for the way your body leans its weight onto your swivel chair, head lifted back, breath deep.
It’s the 3rd most unprofessional thing he’s ever seen.
Jack lets out a breath. He takes one in. Let’s that one out, and it’s continuous as he studies the way you almost snore. He must’ve found it easier to breathe in standing instead of indulging his restlessness by pacing all over the trauma center.
Makes sense. Makes a hell's lot more sense than this newbie who’s taking a nap on her shift. And Jack allows for the slight hand of his anger to curl.
You are sleeping on the job without a care in the world, and considering that he’s never seen you before, you’re probably doing this while new to the crew.
He ignores the ten seconds of the way he watches you almost-snore before he knocks his fist on your desk to wake you.
“I’m up! I’m…I’m up.”
You rub your eyes as you force yourself to sit up straight. Jack continues to stare as you collect yourself.
Jack's eyes slightly narrow when he notices you're beautiful, but he doesn't think it, not when there’s a lecture to be had.
“I’m sorry.”
Jack tilts his head forward in a way that’s curt.
“...I am glad you are. Considering that you’ve taken the hours when you’re on the clock as hours to have naptime, it’s good that I can see you’re apologetic.”
It seems that you truly are in the way your brows twist in the soft lines of your face, as you scratch your nose.
Jack looks away. He puts his arms behind his back, squeezing his wrist because it feels right to do here. “That’s not what we’d consider professional. Or safe. For the patients we’re watching, I mean. I hope you know that?”
“I know, I know. I promise you, sir–I’m not as stupid as I look right now. I think.” You pull on your scrub top, fixing the sleepful parts of you. “I arrived maybe ten minutes ago? I’m covering for…Princess.”
“...I don’t think she was supposed to work tonight.”
Jack blinks when you put your head in your hands, rubbing your temple.
“I don’t even know, this is my first time working a night shift ever. I woke up to being called in, so here I am.”
Jack blinks again when you spin in your chair. Not once, but twice in the way your voice goes high at the end of your sentence.
Aren’t you just a ray of sunshine?
You drop your smile when he doesn’t say anything, and yeah, it’s because you deserve to be a little uncomfortable with your mistake, but also…Jack doesn’t know what to say.
“It won’t ever happen again, sir.”
“No. Not if you keep to the day shift.”
“Oh. Hopefully.” You swallow with a small smile, twirling a pen in your hands. “No offense to you night owls.”
Jack doesn’t look away when your smile reaches him with your eyes on his. Why would he?
The only other question to ask is why he knows his chest would feel less hot if he did.
“Not everyone can find the dark shifts fun enough to stay up for.”
“No, I enjoy a healthy sleep schedule too much–” You break your words with a yawn that you try to stop. Literally. It’s like you try to wave it up and out of your little neck. “...for that.”
Jack’s brow furrows down with his eyes going slightly wide. You’re an oddball who’s pissed him off a little, and he wonders if this charming, sunny banter is purposeful to get him off your case.
“Anywayssss, sorry for keeping you off duty, sir.”
He won’t give you that satisfaction, because you aren’t supposed to be sleeping on the job. You won’t get away that easily. He means, he’ll quit when he sees a properly embarrassed pout, or something that can prove to Jack that you’re serious about said embarrassment…
Yeah. That’s why he doesn’t walk away to spend his last free minutes in the bathroom. You seem alright…bright, but if you’re new, you simply need to learn. It’s not against you, that’s just the way it is.
“You decided to prioritize a healthy sleeping schedule before or after nursing school? Or did you realize how much you love to sleep when you decided to become an E.R nurse?”
Jack lowers his eyes to where your elbow rests on the table as you let your chin fall into your palm. Is that purposeful too? The softness of it all?
“Ha ha. I try my best, which is why this is my first night ever. I’m surprised I made it this far without taking up…what the darkness offers.”
…Should he kill himself for noticing the way you’re soft? Maybe. It isn’t professional how he notices, and it’s a bit intense, like he’s a schoolboy who can’t control the way he oogles. Whatever's going on with your face shouldn't make a different.
"...Sir?"
He’s not oogling, really. He’s noticing you’re pretty, and you’re lit in the way you’re pretty. He doesn’t know you, but with the way you smile even though you’re being snarkily reprimanded, with the way you tap your pen, with the way your hair shifts with every head tilt…that’s not on him.
That just means you’re pretty. He’s not reacting to what he’s seeing. Besides, even if he was, killing himself would probably be the more unprofessional and intense thing, right?
Besides, a pretty face doesn't mean anything here. Not to him. Blood sprays far and wide.
“...Yeah. Well, if I find you again and I report you to healthcare management, you’re not making it further than tonight.”
The way Jack says it, he’s pretty sure it was supposed to be serious in reprimand, maybe not, but it comes out weak in that context. He doesn’t know why it falls on his tongue like he’s joking with you. But really…he can’t keep up when you laugh.
“So, I’m assuming I can’t eat at my desk either. Alrighty.”
Why can’t he keep up when you laugh? And how does he stare and turn away when you do?
Why does the sound and look of you sear him at the skin and chest?
“Just–don’t knock yourself out on the clock again. You hear me? Not cool.”
Jack doesn’t care how he realizes then, when you nod curtly with your smile under your soft and blinking focus, he really doesn’t care for it…how he doesn’t have to ask for eye contact with you.
Even more so, he’s the one to look away first, as if he has to if he doesn’t want to feel the heat of the sun hurling towards him. That bit of Jack is lost and replaced with something unlike him, because why?
“Can do.”
This could be something he never has to think about again if he just leaves at that, if he continues to walk to do what he planned on doing five minutes ago, but for some reason, he’s willing to face whatever insecurities this introduction is brewing, because…
Despite all his flaws, his many, many flaws, acting like a shy and flustered little guy at the first sight of someone like you isn’t one of them.
It takes ten seconds for you to look up at him again when you realize Jack hasn’t moved.
“What’s your name?”
Your smile drops.
“Sir, please don’t report me to healthcare management–or Dana! God, no! I came in ten minutes ago, and I close my eyes for a minute and–”
Jack goes to put the palms of his hand on the counter, but it’s a movement he decides against before putting his hands behind his back again. Well. One hand. The other makes a fist at his hip.
“That was a joke. As long as you’re not kicking patients out their beds to use them, I wouldn’t risk this hospital losing nurses. It was a joke.”
It became one, didn’t it? Your eyes close with your sigh. When they open, you take to looking at the tile.
“Hey. I was joking. I think.”
This is familiar, the way he leans his head forward, slightly demanding your sight on him. This is him, and he deserves to be himself, apparently. Or, it’s good that you know he’s not a flustered stumbler if you’re gonna stick around.
“I’m definitely going to take your word for my sake. Okay.”
You stick out your hand with your name greeting him past your lips. Jack nods, and he doesn’t take his eyes off yours when he takes your palm firmly
He shouldn’t be proud that he does this without surprise, smacking him across the face, but he is when your name fully registers in his head. He’s heard about you before, as people hear about new people before they get the chance to meet them first.
You’re the new nurse who showed up about three weeks ago.
You’re the new nurse. Robby’s nurse.
It hasn’t even been a month, and in the chances he gets to spend his moments talking with Robby during the handover of shifts, Robby's mentioned you way too fucking much.
With your name in the squeezing of your smaller hand, Jack knows too much about you. He guesses that if you’re as capable and talented in your duties as Robby says you are, then it’s warranted.
But still, he was happy to know the nursing shortage was challenged by the Pitt gaining a competent addition to the team at first, but in every other conversation, your name just happened to pop out of Robby’s mouth.
“She’s just–it’s not just about having no complaints about her and her abilities. She’s great.”
“...I gathered that, Robby. These past weeks, I’ve been a gatherer of information for our new nurse. Besides the last story and the last story, just tell me, does the sun shine out of her ass?
Robby smiled a smile that was almost as bright as yours, even though Jack didn’t really ask it as something to laugh at, his words were dead in the pan.
“Medically speaking, yeah. You know, man–could just be that you’re expecting a good nurse and you end up with a great one who’s knowledgeable in a way that’s beyond her paygrade.”
“All nurses are underpaid.”
“I’m meaning…that she’s basically a third-year resident and a nurse combined. I don’t give her the tasks of a resident, but it’s like, like…if it came down to it, I could trust her with it. The tasks.”
“...Hopefully you’re not projecting this professional infatuation onto her, because the last thing I need is a cocky-connie trying to run my shifts.”
And Robby gave him a look, as if their conversation was no longer banter.
“Cocky-connie? That's just something you made up right now, and it’s not infatuation if she’s that fucking good, man. It’s just the truth. But you don’t gotta worry, she’s humble. She doesn’t wallow in self-degradation, but she’s just humble.”
“Oh. Good. I’m wondering how I haven’t met the savior of Pittsburgh's nursing community.”
“Yeah, she kinda makes sure to leave right when her shift’s over. Which is a shame for you, all her baked goods are gone in an hour.”
“She bakes?”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“...Okay. Robby?”
“Yeah?”
“Everything you’ve claimed her to be in the past half-month has been invalidated just now.”
“What??”
“The baked goods have gone to your head. I can’t trust your recommendation.”
“Oh, come on, brother! People can have multiple talents, and this place can benefit from all of it.”
“...Sir?”
Jack blinks himself sober. “Sorry. Nice to put a name to the perpetrator.” He squeezes your hand again. “Jack Abbot.”
You’re the first one to let go.
You blink, mouth parting slightly.
“Oh! Dr. Abbot, it’s so nice to finally meet you!”
…He guesses Robby told you about him, or maybe it’s just the perpetual gossip that exists in the walls of this hospital that’s led his reputation before him. For a second, the tenseness of his hands begs the question, what have other people said about him to you?
Another question is begged at the curl of his palms, why the hell does he care?
“Robby’s told me so much about you. Dr. Robby.”
Jack could scoff. There are things Robby didn’t mention about you, and he’s assuming that was for a reason.
“Good things? Or do I have to beat on him?"
“I thought when we’d be introduced, there’d be light trailing you.”
Jack’s head shakes once. What?
“...What?”
“You are apparently so, so badass. And also good at your job. I guess the latter is more important, or you’re badass because you’re so good? Anyways.” You scoot your chair in closer. “Excuse my language, I’m just surprised the sun doesn’t shine out of your ass with the way he talks about you.”
…Huh.
Jack nods as if this is an expected thing to hear, because if he doesn’t, he’ll notice the way his face has gotten hot, and if he does, he’ll find a one-way ticket to the rooftop a reasonable thing to joke about. Ha-ha.
“...Yeah, yeah. That’s good.”
Apparently he’ll never make a quip as long as he lives.
“Yeah.”
“...Yeah! Well, I guess I should actually do my job. Again, nice meeting you, Dr. Abbot.”
Jack watches you get up from your chair and away from your desk. You nearly brush shoulders when you do.
“Yeah. Nice meeting you.”
He scratches the back of his ear as you walk away.
“I better not find you knocked out in a supply closet.”
His words almost echo, and he almost smiles when you throw a thumbs up without looking his way.
When he turns back to the nurses station, whatever’s on his face drops immediately.
“Dana?”
“...Nothin’. See you met our new girl. She's smiley, ain't she?”
"I didn't notice."
"...I'm gonna let that one slide."
"What--"
"I'm taking my smoke break."
…Alright. The bathroom. The bathroom, right? Jack takes his way there.
You’re alright, and he doesn’t know if he’ll see your capabilities tested tonight, but you’re alright. They’re lucky to have a new addition to the center to make the days…and nights easier, but he wouldn’t mind if it were a night. Singular.
He wouldn’t mind if it were in the plural, either, he guesses. In the end, what he’s felt tonight are the bits of him that aren’t him, the unusual – and he’s allowed to be unusual when he’s meeting someone who can be that cheery and mutually quippy five minutes after waking up from the dead.
He’s allowed to feel confused about what he felt in his chest as much as he’s allowed to ignore it, and he’ll ignore it because it’s nothing.
Nothing but a funny, pretty nurse who knows how to get out of trouble and make Robby go...gooey. If he ignores it…well then, he can take advantage of your talents without a problem.
That and your possible baked goods. That he'll take advantage of.
Other than that, he’s sure the night will keep the distance between the two of you. Not that he isn't capable of doing that himself.
Not that he even has to, and that's nothing against you.
————————————————
Jack moves quicker when he sees you running towards him the next night. His brows rise with widening eyes.
“...Well.”
You look up at him with that same smile that finds the pit of his stomach, and when it happens, he almost doesn’t register the seven pudding cups in your hands.
A surprise night two and he’s already seeping with…ridiculous, unnecessary ardor. If he can even call it that. But he’s not gonna blame you, you can’t be at fault for something that’s supposed to be nothing.
Unless you know how uncaringly bright your smile is, and he’s not gonna create an issue for the suckers up in H.R just to ask a stupid fucking question.
It doesn’t matter if you do or don’t, because there shouldn’t be a faltering on his end just from a smile and a laugh and some banter from the new nurse. There’s not.
But still, Jack kinda wonders if you do know.
“Hey! Lookey, no need to sound Reveille for me.”
…No need to sound Reveille?
“How much did Robby tell you about me?”
“You’re too cool to keep a secret. But why? Did I say something–”
“No. No. But…lookey indeed. You got lost in the dark to the point you couldn’t find your way back to the day shift?”
Your smile softens with a sigh. “Yep, you and any other night-preferred physician are stuck with me for the next five days.”
His head gestures to the pudding cups. “Do I wanna know? Wait, rephrase. Do I have to know as your attending physician?”
“Not really. Lucky you, Dr. Abbot.”
Jack allows what's almost a smile to creep on his face, because this is sorta funny, and you know what? He’s glad to see you again, despite what’s seeping in against his best interest. Which is nothing.
He crosses his arms.
“We’ve got you for the week, why?”
“I was covering for Princess last night. She has COVID, and her mandatory five-day stay away from the world has me covering for her. So, if you’re empty-handed right now, there’s a man in room six desperate for a doctor to guide him through the motions of taking the light bulb out of his ass.”
You’ve allowed yourself comfortability with Jack already. Even he wasn’t like this with Robby in the early days of their friendship.
Maybe you don’t know how you smile or tilt your head or fiddle with your body language, because if it’s everyone that can see it, maybe they’re not purposeful or even impulsive decisions outside of what you usually do, it’s just who you are. Who the fuck ever knows who they are?
Besides, if they were uncommon, purposeful movements, why would you choose to do them towards him? That’s where it seems pretty fucking impossible.
“I was told you always leave exactly when your shift is done, and that seemed true last night.”
It is. You took off the minute your time in the Pitt was over. But your smile faltering isn’t purposeful, Jack thinks. Here, he shames himself for yesterday, the way he was secretly relieved he didn't see much of you or you as a nurse during the shift.
The begged questions wouldn't do him any favors with the night he was having. But the sun came up, and you were gone before anyone knew it.
He doesn’t know you, but for once, there’s almost something of a…serious nature on the lines of your face and lips. Just like that.
“Yeah…yeah, you were told right. Responsibilities in the world outside our castle stop me from going above and beyond as a nurse. If there’s ever a moment, day or night, when I have to work overtime, I will definitely, but you know. Life.”
“Okay. For Pittsburgh's sake, let’s hope it never comes to that."
Jack scratches his ear.
The name-dropping from his mouth is natural, he thinks. Acceptance at what's been given to him, turning fatigued lemons into banter-full lemonade, because you know what?
At the end of the day, he cares for the group of people he's partnered with. The people he teaches, the people he saves others alongside with.
But none of them have ever made him feel likes he's bits of a newer, flustered-fuck of a man on the first day of meeting them. They don't affect him that way. You shouldn't.
He can play with them on occasion and is more than cordial. He should be no different with you.
"Am I able to look to you first for nursing assistance if I need it tonight, sleepy?”
He crosses his arms when he can hear your footsteps halt past him. Saying it nearly dead-panned was purposeful.
“I cannot be given a nickname from a five-minute mistake. Please, Dr. Abbot.”
“I’m not giving you a nickname, I haven’t known you long enough to deserve that kind of bullied affection. It’s just…” Jack delivers his word deadpanned, he turns to you with your face already pleading. His eyes shift quickly to the floor, then back to you with a curt nod or two. That’s purposeful. That’s feigning thought.
He’s in a better mood tonight, he doesn’t know why.
“It fits.”
He can tell you stop yourself from rolling your eyes, because you’re probably smart enough to know where to tow the line when it comes to dry-humored conversations with a senior attending you barely know.
“Are you saying I have to earn your professional friendship to earn your harassment?”
“Let’s not use the word harassment, sleepy. Healthcare management has eyes everywhere.”
“You know what, Dr. Abbot?” You ready a pudding cup in your hands, swinging it like you’re about to throw it. “Challenge accepted.”
“Hey! Don’t–”
You throw the pudding cup that was never gonna be hard to catch. Still.
You've accepted this easier than Jack would've thought. Sure, you're obvious in your light and...medical pep, but you're willing in play already.
Well. That reaction really shouldn't effect him either.
“Don’t throw objects in the walkways.”
You begin walking backwards.
“And don’t walk backwards.”
“If that name reaches the day crew, you’re in for it.”
“...Excuse me?”
And like that, you’re gone with a light jog when Jack can hear a voice screaming “Nurse!” throughout the curls of the halls.
The strangeness of you found questions in Jack, too many for a tolerable night.
It would be too much for Jack and Jack alone, really…because maybe those feelings can be chalked up to what you claimed, a professional friendship, and despite the parts of his bones that are hardened, guarded, and whatever else his therapist accuses him of being, he’s not entirely closed off.
Being closed-off doesn’t make a good doctor or caretaker; it doesn’t help anybody, especially not himself, if he somehow does deserve help by the end of the day.
Nobody knows the whole of themselves, but these are the few things Jack is sure of, and with that, you're about to be what everyone else is to him: A person he can get along with. What more is needed?
————————————————
Dr. Jack Abbot is a nice man. A cool guy. And you’re glad you trusted Dr. Robby’s word on him. He is pretty badass. Even though there hasn’t been much chaos in the two shifts you’re partnered with him on, you can tell he’d be able to thrive under it.
And he’s funny. He’s a person you can find yourself comfortable with easily. Although…it’s been a long time since you were yourself, you’re not sure if you should be giving credit to Dr. Abbot or to yourself for that, but–
“Sleepy.”
You jump when Dr. Abbot is just suddenly in front of you.
“...Hey. I didn’t mean to make you jolt out of your seat, but…hi.”
But he’s gone now. You have more than enough time to figure who you are without him hurting you.
“No–no. What’s up?”
Dr. Abbot puts his hands at his sides.
“Tonight’s the night you take me up on my offer. A lady’s in room seven with what looks to be a non-critical issue. Diaz was gonna check her in, put down the vitals and lab sheets for me, but with it being a slow night on your minor rotation…and with what I’ve heard about you,”
His hands make his way up to the counter, one palm lies flat.
“Am I allowed to put your skills to the test? Or should I let you take another nap?”
You smile with your heart speeding in its beat. He’s funny. You think he likes you, or maybe he’s the person here that can be easy with others, make others smile. But, either way, the night shift isn’t looking to be so bad, after all.
It doesn’t hurt that he’s so handsome either, not that that matters. But it’s…you’re in a place where it can, and you won’t be hurt for it.
You’re in a place where you can get along and care for others, and you can exist for other people, people who you can tell are already great at their jobs, great at being.
You can exist for others and not be bruised for it. That’s how it should be, your therapist says. It’s valid to feel guilty after how long you were with him, what he forced your mind to learn, but this is how it should be.
“Of course.”
…Even though you’re suddenly terrified. Still, you keep your smile along your face.
You are confident in your capabilities as a nurse; you have to be if you’re gonna be working with emergency patients, but you trust Dr. Abbot to be a great doctor.
Even if he isn’t, he’s obviously a superior, and putting your skills out there for anyone to observe is terrifying, especially when you’re newer, you want to impress everyone, and that feeling is intense; the anxiety that comes with the idea that you won’t is even worse.
But you’ve been through worse. You’ve felt worse.
“Room seven, you said?”
“Yep. I have some charts to finish, another patient to check on. When you’re done, come find me and give me a debrief.”
“Alrighty, Dr.”
You throw a salute at him. Dr. Abbott only confuses you when his brows go low with a stare.
“...How much did Robby tell you about me?”
“I don’t know what I’m saying that you would ask that.”
“...Just get on the patient, please.”
You do. She’s a 57-year-old woman named Lillian. She’s nice enough.
“What happened to that young Hispanic man? I was looking forward to being examined by him.”
It’s the not worst sexual harassment you’ve ever witnessed or have received from a patient, but even in the shameless comment, you can tell she’s pale and uncomfortable.
“I hope my face does just well enough, ma’am. You’re stuck with me. So, what’s exactly the matter, tonight?”
You find that what’s been the matter with the patient for a while is that she was previously healthy to only come in with intermittent chest tightness, dyspnea, and a dry cough with a bit of lightheadedness.
No on COVID. No on the flu, but most of her concern is how every hospital before yours claims it’s only a cold as her immune system weakens into old age.
“Don’t worry, ma’am. We’ll try our best to stop you from feeling like this.”
As you slowly make your way to Dr. Abbott at the nurse’s station, you do more than you’re supposed to in your head in thinking about her symptoms.
You are a confident nurse. You’re proud to be one…even if it wasn’t your first career choice, but still, you do know you’re not supposed to be the one to make the conclusions. You can suggest, offer, assist, but you cannot allow your confidence to lie in the things you’re not allowed to do.
Still, there’s something wrong here. It’s more than all the things that have been ruled out, and even though you know there is a risk of seeming pushy or out of your depth at bringing up your theory to Dr. Abbot if he comes up with it first, but for the sake of the patient, you have to. The well-being of them outrules…the rules.
This is not about seeming impressive to him…or to anyone, but if it does, you wouldn’t mind the emotional benefit of that.
“Dr. Abbot.”
Dr. Abbot turns around, stern in the movement…strong in the arms. You wonder if you’d noticed that before.
“You’re done already?”
“Mhmm.”
“I was told to be expecting a mystery illness.”
“Yeppers,” You hand him the chart and he’s quick to flip through it, studying it with a practiced eye. “She’s been two primary care doctors and urgent care before going to another E.R in Philly.”
He continues his study, and this is really the first time you’re able to see Dr. Abbot doing his job. Although he’s literally just looking at a chart, his focus is natural. Admirable.
“Normal ECG, troponins are slightly elevated but not screaming at us. Is the echo still pending?” You nod. “Labs are not gonna be for another couple of hours.”
“Mhmm. But if it’s the same as the last department, they’ll probably run clean. Still,”
“Mhmm. What?”
“...Did you just mock me, Dr. Abbot?”
“Mm-mm. What is it?”
You stop yourself from rolling yourselves with the rush of blood against your arms. The way his jokes come out as if they’re fact, as if he’s not joking.
The night shift isn’t so bad. And Dr. Abbot is more than a good man, he’s much too likable already.
“I’ll wait on the echo before I suggest anything.”
Dr. Abbot looks up. He blinks before his eyes slightly narrow.
“Alright. I suppose it’s my turn to examine her now, and whatever comes from my assessment, you’ll sit with me on the next patient after.”
“Alright.”
Your word is not unkind, but curt in a slightly lowered voice.
You try to not let your smile get so wide when Dr. Abbot points a low finger.
“I’m just going to state my rules, well, my preferences. I couldn’t have specifics rules for a nurse, I’m not your superior, Dana Evans is–”
“Damn right.”
It’s Dana flying past, covered in a fluid you will not ask about.
You turn back to see Dr. Abbot’s eyes on you first. You suppose he’s more used to Dana or any nurse or fellow attending or resident covered in fluid.
“If you’re gonna take to the night shift, I’d rather not have you mock me. But I’ll be in room seven with…” He takes his sights back to the chart before handing it back to you. “Lillian.”
You wait a few seconds before Dr. Abbot’s away from you.
“Right back at ya.”
You smile when Jack stops in his tracks. He takes two seconds to turn and takes seconds to stare at you when you blow a finger gun. His brows raise. His eyes go small.
“You are so strange.”
Your smile keeps at his simple statement, despite the fact that you’re shocked at his easy bravery. You suppose you’re glad he can already feel comfortable around you to bully, that makes for good teamwork. That seems to be the truth for your time with Dr. Robby and his little group of residents and students you’re trying to get to know.
He turns back, and for the next twenty minutes, he’s gone.
Dana’s suddenly next to you, chair against chair. She sighs shakily.
“People need to stop shoving shit up their anuses. At the very least, the country needs to make a law against it. Why is it that every nurse that has been and is to be will encounter butt stuff?
“I don’t know about lawmaking, Dana. That won’t stop anyone.”
The blonde woman smiles thinly, but sweetly before it fades slightly.
“How’s the night shift treating ya, so far?”
“Alright, actually.”
“...How’s Abbot?”
"Dr. Abbot? He’s great. For a conversation where I’m bullied, I mean. But he’s a pretty good doctor, yeah?”
“One of the best, don’t tell him I said that. Tell him I said he’s good. Just enough praise to situate confidence, but not enough to build an ego. The same goes for Robby.”
You chuckle at Dana’s rightful plan, chin resting on your hand when you squeak your chair closer to her.
“...How do the others like him?”
You already regret the question when Dana’s brows raise, but you don’t know why, it’s just a question where you want to see if the others you’re getting to know like him as much as you do.
You like him. And that’s okay. You can exist around him and it’s not a crime.
Nothing about the way you feel deserves punishment. Remind yourself of that if you want the way you smile and the way you want to make others laugh and feel good feel real. If you want to be yourself.
“In this department, with his ability? He’s easy to like and learn from. He’s not sunshine in a can like you, but you’ve obviously seen he’s able to…appear like he has a will to live.”
“...Sunshine in a can?”
You’re completely confused in the way you blink quickly.
“You’ve been here for almost a month and one would think we suddenly have a teddy-bear rotation. The fact that I have not come to resent your constant smiling or surprise granola says something about you.”
“Dana–”
“Take the compliment, sunshine. If I have to hear our McKay bitch about the lack of brownies since you’ve been put on the night shift, that means you belong here.”
You smile small, and you’re smile being small doesn’t mean it’s any less genuine, but the idea of people perceiving you, or at the very least, your charge nurse perceiving you as someone who already belongs here makes your heart unbelievably shy.
You’re glad that the person you can finally be is a person others like, but even in the confidence you need to relearn, you’ll keep that thought down for the sake of being humble.
“Tell Cassie the day shift will have assorted scones ready for them when I come back. And speaking of my sunny absence, how’s you with the double shifts?”
“It’s probably my 15th anniversary of double shifts tonight. Maybe you can join me for once this time. Stop running for the door the minute your shift is done.”
You try to smile.
"Hey, it's your one flaw, I'll take what I can get--"
“Sleepy,” You and Dana both look up at Dr. Abbott in front of you two, arms stretched out, palms flat on the counter. “On your feet, we’ll leave Evans to take a nap she actually deserves. Seriously, slugger, you running back and forth tonight worries me.”
You almost moan when Dana’s mouth parts with a scoff readied on her tongue. “Sleepy? Oh, sweetie, that’s much better than sunshine.”
You only burn when Dr. Abbott looks at you, then Dana, then you again, all with a stiff head and unblinking eyes.
“Let’s go.”
And you can only mouth “why?!” at Dana as you walk backwards behind him.
“Stop doing that, please.”
You stop walking backwards.
“Thank you.”
Before you know it, you’re standing alongside the newly introduced attending in the intake bay. A patient’s chart rests in his hands, and there. He’s focused again.
His face is beautiful in his stern, simple sight, and the only issue is your instinct to blush instead of teasing him about it, so you try to focus on what must be the rare reprieve of the night shift, no drunk college kids or wounds from bar fights, right?
The fluorescent light hum you know this place for is almost enough to not notice the way Dr. Abbott scratches his leg, and when he does, the pant leg pulls up by a few inches.
And what’s underneath is metal instead of flesh and bone. Another life that’s built into him.
Oh. To sound the reveille. The salute. The leg. Or lack thereof. That’s probably a cruel thought to have. You’re sorry.
He must be a vet, and although you like him, and you want to get to know more of him, you feel like knowing that now, without Dr. Abbot’s own words feel wrong. But you can’t think like that.
These simple things do not deserve punishment.
You clear your throat, dropping your body on a wheeled stool to spin. And spin.
Dr. Abbot doesn’t look back down when he looks up at you.
“What are you doing?”
“You look like you’re trying to decode the Zodiac letters.”
The small, clueless smirk you pressed your lips together for fades when Dr. Abbot puts the chart to his chest, and his face is plain, but already, you can tell by his eyes that he doesn’t find the joke in this.
You stop spinning.
“You must be very good at baking. Good on you.”
You blink. “Oh! My reputation precedes me. And I am, if I do say so myself…” You blink again.
Is he saying what you think he’s saying?
“Dr. Abbot, if…my attempts–if I ever get too much, you can tell me. Whatever you’ve heard about me, I can assure you, I’ve definitely caused eye-rolls before.”
Dr. Abbot gives you no reaction. You can’t know if that’s a good or bad thing, but the way he simply looks back down at the chart strikes you. You swallow.
Impress. Make do. Make people feel good.
“Let me guess–non-traumatic, vague abdominal pain, vitals are stable, and the labs could bore you?”
Dr. Abbottlooks up and holds the chart over his legs, his head slightly lifted, but his eyes only on you.
“There’s nausea, some lightheadedness. Minor tachycardia but not sustained. He says it gets worse after meals. Negative for ulcers. No fever. Nothing glaring at us in the CBC or BMP. You’ve ever caught smoke with your bare hands?”
You shake your head. He blinks. Oh.
“Of course you haven’t.” You try not to smile when he shakes his head. “I’d say it feels pancreatic, but the clarity on that isn’t as clear as I’d like it to be. Could be early gallbladder, but the imaging’s clean. I could go get Dr. Shen, or leave it to Robby in the morning for a second opinion but…I don’t know, sleepy.”
“Can I?”
You point to the curtain, and Dr. Abbot doesn’t take a moment to nod; he only crosses his arms and narrows his head.
You end up glancing through to see the patient. He’s mid-thirties, male. Seemingly alert and coherent, annoyed but not in distress.
“May I?”
Your hand gestures to the chart in Dr. Abbot's hands, and he gives it to you to study.
Here, you wonder what it is he’s trying to do with you exactly, other than figuring out the situation with the new nurse he’s only met yester-night.
…Is he challenging you? Trying to disprove what others believe? It makes you wonder what’s exactly been said about you to the point where Dr. Abbot or anybody else would think you’re more capable than the average nurse (and the average nurse is nothing short of God here in the Pitt, you think).
And then you wonder what it is about the other parts of you that might make it harder for him to believe you are what you are, which is a nurse that knows more than she should.
You can’t blame Dr. Abbot exactly, considering you were just playing spinsies on the chair two minutes ago. Still, the answer to his problem comes to you easily, and you can’t help but wonder what face he’ll make when you tell him.
“I’m seeing he started a new ‘clean eating’ thing two weeks ago?”
“No red meat, high fiber, the load of raw veggies.”
You nod thoughtfully after he drags out the word load on his tongue. “Did you palpate the LLQ?”
Really. You try not to smile when Dr. Abbott makes no face, but only shifts his crossed arms to folding his knuckles over his stomach. That says enough.
“Yeah. He winced. No rebound, but no rigidity.”
“And what about percussion on the sigmoid? Or the gas pattern?”
And even though you’re not looking, you can feel his eyes watching you, asking a question.
How the hell do you know exactly what to ask?
“...Some distension, but nothing dramatic. You…what are you seeing in this chart that I’m not?”
You smile something that all too quickly turns into a smirk. You hate to break down your humbleness the way you do when you hand Dr. Abbott the chart.
“I’m thinking, and only thinking, not diagnosing–that’s your job. But…it could be acute colonic pseudo-obstruction.”
You lean against the wall, growing taller on your tippy toes and dimples coming along wide.
Dr. Abbot flips through the chart.
“He’s ticking all the boxes, don’t you think? Sudden dietary shift, high fiber, gas buildup, and some mild nausea."
It’s rare, so I don’t mean to think of zebras instead of horses, but if the labs and tests are coming up empty with more common illnesses, you can claim it’s not impossible in a younger patient, you know? The imaging’s not gonna catch it, and even if it did, no one thinks to look for Early Ogilvie’s in someone his age.
You let the Dr. blink in the moment of silence.
He puts the chart down on the counter before leaning against it.
“You’re serious.” In the moment, you’re almost thankful for him taking his sights off you to watch the sterile glow over the tile, but when he looks back up at you, there’s something new in his eyes.
It’s odd, you try your best to be confident in the way you talk, the way you comfort patients and your colleagues, but you don’t think you could be as confident with your eyes as Dr. Abbot is with his, but you hope your confidence has the same effect as his focus.
That it puts trust in others.
“Ogilvie’s?”
You shrug before leaning into Dr. Abbot’s space, you only do it for dramatics as you whisper.
“Just a theory, but I’d put my money on it. You, good sir, could ask for KUB focused on his distal colon, or maybe a contrast if you want to go fancy. But you probably already know that, because if everyone thinks you’re great, well…what can I do but follow?”
You think that after this, you have to keep looking in his eyes, because what’s the point of proving yourself to him if you can’t appear confident in your proof? Still, you’re thankful that he’s the one to look away first.
“If you’re right, excellent job.”
And there it is again, your veins and bones trying to sit still when it faces a compliment.
“...Thank you–”
“Excellent.”
And they possibly can’t when you realize that Dr. Abbot is truly serious in his words. Almost…breathless, but that must be how he sounds when he’s not facetiously bullying you. Still, you have to stop the corners of your brain from closing in on its believability.
Impress, but relearn how to accept the praise when you finally do.
But here…it’s different with Dr. Abbot, and you couldn’t know why, but it’s easy for your system to accept his praise, and maybe it's because it wants it badly enough that it’s willing to ignore his voice. His words.
“If you’re wrong, I will call on Evans to severely reprimand you.”
“I’ll start a betting pool when you walk off to order the imaging.”
Dr. Abbot nods before lifting himself away from you and your sights, and it’s only a matter of this being a calm shift that you’re able to sit next to Dana again.
You only regret when you meet her knowing look. What could she know? You wouldn’t.
“Aw, shit. You glowing from your diagnostic confidence or from Abbot’s praise when you did whatever the fuck it is you did this time?”
“I’m allowed to be proud of when I’m right, Dana."
“Mhm-hm.” Whatever it is that Dana’s unconvinced about, you can tell she is still when she stands up with two pats to your shoulders. “Sure.”
And when she walks away from you, she’s only more unconvinced when she meets Abbott in the walkway.
“Her. What is with her? How do…others like her?”
And Abbot’s only as confused as you when Dana snorts.
✶ after getting you get berated by robby, jack has some things to say to him about it.
002. WARNINGS !
✶ angst (robby's an asshole). reader has a panic attack. talks of death (patients). heavy conversations in a very unrealistic setting (HR would have a field day).
word count : 3,2k
gif by @timothyolyphant
You had been having a terrible day.
Your shift had started at 6:43 a.m., because getting in early gave you more time to ignore the reality waiting outside the hospital walls: your landlord had raised the rent, and you couldn’t afford it.
Which meant that, by next week, you probably wouldn’t have a place to live.
You’d spent your one day off scrolling through listings, chasing anything that even remotely fit your budget. Nothing did. Or at least, nothing that felt livable.
One place had walls so thin you could hear every car passing by like it was in your living room. Another reeked of damp, with pipes that looked like they might burst if you so much as turned on a faucet. And then there was the eighth-floor walk-up—no elevator, of course—as if hauling yourself up eight flights after a twelve-hour shift was somehow reasonable.
At this point, you told yourself you’d take anything. A bed, a door that locked, a space that was yours. But even that felt like too much to ask.
You also hadn’t told Jack.
You’d only been seeing each other for a month, and it felt too fragile, too new, to drop something like this into the middle of it. The last thing you wanted was to scare him off with the mess your life had suddenly become. Because then you’d be left with nothing—no apartment, no safety net, no him.
And then, because the universe clearly had a sense of humor at your expense, you lost your first patient at 7:29 a.m.
You’d worked her for over ten minutes, refusing to give in even when the odds had already slipped out of your hands. Compressions, meds, another round, your voice steady even as your chest tightened. Until Robby finally called it.
Just like that.
He didn’t soften the aftermath, didn’t give you a second to breathe before tossing out a sharp comment about how you should be better at catching STEMIs.
All in all, things weren’t going well.
It was now 17:28, barely two hours left on your shift before you’d be forced to face everything you’d been trying to outrun.
You had lost two patients so far.
And both times, Robby had made sure you felt it with sharp comments.Each one chipping away at whatever confidence you had left.
People had noticed.
They also noticed that for the past few days something about you had been off, like a storm building just beneath the surface. Today, it was impossible to ignore.
Even Dana had pulled you aside, her voice softer than usual as she asked if you were okay, if you needed a breather. You did. But admitting that felt like handing Robby another reason to hover, another excuse to dissect every mistake you made.
So you shook it off and kept going.
Now, the pressure sat heavy in your chest as you worked a GSW to the chest alongside Whitaker and Robby.
The patient was crashing too fast. Blood everywhere, slipping through your hands no matter how quickly you moved. Garcia had been paged less than a minute ago, but even in that short span of time, you could feel it—you had already lost him.
Wrong place, wrong time. That’s what the paramedics had said when they rushed him in, the police echoing the same hollow explanation. His family had been called, but they were still an hour away.
Your eyes locked on the monitor and didn’t even flinch when it flatlined.
No rush of adrenaline, no frantic movement to fix it but instead just a quiet, hollow stillness as you stepped back, letting Whitaker take over. Robby would guide him. Whitaker would listen.
You were just in the way.
So you left.
Like a ghost, you moved through the room, ignoring your name sharply being called. Ignoring the looks, the movement, the noise of the ER around you. Your feet carried you on autopilot, straight out to the ambulance bay.
You tried to breathe.
In. Out. Slow. Controlled. The way Jack had shown you once, his voice steady, his hands warm where they’d rested over yours.
It didn’t work.
The air wouldn’t come.
Your chest tightened to the point of pain, your airway closing as if something inside you had finally snapped.
The realization hit fast: you couldn’t breathe. Not properly. Not nearly enough.
Tears blurred your vision, spilling over before you could stop them, your cheeks drenched as everything you’d been holding in finally broke free.
One of the paramedics in an ambulance rushed to your side, his voice cutting through the noise, though you couldn’t make out a single word. Strong hands steadied you before lifting you up, carrying you back into the ED and drawing the attention of everyone in your path.
Langdon was there in an instant, a wheelchair already in front of you.
“What happened?” he asked, voice sharp but edged with worry.
“Can’t…” you wheezed, fingers clawing weakly at your throat and chest.
“Dana, what’s open?” He called over his shoulder.
Dana’s eyes landed on you, concern flashing across her face before she snapped back into motion. “North 5’s open!”
Langdon didn’t waste a second, guiding the wheelchair once the paramedic helped settle you onto it. The world blurred as he pushed you down the hall and into the room.
Once inside, he moved immediately.
Vitals, pupils, airway—his hands moved steadily, efficiently, practiced as he checked everything, only to find nothing wrong except your heart racing too fast and your breaths coming too shallow.
He didn’t need to call psych to know what this was.
A panic attack.
You had started to settle, focusing on matching his breathing as he reassured you that, physically, you were fine.
Once you could finally string a few words together, you thanked him.
“You have nothing to thank me for,” he said, offering you a soft, easy smile. “I’m just doing my job.”
“Still… thank you.” you whispered.
He exhaled, pushing himself to his feet. “I’ll go let Robby know you’re alright.”
You nodded faintly, already dreading the inevitable.
Would he care that you were barely holding it together? That with each passing day, you felt like you were unraveling a little more? You wanted to believe he would.
But wanting didn’t make it true.
“So, I hear our doctors are just abandoning their patients over a little panic attack?”
Robby’s voice cut through the room as he stepped inside. He let out a dry, humorless laugh, shaking his head as his eyes landed on you lying on the gurney.
“Robby, that’s not what—”
“I don’t care what happened,” he snapped, cutting you off. “I care that I trusted you to help me with a patient—a critical patient—and you walked out without a word.” His jaw tightened. “What would’ve happened if you’d been alone with that patient, hm? How is it that a first-year resident can handle the pressure better than a fourth-year?”
“Things have just been difficult—”
“Welcome to life,” he shot back. “Things get tough. But you’re a doctor. People depend on you, so you put it aside and you do your job. Who the fuck cares what you’re going through? Do you think that guy who just died cared?”
“I’m sorry,” you whispered, your voice breaking as tears slipped free.
“Don’t you dare cry,” he hissed. “I think you should go home—and seriously consider whether you’re actually cut out for this. A breakdown like this from a med student? Fine. Expected, even. But from a fourth-year resident?” He shook his head, eyes cold. “It’s pathetic.”
“I still have an hour left,” you managed, your voice quieter than you intended.
He let out a sharp breath. “Then stay in triage. Or finish your charting. I don’t even care at this point. And if you’re going to have another panic attack, do it off the clock.”
You closed your eyes for a moment, swallowing everything down, and nodded.
Robby didn’t say anything else before turning and walking out.
For a second, you just sat there, forcing yourself to pull the pieces back together. You wiped at your face, steadying your breathing, willing the last traces of it to disappear.
You couldn’t afford to fall apart again.
When you finally stepped out, the shift in the air was immediate.
People were looking.
Quick glances, not-so-subtle ones—everyone who had been within earshot now pretending they hadn’t heard a thing. You exhaled slowly, pushing past it, past them, making your way to the board.
Focus. Just focus.
You scanned for a patient, anything to keep your hands moving and your mind occupied.
As the clock ticked by, the night shift began to roll in.
The worst of it had passed—at least on the surface. Your eyes were no longer swollen, but a faint redness lingered.
The cases coming through triage were manageable. Surface-level, almost mercifully so. A chronic headache. A deep but clean laceration. Nothing critical. Nothing that could slip through your fingers and haunt you later.
No way to lose anyone now.
At 18:49, you heard Jack Abbot’s voice, and it felt like a lifeline—like something solid cutting through the noise and pulling you back to shore.
You focused on your last patient, careful and thorough, even as something in you itched to go find him. To just see him. But you didn’t rush. You couldn’t. Not after everything.
A few minutes later, you heard his voice again.
But this time, it was different.
He was using the kind of tone you’d only ever heard him use with combative patients.
“Who the fuck do you think you are?”
Your hands stilled.
“Excuse me?” Robby scoffed.
“What makes you think that berating your residents for having emotions is in any way helpful?”
Your chest tightened at the words. Before you could stop yourself, you excused yourself from your patient and followed the sound, your pulse quickening with every step.
You found them just outside the nurses’ station.
Jack stood rigid, his finger pointed at Robby’s chest, his jaw tight, brows drawn together in a way that made it clear he wasn’t backing down.
“I don’t know why that’s any of your business,” Robby shot back, crossing his arms.
“You mistreating residents isn’t my business?” Jack challenged. “Maybe you’ve forgotten what your job is, but you’re not just a doctor—you’re supposed to be teacher, too.” His voice was controlled, but the anger underneath it was unmistakable. “If they’re having a hard time, you help them. You don’t tear them down until they start questioning whether they even belong here.”
“This isn’t therapy, and I sure as hell am not their therapist. This is an ER, and they’re doctors.” Robby fired back.
“And that gives you the right to what? Humiliate them?” Jack stepped closer, his voice dropping, more dangerous now. “Push them until they break?”
Robby let out a dry laugh. “If they break, that’s on them.”
Something in Jack snapped.
“No,” he said, firm, unwavering. “That’s on you.”
The space around them had gone quiet, the usual chaos of the ED dimming as people pretended not to watch.
And then Jack spoke again, his voice cutting clean through the tension.
“You want to be an asshole? Talk to me like that. Try it.” Jack snaps, “But you don’t get to talk to her like that.”
Robby let out a sharp, sarcastic laugh. “So that’s what this is about?” He shook his head. “And here I thought you’d suddenly become some kind of advocate for residents. Guess it’s just the ones you’re involved with.”
“You need to back off,” Jack said, his voice low, controlled. “Now.”
“No, no—let’s be honest,” Robby pressed, gesturing loosely to the room. “Let’s make sure everyone knows just how noble you are.” His smile was thin, biting. “You don’t care that I went off on a resident. You care that I went off on your resident. It’s almost impressive how quickly you claimed the moral high ground when you’re the one who should be reported to HR.”
“Then report me,” Jack shot back without hesitation. “I’ll return the favour.”
Robby scoffed, shaking his head like the whole thing had suddenly bored him. “You know what? Fine. If you want to deal with that mess, be my guest.”
His gaze swept across the onlookers, lingering just long enough to remind everyone they’d been seen—before it landed on you.
A slow, cutting smile spread across his face.
“You’re officially on night shift, sweetheart,” he sneered. “Hope you don’t have a panic attack about that, too.”
You were left stunned, mouth slightly open as you watched Robby storm off.
“Back to work, people! There are lives to save,” Jack called out, his tone leaving no room for argument. Slowly, the tension broke, and everyone dispersed, slipping back into the rhythm of the ED like nothing had happened.
Then he turned to you.
He crossed the distance quickly, his hands coming up to rest on your arms, grounding you where you stood, still stiff at your sides.
“You okay?” He asked, his gaze softening as he took in your tear-bright eyes.
You shook your head, a hollow laugh slipping out. “This is a nightmare.”
“Hey—no,” he said immediately, his grip tightening just slightly. “This isn’t your fault. What he said was completely out of line, and I’m glad Dana told me. You should never have been put through that.”
“We’re so going to get reported to HR,” you whispered.
“You let me deal with that.”
You let out a shaky breath, your thoughts spiraling faster than you could keep up with.
“I’m going to have to find a new job,” you murmured. “And I definitely can’t afford that.” You closed your eyes for a second before looking back up at him. “But… thank you. For defending me.”
“Someone had to,” Jack said, worry written all across his face. “Robby’s been out of line for a while now. But today…” He shook his head slightly. “Something snapped when I heard how he was talking to you. How often it’s been happening.”
“I’ve been off my game,” you admit quietly.
“That’s not an excuse,” he countered gently but firmly. “And even if it were, it still wouldn’t justify any of that.” His expression shifted, concern settling deeper into his features. “I’m more worried about why you had a panic attack. Langdon said you haven’t been yourself for a while.”
“I didn’t want to worry you,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.
“Well, I’m always worried about you,” he replied softly. “So help me understand what’s going on.”
The words sat heavy in your chest for a moment before they finally spilled out.
You told him everything.
About the rent. About how you weren’t sure where you’d be living next week. About the apartments that didn’t work, the exhaustion, the patients you’d lost. About how you hadn’t given yourself even a second to process any of it—just kept going, pushing it down, pretending it wasn’t catching up to you. And how now, you would probably have to start looking for a new hospital to work at after Robby’s words.
As you spoke, the frown in his brows deepened, his hands moving slowly up and down your arms, a quiet, steady attempt to soothe you as everything unraveled.
After a moment of quiet, he spoke.
“You’re not going to lose your job. I won’t let that happen.”
“Jack…”
“I’m not finished,” he cut in gently. “I just… I wish you’d let me help you. You know I would do anything for you. I’d throw myself down a flight of stairs if it meant making things easier for you.”
A small, disbelieving breath left you. “I thought it would scare you off,” you admitted. “I didn’t want to be a burden.”
“The day I ever say you’re a burden, you better slap some sense into me,” he said, completely serious. “I mean it. I want to be there for you. I want you to trust me with this kind of stuff—to let me carry some of it with you.”
You reached up, wiping away a tear before it could fall.
“Move in with me,” he said suddenly.
You froze.
“I know it’s fast—too fast, probably—but I can’t just stand by while you’re this stressed when I have a perfectly good place you can stay at,” he continued, his voice softer now, but no less certain. “You can take the guest room if you want. Or I will, if you like my bed more. I don’t care how we do it, just…” He exhaled, searching your face. “Please. Move in with me.”
You stared at him, your mind struggling to catch up with what he was offering.
Everything in you wanted to say yes—to fall into the safety he was offering, to let someone finally take some of the weight off your shoulders. But there was still that hesitation, that voice in the back of your mind reminding you how new this was, how quickly everything was moving.
“Jack, it’s only been a month,” you said quietly, searching his face.
“I know,” he admitted, not even trying to argue it. “It is. But this isn’t about how long we’ve been together. It’s about you needing somewhere safe to land. And I can give you that.”
You swallowed, your gaze dropping for a second before lifting back to his.
“I don’t want to mess this up,” you whispered. “Whatever this is between us… I don’t want to ruin it by rushing into something.”
“You won’t,” he said without hesitation. “We’ll take it at your pace. Separate rooms, space, whatever you need. Nothing has to change unless you want it to.”
There was no pressure in his voice. No expectation.
Your chest tightened again, but this time it wasn’t panic. It was something softer, something that made your throat ache for a completely different reason.
“…Okay,” you breathed.
His expression shifted instantly, relief flickering across his face. “Okay?”
“Okay,” you repeated, a little more certain this time. “I’ll… move in. At least for now.”
A small smile pulled at his lips, something warm and genuine, like you’d just handed him something he wasn’t going to take lightly.
“Good,” he murmured.
For a second, neither of you moved.
Then the noise of the ED filtered back in, grounding you both in reality.
Jack exhaled, glancing over his shoulder before looking back at you, something sharper slipping into his expression again. “I should get back to work.”
You nodded, though your hand instinctively caught his wrist for just a second before letting go.
He hesitated, then leaned in just slightly, his voice dropping.
“I also need to go find Robby and punch him for making you cry,” he muttered.
Despite everything, a weak huff of laughter escaped you.
“But,” he added, straightening, his tone shifting back to something steadier, “we’ll talk later. We’ll figure everything out, okay?”
“Okay,” you said softly.
He then leaned in—and slightly hesitantly—placed a tender kiss to your forehead, before slipping back into doctor mode as he turned and disappeared into the chaos of the ED.
You stood there for a minute taking it all in. Still shaken, still overwhelmed, but no longer feeling completely alone.
NOTE : samira mohan i have stolen your thunder. and by thunder, i mean your whole scene with robby😭 i have wanted to write this since that episode came out but didn’t quite know where to start. also is the ending totally shit? please don’t tell me if it is🫰
summary you join PTMC as their slightly uptight, sharp hospital lawyer and catch the attention of night shift attending jack abbot.
tags/warnings age gap (mid 20s/mid 40s), slow burn (no burn yet soz, just talky), fluff, workplace romance(?), bit a flirting bit of tension too who is she!, reader's a bit girly - skirts, pink, that vibe, bit dorky think amy santiago from b99 lowkey
wc 3.8k
When Jack first saw you, he thought you were too… squirrely.
A little too polished. Way too awake for 7:05AM.
He leaned over to Parker, muttering just for her to hear. "She's gonna get eaten alive."
Parker scoffed a chuckle at that, the rest of the crew seemed to be thinking the same, furrowed brows as you stood out under the harsh fluorescent hospital lights .
“Team, I just wanted to introduce our newest recruit with legal. She’ll be working closely with the ER—handling complaints, risk management, patient disputes,” Gloria said, as the early morning day shift hovered around the nurses’ station. “She’ll be reviewing incident reports, advising on liability, and stepping in when anything escalates.”
A couple of them groaned quietly at that. Gloria ignored it.
“She’s your first point of contact for anything legal or ethical. Reports to the head office, but she’s based upstairs. Available during the day—and on nights if needed.”
You stood beside her, posture straight, hands clasped neatly in front of you—fingers fidgeting just slightly against each other, like you’re holding them there on purpose. Hair slightly messy in a way that felt unintentional, Mary Jane heels, peppered with pink and off-whites, skirt and all. Bright eyes. A smile that was just a touch too careful.
“Really nice to meet you all,” you said, well rehearsed, polite as ever. “I’ve interned at VA hospitals, children’s hospitals, so I’ve dealt with a... diverse range of people” You paused, a small, self-aware breath. “I’m just, you know, here to help keep things from turning into lawsuits, basically.”
That got a few more looks.
Gloria continued—something about OFIs—but most of them had checked out. Some nodded politely, some looked half-dead from night shift, others clung to their coffee like it was life support.
PTMC has a... somewhat sliming legal team. The budget is already parsed through to not be given to nurses and other staff.
Your eyes moved across the group, taking them in, assessing.
They landed on Jack. Just a second longer. Then moved on.
He frowned faintly, not thinking much of it as he leaned toward Ellis.
“Think she’ll last?” he murmured.
Parker shrugged, zipping her bag. “Maybe. Looks a bit uptight.”
“Probably why Gloria likes her,” he muttered.
He glanced back—caught you looking again.
You looked away quickly this time, your smile slipping for half a second before it reset, a little tighter.
★★★
He didn’t see you again for a few weeks.
He heard about you, though.
From both shifts. Little things.
You’d diffused a situation with a patient’s family threatening legal action. Sat in on a complaint review and apparently tore apart the timeline in ten minutes. Got someone to rewrite an incident report because, according to a nurse, “it read like a drunk text.”
You, in fact, had not been eaten alive. Despite the carefully put-together, polite, slightly squirrelly exterior, you were apparently… well-suited for PTMC.
Robby had filled him in one morning, leaning back in his chair with his coffee, eyes wide as if he were still in disbelief. “It’s ridiculous,” he said. “Some guy comes in complaining I nearly got his wife killed over the flu. He wants to sue for millions. I go up to her office—he’s there, she’s there—and twenty minutes later, it’s sorted. I even get to go back with time off because she noticed I’d been on sixteen hours. Nothing to hold against me, nothing to hold against the hospital.”
Jack furrowed his brows, amused, impressed, confused all at once. “Seriously?”
“Yup,” Robby said, leaning back further. “All my years here, I don’t think I’ve worked with a lawyer this young who can actually handle the shit we put up with without even cracking. Gotten used to... ambulance chasers and Gloria's pitbulls.”
Parker quickly changed her attitude on you when she'd come right up to your shared office, solely with the intent of trying to figure out where she could change her contract. You managed to negotiate her a pay rise with Gloria after a figuring out she'd had a particularly rough shift.
You existed somewhere in the building. Just not in the Pitt, not usually.
Until one night.
Sometime past 3AM, he's finishing a report when he hears you before he sees you. The soft, precise tap of heels against linoleum.
“Hey, sorry—um, I’m looking for Doctor Abbot?”
A nurse pointed across the floor. “Right over there, sweets.”
“Thanks!" You say quickly, already heading his way.
He straightened slightly as you approached.
“What can I do for you?” he asks, closing out his tab.
You smile, a little breathless but contained. “Hi—sorry, I don’t think we’ve properly met.”
You hold your hand out.
He hesitates—not long, just enough to take you in properly this time.
Your hair’s come a little loose now—flyaways catching the light, a hint of frizz where it’s fallen out of whatever you did to tame it hours ago. There’s pen ink smudged across your fingers, even faintly along your forearm, like you’ve been working faster than you can keep up with.
Still neat. Still put-together. Maybe not quite holding as the night ticked away.
Your skirt sits just right, tailored and careful, and your button-up—something soft, a little too pretty for this place—has its sleeves pushed up to your elbows. Practical, but not by design. Like you didn’t plan to be here this long.
He shakes your hand. You give your full name, your title, crisp and practiced.
“Yeah,” he nods. “Know who you are.” He stepped around you, already moving. You followed immediately, hot on his heels. “Heard plenty.”
“Great,” you say, a small laugh. “Good things, I hope.”
“Bit late for you, isn’t it?” he mentions, stopping at a screen.
You nearly walk into him.
He glances down as you caught yourself, just a fraction too close before you stepped neatly to his side, smoothing your skirt like it didn’t happen.
“Right, uh—” you mutter, then recover. “Well. Sleep’s for losers.”
“That’s what I keep telling the day shift,” he remarks.
That got a real smile out of you. He couldn’t help but think of it as a win. This close, he can smell your perfume. It's far from the smell of sanitiser and every kind of bodily fluid of the ER. It's sweet, something with strawberries maybe. Whatever it is, it's made him want you around longer.
“Anyway,” you continue, reining yourself back in, “I realised we hadn’t actually met. You know, properly. I’ve been working mostly with Dr. Robinvatich—reviewing incident reports, flagging potential liability issues, sitting in on complaint escalations—so I thought it made sense to acquaint myself with the night attending as well. I've heard a lot about you as well.”
“Good things, I hope,” he echoes, scanning the screen, arms crossed over his chest.
Then he looks at you. You're already looking at him—open, curious, intent. He holds your gaze a second longer than necessary. A precise beat passes as his own curiosity gets the best of him. Bright eyed, seemingly angelic young lawyer... at PTMC.
“How old are you?”
You blink, caught off guard. “Sorry?”
“You mentioned you interned around. Don’t know many lawyers who do that unless they’re fresh out.”
“Right—yeah. I’m 24,” you answer. “I went straight into law school, then did about a year of hospital placements. I do want to specialise further—medical law, likely. I actually enjoy working with doctors, mostly, they can be… an acquired taste, but—” you gave a quick, self-conscious smile, remembering who you were speaking too. “—I think I’ve got the stomach for it.”
You stop, eventually, maybe a beat too late. "I didn't... I'm 24, is the point. Qualified, I swear it."
"I don't doubt it." He nods.
He watches it happen again—the shift. The way your confidence dips when you realise you’ve said too much.
Amused, he bites back a smile.
“You?” you add quickly. “I mean—how old are you? I heard you were military, so—”
“Guess.”
You let out a small laugh. “Older than me.”
“By a bit.”
"...40?" You try.
"Flattery will get you far, kid. 45." He corrects, chuckling at that. "But I'm not qualified for this. Just put on gloves and they let me at it."
You grin and nod. "'Course. You've got the look down. Could've convinced me."
He tilts his head a bit at that. He opens his mouth to respond, before he's interrupted.
“Abbot! Need you over here. Kid’s got some… centipede or some shit in his ear,” Parker calls out from Central 4.
Parker's face relaxes when she sees you, she calls your name out and gives a small wave. You give a polite wave back.
He exhales through his nose, already halfway moving. “Alright, be right there.”
He looks back at you, like a kid he’s been stuck with supervising.
“You’re welcome to… hang around,” he adds, a little rough around the edges. “Nurses won’t bite. Unless you ask ‘em to.”
There’s the faintest hint of something in his tone—dry, but not entirely joking.
You nod, a little too quickly. “Cool. Yep. I’ll just be… around here. I did actually need to speak to you about something, so, whenever you have the chance."
He gives you a once-over—quick, but not careless—then heads off, already scrubbing sanitiser into his hands. "I wouldn't wait up, sweetheart." He tells over his shoulder to you.
Your hand tightens slightly around the notebook in your hands at the petname.
It takes a while till you get the chance to chat with him again.
A call comes in, barely minutes later—car accident, five people, a few blocks out—and suddenly the whole floor shifts. People moving faster, voices sharper, stretchers rolling in before you’ve even fully registered what’s happening.
You stay. You tell yourself it’s observational. Useful. Context for your job. You probably should've just ditched for your own office at some point, leave the doctors to do their work. But it’s quiet in your office. You share it with two other people, and they aren’t exactly staying back till 3AM.
You keep out of the way, mostly. Hover near the station, ask the occasional question, get a few curious looks in return.
At one point Shen ends up next to you, mid-charting, clearly thinking out loud.
“So if a patient refuses treatment but they’re being, like… objectively stupid about it—”
“That would not legally be discrimination,” you tell him, glancing up from the notes you’re pretending to read. “But it would be rude to tell them that they're being stupid... even if they are.”
He snorts. “Great. Good to know.”
“Also,” you add, a little primly, “document this. You’d be shocked how often ‘we told them’ doesn’t actually appear anywhere.”
“Got it, thanks,” he mutters, typing faster.
Across the room, Jack catches that.
Just a flash of it—your posture, the way you tilt your head when you’re explaining something, hands clasped like you’re holding yourself in place. Eventually, once the worst has passed, as it reaches 5AM, he manages to find his way back over to you.
Inbetween the flashes of bodies around you, people quickly going between patients, bandages, surgeons coming down to move patients.
"What did you wanna talk to me about, again?" He recalls to you as he's filling out a chart.
"Patient, three days, Ronny Jones. Remember him?" You ask quickly with this second of spare time he seems to have, notebook out.
"...Broken arm?" he tries.
"Yes. And..." You trail off as you try to translate your own handwriting.
He looks over at your notebook, squinting at your scrawl. You might not be a doctor but you have the handwriting of one, he notes. “...Compound fracture of the distal radius, open reduction internal fixation yesterday. Why? Something off with the chart?”
“Yep,” you say, flipping a few pages. “I was reviewing the incident report. It says he was discharged yesterday afternoon, but the orthopedic note says he needs post-op neurovascular checks every four hours. The discharge paperwork doesn’t reflect that. Liability risk if he comes back with... compartment syndrome or some sort of nerve compromise. I just need clarification—was the follow-up actually ordered, or did someone skip it?”
Jack straightens his back slightly, clearing his throat, tapping his pen onto his palm quickly. “Uh, the ortho team documented it in their EMR, but it didn’t make it onto the discharge instructions for nursing. That’s on me for not double-checking before signing out... Not ideal.”
You scribble quickly, biting your lip. “Right, okay. So legally, if Ronny returns with a preventable complication and the discharge instructions didn’t match the physician orders… technically, that’s a risk. Could be framed as a deviation from standard of care. I just want to make sure we document the corrective steps. Maybe an addendum or clarification note?”
Jack pauses, glancing at you, then back at the chart. He can’t really argue with that.
“Yeah, that’ll—” he nods once. “Sounds right. You need me to… sign anything, or—?”
“Yeah, once I draft it,” you say, already halfway through another note. “I’ll bring it down. I just—” you hesitate for a second, then add, almost as an afterthought, “I use my favourite printer. The formatting comes out cleaner.”
There’s a beat.
“…You have a favourite printer?”
You pause, pen hovering, like you’ve just realised how that sounds.
“…Mhm.”
Another beat. Jack exhales a quiet, amused breath, shaking his head. “Yeah. ‘Course you do," He says. "Good catch on the Ronny guy. Slipped my mind entirely."
You smile at that. "Thanks"
He shakes his head slightly, looking around the ER, seeing he is very much needed away from this conversation, as Emery calls out a code for their stroke patient past Central Six.
“Alright. I’ll put in the clarification note, and send an updated discharge instruction to nursing. That way, if he comes back with any problems, documentation's all straight.” He tells.
You relax a fraction, but only a fraction. “Perfect. Thanks, Doctor Abbot. I… I just want to make sure nobody gets blindsided.”
Jack smirks, stepping back into the flow of the ER. “Yeah, yeah. You’ve got that covered, kid.”
You watch him move through the chaos, sharp and efficient, and scribble a few more notes. Even in the middle of an ER storm, he’s methodical. Impressive. And exhausting.
You end up just finishing your work in a space set up for you at the nurses' station, making conversation whilst you write up documentation templates. You had to keep your head down at points to stop seeing people be brought in with their leg half off, crying and panic from people. Hearing doctors call out a million different solutions.
By the time it slows, it’s morning.
Not properly morning—grey light bleeding through the windows, fluorescent lights still doing most of the work—but enough that the edge comes off everything.
7AM creeps in quietly, Day Shift enters with ease.
People start peeling off.
Handovers. Half-finished coffees abandoned. The kind of tiredness that settles into bones.
Jack finishes his last chart, shoulders heavier now that he’s standing still. When he finally steps away from the computer, he spots you again. Still here.
Perched on the edge of a chair, one leg crossed over the other, heels dangling slightly off your foot now like you’ve given up on pretending to be fully put together. Your hair’s loose in places. There’s a crease in your skirt you probably don’t know about. You’ve managed to move most of your work down here, laptop out as you scramble something in your notebook.
You look… exhausted.
He walks over.
“You always stay this early,” he asks, voice low, “or am I just lucky?”
You look up, a second slower than before, like your brain has to catch up.
“Oh—hi.” A small blink. Then you straighten a bit, reflexively. “No, I—this is not standard practice. I promise I don’t just linger.”
“Shame,” he says.
If you had another brain cell available after being up for too long, you’d think that was a flirt. You hesitate, then huff a quiet laugh, rubbing at your eye before you remember you’re wearing makeup and stop halfway through.
“Yeah, well,” you murmur, “I got a bit sidetracked.”
He nods, glancing out over the floor.
“You saw the fun part.”
“That’s one word for it,” you say. Your voice is softer now, a little less tightly wound. “I think I prefer reading about it, actually.”
“Give it time,” he replies. “You’ll start missing it.”
You look at him like he’s insane. “I sincerely hope not. That looked stressful as fuck. Excuse my language.”
That gets a faint smile out of him.
A beat passes.
You shift slightly, slipping your heels back on properly, smoothing your skirt like you’re putting yourself back together piece by piece.
“I should probably head out,” you say. “Before I fall asleep on one of these chairs and become a liability issue.”
“Mhm,” he nods. “Paperwork on that’d be a nightmare.”
You smile—small, but sincere. “It was nice meeting you. Thanks for letting me… you know. Linger.”
“Any time,” he shrugs. “You alright to get home?”
“Uh-huh,” you say, standing, gathering your things. “Bus is always late, so.”
He nods, slowly. Watches you for a second too long—hair a little out of place now, smudged ink still on your wrist.
He speaks before he can overthink it.
“I’ll give you a lift.”
You blink. “No, really, I don’t—”
“—It’s no trouble. I insist,” he cuts in, not harsh, just firm. “Grab your things. I’ll be right outside.”
You hesitate.
It’s subtle—just a second. Fingers fidgeting with the edge of your notebook, your teeth catching your lower lip like you’re weighing it properly.
He notices that. Of course he does.
“…Fine,” you say finally, a little quieter. “Sure. Thank you, I mean.”
He gives a short nod, like it’s already settled, and turns to head out.
★★★
The morning air is colder than it looks.
He waits outside, sitting on a bench, arms folded, watching the automatic doors slide open and shut. Staff trickling out. Shift changes. The usual.
Then you.
You step out, messenger bag slung over your shoulder, pausing for half a second when you spot him—like you weren’t entirely convinced he’d actually be there.
He stays seated on the bench..
“You always take this long,” he asks, “or just keeping me waiting for fun?”
You huff a quiet laugh, walking over. “I was considering making a run for it, actually.”
“Yeah?” he pushes himself up, a slight hitch in the movement, subtle, but there.
You notice it without really thinking, hand coming out instinctively, light on his arm for a second. “Oh—sorry, I—”
He steadies, more out of habit than need, glancing down at your hand briefly before looking back at you. “You wouldn’t get far in those shoes anyway.”
You pull your hand back, smoothing it over your skirt like you didn’t just do that. The two of you start toward his truck.
You glance down at your heels, then back at him.
“Watch it. These are Louboutin,” you point out as he opens the passenger door for you.
“My point stands.”
You roll your eyes, but there’s a hint of a smile as you slide into the seat. He shuts the door behind you, walks around, gets in.
The car’s quiet when it starts. Low hum of the engine, early morning stillness bleeding in through the windows.
You give him your address—quick, efficient. He nods, pulls out.
A few minutes pass. You aren’t too far from the hospital. It’s not uncomfortable, exactly. Just… new. All your time working around doctors, and not one of them has ever offered to drive you home.
You sit a little straighter than you need to. Hands folded in your lap, then not, then back again—like you can’t quite decide how you’re meant to exist in this space.
"You don't seem forty five." You remark, seemingly out of nowhere.
He glances at you briefly, then back to the road, slowing at a red light.
“Is that right?” he hums.
“My dad hit fifty the other day,” you add. “He’s way grumpier.”
A beat.
“You’re a ray of sunshine in comparison.”
That gets something out of him—barely there, but real. The corner of his mouth pulls, just slightly.
He hums. “Give it time.”
You smile faintly at that, glancing over.
Up close like this, it’s different. You notice things you didn’t before—grey through his hair, not just at the sides. The lines around his eyes. The way he sits, solid, like he’s used to holding himself together through long hours. His arms. Just... he has nice arms, you note.
Your gaze drops—brief, unintentional—to his hands on the wheel.
You look back out the window quickly.
“You don’t act like it either,” you add, a little softer, like you’re correcting yourself.
“Act like what?”
“Forty five,” you say. “I mean—” you huff a small breath, already backtracking, “not that forty five is old, obviously, I just—”
He glances at you again, something almost amused there.
“No, really, go 'head,” he insists.
You press your lips together, trying not to smile. “I’m saying that… you know, you’re… I don’t know, a person. I’ve met a lot of doctors your age, they lose a lot of that humanity as they…”
“Get old as shit?” He finished as you trailed off.
“Yeah, that,” You sigh.
He nods, actually appreciative of that. “Never a met a lawyer who hangs around the Pitt willingly.”
You shrug. “It's lonely upstairs.” You say simply.
The light turns green. He pulls forward.
You shift slightly in your seat, tucking a piece of hair behind your ear, then immediately smoothing your skirt again like you’ve remembered yourself.
You go on, a little stiff. “Besides, it’s part of the job. I should understand what actually happens down there. Not just what ends up in reports.”
“Mm.”
“I mean, if I’m going to defend you people,” you add, a little more animated now, “I should probably know what I’m defending.”
“You people,” he repeats.
You wince slightly. “That came out wrong.”
“Did it?”
You look over at him, trying to read if he’s serious. He’s not giving you much.
“I just mean—doctors,” you say. “Not… you specifically.”
“You don't wanna defend me?” he wonders, teasing.
You snicker at that. You look at him properly this time. There’s something in your expression, curious, a little thrown, interested.
“Are you always this charming at seven in the morning?” You ask, sarcastic.
“Only when I haven’t slept,” he says.
“Ah. So this is you at your worst.”
“Pretty much.”
You nod, like you’re filing that away. “Good to know.”
A small silence settles again, but it’s lighter now. Easier.
The car slows as he pulls up outside your place. You unbuckle, but linger for half a second, fingers still on the seatbelt.
“Thank you,” you say. “Really, Doctor Abbot, I appreciate it. The lift, I mean.”
He nods. “Get some sleep. And just… Jack’s fine, sweetheart.”
“Alright. Thanks, Jack.”
You step out, shutting the door behind you.
He watches you briefly, making sure you get into the apartment building before driving off, your perfume lingering around his car.
part two | strawberry
a/n: omg hi first the pitt fic… girls i truly finna be in the pitt, like put me in coach !! okay so havent seen season 2 yet. ANY of yall spoil shit for me i'm throwing a fit. i'm rewatching s1 now w my friend who hasnt seen, then we doing s2 together. i dont know much except that robby got a motorbike for whatever reason. anyway. this is just a lil cute thing, workshopping this. def wanna do like a little series of this or somethin like. idk. if yall are feeling it cool, if not.. im probably gonna do it regardless. i def wanna make a little moodboard for this lawyer girly reader, i fuck w her vibe heavy. im also in law school so manifesting this. except i dont wanna do health law that shit is messy. ok anyway ! have a good day/night :3
edit like 2 mins late: made a little moodboard for her if ur curious !
🪩 bf!jack picks up younger gf!reader after a night out. ˚⟡˖ ࣪
you stood in front of the full-length mirror, putting on your earrings, when you saw jack's reflection in the background looking at you, your boyfriend leaning against the doorway to the bathroom, his lips pursed.
"what are you looking at?" you laughed softly, "i'm looking at you. you look good." jack strode towards you, wrapping his arms around your waist and leaning his chin on your shoulder, "do you really have to go out tonight?"
"it's julie's birthday." you rolled your eyes, jack's hands starting to move down to your hips, slightly pulling up the already short red dress you'd chosen to wear that night as his lips started pressing kisses on your shoulder, one of his large hands moving to slip down the thin strap of your dress as shivers ran down your spine. "you sure i can't do anything to persuade you to stay home?"
you snorted, turning around in his arms as you fixed your strap, looking up at him teasingly "i promise i'll be home early. i won't drink too much, and i'll take an uber." "no uber." jack pressed a peck on your lips, "call me and i'll come pick you up."
"i'll text you."
"no, call me."
you pulled jack close to you by his sides so your bodies were pressed against one another, your hand moving up behind his neck, pulling his head down and crashing his lips with yours, your long nails scratching the short grays at the back of his neck as your lips moved against his.
when you pulled away, some of your lipstick was left on his lips, and you wiped it away with the pad of your thumb as jack looked at you with a dazed expression. "i'll text you, jack."
"fine." the man grumbled, "text me, then."
"that's what i thought." you grinned, making jack roll his eyes. "are you ready to go? i'll drive you."
after dropping you off, the hours ticked by, and jack got increasingly worried about you, until he received a text from you a little after two in the morning with the single word 'come', making jack let out a snort.
twenty minutes later, jack arrived at the club he had dropped you off at, dialing your number. after a few rings, you answered, and he could hear loud music blaring in the background as you practically shouted, "hi babe!"
jack chuckled, "i'm outside."
"i'll be right there!"
a few minutes later, jack watched as you wobbled out of the club, looking around for a bit before you spotted jack's car, a wide smile taking over your lips as you started waving and rushing towards it.
"hi!" you giggled as you got into the car, smelling of tequila and pressing an affectionate kiss on jack's cheek before leaning your head on the passenger seat, looking at him. "i missed you." "i'm sure you did." jack laughed, "and what happened to not staying out too late? or not drinking too much, huh?"
"i didn't drink that much." you rolled your eyes, the affectionate smile still staying on your lips, "and it's not even that late."
"it's two-thirty in the morning, sweetheart." "your fault for taking so long! i texted you at twelve."
"you texted me at two." jack laughed, "you just looked at the clock wrong because you were too drunk." "oh. sorry." you grinned, mot looking apologetic at all as you took his hand in yours, bringing it to your lips and pressing a kiss on the back of his hand with raised brows, "still love me?"
jack rolled his eyes, "unfortunately." your boyfriend grabbed your chin and pulled your face closer to his until your lips met his, jack's other hand moving to your waist, slightly lifting the hem of your dress, the man pulling away just as you were melting into the kiss, "now let's get you home and in bed."
do NOT let michael robinavitch hire a babysitter, he WILL fuck her!!!
Robby is a dream boss. His daughter is a lovely girl, never a pain to babysit. He pays well and always leaves his credit card on the kitchen counter for you to doordash something. He has never once been late, always arriving home half an hour before he promised, but still pays you for the full duration.
Even when he shows up early, you end up staying long after he gets home. You try to get out of his hair, but you two always get caught up in conversation.
Robby’s a nice guy, funny too. He’s also attractive. Incredibly attractive. It was the first thing you noticed upon meeting him. Maybe that’s why you don’t point out the way he openly stares at you or the way his hand always sits a little too high on your leg and low on your back.
At some point, you just start spending the night after watching the little one. Robby says it’s not safe for you to go back home so late at night, and the couch is really comfy. Plus, if you spend the night, then you and Robby can have a drink or two before you hit the hay.
It goes on like this for too long. You and Robby always split a bottle of wine, and you never question how he always seems to have one when you're spending the night. He asks how school is going and offers help reviewing before your big exams (yes, you're a med student, it was the easiest way for him to find a babysitter).
Then, one night, with his cheeks a little too flushed, Robby asks if you have a boyfriend. You try to laugh it off, but Robby can see how shy you get. He cups your jaw, forcing you to look at him. He doesn't get a word out before you close the distance.
The night ends with you on your stomach and Robby fucking you until it feels like his back is going to give out. You sneak out the next morning, Robby still snoring and the sun not yet up.
Not a word is spoken of it, but Robby's usual friendly text messages stop.
A week later, he calls you, saying how much his daughter misses you. He asks if you're available to watch her in two days. Neither of you address the elephant in the room.
Eventually, the night rolls around. You watch his daughter, put her to bed, and wait on the couch for the sound of the door unlocking. When Robby comes home, things move the same as always, but this time it feels charged.
Robby asks how Amelia was. His eyes are on your lips as you talk about the girl's night.
You comment about how late it's getting while your hand brushes Robby's thigh.
Robby's "remembers" that there's a bottle of red in the fridge. You bite your lip watching his muscles flex as he uses the corkscrew.
Robby is who finally brings it up. Pouring his second glass, he says how much he enjoyed the other evening.
The rest of the night is about the same. A sloppy makeout on the couch. Tiptoed steps to his bedroom. Hushed pleasures.
When you wake up the next morning, however, that's when things are different. You stir early enough that Robby's still sleeping, but when you try to sneak out from underneath him, his arms tighten around you.
"Jus' wait, baby," he rasps in your ear. "I'm not done with you yet."
HOW TO DISAPPEAR
─── jack abbot & michael robinavitch
summary: robby makes you hate him as his last act of kindness before he leaves for his three-month sabbatical. but then he sees you getting close to jack, and it ruins all his plans. (3k)
characters: michael robinavitch / fem!reader, jack abbot / fem!reader, trinity santos in charting jail, dana evans, noelle hastings
contents: lovers to exes w robby, friends to lovers w jack, angst, hurt/comfort, jealousy, implied age gap cw for medical inaccuracies bc i don't know what i'm talking about :D, and mentions of robby's suicidal tendencies
( NAVIGATION ) | ( MASTERLIST ) | ( AO3 )
Robby breaks up with you on a Friday, which you think is especially cruel, considering that every Friday since then has served only as a bitter reminder of the day he told you to leave.
Your relationship had been long in the dying, to be fair. You had stopped recognizing him some months ago — after he brought home that motorcycle, which brought a week’s worth of arguments in with it; and after you found out he made a habit of riding around without his helmet, which nearly gave you an aneurysm with how angry you got at him for it.
You found yourself more mad with him than you were without him, but you stuck around anyway, just torturing yourself with the hope that he’d change. That you would be enough to change for.
“Do you have any affection in your heart for me?” you’d raged from the other side of the kitchen table, burning as hot as your pretty red dress. “Any? At all?”
“Of course, I do!” Robby laughed as he gathered the empty plates, as if he found your anger a quite humorous thing. (It was, in truth, quite funny, because only he could plan a date night that turned into nothing but a total screaming match.)
“Then why do you keep doing this to me?” you’d asked, voice breaking as you blinked away burning tears. “You know I can’t stand that stupid motorcycle to begin with, but you know I hate when you don’t wear your helmet. It’s like you’re purposefully trying to piss me off!”
“Well, believe it or not, my life doesn’t revolve around you, honey,” Robby answered in a dry monotone as he dropped the silverware into the sink with a thunderous clang.
“Yeah,” you scoffed. “‘Cause it revolves around Noelle.”
“Oh, Noelle!” he laughed louder, turning to face you with a cynical sort of smile on his face. “That’s what this is about?”
“It’s about all of it, Robby!” you thundered. “But, yeah, you flaunting your old fling around at work in front of me doesn’t make it any better—”
“If you don’t like what I do…” he spat, voice even and coated in a layer of venom. “If you’re not happy here… Then feel free to leave. I won’t stop you.”
His words hung in the air for several long moments. They wrapped their cold hands around your neck and stole the breath from your lungs.
“If I go…” you’d told him, voice stern and slightly strangled. “If I walk out that door right now… I am not coming back.”
Robby only shrugged. “If that’s what you wanna do…” he trailed off and turned away, doing the dishes like you weren’t falling apart across the room.
So you left.
And he didn’t stop you.
Robby stuck to his word. And now you’re trying hard to stick to yours.
As the Friday evening draws near — marking five weeks since you walked out the door — you stand at the workstation to finish up your charting. You type slowly, while the rest of the day shift rushes around you to head home, because you have zero plans of returning to your empty apartment so soon. Not until you’ve totally tired yourself out, at least.
It was much easier to be at home that way, you found, when you were only ever there to eat and sleep. It meant never having to face how lonely you truly were without him.
“Are you busy tonight?” Santos wonders aloud as she plants herself at the computer across from yours.
You turn away from the screen for the first time in several minutes to flash the girl a quietly amused look. “You and Dr. Garcia are fighting again, I take it?”
“What?” Trinity scoffs, less than convincingly. “No! Why would… Why would you even ask that?”
“Because normally you’re busy with her,” you answer, partially distracted, as you continue click-clacking at the keyboard in front of you. “And if you’re asking me if I’m busy, it means Garcia isn’t coming over. Which also means Whitaker’s probably going out with Amy, and you just don’t wanna be alone.”
You glance up from your monitor once more, finding the girl scowling at you over the top of hers.
“Is that a fair assessment, would you say?” you quip with narrowed eyes.
“I was just gonna ask if you wanted to watch Drag Race and get wine drunk with me,” Trinity deadpans. “I didn’t need the psych consult.”
You scoff a tired laugh and turn away again. “I couldn’t even if I wanted to. I’m going out with the street team tonight— But you’re always welcome to tag along if you want.”
“And work outside of work?” she scoffs. “No, thank you…”
You tense when you feel a warm, wide hand brush along your lower back.
Your head whips over your shoulder to find Dr. Abbot sliding in behind you, placing a sticky note beside the keyboard on your desk. Cologne clings to the thin black t-shirt he wears, tucked into a pair of camo fatigues. He smells of tobacco and leather and sea salt. A dizzying concoction for a girl so strikingly touch-starved.
“Here’s Mr. Turner’s address,” the man tells you. “Or where he says he’s been hanging around recently, at least.”
Your eyes scan over the half-legible scrawl on the paper below, brows furrowing because it feels half-familiar to you. When you turn back to Abbot, you find him towering over you, much closer than you’d anticipated. “Isn’t that the overpass across town?”
“I think so, yeah,” Jack nods, scratching at the silver curls at the nape of his neck. “I’m pretty sure that’s where the ambulance picked him up when he overdosed, too…
“I’ll add that to his chart,” you murmur under your breath and turn away again. “I was gonna extend his prescription for Clonidine anyway— you know, so he didn’t have to come in so often. But this way, I can bring it to him with the street team. Make sure he’s doing well and everything.”
“You going tonight?” Jack wonders aloud.
“Mhm,” you nod as your fingers flit across the keyboard.
“Got room for one more, you think?”
Your squinted eyes cut suddenly in his direction, eyeing the man tentatively as he leans against the desk beside you. His freckled biceps strain against his t-shirt sleeves when he crosses them over his chest.
“Aren’t you working tonight?”
“Nope,” he answers. “Technically, I’m off ’til tomorrow.”
“…Then shouldn’t you be sleeping?”
“And miss out on all the action?” Jack scoffs.” No way.”
A laugh sputters from your mouth before you can help it. “Yeah, I don’t think that’s very healthy, Dr. Abbot.”
“Of course, it’s not. But my therapist told me I needed a hobby, so…”
“So you decided getting shot at was the next best thing?” you finish in a deadpan.
“What can I say?” he shrugs. “I suck at golf.”
“You should try jogging,” you tell him, crossing the workstation for the printer on the other side of it. You feel a smile hinting at your mouth when Jack follows the short distance behind you. “It’s like running away from your problems, but, you know… pretend.”
“I tried that, actually,” Jack tells you. “But it’s harder, you know… With my leg.”
You pluck the warm paper from the buzzing printer and turn to face the man behind you. He sports a barely-there wince on his scruffy features, as if the mere mention of the amputated limb has reminded him of the phantom pain that never quite leaves him.
“Is it the sweat?” you ask with a sympathetic grimace.
“The sweat...” Jack nods slowly. “And the constant adjustments, and the strain it puts on my hip and… All of it’s a mess, to be honest.”
“You use liners, right? When you run, I mean?”
“Silicon ones, yeah.”
“You should try double-stacking knit-rite over the silicon,” you tell him, shifting awkwardly on your feet as you struggle to meet the man’s unwavering stare. You swallow hard and fidget with the paper in your fingers. “I, uh… I hear the knit helps with the sweating. Keeps the skin from blistering and everything.”
Jack’s eyes narrow, sparkling with the quiet grin that tugs at his mouth. “Where’d you learn all that, huh?”
“I’m trying to get a vascular surgeon fellowship,” you confess with a shy smile. “I’ve been working with a lot of amputees, and… they’ve taught me a whole lot, you know?”
Jack nods slowly, impressed and half-shocked. “Nice…” he hums. “Let me know if you need a letter of rec.”
He pats you gently on the shoulder as he walks by. You feel your skin burning beneath your scrubs, in the place where he’d touched you, like your brain is scarring his touch into memory.
“And, you know, if you ever wanna take up running again— We could always go to the track by the park,” you blurt. “I can help you make some adjustments, and you can help teach me a thing or two?”
You wince on instinct, preparing for rejection after being so blatantly forward.
Jack only smiles in response.
“Sounds fun,” he says, before sauntering off in the opposite direction. “Come find me before you leave with the street team tonight. We can take my truck.”
“Sure thing,” you call back, with a big dumb smile on your face. It fades the second you realize how dumb you sound. “Sure thing…?” you repeat under your breath, half-disgusted, as you return to your computer.
“About fucking time…” Santos grumbles, still in the same spot you left her in.
“Time for what?” you scoff.
“For you to get laid,” she answers like it’s obvious. “Instead of moping over Robby all the time. It was starting to get a little depressing, to be honest.”
Your face burns red hot.
“I’m not trying to get laid—” you say, then argue in a sharper whisper, “And I’m most definitely not moping over Robby.”
“And I’m not on my third breakup of the day with Garcia,” Trinity deadpans. “Since we’re both lying to each other now…”
“Only third, huh?” you quip. “Must’ve been a slow day today.”
You laugh when she flips you off.
Robby spends the better half of the afternoon just watching you.
It’s not totally his fault, to be fair, his eyes have always had a way of trying to find you in every room he’s in — even when he knows you aren’t there. But then he sees you talking to Jack, and it becomes virtually impossible to work through the sudden heaviness in his chest.
It had been thirty-five days and counting since he talked to you last, and he feels the weight of every single one of them.
He replays the words of that argument ad nauseam. He sees the face you made right before you left whenever he closes his eyes — the furrow that had formed between your brows, the way the lamplight glittered in your unshed tears, the way the tendons tensed in your neck as you fought back the urge to cry.
He thinks he’s only managed to make it this long without talking to you because he finds a strange sort of companionship in his loneliness — in the knowing that you were grieving the same way he was; that you returned to an empty room in a dark apartment every day just like he did. It’s selfish and it’s cruel, but he liked that you were just as hurt as he was. It made him feel less alone that way, like he was still close to you despite the obvious distance.
But then he catches you laughing, and his chest warms instantly at the sound — the prettiest he’d ever heard. His heart deflates a second later when he looks up from his tablet to find Jack standing in front of you, so close that you have to tilt your chin just to keep his gaze.
You peer up at the man from beneath your lashes, half-shy; the way you always looked at Robby in the very beginning of your not-quite relationship.
“Come find me before you leave with the street team tonight,” he hears Jack tell you as he walks away. “We can take my truck.”
Robby thinks a knife to the stomach would hurt less.
“Don’t you dare,” he hears Dana scold from just beside him, when she catches the man about to follow after you when you walk by without a glance thrown his way — as if he were a ghost, doomed to watching the rest of the world move on without him.
His head snaps to the side and finds the woman glaring at him over the top of her glasses.
“Don’t what?” Robby scoffs.
“You know what,” the older woman answers. “Give the girl a break, Robinavitch— You put her through enough as it is.”
“Oh, my god!” Robby exclaims with a cynical laugh. Something manic and half-hurt glitters in his dark eyes as he argues, “I got a fucking motorcycle! Why is everyone acting like I shot someone?”
Dana’s eyes harden as she pulls off her glasses, crossing her thin arms over the chest of her grey scrubs. The look she gives him then nearly makes him cower — it’s not quite angry, just colder than ice, and it cuts through him like steel.
“It’s not just the motorcycle, Robby, and you know it.”
“Do I?” he scoffs a humorless laugh.
The woman shakes her head and turns away, sneering slightly to herself, ‘cause it’s almost like he’s trying to miss the point. “If I have to spell it out for you, Robinavitch, then you’re a bigger lost cause than I thought…”
Robby spends the rest of the day stewing in her words.
Because he thought he was doing both of you a favor, in truth. He thought leaving you would make it easier to leave all the rest of it — that not having to miss you the entire time he was gone might make the trip a little more bearable. And if he knew you weren’t missing him too, then maybe he wouldn’t be thinking about you every second of every goddamn day.
That’s why he got that stupid fucking motorcycle; why he slipped up and told you he rode around without his helmet, just to pick a fight; why he told you about Noelle, because he knew it’d make you second-guess everything between the two of you. He wanted you to distance yourself from him — he needed you to distance yourself from him — because he wasn’t man enough to do it himself.
But now his foolproof plan is biting him in the ass.
And he’s missing you before he’s even left the building.
Robby asks around for you before he leaves, and Shen tells him that he saw you around back through sips of his iced coffee. So he goes to find you while the rest of the day shift trickles slowly out, with his metaphorical tail tucked between his legs. When he finds you sliding miscellaneous supplies into the back of Abbot’s truck, it feels a little like a punishment — one that he knows he deserves.
“So… About that offer from before…” Jack grunts as he slides another two cases of bottled water into the bed of his truck. “I was thinking maybe we could stop by the track tomorrow morning. You know, before your shift.”
Your eyes narrow despite the quiet smile pulling slowly on your face. “I wasn’t joking about you needing to sleep after this— You do need to sleep at some point, Jack, you know that, right?”
“And I will get some when we’re done out here,” he promises and takes the stack of hygiene kits off your hands. “So… What do ya say?”
You ponder for a long moment, with your lips pursed to the side of your mouth. You can’t help but think of Robby in that moment, if you getting this close to his best friend would break his heart — or what Jack would think about you, if he found out what had really happened between Robby and you.
Because he knew the two of you were close — everyone knew, and everyone had their own speculations — but only a few knew the true extent of it; of how long you and Robby had loved each other, and of how it all crashed and burned in the end.
“Well, we’d have to go pretty early,” you mutter sheepishly. “My shift starts at seven, so…”
“That’s okay,” Jack shrugs with a grin that makes your stomach do a backflip. “I like early.”
You feel your face flare.
“I like early, too…” you mumble sheepishly as you turn back for the rolls of sleeping bags stacked on the sidewalk.
Your gaze locks with Robby’s from where he stands off in the distance. It’s like your pupils are made of magnets, like your eyes were created to be drawn immediately to his. He walks slowly through the parted double doors with his hands in his pockets and something sad in his eyes. Your heart drops at the sight of him.
“Hey, brother,” Jack greets. “I thought you’d be long gone by now.”
“Yeah, I’m… I’m headed that way…” Robby huffs with a slow nod. His brown eyes dart wildly between the two of you — from Abbot’s oblivious grin to your wide-eyed gaze. “Where are you guys off to, hm?”
“Street team,” Jack tells him.
“Jesus,” the older man scoffs. “You never slow down, do you?”
“I would, but… No one ever taught me how,” Jack quips and takes a step forward to close the distance between them. You continue packing up while the two men share a brief hug. You vaguely hear them murmuring from behind you. “Make sure you come back… Call me if it gets too dark… I’ll take care of her, I promise…”
Robby knows it’s supposed to make him feel better, but it only makes the knife twist further.
He can feel the blade piercing a lung when he asks to speak with you alone; he’s already close to bleeding out by the time he walks you to the edge of the dark sidewalk, leaving Jack to pack up all the rest.
“You gonna be alright while I’m gone?” he asks.
The smile you give him is cynical and doesn’t quite meet your eyes. “Yep… I’ve been doing alright without for a while now, so…”
Robby nods, scratching awkwardly at the back of his neck. “Yeah, I… I deserve that, I guess…”
“I’m not saying it to hurt you, Robby,” you sigh. “I’m saying it because it’s true— That’s the difference between you and me. I don’t take pleasure in making you feel like shit.”
“I was trying to— I just wanted to—” He stumbles over himself trying to get the words out. He huffs and runs his palms down the length of his bearded face. “I think I was just trying to make it easier on us, you know, me going away… I thought if we hated each other, I’d be able to leave, but now…”
“Now what?” you press.
“Now you hate me!” Robby answers with a laugh. “And I still don’t want to leave!”
You sigh hard through your nose. Though your stern stare never wavers, you soften visibly around the edges as you confess, “I don’t hate you, Robby… But I do want you to leave.”
He flinches like you’ve hit him “…W-What?”
“I want you to go. I want you to have the… best three months of your whole goddamn life. I don’t care where you go, who you see, or if you— take Noelle with you. I don’t give a shit, I just…” You trail off with a heavy sigh and firm glare. “I want you to come back. That’s all I care about.”
“Of course I’m coming back…” he tells you gently, hands aching as he fights the urge to hold you. “You’re not getting rid of me that easy, honey.”
His words make your stomach swirl with a warm feeling. He grins down at you like he knows it, too.
“Bye, Robby,” you deadpan and turn on your heel to walk away.
“Are you still gonna be here?” the man calls after you. You look at him over your shoulder and feel your throat closing at the look he gives you — dark eyes wet and squishy around the edges, glimmering gold beneath the amber streetlamp. “When I came back, I mean. Are you… Are you still gonna be here?”
“I’m always gonna be around, Robby,” you tell him. “You know that—”
“Yeah, but… Will you still be here?”
Waiting for me, he doesn’t say.
You don’t have the right words to answer him.
“…Call me if you need me, okay?” is all you can think to say in the moment. “I’ll answer. I promise.”
Robby feels his heart breaking when he watches Jack help you into the passenger seat of his truck. Because a part of him knows, not so distantly, that he’s bound to find you by Abbot’s side when he returns.
summary: a little harmless flirting never hurt anyone, right? you've been on jack abbot's mind a little too often lately and he's starting to suspect the feeling is mutual. after a late night out at the bar, you're determined to show him just how mutual that feeling is.
content/warnings: age gap, inappropriate work crushes, i don't even bother pretending like i know how a hospital works, jealous!jack, masturbation mentions, garsantos crumbs, alcohol consumption, smoking cigarettes, reader wears a dress/heels/make up, soft dom!jack, dirty talk (jack's got a filthy mouth), kinda degradation if u squint, praise, oral (f + m receiving), jack abbot is a munch duh, fingering, unprotected piv, some breath play, cream pie? NSFW + MDNI! 18+ ONLY!
wc: 7.5k (got away from me lol)
notes: this is like the first proper thing i've written in several years and probably my first real smut ever, but i couldn't stop thinking about jack abbot's tits. purely self indulgent because i know for a fact that he talks you through it lol he's just so yummy. enjoy my old man brain rot
credit: gif taken from this set by ho-ii :)
—
Jack hasn’t been able to focus since you joined the night shift.
You seem to be everywhere. Ever since that first day, he hasn’t been able to shake you. Any corner he turns, every trauma room he enters, there you are. Even when he can’t see you, you still haunt him. He picks up the faint smell of your shampoo, sometimes. Hears your laughter ringing somewhere in the halls and can't help but turn his head towards it.
It’s worse when you’re next to him. You’re great at what you do, there's no denying that. But it's been difficult to work alongside you, elbows and arms brushing while you crowd over whatever patient is bleeding out on the table in front of him. His brain just can't keep up, sometimes. Not with the warmth of your body next to his. Commands come out a little slower than usual. He hesitates for a second longer than he usually does.
However, it's the worst when you’re batting your eyelashes at him when you finally have a moment of downtime. Handing him some coffee from the break room, letting your fingers linger on his for just a beat too long. Casually laying a hand on his bicep when you talk to him, leaving him tingling for an embarrassing amount of time after you leave. He knows exactly what you’re doing. That you know exactly what it does to him. He’s got scars older than you, but that doesn't stop his gaze from following you as you flit around the ER. And he knows you feel it. You’re real young, you’re real fucking pretty and you’re real fucking capable.
Which is why it feels like a cruel joke that you’re always flirting with him. Especially since he’s pretty sure you’d never actually see him in the way that he sees you. Honestly, it makes this inconvenient attraction he has towards you all the more complicated. Jack can't help but notice the way you chew your lip when you’re deep into charting. The curve of your neck when you adjust your hair. When you look up at him with those big eyes, just eagerly waiting for him to tell you what to do next.
Fuck, he’s hard just thinking about it.
His thoughts always wander in that direction when it comes to you. He finds himself at home, thinking of the way that you looked at him earlier in the day or when you swept a slow thumb over your bottom lip absentmindedly, lost in thought. Jack feels filthy when he thinks of you like this, but he still can't help but palm himself through his pants when the thoughts come. Which is more often than he'd like to admit.
When he thinks of you outside of that, however, he’s not entirely sure how he feels. It’s more than just something carnal. He wants to take care of you. And he does, sometimes. Leaves a protein bar by your hand when he hears you complain about how hungry you are, and steps in when patients start being rowdy or handsy with you.
It’s an entirely different feeling while he watches a doctor get handsy with you instead.
It's the early hours of the morning, and the day shift has started to trickle in. It was always interesting, crossing paths with them. The night shift attracted a certain kind of person. Someone who prefers working under the cover of darkness. Jack noticed that the people on the night shift always played their cards closer to their chests, had a little more hidden depth. Maybe that's why they all worked well together, moving like a unit, fluid and unspoken.
The day shift on the other hand was, well, bright, in a sense. They were all dazzling smiles and caffeinated energy, bouncing from one patient to the next. They clashed like nobody’s business, bold and brash. There were exceptions of course, like Mohan, who Jack had grown fond of and even attempted to convince to join the night shift on more than a few occasions. (She always said no.)
Then there were the textbook examples. And no one embodies the day shift more than Robby’s prodigal son, Frank Langdon.
Frank Langdon, who was standing just a little too close to you, elbow propped on the nurse’s station as he gave you one of his signature smiles. Jack was too far away to hear exactly what he was saying, but he didn't miss the way his fingers played with your badge, the light glinting off it as he fiddled with it and examined your photo. Jealousy twists in Jack’s gut, but he can't make himself turn away. He just grips his tablet harder, listening to you giggle at whatever Langdon had to say. It’s the same giggle that you give him when he's just a little too sarcastic in an attempt to make you laugh. That was his giggle.
A hand on his shoulder snaps him out of his daze.
“What'd the tablet do to you?” It’s Robby, looking at Jack expectantly to begin their hand off for the day. Jack can't curb his jealousy fast enough and the other man follows his gaze right over to you and Langdon. He can see the gears turning in Robby’s mind, piecing everything together until he barks out a laugh and shakes his head. “You’re so screwed, brother.”
“I don't know what you’re talking about.” Jack grumbles, and Robby raises a disbelieving eyebrow at him. He’s still gripping onto the tablet, probably moments away from cracking the damn thing in half.
“Right…” Robby has to basically wrestle it out of his grip and Jack finally drags his eyes over to his friend, who looks thoroughly unimpressed. “So you’re just here, burning holes into Langdon for no reason.”
“I’m not,” Jack says, a little too indignantly for his liking. “He’s married. He shouldn't be flirting like that.” Robby laughs at him again, which is really starting to get on his nerves. He knows that it’s a terrible lie, but his mind is too foggy from his overnight shift to think of a better one. He wishes his friend would cut him a little slack here.
“Sure. And it’s got nothing to do with her, I’m guessing,” Robby nods over in your direction, and Langdon is still there. He’s leaning on the nurses station, still talking away while you nod, full attention on him. Doesn’t this guy have a job to do? A beat of silence passes, and Jack doesn't answer. “Okay, well, good luck with that then.”
With that, Robby takes his leave, but not before he grabs Langdon by the scrubs, wordlessly hauling him away. You seem shocked at the sudden intrusion, waving goodbye to the dark haired doctor just a moment too late.
It seems like his best friend can cut him some slack, after all.
—
You’re already two drinks deep when Jack Abbot walks through the door.
You’re in the day shift’s favourite bar, squished into the booth seat next to Trinity. She’s yapping away and gesturing wildly to Robby and Garcia who are sitting across from you, looking equally as squished. Truthfully, you’d tuned her out a few minutes ago; it was a story about Dennis and the farm girl she’s told you a million times before.
Your eyes are wandering across the bar, drifting over your friends who are scattered around as if they own the place. Samira and Cassie are perched on stools at the bar, Parker is trying and failing to teach Dennis how to play pool. Movement catches your eye and your gaze drifts towards the door, where John strides in, with Jack in tow.
You can't even pretend to notice Shen, not when Jack catches your eye right away. He’s got his typical black shirt on, tight in all the right places. His hands are shoved into his pockets as he saunters in, looking confident as always. You swear that you’ve never seen him look out of place before. Everywhere he enters, it feels like all heads turn in his direction.
Well, yours does at least.
And it’s really irritating how fucking good he looks all the time. Scrubbed up, in his civvies and in that unbelievably hot uniform that he rolled up in on the fourth of July. He really has you feeling a lot of things you definitely shouldn’t be, considering that he’s your attending. But that still doesn’t stop your eyes from wandering across his broad frame, up his freckled arms to the grey stubble on his jaw. You practically have to physically stop yourself from biting your lip.
“Oh my God, drool much?” Trinity says in a low voice. She’s clearly stopped telling her story, as Robby and Garcia are now engaged in a conversation of their own. Trinity has caught you checking out Abbot on multiple occasions and she never gives up an opportunity to bemoan you about it. “He’s like, geriatric.”
“Not geriatric. Kind of like, silver foxy?” You laugh, shaking your head. “Plus, I thought we kind of had a thing for older people?” You gesture not-so-subtly at Garcia, who’s taking a sip of her drink and nodding along to whatever Robby is saying. Trinity rolls her eyes at your comment and slips past you, out of the booth.
“Okay, well, I’m gonna get another drink,” She tells you, waving her empty glass. Before she leaves, she sneaks a peek over her shoulder and then leans in closer to you, her breath tickling your ear. “He’s heading your way. So try not to cream your pants, huh?”
That makes you sit up straight as Trinity saunters off and Jack comes into view. He’s looking down at you in a way that makes you squeeze your thighs together. He stares, but only for a moment before sliding into the booth across from you, next to Robby. Garcia seems to have slipped off to get another drink as well. What a coincidence.
‘Well, look who finally made it!” Robby gives Jack a slap on the shoulder as he settles in, whiskey glass in hand. He gives his friend a nod, glass extended in an invitation. Robby accepts, clinks his bottle against his cup and both the men take a sip. You can’t help but be drawn to Jack’s hands, much like you always were during surgery. There was just something about them — the way his fingers were nice and thick maybe, and you couldn’t help but wonder what exactly they would feel like skimming your body.
You almost let your gaze trail down to his mouth, but you shake your head in a daze as Jack sets down his drink. He still catches you though, the ends of his lips quirked up in an almost smirk. Your heart pounds in your chest as you look down at your hands to avoid any further eye contact, but you can still feel the heat of his gaze on you. It’s dangerously enticing and fuck, are you enticed.
He opens his mouth to say something to you but Dennis plops himself in the spot next to you, interrupting. He’s looking around, beer hugged close to his chest. “I think if I missed one more time, Ellis would have actually killed me.” He says, and you glance over at the pool table where Shen has gracefully slipped into Whitaker's role instead, much to Ellis’ delight.
The conversation takes off again and you can't help but wonder what exactly Jack was going to say to you. He’s wrapped up with Robby and Samira, who has floated her way down to your booth and is looking as angelic as ever. She’s perched on the corner of the table, all long legs and sweet smiles. You watch the way Jack talks to her; smooth, easy and familiar. You’re sure your smile twitches and you give Dennis a tap on the shoulder.
“I think I’m going to get another drink too.” You say, both to Dennis and to no one in particular. You stand and Samira gives you just a bit of a liquored up grin as she helps you adjust your short dress. You thank her with a smile of your own, turning around. There’s hope blooming in your chest at what feels like Jack’s eyes on your back as you walk away, but you're too cowardly to look back and see for yourself.
Trinity is standing at the bar, looking about as dishevelled as you expected. She quirks an eyebrow but doesn’t say anything as you approach.
“Your drink is taking a long time, huh?” You nudge her with your shoulder and she just rolls her eyes. Ignoring her attitude, you rest your elbows on the bar, trying to get a look at where the bartender fucked off to.
“Don’t worry about it,” Trinity is reapplying her lipgloss and attempting to tame her hair, using her phone to assess her reflection. You try to help and she gives you a grateful smile in return. She nods towards the bartender, who is still kind of ignoring you. “I already got one for you.”
“You’re the best,” You’re still smoothing down her hair, giving her a big smile back. “Should we, like, kiss?” You fake going in for a kiss, and she pushes you away with a laugh.
“Please. You wish,” The bartender finally slides two drinks towards Trinity, who hands you one of the glasses. The chill from the glass is definitely welcome against your warm flesh, flushed from the drinks previous. Trinity shoots you a smirk as she grabs your hand to lead you back to the booth. “Besides, don’t you have a silver fox to catch?”
The two of you arrive at the booth and in the short time you’ve been gone, the people seem to have rearranged themselves. Robby and Whitaker have disappeared and Samira has taken your place, McKay beside her. On the other side is still Abbot, nursing his whiskey. Heads turn at your presence and the pair of you are greeting with excited chatter and big smiles from the girls.
It takes you a minute to realize that the only open spot is next to Jack.
Trinity gives you a small push and you claim the seat next to him. Trinity slides in after you and it’s a bit of a tight squeeze, leaving you thigh to thigh with the attending you definitely don’t have an inappropriate workplace crush on. You can feel the heat radiating off him — his arms, his thighs. You swear you feel him stiffen for a second, but the moment is over as quickly as it happened. He smells woody and warm, and it’s got you basically swooning. Is that just the way he smells, or is it cologne, body wash? You resist the weird, perverted urge to take a sniff of his neck and take a sip of your drink instead.
Conversation comes easy for you guys, especially as the drinks continue to flow. People come and go: Ellis, Shen, Dennis — everyone shuffles through, exchanging seats and manoeuvring around each other as easy as they do on the floor of the hospital.
You and Jack though, you don’t move.
Your two stay pressed together, even when Trinity is long gone. Eventually, everyone thins out and spreads across the bar instead, leaving you and Jack alone together. It’s getting hard to ignore the mirth swimming in his eyes, your faces just a little too close together for the conversation you two are having.
You trace what’s left of the condensation from your empty glass with your finger, savouring the feel of the cool water. Is it hot in here? Or is it just you?
“How about I get you another drink?” Jack offers, the timbre of his voice lower than usual. “On me?”
It feels like he’s getting closer, close enough that you can smell the whiskey on his breath. It’s probably inappropriate to want to kiss your boss, right? Especially one almost twice your age? The prospect of the situation makes you almost dizzy with want, especially when he’s looking at you like that. Or maybe that’s just the alcohol rushing to your head.
Yeah, it’s definitely just you.
“Actually, I think I need a smoke.” You manage to utter, like the responsible adult you are. You need to remove yourself from the situation, fast. He retreats from your space slowly, and you immediately feel the absence. It takes everything in you to suppress the urge to lean back into him again, instead giving him a shy smile as you exit the booth. Jack lets you leave wordlessly, and this time you’re certain his eyes are on you as you walk away.
The cool breeze outside is a welcome reprieve from the overwhelming heat inside and you take a moment to let it wash over you. You press your back against the brick of the bar and pull out your pack from your purse and stick a cigarette between your lips, fishing around for your lighter. After some digging, you finally find what you were looking for and you cup your hand around the cigarette, flicking the lighter on until you see the familiar cherry red at the end. Things seem a bit less hazy when you take a deep inhale and exhale slowly, grey smoke curling around the dark sky.
You close your eyes and rest your head against the wall, feeling the tension leave your shoulders. Taking another long drag, you review the night in your head. You’ve always enjoyed flirting with Jack, sure, but Jack also flirts with anything that has a pulse. You never really expected anything to come of it, except maybe something to think about later in the night while you were alone. Lately though, it’s been feeling different. He’s always brushing against you, placing his hand on the small of your back as he squeezes past you. The way he looks at you recently is glimmering with something you can’t exactly place. The way he looked at you when Langdon was trying to charm you.
You lift your hand to take another drag when the cigarette is suddenly plucked from between your fingers. Your eyes flutter open and there stands the subject of your thoughts, Jack Abbot, who has your cigarette between his lips now.
“Whiskey makes Jack a bold boy, eh?” You tease, watching as he takes a drag. It’s unfair how good he makes it look. He gives a small chuckle at your comment but doesn’t reply, letting silence settle between the two of you. Instead, he extends the cigarette towards you and you take it back. Something is painted on his face, like he’s mulling something over, but you don’t ask. You two continue this for a while, just enjoying each other’s company for a moment, taking turns until you finally hit the filter. It’s easy to admire him in the quiet you share. The flex of his biceps, the way he shifts his weight between his prosthetic and his good leg. He’s so broad and handsome, especially when he’s in his tight shirt and cargos. It’s got you wanting to drop to your knees right then and there.
You don’t miss the way he’s looking at you either, though. It’s common knowledge that Jack’s got a staring problem. It makes you flustered at the best of times and wet at the worst, but this stare was different. You can see the want in his eyes as his hazel eyes basically bore into your soul. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say that he was giving you bedroom eyes. Every so often his eyes flicker down to your lips instinctively, especially when they’re wrapped around the cigarette the two of you are sharing. You’re sure that you’re probably doing the same.
“So, can I buy you that drink now?” He asks huskily as you put out the smoke, tossing it into the garbage can behind you. Your eyes flick between the door of the bar and your phone; the numbers flashing at you indicate that you’ve been out longer than you’ve anticipated and it was late.
“I was actually kind of thinking of pulling an Irish goodbye. I live pretty close,” You say sheepishly, tucking your phone back into your purse. He almost looks disappointed, and you revel in the feeling. You’re not sure if it’s the drinks you’ve had or the way that he was staring at Langdon like he wanted to strangle him with his bare hands for flirting with you the other day, but the words slip out of your mouth before you can really think it through. “Want to walk me home?”
Your tone is shy but warm, an airy lilt at the end of the invitation. Or at least that’s what you aimed for. Realization spreads across his face, until it’s replaced with a smirk. You know it’s an offer he can’t really deny. Even if he didn’t want to fuck you, Jack Abbot was nothing short of a gentleman. He’d never let you walk home alone so late at night. “Of course.”
“Why thank you, Doctor Abbot.” You give him a smirk of your own as you push off the wall, enjoying the way that he watches you move languidly. He scoffs at your joking use of the professional title you call him at work, tongue darting out to wet his lips. You adjust your dress and you two look at each other for a moment; him staring down at you with that obnoxiously smug look on his face, and you staring up at him half lidded like you don’t know what you’re doing.
“Lead the way, sweetheart.” He gestures with a sweep of his arm, breaking your staring contest. You start off in the direction of your apartment, shooting him a cheeky look over your shoulder as he takes a minute to follow behind you.
“Think you can keep up, old man?”
—
He hangs back, just for a second, to admire the view as you flounce away, your heels clicking against the pavement. He can’t help but appreciate just how good you look, dress hugging your figure in all the right places. It doesn’t help that he caught a glimpse of your panties earlier when you left the booth, and he’s been thinking about taking another peek ever since. He’s so distracted that he barely catches the words you throw at him.
“Watch it, kid.” He warns, starting off after you. The night is just cool enough that he can feel the alcohol flowing hot through his veins as he reaches you, matching your stride. The nickname was just a slip of the tongue, something he calls you when you’ve made the right call when treating a patient or when you’re offering to refill his coffee in the break room. You give him that look that you’ve been giving him all night, the one that’s got him in this mess in the first place. Blinking through your eyelashes, like you want to climb him like a tree. It does make him feel like a bit of an old man in a way, chasing after a girl basically half his age.
But you’re the one that invited him, right?
“I’m not sure what you mean.” You say innocently, another flutter of your eyelashes. He gives a chuckle at that, rolling his eyes. The night is quiet at this hour and the tension is thick between you two as you walk alongside each other. Jack’s got his hands tucked into his pockets, watching as you walk a bit unsteadily and he’s not sure if it’s the drinks you’ve had or the shoes that you were wearing. Before he could ponder on it any longer, your heel skids and you stumble over a small lift in the sidewalk.
He grabs your waist instinctively, catching you before you go down. You’re closer to him now and the scent that he’s become so familiar with fills the air, masked a bit by the perfume you wear, all floral and ambery. The proximity between you two almost makes him stumble as well.
“Careful, sweetheart,” He says, voice low, still affected by just how close you are. “Don’t think you’d like to make a detour back to work before your next shift.” He hauls you upright and you give him another sweet smile. Jack can’t help but give you one back.
“Why would I need to?” You recover much faster from the stumble than he does, smoothing your dress down with the palms of your hands. “You wouldn’t patch me up? I’d be in very capable hands, no?” You tease, smirking. He knows you’re joking but the idea of getting his hands on you, being able to touch you beyond the feather light touches you have shared, makes his heart beat in want.
“Yeah, you think so?” He smirks and you slow to a stop in front of a building that he assumes must be your place. You answer his question with a small nod, suddenly shy. He can see you scanning his face, looking for some kind of answer in it. You press your lips in a thin line and finally speak in a small voice.
“Walk me up?”
He should say no. Any sort of gentleman would leave it here, say good night. Especially one as old as he is.You’re staring at him, not breaking eye contact as you await his response. He should definitely say no.
“Sure.”
Goddamn it.
You give him a smile as you turn, pulling the door to your building and he grabs it, holding it open for you. The climb to your place is quiet, the click of your heels against the stairs punctuating the terrible choice he’s making. But the choice doesn’t feel as terrible as it should when he gets to watch you climb the flights of stairs, getting the flash of your panties that he was desperately wishing for earlier.
You approach your door, fumbling with your keys for a second before he hears the soft click of the lock. He’s got his forearm resting against your doorframe, watching as you slowly pull the door open. Jack catches a glimpse into your apartment for a second before you face him; it’s a small studio, lived in and inviting. It smells like you.
You’re just staring at him for a moment and he’s staring right back. The thought that this is a terrible idea is swirling in his mind somewhere, but the heat pooling in his gut as you look at him seems to be all he can focus on right now. You cock your head and enter your apartment, door still wide open. Jack’s body moves before he can even think about it, one foot after the other, crossing the threshold. Something he can’t take back.
He closes the door behind him with a gentle hand, like any loud noise might snap one of you out of a trance. You’ve got your windows open and you’re bathed in the moonlight, the same way you were outside the bar. That exact vision of you has hijacked his better judgement tonight and landed him in the apartment of a pretty young girl. He tries to push the thought aside.
Jack opens his mouth to speak, maybe even tell you how bad of an idea this is, but you’ve already hooked your fingers in his belt loops, pressing your lips against his before he can get a word out. He can taste your lip gloss and it makes his knees buckle a bit, the words suddenly dying on his tongue. You don’t hold back, all dirty and desperate, slipping your tongue into his mouth. He can feel you sigh and pull him closer, hands resting at his stomach now. Your nails scratch against the skin above his waistband and it makes all his blood rush downwards.
You let out a shaky moan into his mouth and his resolve just breaks. His hands finally move and take what he’s been wanting, cupping your jaw for a minute before moving down, rough, skimming down and pulling you flush against him, hands coming to a rest on the curve of your ass.
It’s intoxicating the way you kiss him, like you just can’t fucking get enough. Your hands are wound in his hair, carting through the grey curls. You pull away all too soon, chest rising and falling quickly in an attempt to catch your breath. It sends a shiver down his spine when he sees the sultry look on your face and you grab his hand and pull him deeper into your apartment.
He lets you lead him and come to a stop at your couch. Jack must be drunker than he thought, because you barely push his chest and he lands on the couch behind him. It’s a sight to see when you drop down to your knees without a word, dress rucking up at your waist. He can’t help the moan that slips out from between his lips as you look up at him, the same way you do at work. Waiting for him to tell you what to do. His legs part involuntarily and you slip yourself between them.
“Fuck, baby,” He can’t help but take in the moment, cupping your cheek as you lean into his touch. “ You want to suck my cock that fucking bad, huh?”
You nod —eagerly, he can’t help but note— and he grabs a fistful of your hair loosely. He gives you a small nod, giving you permission to go ahead. Biting your lip, you trace a soft finger over the bulge in his pants and he can’t help but shiver. You take your time unzipping his pants and pulling him out, hand wrapped around the hard length of him. It’s fucking delicious watching you like this, pumping his cock slow, a wicked grin on your face.
You press a kiss to his tip and his hips stutter at the sensation and then you’re pressing the flat of your tongue against him, licking him from root to head. He lets out a loud groan, grip on your hair tightening ever so slightly. He takes in the scene in front of him, you on your knees just for him. It feels perverted in a way, like he’s way too old to be this undone, especially for a woman so many years his junior. But then you place him between your soft lips, lip gloss all smeared from the sloppy kisses you two had shared earlier and he can’t really bring himself to care. Your hands skim down the sides of his bare legs, not even pausing when you feel the heat of skin turn into cool metal on one side.
Your mouth is so warm and wet and it’s got him wondering what your pussy will feel like if your mouth already feels this good. Honestly, he can’t remember the last time someone has had him like this. Your hand is soft where it grips him at his base, spit dripping onto your knuckles and you take him deeper and deeper, until he almost hits the back of your throat.
“Such a good girl for me.” He drawls, voice shaking as you swallow around him. You’ve settled into a rhythm now and Jack is happy to hold you by the hair and let you take control. It feels so fucking good that he can’t help but thrust into your mouth, a crooked grin forming when you gag and drool for him. He can't help but praise you. “You look so pretty on your knees, drooling all over your tits like that.”
That earns him a moan from you and he can feel the vibration of it around his cock. He thinks it can’t get any better than this, and then you look up into his eyes, lips still wrapped around him and a guttural moan rips its way from his chest. This seems to invigorate you as you begin to suck harder, cheeks hollowed as your other hand sneaks its way up to his balls, rolling them in your palm. It’s sloppy and wet and loud —the only sounds in your apartment are the loud, filthy way you’re taking him deep into your throat, and Jack's soft pants and utters of your name. His brows are burrowed in pleasure and it takes all of his focus to not cum in your mouth. He’s basically dripping from your spit, wet all the way down to his balls.
He pulls you up by your hair, rough. You let out a small whimper, like you’re real sad that he’s not letting you suck his dick like you were trying to suck his soul out of it. His lips are parted and his pupils are blown with lust, the hazel of his eyes barely visible around the black. His voice is husky when he speaks next.
“Get on the bed, sweetheart.” The apartment is small, and the bed is just behind him. You’re still wearing your heels and the sound of them reverberates in the cramped space. You don’t bother to pull your dress down this time and he soaks it all in as he pulls off his shirt, trying his best to kick off his boots and pants that have pooled around his ankles at the same time.
He catches up to you in no time and he knows you’re teasing him, walking all slow and sexy like that. Then he decides you’re teasing just a bit too much and he grabs you by the waist and tosses you onto the bed. You land with a soft bounce on the mattress and he crawls on right after you, pulling you towards him.
He’s nosing at your pussy through your panties, the dampness forming for him to see. You smell so fucking good that it makes him throb and he can’t help but wrap a fist around himself and pump loosely a few times.
“You’re soaked for me,” He says gruffly and you mewl, desperate for him to touch you more. “Should I have a taste?”
Now he’s running his fingertips over your covered slit, and your hips buck. Jack can feel the heat of you just under the thin cloth, radiating through the lace and he briefly wonders if you’ll let him keep them after.
“Yes…” You breathe, and he takes a peek at you from between your legs. You look absolutely wrecked, propped up on your forearms, staring down at him through half lidded eyes.
“Why don’t you ask me nicely?” He coos and you groan, head tipping back. He loves having you like this, nice and pliant under his hands. You’re better than he imagined when he was alone, touching himself to the thought of you. “Tell me how bad you want it.”
“Please, Jack,” Your voice cracks as you plead, hips rolling, craving some kind, any kind of friction. “I want it so fucking bad, please…”
“You always listen so well to me, sweetheart. So obedient.” Jack can’t deny you when you whine for him all breathy like that, so he pulls your panties to the side and does exactly what he said he would do, taking a taste. He laps at your pussy like a man starved, your wetness smearing all over his chin, gathering in his stubble.
He feels your hands grip his hair as you pull him in deeper, wordlessly asking for more. Obliging, he dips his tongue into your cunt and you tighten around the muscle, making Jack’s eyes roll back into his head. He’s sure he’s moaning just as much as you are, one hand on your hip, the other one stroking his cock roughly.
Once he’s had his fill of fucking you with his tongue he lets his fingers take over, sliding two of them into your sopping entrance. Your hips buck again at the intrusion and he lets out a deep growl. “You taste so good, baby —could eat you all fucking night. You like having my fingers buried deep in your cunt?”
The whiskey has worn off by now but he’s drunk with lust, his head spinning as he ducks his head back down, sucking your clit softly. He can feel you fluttering around his fingers, getting tighter as he fucks you rough. He’s caught you staring at them more than once and your little comment about his hands earlier hadn’t gone unnoticed by him.
He can tell you’re close by the way you’re moaning and the way you’re gripping his fingers; he can barely pull them out. The pace he sets is brutal and then you’re coming on his hand and face before he even realizes. The taste of your cum is heady and he’s licking it all up like it’s his last meal.
You’re catching your breath and he flips you over without a word, ass up for him. His hands are rough and calloused on your soft skin, pulling down the top of your dress to expose your breasts. You both moan as he tweaks a nipple between his fingers, before palming your ass and yanking your soaking panties down your thighs.
“Fuck…” Jack curses. He’s rutting against you, coating his cock with your cum, moving infuriatingly slow. You’re pushing against him, pleas falling from your lips as he places a hand on your bare back, pushing you deeper into the mattress. Jack has half a mind to hope that your apartment walls aren’t as thin as he thinks they are. He’s busy trying to sear this moment into his memories to care all that much about it though; you’re under him, moaning his name, begging for him. “Still think I’m an old man? That I can’t keep up?”
He’s throwing your words back at you, the frantic shakes of your head as you rut back into him going straight to his ego and his dick. Jack can't resist the sight any longer as he drags himself up and down your entrance, tapping on your clit a few times and loving the way you jump at the sensation. He’s barely got the tip in when you start moaning for him again, breathy and desperate. Ignoring your begging for him to start moving faster, he pushes in nice and slow instead, mesmerized by the way your pussy just sucks him in.
Gripping fabric of your dress that has bunched up around your waist, he sinks in deeper until he’s fully bottomed out. He stays still for a moment, letting you adjust to his size and schooling his breathing so he doesn’t cum embarrassingly fast. You’re so tight and he can’t help but think you’re one hundred percent better than what he imagined and one thousand percent better than his fist that he fucks into when he thinks of you. Sharp pain interrupts his thoughts, your nails scratching at his thighs as you try to get him to finally move.
“Feels like you’re made for me, sweetheart. So fucking tight for me.” Thoughts are spilling out now, pleasure taking over and loosening his filter. As much as he wants to savour this, savour you, he’s on the fringes of his self control. You’re gripping his cock in a way that makes his head spin and your small pants have him feeling downright sinful. He tries to start slow, he really does, but he just can’t resist. He’s been thinking about having you for so long, the way you would look under him, and now that he has you, he’s not letting you think about anyone else again. Jack wants you to think about him every time you crawl into bed without him.
He fucks you in earnest, the wet slap of skin on skin just spurring him on. He buries a fist in your hair again, yanking your head up so you’re on all fours for him, back curved. The frame of your bed creaks quickly in time with his thrusts, the same way his thrusts are punching small gasps out of you each time. He loves listening to the noises you make and he pulls your hips up higher, balls slapping your clit as he buries himself deeper. Your moans are getting louder, walls squeezing him tight and he pulls out quickly before his vision goes white.
“Jack, please!” He can tell you’re getting tired of the way he’s been teasing you all night, thinking that he just might edge you all night. But really, he just wants to see what your face looks like when you cum around his cock. He flips you over easily, biceps flexing. Before you can even muster out a squeal he’s back inside you, filling you up to the hilt. Your lips part and your eyes roll back into your head, and he can’t help but smirk as he begins to move once more.
This time the pace he sets is punishing, determined to make you cum before even thinking about chasing his own high. Jack can tell by the way that you’re squeezing him like you don’t want to let him go that it won’t be long. He allows his eyes to sweep over your body appreciatively, your thighs, your stomach, the way your breasts bounce, how absolutely blissed out your face looks.
It’s hard to resist the temptation to splay a hand just below your neck, gauge your reaction, so he doesn’t. His hand is so large against the base of your throat and the way your eyes flutter in pleasure makes his dick twitch. He lets it rest there for a moment, then dips two fingers between your lips, tongue swirling around the tips of them like it was around his dick just a little while ago.
Leaving a wet trail down your chest, he makes his way down to your clit, drawing tight circles around with rough fingertips. He lets out a growl at the noise you make, deep and primal. He glances down, noticing the cream gathering around the base of his cock, his happy trail covered in your slick. His legs shake at the sight, his climax suddenly a lot closer than he anticipated. He can guess that yours is too, judging from the way your cunt is fluttering around him and that you’ve seemed to stop caring who can hear just how good he’s making you feel.
“You gonna cum on my cock, baby?” You’re nodding loosely, like you barely even registered the question. He loves seeing such a capable girl come apart in his hands like this. “Yeah? Cum for me then.”
And you do, as he should have expected, since you always do what he tells you to.
Your cunt is milking his orgasm out of him, and he can feel his hips stutter. He barely squeezes out the words, asking you where he should finish, half aware that he’s not wearing a condom. You look up with shiny wet eyes, fingers tangling in the curls at the base of his neck and he nearly cums at the sight.
“I want you to fill me up.” You say, and yeah, that makes him want to cum even more. A few more messy thrusts and he gives a low groan, spilling deep inside you. He’s hutched over your form, body shaking in pleasure, loving the heat that’s radiating from your body. After a few moments the haze of sex dissipates and you two are left chest to chest, your nipples brushing his chest with every breath.
“Let’s get you cleaned up, sweetheart.”
—
Jack cleans you up, all nice and sweet, with a warm rag from your bathroom. The action is tender, especially compared to the way he just wrecked you. It makes you feel taken care of, which is not something you would admit aloud to him for now. You’re a little confused about the position that this puts you in with your attending. The only thing you can really make sense of is that the entire situation has gotten about a million times more complicated than it was eight hours ago.
But when Jack looks at you, eyes soft in a way you’ve never seen before when you offer to help him remove his prosthetic, you decide that you don’t really care. You’d give anything to have him look at you that way again.
And now he’s here in your bed, freckled back to you and breathing even. He’d fallen asleep soon after you asked him to stay the night, which you thought was sweet. Old man was up way past his bedtime.
Your phone vibrates on your nightstand and you flip it over, squinting at the bright light. You’d pretty much ignored it when you left the bar with Jack, pretty one track minded. You’d miss a flurry of text messages from everyone else: Garcia asking if she could bum a smoke, Samira asking if you left and then following up asking you to let her know you got home safe, Robby wondering if you had seen Abbot anywhere, Dennis just sending you a blurry picture of the bar floor, which you assumed was a drunken accident.
Trinity has sent you the most recent text, sitting atop of your stack of notifications.
trinity: thank u for winning me the betting pool. will buy u a drink ;)
in which, you host snl to promote your new film and accidentally drag your boyfriend on live television.
the studio smells like hairspray, hot lights, and nerves.
you stand just offstage, cue cards in your peripheral vision, your name echoing faintly from the announcer as the audience applauds louder and louder. it’s not your first premiere, not your first interview, not even your first time in front of a crowd like this.
but this is different.
live.
no cuts. no second takes. no fixing it later.
“you good?” one of the stage managers asks, already half moving, already focused on the next thing.
you nod like you don’t feel your heartbeat in your throat.
“great,” they say, not really waiting for your answer. “you’re on.”
and then you’re walking.
the lights hit you all at once, bright and blinding, the audience rising, clapping, cheering in that overwhelming way that always feels a little unreal. you smile automatically, waving, soaking it in just enough before stepping into your mark.
you take a breath.
and then—
“hi.”
the applause softens, but the energy stays.
“wow,” you say, looking around like you’re taking it all in. “this is… a lot of people who voluntarily chose to be here.”
a small wave of laughter rolls through the crowd.
you nod slowly. “that’s already concerning.”
more laughter.
you shift your weight slightly, hands clasped loosely in front of you.
“hi, i’m— well, you know who i am, otherwise this would be deeply embarrassing for both of us.”
another laugh, a little louder this time.
“i’m hosting saturday night live for the first time, which is exciting,” you continue, voice calm, almost too calm. “and slightly suspicious. because i mostly do films where i stare at walls and try to feel things.”
the audience laughs again, catching onto your rhythm.
“i’m here promoting my new movie directed by chloé zhao,” you say. “which means it’s very beautiful, very emotional… and i cry in at least seven different lighting situations.”
a few people clap.
you nod at them. “thank you. i suffered for that.”
the laughter builds easier now.
you glance off to the side, like you’re remembering something.
“it’s actually been a very busy year for me,” you add. “i filmed the movie, did press, and i’ve been in a long term relationship.”
a beat.
“which is, honestly, my most challenging role.”
the audience reacts immediately, laughing, a little louder now.
you tilt your head slightly. “yeah. method acting. very immersive.”
you let that sit for a second, then continue, tone unchanged.
“i’ve been dating my boyfriend for over three years,” you say. “which, in hollywood time, is… basically a marriage and a divorce.”
a bigger laugh.
you nod. “we’re doing great, though. still together. against all odds. and several conspiracy theories.”
that lands.
you let your eyes drift slightly toward one of the cameras.
“because, apparently, our relationship is fake.”
the audience laughs again, already anticipating it.
“yeah,” you say, very matter of fact. “there’s a section of the internet that believes i’m in a long term, emotionally committed, very public fake relationship… for fun.”
you shrug lightly.
“i wish i had that kind of free time.”
laughter, louder now.
you pace just a step, slow and casual.
“they’re very dedicated, though,” you add. “they have timelines. body language analysis.”
you pause.
“which is interesting, because i don’t even analyze my own behavior that closely.”
another wave of laughter.
“like, they’ll be like, ‘she's ignoring him less than usual, something’s off,’” you say, mimicking just slightly. “and i’m like… i forgot he was there .”
the audience laughs, clapping now.
you nod, trying to stay serious. “i’m almost always forgetting about him.”
you glance toward the audience, like you’re searching.
“he’s actually here tonight,” you say casually.
there’s an immediate shift. the audience perks up, murmurs, excitement buzzing.
“yeah,” you continue. “i brought him to prove he exists.”
laughter.
“harry styles is here.”
the camera cuts to him almost instantly.
he’s sitting in the front row, dressed in something that’s very him, a smiley face shirt and blue jeans. he smiles, waving a little as the audience cheers louder, some people standing.
he leans slightly toward the person next to him, then looks straight at the camera.
“i’m real,” he says, deadpan.
the audience loses it.
you watch the screen for a second, then nod.
“debatable.”
more laughter.
the camera stays on him for a second longer as he presses a hand to his chest, mock offended, then mouths something that looks suspiciously like wow.
it cuts back to you.
“he’s a musician,” you add, like it’s new information. “very successful. you might know him.”
a small laugh.
“i’ve actually learned a lot from dating him,” you continue. “for example, i now know that leaving the house requires… an audience.”
the audience laughs, and the camera briefly cuts to harry again, who nods like that’s fair.
“and that you can, in fact, wear sunglasses indoors and still be taken seriously.”
harry shrugs at the camera, unapologetic.
you continue, unfazed.
“also, he’s taught me that if you wear something confident enough, people will just… accept it.”
you gesture vaguely. “like, feathers. or no shirt. or both.”
laughter builds again.
harry claps slowly for that one, smiling.
you glance back toward him.
“i tried it once,” you say. “didn’t go well.”
the audience laughs again.
you pause, then add, “turns out, you need the hair for that.”
the reaction is louder now, people clapping, a few cheers.
harry leans back in his seat, shaking his head, laughing.
you let the moment breathe before continuing.
“but he’s very supportive,” you say. “he’s here tonight, which is nice, because usually he’s somewhere else. like… italy. or japan. or emotionally unavailable.”
the audience laughs, a little sharper this time.
harry visibly reacts to that one, pointing at you like hey, but still smiling.
you shrug. “we’re working through it.”
a softer laugh.
you shift slightly, your tone just barely warming.
“he did help me prepare for this,” you admit. “he said, ‘just be yourself.’”
you pause.
“which is terrible advice for live television.”
laughter again.
“i asked him for something more specific,” you continue. “and he said, ‘don’t worry, you’re funnier than me.’”
you tilt your head.
“which felt… manipulative.”
the audience laughs.
harry presses his lips together, trying not to laugh too hard at that.
you take a small breath, glancing around the room again.
“but in all seriousness,” you say, tone still dry but slightly softer, “it’s nice to have someone who shows up for you.”
there’s a small shift in the audience, a quiet aww kind of reaction.
you immediately cut it off.
“especially because i made him sit through a four hour director’s cut of my film.”
laughter breaks it again.
“no bathroom breaks,” you add.
harry holds up a hand like that’s true, mouthing help.
you nod. “he survived. barely.”
you take another small step, settling back into your spot.
“anyway,” you say, clapping your hands lightly once. “we have an amazing show tonight.”
the audience cheers again, the energy rising.
“we’ve got great sketches, incredible performers, and i will be doing my best to not ruin all of it.”
a laugh.
you smile, just slightly.
“stick around. i promise it’ll be worth it.”
the band kicks in, the applause swelling again as you step back, the lights shifting, the moment moving on.
as you walk offstage, you catch a glimpse of the screen.
Summary: When Dr. Robby returns from his extended sabbatical, he discovers that the girlfriend he thought would be waiting for him has a baby bump – and absolutely hates him for leaving.
Tags/Notes: established relationship, groveling and forgiveness, acts of service, nurse!reader, pregnant!reader, getting back together, ft. trinity as a menace and dennis as a cutie
Content: pregnancy, pregnant sex (fingering), shaving scene
A/N: im not good at math <3 sorry i haven't posted in three weeks lmao
Word Count: 14.3k
The sabbatical was supposed to be three months, but somewhere around Bar Harbor Robby decided he needed more time. For what he wasn’t sure. But he knew he needed to stay far, far away from the Pitt for a little longer. With his position at the hospital safe, he stayed in New England through the end of the summer.
On his first day back, he’d been gone as long as the two of you were together. Six months. Six months without text messages or phone calls or, hell, postcards. Six months of feeling like Robby was a ghost in your life, something you had and lost that lingers around every corner. Six months of rebuilding your life after he disappeared from it.
You found out about Robby’s sabbatical the same way everyone else did, during one of his evening speeches exactly two weeks before he was scheduled to leave. Two weeks’ notice for a relationship you’d honestly believed was headed toward an engagement ring in a few months. He didn’t think to ask you, didn’t think to check in, didn’t even bother to tell you in the privacy of the home you’d basically moved into. Your life fell into brutal clarity in that moment: Robby was a huge part of your life, but you were a footnote in his.
He sent you a text five nights ago: Back in town. When can I see you?
You didn’t answer.
You don’t plan to.
The morning of September first, Jack hands off shift change seamlessly, like Robby had never left, and Robby finds his footing on the ED floor with a newness, a fluidity, a casual lightness on his shoulders that strikes everyone as foreign. A version of Robby with no tension in his shoulders and no sarcasm biting at his tongue might as well be a new doctor.
Once he has the ED machine churning on pace, Robby leans his elbows on the nurse’s station and scans the shift board. “And where’s my favorite nurse this morning? Night shift?”
Dana barely spares him a glance as she processes the last of a stack of paperwork. She’d always disapproved of Robby pursuing you, so she’s not exactly sympathetic when she tells him, “She transferred months ago. I’m sure the notice is in your email inbox if you ever get around to clearing that out.”
His mind spins at the idea of the Pitt without you – your steady hands, your shy smiles, your forgiving wit. “Transferred? Where? Why?”
“Not my business,” Dana replies with a shrug. She pushes a chart into his chest and says, “They need you in exam six.”
As Robby takes the chart and looks over it with blank eyes that don’t see a word, Princess stands up on her toes so she can meet Robby’s eyes. With a knowing but curious gaze, she tells him quietly, “She’s working at the hospital’s satellite methadone clinic up the street now. Rumor is that she had an ugly breakup with someone at the hospital and wanted to get some distance.”
Robby sucks in a sharp breath. Holds it. Lets it out slow. His eyes focus to actually look at the chart and he mutters out, “Thanks for the info.”
She adds, “Smart money’s on Frank, by the way, since they were always so close.”
Robby grits his teeth. “They weren’t that close.”
“Whatever you say, cap.”
The biggest thing Robby notices in his shift once he’s working closely with his doctors again is a change in the batch of residents he helped onboard last year. They’ve gained confidence during his absence, which he’d expected, but there’s something else. To put it briefly, there’s a lot of scowling and it’s definitely in his direction. Even Whitaker, who used to glance up for his praise like a puppy, is now averting his eyes and keeping his sentences short, professional, unsmiling. The newest batch of students and interns is all polite deference and eager introductions, but the ones he’d come to know and care for and consider friends are acting like he stinks of BO and betrayal.
In the locker room preparing for his lunch break, he approaches Dana, trying to be casual about his tone, and asks, “What’s wrong with the kids, by the way? I have a sign that says ‘ignore me’ on my back or something I didn’t notice?”
She snickers, “Maybe they’re just mad that daddy went to the gas station for milk and didn’t come back for six months.” She gives him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder and adds, “Give them some time; it’ll take a minute for people to find their rhythm around you again.”
He nods slowly and swallows, hoping that’s all this is. “Right, sure.”
The truth doesn’t even occur to him: You had been their favorite person around the hospital, his abandonment had made you leave, and they aren’t quite ready to forgive him for that.
—
It’s almost your lunch break when a whole flood of people arrives at once. You’re behind the check-in desk today and you can’t help groaning to yourself. You have to pee, your stomach has been growling non-stop for an hour, and you’re desperate to put your feet up.
You’re on autopilot as you check in patients, collect consent forms, and support doctors however you can without getting up from the desk. You’d started modified work duty this month and it’s driving you nuts not being able to do the hands-on clinical work you love. With your eyes on your monitor, the next patient enters your peripheral vision and you tell him, “I’ll be with you in just one moment.”
“No worries, gorgeous.”
Your focus snaps.
Anger rises up like bile in your throat. Part of you wants to cry, part wants to run, part wants to scream. Ultimately, with so many wars raging inside of your body, your expression goes flat as you meet Robby’s eyes. “You pick up an opioid habit while you were screwing your way up and down the eastern seaboard?”
Robby almost laughs. Almost. He hadn’t expected you to act so hostile – in his mind, you’re still the woman he loves, waiting patiently for his return home – and it pinches like frostbite. Voice soft and respectful, he offers, “I just wanted to stop by and see you.”
You set your jaw and cut back, “Well I didn’t want to see you, but I forgot that my opinion doesn’t affect your decisions.”
He sighs. “You’re still mad at me.”
You turn back to your computer and finish up the file you need to before lunch. “‘Still’ implies that eventually I’ll stop, which won’t be happening.”
“C’mon sweetheart, you can’t-”
“Don’t.” Your eyes flick up as you shake your head. “Just- just don’t.” After closing out your computer and sighing heavily, you tell him bluntly, “You’re officially eating into my lunch, so I’m gonna ask you to leave or I can get security. I’m happy either way.”
Robby presses, “Let me at least buy you lunch.”
You extend your hand and reply without emotion, “Sure, give me $20 and I’ll happily spend it.”
Robby grits his teeth and digs his heels in. “Please.”
Anxiety sparks in your chest as you realize he really isn’t going to leave without talking to you alone first. You’re going to have to stand up from behind the safety of the tall desk and half wall right in front of him. The moment was inevitable, but you’d hoped to at least be in control of it.
“Fine. Buy me lunch.” You’re almost laughing as you mutter, “Let’s see how this goes. Might as well do it in public.”
Then you get to your feet. You stretch your arms above your head, back tight from sitting all morning, and your navy scrub top rides up slightly.
Robby’s next words are breathless and desperate. “You’re pregnant.”
“Glad your eyes still work after six months of wind burn without your goddamn helmet.”
He swallows hard, barely hearing the malice in your voice now. “How- how far along?”
“Take a fucking guess, Doctor,” you huff, shouldering your bag and walking around the nurse’s station. He moves to follow you, but you point at the ‘only employees past this door’ sign and give him a mock pout. “Wait outside if you care so much.”
Robby debates for a second and says weakly, “It’s my lunch, too; I need to get back to the hospital.”
You give him a look that reeks of ‘that’s what I thought’ and say, “Then get back to the hospital. I’m immune to being left behind now.”
It’s not your hatred that hurts. It’s your apathy.
He sends you texts. You don’t reply.
He leaves you voicemails. You don’t listen.
After a few more days of silence, he’s got his head in his hands at the bar while Jack nurses a beer, pitying his sorry ass. He’s been silent for two straight beers, clearly gathering the courage to tell him the good news. It takes Jack reminding him that this is his only night off for Robby to choke out, “She’s pregnant. Very pregnant. Seven months, probably.”
“Ah.” Jack studies his best friend’s face for a long time before settling on a simple, succinct, thorough, “Fuck.”
Robby sucks in a long breath and lets it out slow. “Yeah. Fuck.”
“And she doesn’t want anything to do with you now.” It’s not a question. It’s the truth of the matter. Jack shakes his head and then gives Robby one of those pointed looks only a brother could get away with. “I don’t blame her.”
Robby balks, “You said I should go on the trip.”
“But I’m not your girlfriend.”
“And thank god for that.”
“You didn’t talk to her about leaving?”
“I didn’t realize I needed her permission.”
“You didn’t. But you should’ve wanted it.” Jack puts on that sage old friend voice and goes on, “You told me before you left that she’s the one. What the hell is wrong with you?”
“A lot. That’s why I had to go,” Robby replies, grappling with too much of himself. “Look, leaving was the right thing to do. I know that now more than ever. I figured a lot of shit out and I feel a hell of a lot better – about myself, my future, my life. But now? Now there’s going to be a baby. My baby. Our baby.” Robby gently thumps his forehead on the bartop and groans, “The whole time I was gone, I thought she’d be waiting for me when I came home. Every step of the way, I figured- I figured she’d still want me.”
“Delusions of grandeur,” Jack opines almost absently. Then he yanks Robby to sitting upright by the back of his hoodie. “She’s so far out of your league you’d have to get drafted first just to be her water boy. Why the hell would you think that?”
“Because she always waited for me,” Robby mutters, sounding so absolutely pathetic Jack debates recording it for blackmail down the road. “She- she was always there. She always stayed.”
“And you repaid her by leaving.”
Robby’s voice drops to an ashamed whisper. “I didn’t realize she loved me enough to care that I left.”
“But she did.”
“She did.” Robby stares straight ahead, through Jack and through the walls and through the world until his eyes settle back on his relationship with you – the one good part of his life that had spiraled squarely out of his control. “She was shining a light in my face, but I was too busy covering my own eyes to see her. Too deep in my own self-doubt and self-hatred to recognize what was right in front of me.”
“Alright, Socrates, pack it in.” Jack claps a hand on Robby’s back and summarizes, “You fucked it up and you need to fix it.”
“I fucked it up and I need to fix it,” Robby confirms. “But how do I even begin to say sorry for something like that?”
“She doesn’t want you to say sorry,” Jack replies. It’s effortless for him, this kind of thing. Robby is supremely jealous of how simple Jack makes it all sound. “She doesn’t want Robby the rich attractive attending anymore.”
“Flatterer.”
“Shut up. I’m saying she’s spent the last six months thinking you were gone. While you’re god knows where, she’s figuring out how to be a single mom on a nurse’s salary. So I know she doesn’t want what you used to be for her.”
Jack pauses for long enough that Robby has to sigh and prod, “You’re really gonna make me prompt you? Tell me what you think she wants.”
“She wants a dad for her kid. A real dad, not a sperm donor. She doesn’t want a boyfriend. She wants a husband. And a husband doesn’t have to run away to figure his shit out. Show up for the baby and you’re showing up for her.” Jack finishes off his beer, slaps down a handful of cash, and tells him, “Let’s get a cab. I think you need to cry yourself to sleep to figure out your next move.”
At nine a few nights later, after his shift, Robby knocks on the door of the new address he definitely didn’t steal from your personnel file. It’s a small townhouse in an okay part of town, better than your previous shoebox, but it’s still nothing compared to his spacious home further out of the city. The place he always imagined raising his family in. The place where you’d taken up half his closet, half his bathroom counterspace, half his life. Half his heart, undeniably.
When Trinity Santos answers the door, Robby nearly falls on his ass. With a green face mask cracking on her skin and her eyes burning with anger, he’s never seen her looking so full of wrath. Which is saying something. “What are you doing here, Dr. Robby?”
His brows furrow as he explains, “I was trying to see my girlfriend, but I guess I got the wrong address somehow.”
Santos scoffs and crosses her arms over her chest. “You girlfriend? Pretty sure you forfeited that title when you ditched her like she didn’t mean anything to you.”
“Woah, Jesus,” Robby chuckles, holding his hands up. “Is that the general consensus? Guess that explains all the hostility today.”
“Not hostile, just professional.”
“You were definitely hostile.”
Trinity glares. “File a complaint.”
She moves to shut the door, but he catches it with one large hand. “Is she here?”
Trinity continues to use her body to block him from entering. She knows he’d never do anything crazy like push her, but she wants to make her allegiance perfectly clear. “Yup.”
“She lives with you and Whitaker now?”
“Yup. Saving money until the last minute.”
“God.” Robby runs his hand over the back of his head. “Can I- Can I just come in and see her?”
Holding bitter eye contact, Trinity calls over her shoulder, “Do you want to see Robby?”
Your voice is immediate. There’s more hurt in it than he’d heard this morning, and something about that makes him feel hopeful. Like there might still be something for him to hold onto. “He’s here?”
“At the door.”
Robby listens as a chair squeaks across the floor and your footsteps recede toward a staircase. Away from him. Fainter now, you call, “Get rid of him.”
Trinity nods and turns back to her boss. “You heard the woman. Go home.”
“Fuck, fine. It’s getting late anyway; she should sleep.” With a rough sigh, he reaches into his inner jacket pocket and hands her an envelope. “Can you give this to her at least?”
Santos snatches it from his hand and demands, “What is it?”
“It’s ten thousand dollars.”
She rolls her eyes. “Fuck off, Robby.”
Without saying anything else, she slams the door in his face. Shaking her head, Trinity ascends the steps to the second floor, where all the bedrooms are, and knocks on your door. You answer with puffy, tear-swollen eyes. Right away, Trinity wraps you up in a hug and sighs, “He’s the worst. I’ll kill him at work tomorrow.”
You laugh, sniffle, and shake your head. “No need. I was going to have to deal with this eventually, right?”
“Yeah, but it should be your choice on your terms, not him showing up unannounced.” You nod and pull back from the hug, swiping your cheeks one more time. Trinity holds up the envelope and says, “Robby wants me to give this to you. I can rip it up or hold onto it or-”
“I’ll take it.” You smile softly at her and add, “Thanks, Trin. You shouldn’t have to deal with my baby daddy drama.”
“You deal with my gay soap opera with Yo,” she points out with a conspiratorial grin.
Your reply is interrupted by the sound of Dennis emerging from his bedroom, rubbing sleep from his eyes. He’s been on the late-night shift the past couple weeks, slowly becoming nocturnal. “What’s going on?”
Trinity answers with malice lacing her tone, “Robby showed up.”
Dennis shakes his head. “Bastard.”
“You don’t have to say that,” you reply with a laugh. “I know you want to go back to being his personal assistant as soon as possible.”
“Trinity would kill me,” he mutters.
She punches him on the arm. “And I’d be right! We don’t defend shitty men who-”
“Robby’s not a shitty man; you know that,” he interrupts her. “He handled leaving in a shitty way; that doesn’t make him a shitty person.”
“You’re too forgiving, Nebraska.”
“And you’re not forgiving enough.”
You sigh sharply, “And I need to go to sleep.”
“At least open up the letter for us,” Trinity insists. “My nosiness is absolutely screaming for the intel. I won’t be able to sleep without it.”
Ripping open the envelope, you sigh, “I’m sure it’s just some stupid saccharine guilt bomb designed to make me-” Your voice falls to the ground and melts through the floorboards. There’s a folded-up note wrapped around something much more interesting. You hold it up to Trinity and Dennis and breathlessly announce, “It’s a check for ten thousand dollars.”
“Oh my god, I thought he was being a dick,” Trinity replies, her voice equally low and surprised, almost reverent – not for Robby but for the sheer amount of money. “Why the hell would he…?”
With shaking hands, you read the corresponding handwritten note to your roommates.
I don’t know whether or not when you’ll let me back into your life.
That’s up to you. I accept it. I respect that it’s your choice.
But I’m not going to be a deadbeat dad. You know I can’t do that. You know about my father. I’m never going to become him. I hope you believe that.
So this isn’t a bribe to take me back. I promise it isn’t. It’s not an apology. I’m still working on that.
It’s for our kid. For you as the mother of my child, not just the a woman I want need miss love care about. Nursery stuff, vitamins, doctor’s appointments, your favorite hot chocolate from Vino’s, anything you need until they’re born. I’m not going to let you want for anything. If money is all you’ll accept from me, then take every penny I have. Please.
I promise I won’t abandon the baby. I promise I will do whatever you need from me and more.
And I promise I love you. Both of you.
I hope you’ll Please, let me prove it.
Love,
Sincerely,
Yours,
M.
All three of you hold your breath in the space that follows Robby’s painstakingly scrawled words.
Then Dennis takes a long breath and urges, “See? He’s good. He cares. He wants to take care of you and the baby. You could do a hell of a lot worse.”
Trinity shakes her head and swallows hard. “She could do a hell of a lot better, too. He still left.”
Dennis argues, “He didn’t know she was pregnant.”
You whisper, “Do I really want a man who would only stay because of a baby?”
Knowing far too much for his own good, Dennis touches your shoulder and presses, “Do you really want any man besides him?”
You pinch the bridge of your nose and try to breathe. “I need sleep. I’ll…Fuck. I’ll let you guys know whenever I figure out what the hell I’m doing with my life.”
Trinity brushes your cheek with her thumb. “Love you, sunshine. Goodnight.”
You wish her goodnight and Dennis a good shift before retreating into your bedroom. You change into your pajamas, ignoring the tee of Robby’s that still lives in your drawer, and curl up with your thoughts. In bed on your side, you rest your hand on your bump and wish the little life inside could tell you the right thing to do.
In his home across town, all Robby knows is that he’s never felt so much relief watching $10,000 leave his account.
In the morning, on your way out, the door thumps against something heavy on the stoop. A large plastic tote with a brown bag from your favorite cafe on top of it. You call over your shoulder for Trinity and she hauls the heavy box inside while you focus on the little bag of treats with a note card stapled to it. Inside the bag is your usual order that Robby always brought into the hospital for you in the mornings, the coffee replaced by a ginger tea but the bear claw looking as delectable as ever.
I figured you might want your things back from my place. I’m sorry for being gone longer than you expected for not giving you a key in the first place for unintentionally stealing your stuff for coming by last night. I don’t want to make anything worse. M.
Trinity reads the note over your shoulder and announces, “He’s groveling.”
“What do you think I should do?”
“I think you should let him grovel.”
Biting the sweet fluffy pastry, you consider, “I don’t want to be cruel. I’m not going to keep his own baby from him.”
“Of course not. But that’s not what we’re talking about. Do you want him? Not just as your baby daddy. A husband. A real man. Do you want to be Mrs. Robby someday soon?”
“Of course I do,” you sigh, “but I just…I don’t trust him anymore. How could I?”
“I’m just saying,” she reasons with a shrug, “if his baseline grovel is 10k, I for one would love to see where he goes from there. Maybe you’ll end up with a private plane or something.”
“Robby’s got money, but he doesn’t have that kind of money.”
“As far as we know,” she replies with a snicker. “Look, at the end of the day, you have to decide if you can trust him, so I say you tell him exactly what you need and see if he can hack it. Be blunt with him about your expectations. He can worship the ground you walk on from here on out or he can spend the rest of his life signing child support checks and seeing his kid every other weekend.”
You laugh and polish off the bear claw. “You’re a menace, Trinity Santos.”
“My specialty.” She pours herself a coffee and collects her bag. “Now do you want a ride or are you grabbing the bus?”
“It’s a beautiful morning; I don’t mind the bus.”
“Maybe Robby will get you a car.”
“Yeah,” you snort, “maybe.”
Right as your lunch break starts that afternoon, a delivery driver shows up by the staff entrance with an order bearing your name. After one of the other nurses calls you back, you take the heavy bag of absolutely heavenly-smelling Thai food and ask the driver, “Is this from Michael Robinavitch?”
“Yeah, he said you’d be expecting it.” He checks the order on his phone and reads, “The delivery instructions said ‘tell her I know for a fact she doesn’t eat enough protein to be growing a whole new person.’ Congratulations; he sounds like a nice dad.”
You shake your head and sigh. “Yeah, he can be.”
And it goes on like that for the next five days before you decide what to do. Robby always orders you lunch. None of the following meals come with messages, though, just something carefully chosen for your tastes and needs. He even remembers the way you order things – extra lime on your pad thai, salsa verde instead of pico on your tacos, and any bonus dessert he can throw in – to the point where you wonder if people at the Pitt are helping him out, campaigning for the two of you to get back together.
Robby checks his phone way too many times that entire first week that he’s back. He keeps waiting for you to text, call, email, hell he’ll even take a DM at this point. But you don’t. It’s agony. If nothing else, Trinity’s dagger-glare has dulled into more of a butter-knife-glare by Friday afternoon.
Then.
After he clocks out and heads to the parking lot, there you are. Leaning on his fucking motorcycle. You’re a vision in the waning afternoon, sunlight catching your hair and brightening your eyes. You speak first: “Can we talk?”
“Yes,” Robby answers too fast. “Of course we can. Do you…want to go somewhere else?”
“No. I don’t.” You swallow hard and then nod to a nearby bench, sitting down before he does the same. With one hand on your belly, you train your eyes forward and tell him, “You said in your note that you want to prove you love me. But I know you love me. That’s not the problem.”
Robby has to resist the urge to take your hands in his, to tilt your face toward him, to do anything that would ground your bodies together. “Tell me.”
Confirming his every fear, you whisper, “I don’t trust you enough to raise a child with you.”
Throat thick and limbs heavy, he rasps, “You don’t want me to be involved with my own kid?”
“Of course I want you to be in her life; that’s not- that’s not what I meant. But I don’t know if I can trust you to be her dad – her mom’s partner – and not just her biological father.”
The world tilts slightly.
Robby’s breath catches in his throat.
Tears sting his eyes and he blinks them back. His voice trembles alongside his hands as he confirms, “It’s a girl?
You can’t help the way that softens you. You can see the universe he’s building behind his eyes: Robby holding a pink-blanket bundle, Robby learning to braid hair, Robby being fiercely protective and achingly tender.
You want to share that life with him so badly that it hurts. To sit by his side at dance recitals and tell bedtime stories together and be real.
“Yeah,” you settle for saying, intimately quiet, just for the two of you, “she’s a girl.”
“Wow. Holy shit. A girl. A little girl. Have you-” He clears his throat and swats a tear from his cheek. “Have you picked a name yet?”
You shake your head and admit, “I have some favorites, but it wouldn’t feel right to choose by myself. Without you, I mean. She’s not just mine.” Robby lets the next few tears fall onto his scrub pants and you can’t bear to watch. So you dig around in your purse and hand over the few ultrasound pictures you’d set aside, always hoping you’d be able to give them to him. One from each of your check-ups, a timeline from blob to baby. “Here. Yours to keep.”
Robby stares down at pure gold in his hands. He looks over each photo like a precious ancient text, smiling with those lovely wrinkles of his. After looking at the most recent one for a long time, he murmurs lovingly, “She’s got your nose.”
You touch your pointer finger to the picture and reply, “And your huge feet.”
His eyes stay locked on the scan for another full minute; he’s too choked up to add anything else. Once he’s finally starting to recover from growing a new chamber of his heart so quickly, he tucks the photos into his backpack, slides onto the sidewalk in front of you like he’s about to propose, and gazes up at your face. “I’ll do anything to be yours again.”
Biting your lower lip, you nod. Slow. Thinking. “I can’t just pick up where we left off.”
“I don’t expect you to. I don’t want that.” He sits back onto the bench next to you, this time tilting his whole body towards yours. Creating space he begs you to fill. “I know we can’t exactly start over, but I- I want to be new together. I want to fix what I broke.”
“Okay,” you whisper back, trying hard not to cry. Hormones and hope make a brutal cocktail. You sniffle hard and suggest, “Trinity told me you have the weekend off. Breakfast tomorrow? Well, brunch; the baby likes to sleep in.”
“Absolutely. Anywhere you want, any time.”
Your eyes narrow. “That fancy place you took me after the first time I slept over?”
“I’ll pick you up at ten.”
You wince as the baby launches a foot into your ribcage. “Sold.”
With those dumb beautiful wide cow eyes of his, Robby asks, “Are you okay?”
“Your daughter’s beating the shit out of me,” you groan. When he laughs, though, you soften even more. Tentative, you offer, “Do you want to feel?”
Robby’s voice is ragged and desperate like you’ve never heard it. It’s heavy with love and with need and with hope. One word holds every dream he’s ever had. “Please.”
You take his hand and guide it to the spot where the baby is currently dancing a samba, watching his tender, reverent expression every moment.
“Holy shit.” Robby laughs and grins at you while the baby nudges him over and over like she’s saying hi. “That’s the most amazing thing I’ve ever felt.”
You roll your eyes and try not to smile. “Please; you’ve felt a million babies kick.”
“But this is-” He shakes his head and chuckles again at another flutter. “This is different. Is she always this active?”
“In the evening, yeah. Like she can tell I’m done with work and it’s playtime.” You put your hand over his, nothing more than an instinct, and rub your thumb over his skin. “She’s gonna terrorize us.”
‘Us’ settles, warm and cozy, in the hearth of Robby’s chest. He leans down and kisses your bump gently. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”
You’re halfway through the insanely decadent strawberries-and-cream crepes you ordered when you actually get up the confidence to break the charged silence between you and Robby. He’d overly complimented your cozy but stylish enough ribbed knit dress and you’d noted his freshly trimmed beard making him look too handsome for you to think clearly. Then a healthy dose of small talk while you waited for food. Now silence.
After licking a bit of vanilla cream from the corner of your mouth, you rush out, “I want you to audition to be my husband.”
One side of Robby’s lip ticks up into a cute, amused smirk. “Shall I prepare a monologue or a musical number? Will there be a dance portion?”
You hum teasingly, “There’ll be whatever I want; that’s the whole point.”
“This has Trinity Santos written all over it.”
You shrug and relent, “She may have had a hand in the concept.”
His fork wavers in the air. “Should I fear for my life?”
“No more than you usually do around her,” you giggle, just a bit, and Robby feels part of himself taking flight at the proof of any lightness left between the two of you. Then you go on seriously (so seriously it wraps back around to adorable for him), “For the next two weeks, I’m going to tell you what I need from you and you’re going to do it as soon as you can. Every time. I want to be the most needy, most demanding, most pregnant person in the entire world. If you can survive that, you can apologize. Give me a real, thoughtful apology and I’ll accept.”
Right away, Robby nods and confirms, “Consider it done.”
You raise a challenging eyebrow. “That easy?”
He puffs up his chest a bit. “I’m an emergency room doctor; I think I can handle a few midnight craving runs.”
“Is that so?”
“I’m 100% confident.”
“Great. Love that.” You sip your drink, gaze at him over the rim, and then tell him with the most vindictive smile you can manage, “The first thing I want you to do is sell the motorcycle.”
That night, Robby’s phone rings with a call from you for the first time in six months. It wakes him from a dead sleep, but he’s been craving your custom ringtone so much that he still manages to answer within less than a second. Rubbing sleep from his eyes, he slurs out, “Hi, mama.”
“Hey, Michael.” He can clearly picture you sitting cross-legged on your bed with a menacing smile as you ask, “Can you bring me a tub of that cake batter ice cream I like? The one with the blue frosting swirl and rainbow sprinkles and the actual chunks of pound cake.”
Robby puts you on speaker so he can sit up, stretch his arms, and hit the lights. As he tugs on whatever clothes he runs into, he clarifies, “You mean the one they sell at that kitschy 24-hour diner roadside attraction thing off the highway out in Bridgeville?”
“That would be the one.” Sounding downright wistful, you tell him, “I’ve been craving it my whole pregnancy, but I felt bad asking Trinity to do nearly an hour of driving to scratch the itch.”
Robby frowns as he fumbles through tying his shoes. “You still don’t have a car?”
“I’m living with Dennis and Trinity to save money so I can get one by the time the baby needs to go to daycare,” you tell him softly, trying not to let it sound like an invitation. You swallow hard and repeat firmly, “Ice cream. One hour.”
He smiles to himself as he picks up his car keys. “See you soon.”
Before Robby opens the door to the garage, his phone pings with a text. It’s Whitaker, for some reason.
Good luck on your first mission. Her feet are killing her extra today, by the way.
With a grateful little smile, Robby grabs a tube of the cocoa butter lotion you’d put him onto back when you were together and tucks it conspiratorially in his pocket.
Noted. Thanks for the tip.
Dennis shoots off two more texts before Robby gets to driving.
I’m rooting for you.
If you could also grab me some of those real rootbeers in the dark bottles they sell there that would be great.
Robby rolls his eyes and starts the car. It takes almost exactly one hour to make his way to the neighboring town, stand in line at the Cracker-Barrel-esque diner shop, and head over to your place. It’s quiet this time of night in your neighborhood, so quiet that he doesn’t even have to knock. You answer the door in a crop top that sits on top of your bump and gray sweatpants that hang low beneath it, rolled up around your ankles. You’re visibly exhausted and need a shower and you’ve never been more beautiful.
Then you glance over his shoulder at the car still idling by the curb and your mouth falls open in shock.
“Michael David Robinavitch,” you say breathlessly, hopping down onto the stoop to get a better look, “is that a minivan?”
“Brand new Chrysler Pacifica,” he confirms, following you over and slapping his hand on the hood like it’s a sports car. “Most safety and security features in its class. Ain’t she a beaut?”
With a shy smile, you confirm, “You got rid of the motorcycle?”
Robby shrugs modestly. “Not very practical when you have kids.”
“Kids. Plural.”
He cuts you a look that’s all cocky and loving. “Yeah. Plural.” Then, before you can stop buffering and come up with a response, he slides open the side door of the van and removes his spoils. Hoisting heavy reusable bags, Robby announces, “Two gallons of ice cream as ordered. Hopefully that’ll last you until after my next shift.”
You squeal and grab one of the bags from him, practically skipping back into the house. You leave the front door open and Robby hesitantly takes it as an invitation to join you inside, lingering in the doorway as you beeline to the kitchen, scoop yourself a hearty bowl, and put the rest away in the freezer. You pause, turn to Robby, and check, “You want some?”
Robby carefully steps the rest of the way into the living room and closes the door behind him. “I think all that sugar and fat would give me a heart attack even faster than the stress.”
You sigh and flop down on the couch, lifting your feet onto the coffee table and settling the bowl on your stomach. “Try telling that to your daughter; all she wants is sugar and fat.”
“Thus why I keep sending you balanced meals to eat.”
“Thank you for that, by the way,” you lilt gently, smiling around the spoon as you indulge in the ice cream. You close your eyes and throw your head back, moaning, “Fuck, this is so good. Are you sure you don’t want any?”
“I’m happier watching you eat it,” he chuckles as he memorizes your pleased expression. It’s the first time he’s seen you so content and not on the verge of yelling at him since he’s been back. “Is there anything else I can do for you tonight?”
“Yeah, actually,” you tell him as you try to get comfortable, adjusting pillows around your limbs, “I want to hear about your trip.”
Robby’s brows go up; he genuinely hadn’t expected you to want to talk to him at all. “Really?”
“Yup.” You pat the couch next to you. “Princess kept calling it your midlife crisis fuck-a-thon, so I want to hear about all your exploits.”
Robby tilts his head to the side and says plainly, quietly, urgently, “I didn’t have sex with anyone while I was gone.”
You try to ignore the way that knowledge makes you breathless, focusing on creating perfectly balanced bites of ice cream. “You didn’t?”
“Of course not.” He shrugs, joins you on the couch, and says sheepishly, “I thought I had my girl waiting for me when I got back.”
“Girls don’t wait for men who don’t even text while they’re gone,” you murmur back, sounding more pathetic than you’d wanted.
“I know. I was really screwed up before I left because of everything with the shooting and with Langdon and I- I didn’t see anything clearly. Couldn’t.” Without making anything of it, Robby shifts your bare feet into his lap and starts to rub the arch of one with his thumbs, deep and perfect. He gives you a cheeky look and adds, “But someone I’m trying to impress told me that I had to earn the opportunity to apologize, so I won’t get into all that yet.”
You give him a pointed look. “Any particular reason you’re rubbing my feet?”
He shrugs innocently and reasons, “You’re pregnant; I’m sure they’re killing you all the time.”
“It’s just interesting timing,” you muse, “considering I was complaining about needing a foot massage to Whitaker right before he left for his shift and you just so happened to bring him that weird Pennsylvania root beer he’s been wanting.”
“A man has to have some secrets,” he murmurs. Then he removes all pretense and rucks up the legs of your sweats, takes the lotion from his pocket, and really gets down to business. While he works tension from your feet and ankles and calves, Robby tells you honestly, “All I really did on my trip was think.”
You tease, “Sounds horrible.”
“It was, a lot of the time.” Robby takes the empty bowl from your hands and sets it on the coffee table, promising to wash it before he leaves, and insists you just relax under the expert working of his hands. “I didn’t go because I needed a vacation. I needed to…reset. I watched a lot of sunsets in beautiful places, wrote in my journal twice a day, tried to get eight full hours of sleep every night.”
Your mouth falls open. “You wrote in a journal?”
“Still do,” he replies, sounding a little impressed with himself. “It helps me think. Helps me view my thoughts more rationally – see how stupid they can get, how untrue – when I can read them on the page instead of just repeating them over and over in my mind.”
“That’s really good,” you sigh, head on the cushion and eyes closed. He’s not sure if you’re talking about the journaling or the foot massage or both. Frankly, he doesn’t care. Just getting to hear your sounds of simple pleasure is enough. Interlocking your hands over your bump, you sleepily prod, “Tell me about all the beautiful sunsets, then.”
Robby knows you’re about two minutes from falling asleep, but he happily obliges regardless. He talks about the rolling Appalachians that separate Pittsburgh from the East Coast, the light over the Atlantic early in the morning, the busy cities and empty back roads alike. He talks about the old man he sat with for three hours in a coffee shop listening to him glow about his late wife. He talks about the beach where he saw a family playing and finally felt at peace about Heather’s miscarriage years ago. He talks about the synagogue in New York City where he went just to feel connected to some peace but a rabbi sought him out from the sea of faces and said the Tefilat Haderech over him. He recites the lines he remembers.
…lead us in peace and direct our steps in peace, and guide us in peace, and support us in peace, and cause us to reach our destination in life, joy, and peace…grant me grace, kindness, and mercy…bestow upon us abundant kindness…
After a while, he hears you softly snoring, but he doesn’t stop. Instead he touches your exposed belly, gently working the lotion over your stretch marks, and soothes, “Someday I’ll take you all the beautiful places I’ve seen. You’re going to have the most perfect life I can give you. You and your mom and me.”
Coming in quietly after her shift, Trinity walks into the living room, takes in the scene in front of her, and grins unabashedly. Big bad attending Dr. Robby waiting on you hand and foot just like she told you he should. Grabbing a late snack, she chuckles and praises, “Now this is what I like to see, Rob.”
Robby whispers back, “Be quiet. She’s out like a light.”
“You were just talking to her.”
He corrects, “I was talking to the baby. Mom might be asleep, but my little girl is up and kicking in there listening to my stories.”
She gives him a slap on the back as she walks by. “You’ll bore her to sleep soon enough, gramps.”
Robby’s eating leftovers in bed the next time you call on him. He pauses the TV and picks up the call. “Michael Robinavitch personal assistant service, how may I help you?”
You groan, “I want to shave my legs and I can’t reach anymore.”
He chuckles quietly and hastens to eat the last few bites of his dinner. “Sounds like something I can handle. Do I need to pick up anything to enhance your experience? Chocolate?”
Your voice perks up just a little. “Twix. Several.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And a blue raspberry slushee if you get the Twix at a 7/11.”
“I think I can manage that.”
Half an hour later, you’re in the bath sipping on a Big Gulp and wearing a bikini – much to Robby’s eye-rolling amusement, you insisted he had to earn even non-sexual nudity – while Robby lathers up your legs with your fancy moisturizing gel. You don’t miss the way he takes the time to massage the knots from your calves with those deliciously large hands. God, you missed his hands.
“You’ve got a real jungle going down here,” Robby tuts as he starts in above your ankles, working his way over your skin methodically and thoroughly, his glasses sitting low on his nose as if he’s prepping a surgical field. If this is a measure of how much he cares for you, then he’s not going to miss a single hair. “Gonna need a weed wacker for those shins.”
You glare at him. “I will send that razor straight through your hand, Michael.”
“I’m just saying you could’ve asked me a week ago.”
“I didn’t have any reason to shave my legs a week ago.”
“But you do now?” He raises a suspicious eyebrow. “Hot date?”
“With the OBGYN, yup. She’s a real hunk.”
He gives you a very pointed look at that. “Do you want me to trim your bush?”
“Michael!”
“I know you prefer to keep the topiary neat and the ground below smooth.”
“I will not hesitate to splash you.”
Robby just laughs. As he rinses off the razor and touches up some areas – he even shaves your big toes without saying a word, the gentleman – he sighs and lets his voice go low and honest. “That was a sincere offer. I’m not trying to get off on your personal maintenance, I promise. You always told me you felt uncomfortable when things got a little unruly.”
Sounding far too flirty for Robby’s sanity, you reply, “And you always told me you like unruly.”
“But it’s your body,” he replies. Earnest. Insistent. “I’m not going to push it, but it’s on the table if you change your mind. I want to do anything that will make being pregnant more comfortable for you. I know being up in the stirrups every few weeks can’t exactly be fun.”
After a moment, you whisper, barely loud enough to be heard above the gentle movement of the bath water. “You’re making it really hard to stay mad at you.”
His eyes drift up to yours. You both hold the eye contact for so long that, for some reason, tears sting at your waterline. His golden brown irises are too familiar, too warm, too full of love you’re afraid to accept and afraid to lose. Finally he says, “I want you to be mad at me until you don’t need to be anymore.”
You scoff, “You want me to be mad at you?”
He swallows hard and amends, “I want you to feel everything you need to feel. I can take it.”
And you want to kiss him.
You hate him – and you want to kiss him. So you sigh and say, “Okay.”
“Okay?”
Untying the sides of your bikini bottoms, you confirm, “Let’s trim the bush.”
He makes a show of patting his pockets before announcing, “Crap, I think I left my pruning shears at home.”
You smile and roll your eyes, grateful for his levity and the effortless way he makes you feel safe in his presence. You slip the rest of the way out of the bikini, wring it out, and hand him the sopping fabric. He hangs it over the sink and returns to his place by your side.
As he cleans off the razor again, Robby assures you, “Tell me if you want me to stop. It’s okay if you change your mind any time. You know as well as I do that the OBGYN won’t care what your vulva looks like.”
You snicker, “I know. Get to it, doc.”
Robby chuckles, sinks his hands into the water, and guides your legs apart just enough to give him access. When his fingertips graze your labia, he hisses in a needy breath at the familiar feel of your soft lips. Then he curses softly, shaking his head with a laugh. “Sorry, sorry. Reflexive reaction. Nothing short of professionalism from here on out.”
You laugh, “It’s okay. Glad to know someone still finds me remotely attractive even though I feel like a beached whale.”
“You’ve never been more attractive,” he says quietly. Quickly. But he doesn’t let it hang. He gives a sharp soldier’s nod and gets to work, using his precise doctor’s fingertips to guide his motions. “You know, the last time I did this, it was because a woman had superglue in her pubes. Gluing her shut.”
You wince. “Jesus fuck. How does something like that even happen?”
He shrugs. “Freak sex accident, I’m assuming. That’s half the job.” Then he furrows his brow and drags his fingers up your innermost thigh, cleaning up the edges. “Alright, no more jokes, I’ve gotta focus when I’m relying on touch.”
You roll your eyes. “Yes, sir.”
You close your eyes and lean your head back on the bath pillow Robby ordered to be delivered to your place a few nights ago. In the low light with a backdrop of soothing water sounds, you relax easily; Michael’s touch could never be unfamiliar to you. He uses the fingers of one hand to guide the other, methodically following his own touch along your labia, down near your entrance, up towards your clit. You try to control your breathing as his confident motions start to work some neglected parts of your brain. When he gently pushes against your mons to make the skin straighter and easier to shave, the heel of his hand rests against your clit and you can barely think. He’s not doing it on purpose – that much is clear from how he’s got his tongue slightly out in focus, attuned only to what he’s doing – but it’s working you up nonetheless.
Your shaky voice breaks through the silence. “Michael?”
Totally concentrated on the task at hand, he slows his hands and offers, “Hm?”
Like a guilty child, you admit, “You’re turning me on.”
Right away, he withdraws his hands from under the water and moves away from the tub. “Shit, I’m sorry. I swear I wasn’t trying to do any-”
“No, it’s- it’s okay,” you assure quickly. “I just haven’t been able to, um, do anything about, ah, that particular sort of thing for the last two-ish months. I’m a little…pent up. I didn’t want to, like, start moaning or something on accident.”
Robby hesitates. There’s a war in his eyes. You watch his adam’s apple bob as he swallows hard, trying not to think about anything at all. His cheeks turn red the way you always teased him for and he opens his mouth to talk. Closes it again. Repeats that a few times.
Ultimately, he doesn’t say a thing, just waits for you to lead.
You love him for not offering, for not cracking a joke, for not deflecting. He just creates space for you, leaning against your counter and keeping his eyes on your face. The man in front of you is the same Robby you’ve adored for years and claimed as yours for months, but he’s different, too. There’s a calm to him you haven’t seen before. When Robby used to touch you, it was hot and claiming and craving and yearning. You felt his desperation in every kiss. This man is waiting. Deferent.
For the first time, you’re in charge. You get to decide.
So you decide.
Gently, certain but sheepish, you ask, “Would you mind, um, helping me out with that?”
His voice is strangled and his face is contorted into something akin to agony. “Are you sure?”
“I don’t want to change anything with where we’re at right now,” you clarify, speaking slow, like you’re worried about a nervous cat darting, “but I could really use some relief on that front. If that- if that wouldn’t be too weird.”
“Weird?” Robby laughs and rubs the back of his neck. “No, it wouldn’t be weird.”
“What would it be, then?”
He takes in a shaky breath and replies, “It wouldn’t have to be something.” Sitting down by the tub again, he says, “I said I’d do anything to make you comfortable. Anything.” He lets his hand once again drift below the water, looking at you like it’s a challenge. “I’m not a chicken about fingering a girl when she needs some help.” As his thumb ghosts over your clit, you gasp and stifle the ensuing moan with the back of your hand. Suppressing a self-satisfied smirk, Robby reminds you, “Just tell me if you want me to stop. This isn’t about me.”
You nod eagerly and tilt your hips forward to give him better access. Robby shakes his head a bit; you were always so greedy for him to touch you and it doesn’t seem like that’s changed. Robby uses the pad of his thumb to work your clit, keeping firm contact as he rubs it in small circles, not too fast but not teasing, either. Your need is obvious in the fast rising and falling of your chest, the twitching in your thighs, the way you bite your lower lip and pinch your eyes shut. He treats this like what it is: Relief.
When he can tell you’re wanting more – letting out those soft and desperate little moans he always replays when he jerks off – he dips his other hand between your legs and feels between your lips. You’re wet and begging and he’s not going to deny you for even a second. With the water not letting anything get particularly lubricated, Robby keeps his fingers seated inside of you, curling them instead of thrusting. Your pretty lips fall open in a pleased ‘o’ and Robby’s borderline dizzy from how good it feels to get you off again. He’s not sure if it’s the pregnancy or the desperation but you feel downright swollen with lust, hot and plush and like he could spend the rest of his life keeping you knocked up and-
Woah, asshole.
Calm down.
He takes a deep breath of his own, matching one of yours, and focuses back on you and not on his achingly hard cock straining for freedom from his sweats. As he massages your g-spot way too effortlessly, the palm of his other hand pulls the hood of your clit back slightly, just enough to light your nerves on fire from the intensity of his touch. Heat rises in your cheeks, your chest, your thighs. Robby knows how to work a long, hard orgasm out of you. He never rushes. He matches the curls of his fingers with his thumb on your clit and doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow, doesn’t race. He lets you feel every singular sparking second until you’re tightening up around him, your toes curling, your thighs clamping around his hand, your back arching as much as it’ll allow.
All Robby gives himself permission to say as you cum around his fingers is a soft, loving, “There you go. That’s it.”
When your pussy finally starts to release him, only faint fluttery aftershocks remaining, Robby pulls out of you, resists the urge to lick his fingers, and wipes his hands dry. He shuts his eyes for a second and takes a deep breath before he can bear to look at you. The sweat on your brow, the blown darkness of your pupils, the slight swell from biting your lower lip. You’re too beautiful for him to cope with. Robby gazes at you only as long as he can handle before averting his eyes.
To distract himself from the goddess bathing below him, Robby absently strokes your oversized towel hanging on the nearby rack and offers, “Ready to get out? I’ll help you up.”
Still breathless, you stare up at Robby in surprise. He didn’t kiss you, didn’t ask for any pleasure in exchange, only gave you what you needed, what you asked for. Pure, unadulterated respect. For your body, your boundaries, your desires. That’s so much sexier than the desperate love the two of you used to make between agonized sheets. “That would be good. Thank you.”
Robby pulls the stopper on the tub and extends his strong hands for you. Your eyes lock together as you stand with a groan. As he wraps you up in the towel, he holds your shoulders a moment and says urgently, earnestly, “Anything. Any time.”
I love you.
I love you.
I love you.
In the morning, Robby’s securing his sleeves with his nicest cufflinks when you call him exactly when he’d expected. He may have snooped on your calendar – it was hanging on your wall as he helped you into bed, sue him – and saw that your OGBYN appointment this morning is, in fact, your third trimester anatomy scan at 9:00am. He knew as soon as he saw it that you were going to ask him to come at the last minute, so he’d asked Jack to stay a few hours late and he’d do the same at night.
He picks up the phone, trying not to sound to pleased with himself. “What can I do for you, oh glorious mother of my child?”
“Laying it on thick already,” you tease. He can hear you talking around your toothbrush and the image makes him smile as he smooths out his charcoal gray blazer and applies a few dabs of cologne. “Would you mind coming to my ultrasound with me today? Trinity was supposed to drive me but I guess she can’t now.”
Robby grins from ear to ear when he catches you in the blatant lie. Trinity’s working a double, which of course Robby would know as her supervisor. You were never planning on asking anyone else. Tucking that knowledge away in a secret place in his heart, Robby nudges, “Do you need a ride or am I invited in?”
“It’s your baby, dumbass,” you reply, the words half-formed now as you floss. After you rinse and spit again, you tell him more seriously, “I want you there.”
“You do?”
There’s a beat of silence where he’s worried he’s pushed too far. But then you say, “Yeah, I do. I wish you could’ve been there for the first few.”
With a deep breath, he replies, “Me too. I’d give anything to go back and-” He takes another deep breath and shakes his head at himself. “I’ll be there to pick you up in a few, okay?”
“See you soon, Michael.”
“Lo- See you, sweetheart.”
When you see Robby leaning against that goddamn minivan, you nearly jump his bones. He’s wearing slim-cut jeans that make his thighs look like tree trunks, his white button-down is undone just enough to show off some chest hair, and he’s got on a fucking blazer. A blazer. The bastard. When did he start putting mousse in his hair to make it so…tousled? Touchable. You can just imagine grabbing it while you ride him into oblivion.
Robby can’t suppress the very similar thoughts he’s having at seeing your outfit. You’re wearing a tea-length floral skirt with a slouchy, oversized sweater half-tucked into it. You look so comfy. Something about how soft and domestic you look as you approach him with your lace-hemmed socks and your oversized travel mug of tea is driving him crazy. He sees his whole life walking toward him with a sleepy smile on her lips.
Trying not to gawk too hard, you eye him up and down and say, “Michael, you look-” sexy as all fuck “-very handsome.”
He puffs up his chest. “Gotta look good; it’s my first time seeing my baby girl. I need to make a solid first impression.”
You roll your eyes, grinning as Robby pulls open the front door. “She can’t see you through my organs, babe.”
You don’t notice the word slipping out, so Robby doesn’t call attention to it. He just makes sure you’re buckled in and then sits on your other side with a glow in his gut. Then he reaches into his messenger bag in the backseat and hands over a king-sized Twix before starting the car and heading toward the hospital.
As you greedily open the wrapper, you hum, “What happened to Mr. Balanced Meal With Lots of Protein?”
“Mr. Balanced Meal With Lots of Protein knows you’re having your favorite burger with bacon and an egg on it from your favorite dive for lunch, on me,” he replies, glancing at you knowingly over the tops of his too-sexy sunglasses. “Throw in a side of sweet potato fries and I’m pretty sure science says that balances out a chocolate bar or two.”
You give a mock-salute with the half-eaten Twix. “Whatever you say, doctor.”
When Robby parks in his reserved spot near the ED, you both seem to realize the same thing at the same time. Robby stiffens up in his seat and offers, “I’m sorry; I wasn’t thinking. I can, ah, drop you off at the main entrance and meet you inside?”
You turn to him with one of those soft, shy smiles that made his heart stammer every time he looked your way when you started in the Pitt. “It’s okay. Really. I mean, you’re gonna be on paternity leave in at most ten weeks, so it’s not exactly a secret, right?”
“Fair point,” he concedes. “You know they’re gonna make it a whole thing, right?”
“Of course I do.”
“There might even be cake by the time we’re done.”
“God forbid.”
“Alright, fuck it.” Robby kills the engine and then walks around to your side of the van, helping you get your footing. “Let’s announce our lovechild to the world.”
“They probably already know; Trinity isn’t the most tight-lipped person,” you reason as he guides you with a large hand on the small of your back. It feels too protective and grounding for you to even pretend to protest.
“Jack didn’t know until I told him.”
“Because he’s such a notorious gossip.”
Robby can’t even respond because, as soon as you’re through the staff entrance, Dana’s staring straight forward at the two of you. Without moving her eyes from your stomach, she beelines your direction and gasps. After wrapping you up in a a warm hug, she looks you over and, disbelieving, mutters, “Holy hell, you are extremely pregnant.”
“Not extremely,” you balk as if it’s a ridiculous idea, “30 weeks.”
Dana seems to notice Robby’s presence and she narrows her eyes suspiciously, running the numbers in her head. “Thirty weeks, eh? Is that a new Robinavitch she’s growing?”
You absolutely beam when Robby blushes like a middle schooler. He confirms, “Yeah, that would be my little girl.”
“A girl!” Dana hugs both of you again and then looks at you seriously. “This one treating you like you deserve? Groveling profusely?”
“Yes, mom.”
“Good. As he should.”
Robby cuts in gently, “We’ve got an appointment upstairs, so we need to try to get through the floor to the elevator without too many interruptions.”
“Yeah, good fuckin’ luck with that,” Dana laughs as she gestures to the buzzing crowd gathering around the nurse’s station to get a look at you and Robby. “Have fun, lovebirds.”
Your cheeks are burning hot, so you poke Robby in the side and murmur, “Can you do one of your magical Dr. Robby speeches to make them go away? I don’t do well with public interrogations.”
“Your wish is my command,” he assures you quietly, pressing a kiss to your temple. In the nerves of the moment, you want to turn and nuzzle your face into the comfort of his broad chest.
Then Robby claps loud a few times until the handful of free doctors and nurses gather up, including a deeply amused Jack, Trinity, and Whitaker. He announces in his Big Serious Attending voice, “Alright guys, a handful of things to stop-slash-start the rumor mill. One: Yes, I’m wearing a blazer; pictures are $45 a pop. Two: Yes, your former APRN is heavily pregnant. Three: Yes, it is my baby. Four: I’m in a period of repentance to regain her favor after being an ass for the last six months, but we’re figuring it out. Finally: The buy-in for the due date betting pool starts at $25; I’m not skimping out on my firstborn. Any follow-up questions can be directed to the admirable godmother Dr. Trinity Santos. Got it?”
Whitaker gives a charming little whoop and starts off the clapping, joined quickly by everyone else. As Robby accepts a handful of congratulations, Jack pulls you into a strong hug and looks you in the eyes, serious and stern as ever. There’s an undeniable warmth in the twitch of his lips, though, as he tells you, “He’s got you, kid. I know he does. He loves you to death and he knows he fucked up.”
You squeeze his bicep gently. “Thanks, Dr. Abbot.”
“No problem.” Then he points at your bump and adds, “That’s Uncle Jackie to you, miss.”
You blink back hormonal tears as you laugh. “Uncle Jackie, huh?”
He grins and boasts, “I was born to be an irresponsible but lovable bad influence uncle. That girl is gonna have the biggest and most annoying family of doctors and nurses.”
The baby gives you a swift kick in the bladder like she heard him say it. You place your hand over the ginger spot and smile. “Yeah, she will. We’re lucky.”
And suddenly so much love washes through your body you’re not sure you can hold it all. When you watch Robby absolutely glowing talking about becoming a dad, you know this is right. He’s the right man for you. For her. You’re swept up into the collection of hugs and congratulations, too, but you can’t stop watching Robby’s smile lines. The way he checks in with you every time he laughs. The way he’s looking at you not like a girlfriend or a baby mama but like the sun of his solar system.
Robby tucks you under his arm easily and calls, “Alright, alright, we have an ultrasound to get to, people, let’s back off the pregnant lady. You all have lives to save and baby shower gifts to buy.”
You giggle under your breath as he leads you to the elevator. “Baby shower gifts. Please.”
“What? You don’t want a shower?”
“I just don’t know who would put it together; I don’t really have the time.”
Robby scoffs, “As if either of us could physically stop the nurses from throwing one now that the cat’s out of the bag.”
“Good point,” you concede, trying to suppress the smile that won’t stop threatening your cheeks.
Maybe it’s just luck or maybe it’s the presence of one of the hospital’s more important doctors standing behind you, but you’re in the exam room with Robby holding your hand within a few minutes of checking in. The OB attending, Dr. Montgomery, arrives shortly after your vitals are taken.
She’s borderline glaring after she greets you and extends a hand to Robby. “Dr. Robinavitch, good to see you back at the hospital after so long away.”
“Good to be back,” he replies carefully, shaking her hand. “I’m guessing you’ve been given a harsh but fair view of me the past few months.”
“That would be an accurate assessment, doctor.”
Robby does that thing where he kind of hunches his broad shoulder to seem smaller and more approachable. It’s what he does when he’s hiding from Gloria or talking to a little old lady with chlamydia. He insists, “Call me Michael, please.”
“We’ll see.”
You snicker, “Addie, I promise he’s putting the work in.”
“Fine. Claws away while we say hi to baby girl.” Dr. Montgomery preps the ultrasound station as you get your clothes tucked out of the way. As she applies the warmed gel and manuevers the wand, she tells you, mostly addressing Robby since he wasn’t there for the other appointments, “She was a little small at our last scan, so I’m gonna take a few extra measurements to track her progress.”
Robby nods slowly and stares at the back of the ultrasound monitor like he can see through it and gather information. “Has there been anything else on the scans I need to know about?”
You gaze up at him while Dr. Montgomery takes her notes. “Nope, she’s been a total champ. I’m the problem between the two of us.”
Robby strokes your hair with his other hand; you can tell it’s more to soothe himself than you, so you let him. “What does that mean?”
You lean into his touch unconsciously and reply, “I’m just anemic; I passed out early on. That’s how I found out I was pregnant in the first place.”
Guilt skewers Robby like an ice pick. “You’re taking iron now?”
You roll your eyes. “And eating spinach and letting handsome baby daddies buy me burgers.”
Robby’s ensuing smile is cute and proud. Dr. Montgomery looks up from the ultrasound and happily announces, “Baby girl’s growth has gotten much better since your last vosot. She’s no longer small for her gestational age and is now firmly average. Good work, mom. Have you been adding more protein and healthy fats to your diet like I suggested?”
When Robby opens his mouth to speak, you narrow your eyes at him an say, “Michael Robinavitch I will strangle you right now with my bare hands if you say ‘I told you so.’”
He chuckles and gives your hand a squeeze. “I would never. I’m just glad to hear our girl’s healthy – and not a bowling ball. I was 11 pounds.”
You cringe at the thought. “Lucky she takes after me on that front.”
So softly it sounds more like a prayer, Robby asks, “Can we see her now?”
Flipping the monitor around with a smile, Dr. Montgomery replies, “Yeah, of course. There’s her side profile; she’s perfectly posed for us. I’ll turn on the doppler, too.”
Robby leans forward and looks at the screen. Something cracks open in his chest as the baby’s heartbeat fills the room, whooshing fast and steady. He lets out a tiny, barely audible whimper. Your eyes fly up to his and you see the tears flooding down his pink cheeks as he gazes at his daughter wriggling around on the monitor.
You squeeze his hand and he gasps a tiny bit like he just remembered you’re there. “Isn’t she beautiful?”
“She’s perfect,” he breathes softly. Then he presses his lips to the top of your head and takes a trembling breath. Even his softest whisper trembles. “How could I ever leave you? I can’t believe I let myself miss this. You’re so fucking perfect. So strong. I love you so much.”
Tears thicken your throat as you lean up to press your forehead to his, sniffling out, “Mikey.”
He starts to cry in earnest, then, and you reach up to hold him. Your arms tangle together and your tears stain each other’s shoulders and there’s nothing but future in the places where your bodies touch.
Things get easier between you and Robby after that. You find yourself asking him for more and more trivial things just to see him and hear his voice. Your phone calls turn from a few sentences to a few minutes to an hour or more if you catch each other at a good time. He takes you shopping for baby clothes and even pretends to have an opinion about different fabrics when you ask. He stocks up on diapers, helps with your labor go bag, and does absolutely everything in his power to take the mental load off your shoulders.
From that new closeness, a quiet tension emerges. As you reach week 32 of your pregnancy, the shared knowledge of your needing to move hangs over you both, unspoken but omnipresent. Robby hasn’t pushed the issue yet, but you know it’s going to reach a tipping point.
That day comes during the worst rainstorm of the year one gloomy day in October. It’s your day off, so you’re treating yourself to a shopping spree when the rain starts. The forecast had only been for a light drizzle, so you were comfortable leaving the apartment in something cozy with an umbrella and rain boots. But the light drizzle turned torrential while you were inside a baby boutique on the other side of town.
Meanwhile, the heavy, dark, oppressive thunderstorm has the ED swamped. All the attendings are on staff to handle the onslaught of car accidents, falls, and asthma attacks. As he’s supervising Mohan’s work on an elderly woman’s obliterated tibia, his phone vibrates in his pocket.
While closing another line of sutures, Samira asks over her shoulder, “Is that mama?”
Robby slips his phone out just long enough to check. “Shit, yes, it is. She wouldn’t call me during weather like this if it wasn’t important. Do you mind if I-”
Mohan chuckles, “I think Mrs. Frost and I have this handled. Go save your woman from her aching feet or lack of chocolate bars.”
Robby gives the patient an apologetic smile and excuses himself. He ducks around the nearest quiet-ish corner where the hospital’s chaos lowers to a dull roar and manages to pick up right before it goes to voicemail. “Hey, sweetheart, what’s going on?”
He can hear you crying on the other side, the sound barely coming through the rain. “Can you come pick me up?”
Robby half-jogs toward the locker room, already stripping off his trauma gown and dodging questions from his fellow doctors as he goes. “Where are you?”
“A bus stop in East Liberty,” you sniffle out. “The buses are all delayed because of the weather and I tried to get ahold of Trinity but she didn’t pick up and I’m soaking wet and freezing and I can’t-”
“Breathe for me, honey. It’s okay. I’ve got you.” Robby can hear the shivering and the tears and the panic in your voice and his gut clenches up in pain. He spares a glance outside and sees that the rain is still a deluge, the clouds dark and murky above and the ground shiny and slick with oil leeching out below. Lightning strikes and thunder claps. “Which bus stop?”
As you tell him, he dumps his trauma gown, rummages through his things, and grabs his keys and his gym bag, which at least has a towel and some dry clothes. “I’ll be there in ten minutes, okay? Is there somewhere warm and dry you can wait for me?”
“I- I don’t know. I’m all frazzled,” you admit. He can feel your reluctance to tell him, but you can’t stop it from spilling out through the crackling rain. “There was this guy who wouldn’t leave me alone, asking all these gross questions about my ‘baby daddy’ or whatever and I just ran to the closest public spot I could find.”
Anger flares in Robby’s chest. He scribbles out a note and hands it to Dana as he passes the nurse’s station, barely pausing to see her reaction – just long enough to see her annoyed but supportive nod – before he shoves out of the door into the rain. “Are you alone now? Are you safe?”
“I’m okay, just- just kinda scared and tired and- and-”
“Breathe, baby, breathe. I’m getting in the car right now.”
A few beats pass with nothing but the rain in Robby’s ears. Then your meek, nervous voice: “Would you stay on the phone with me?”
“Of course.” He guns the engine and peels out of the parking lot, careful but quick. “I’m right here with you. Just keep talking and the time’ll pass. Tell me about what you were doing. Shopping for something fun?”
“Yeah, I was.” You sniffle again and try to smile. “I bought this, um, this handmade baby wrap carrier thing. It’s really soft and, like, this quilted fabric that I think would be really comfy for her.”
“You gonna teach me how to baby wear like all the hip dads are doing?”
“Definitely.” You actually let out a small laugh as you tell him, “The whole ‘big man carrying baby’ thing is very sexy. I’m sure it’ll help you pick up chicks at the grocery store.”
Robby snorts. “You know perfectly well there are only two chicks I’m interested in picking up the rest of my life.
“Rest of your life, huh?”
“If they’ll have me.” He makes a turn and spots you huddling beneath a leaky bus stop shelter. “Alright, I’m only a minute away now, but I might be late because I have to stop and offer the most gorgeous woman I’ve ever seen a ride, okay? She’s soaking wet and very pregnant and dressed inappropriately for the weather.” Robby pulls up to the curb and pushes your door open as he hangs up the phone. “Hey, stranger, can I give you a lift?”
You slide into the car next to him, your eyes puffy from crying and your hair disastrous from the rain. As you buckle in, you pout and observe, “You turned on the seat warmers for me.”
“I also brought you a threadbare towel and a hoodie; I’m a real gentleman,” he replies as he opens up his gym bag in the backseat and hands them off.
Gratefully toweling off your hair and tucking yourself under the hoodie, you smile and nudge him. “Yeah, actually, you are.”
Robby gives your knee a quick squeeze and pulls the car into traffic, heading back toward the highway. You gradually begin to feel like a person instead of a pregnant popsicle.
Teeth still chattering a bit, you manage to get out, “I’m sorry for interrupting you at work; I’m sure things are swamped there.”
Despite the fact that his phone’s been ringing non-stop since he left, Robby replies earnestly, “Nothing’s more important to me than your safety.” He swallows hard and apologizes for himself, “I’m sorry for calling you baby on the phone; I wasn’t thinking. I heard you upset and I just went on autopilot.”
You tell him softly, “It’s okay, Michael.”
“Is it?”
“Yeah, it really is,” you murmur back. “You missed the exit, by the way.”
Robby shakes his head. “I’m taking you back to my place; you need a warm bath and a hot meal and to sleep for twelve hours uninterrupted in a king size bed.”
You avert your eyes and admit, “That sounds really nice, Mikey.”
“I like hearing you call me that again,” he says gently. “Thank you.”
“Thank me by ordering me some orange chicken while I take a bubble bath.”
Robby chuckles, “Yes, ma’am.”
As soon as Robby has you inside, he’s helping you strip your exhausted, pruny body and drawing you a silky bath. As he collects some of his old comfy clothes for you to wear from his closet, you call out from the tub, “Would you actually make that matzo ball soup that you made when you gave me mono?”
“I did not give you mono,” he laughs, “but I will absolutely make you some nourishing comfort food.”
He can hear the teasing eye roll in your voice as you call back, “You had mono. You made out with me. I then had mono. Who the hell do you think I got it from?”
“Alright, whatever.” Robby sets down the clothes on the counter and points at you seriously. “Don’t you dare try to get out of that tub without my help, missy. I’ll be back once I’ve got the soup boiling.”
You smile at him fondly and bat your eyelashes. “Yes, sir.”
“Don’t play dirty with me.”
“I would never.” You sink deeper into the bubbles and sigh contentedly, “I’m more than happy to stay in here and turn myself into a little matzo ball.”
He leans down and kisses the top of your head. “Good girl.”
“Now who’s playing dirty?”
“I would never.”
Robby slips out of the bathroom and you just…relax. While Robby takes care of you. While he waits on you.
God.
God.
Between the bubbles and the bergamot bath oil, the tension and nerves leave. The sound of the storm outside becomes white noise. From downstairs, the smell of rich schmaltzy chicken broth wafts into your nose and you feel settled. Held. By the time Robby returns to the bathroom, you know, deep down in your bones, that you’ve forgiven him.
Robby helps you out of the tub and wraps you up in a fluffy robe he must’ve been warming in the dryer for you. Then he grabs a tube of lotion, sits down on the bed, and gestures for you to join him. While he tends to your feet and legs, he pleads with you, “Move in here, sweetheart, please. I can’t- I can’t function not knowing if you’re okay. Not knowing where the baby’s going to be sleeping and not knowing if I can be there for her and for you and-”
“Michael.” It’s a whisper, a tender one at that. “I don’t want to feel like I’m trying to fit into your life.”
“I don’t want to make you feel that way; I swear.” He kisses your hand a few times and then takes a deep breath. “I’d like to apologize now. If you’d let me.”
You nod slowly and try to ignore the tears that rise to your waterline. “I’m ready. Go ahead.”
“Thank you.” After a deep breath, Robby starts, “Look, I’m not going to apologize for leaving. I needed to leave. I needed to-” He gestures wide and begging as he searches for the right words. “I needed to grow up. I know I’m a little old for that, but I think it’s the closest thing to true. I’m sorry I told you instead of talking it through. I’m sorry I went radio silent. But honestly?”
Suddenly he reaches out and cups your cheek in his large hand. His palm is warm and so familiar that you can hardly breathe. With his thumb stroking your skin, he finishes, “What I’m the most sorry for is that I didn’t ask you to come with me. Every sunset, every motel mattress, every wide open highway would’ve been so much better if I shared them with you.”
He presses his forehead to yours and murmurs, “I swear I’ll spend every single one with you from now on. I’ll be there for every birthday, every Chrismukkah, every fucking thing you want me at. Nothing has ever or will ever matter to me more than being your husband. The father of our children. So tell me what you want. Tell me every single thing you want for you and for me and for the baby and you’ll have it. Because I love you more than my stupid bike and more than my career and more than everything I’ve ever had. You are everything now.”
The air sparks like the lightning outside. For a full minute, it’s you and it’s Robby and it’s the storm.
Then you lean forward. You hold Robby’s face with both hands and search his golden brown eyes. His heart pounds in his ears. His lungs are tight and screaming.
And you kiss him.
It’s slow, so gentle, and he’s holding his breath. Then reality seems to settle softly on his shoulders and he smiles against your lips, slides his hands onto your waist, thumbs affectionate on your bump, and kisses you back. When you pull away only slightly, you inform him, “I want a house with a yard. One that I get a say in. Further from the city. I want a safe, sensible family car for myself. No black interior. Light brown. I want a big fat diamond ring. Four carats minimum. I want sex at least three times a week. Six orgasms for me as a baseline. And I want a husband who works at most 50 hours.”
Robby gazes at you with watery eyes. “Okay.”
You smack him on the chest and laugh, “‘Okay’? I was trying to be unreasonable, Michael!”
“Well I’m being serious. Let’s move to the suburbs and have a huge wedding and fuck whenever you want. I’ve got savings to get us through as long as we need. I’ll start my own practice, slow down, buy a grill, join the PTA, the whole nine yards.”
You roll your eyes and scoff, “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I’m not,” he assures seriously. “If you’re taking me back and making me a dad, you can be a hell of a lot more unreasonable than asking me to put my family first.”
“Fine.” You cross your arms over your chest and try not to grin. “I want a puppy.”
Robby grips his heart like you’ve stabbed him. “If you really want one – when the baby’s old enough that I won’t have a panic attack having a dog around her.”
“Deal.” You rest your forearms on his shoulders, playing with the hair at the back of his neck. “I want you to mow the lawn shirtless on Saturday mornings.”
He melts under your touch and smiles. “Okay.”
You lean in closer, a smile of your own breaking out. “And I want my own craft room in the house.”
Glancing down at your lips, he promises once again, “Okay.”
“I want a hot tub.”
“Okay.”
“And a soaking tub.”
“Okay.”
“Manicures every other week. A tropical vacation every summer. Two more babies in the next ten years.”
“Okay, okay-” he kisses you again, soft and warm and unhurried “-very okay.”
Your hand slides down his chest and toys with the hem of his tee. You watch his stomach twitch and his chest gasp upwards as you purr, “And I want you to fuck me. Right now.”
Robby’s lips return to yours. Urgent now. He pulls you into his lap and drags kisses up your neck, tasting your clean skin and your pulse beneath him. His breath is hot and his every touch – slipping the robe from your shoulders, lazing his fingers along your arms, kissing the shell of your ear – is an act of worship. At last, he murmurs against your lips, “Okay.”
Summary: No one knows at the Pitt that Jack is married. They finally get to meet her...when she walks in as a patient. She cut her finger needing stitches. Jack can handle blood and chaos what he cannot handle is his wife on an ER bed.
Pairing: Jack Abbot x Female!Reader
Word count: 1.8k
Warnings: Descriptions of blood, needles, and Guillotine Cutter.
Jack Abbot wore his wedding ring on a chain beneath his shirt.
Not because you were a secret. Never that. If he wanted to, he would proudly declare that he somehow managed to marry a young, beautiful, sharp-tongued second grade teacher with the softest heart he’d ever known.
But he liked to separate his work life with his private one.
The hospital was known for bright fluorescent lights, blood, and grief. Which he carried all in silence. When he stepped foot into your guys home, saw the dinner you prepared for him, your slippers by the couch, and the fridge covered with drawings made by your students he felt weight leave his shoulders.
He didn’t want those worlds colliding. So you never met his coworkers. You wanted to of course you did but you respected that he moved at his own pace. Especially when he worked at an ER.
He never told you details about the shifts he worked, just the surface things.
“Someone passed away.”
“A kid broke his arm when he fell off the bike.”
“Drunk patient."
You never pushed details out of him. You saw the way his jaw would tighten when he didn’t want to talk about it.
You were preparing for the next day's assignment for your students at home, when you sliced the tip of your pointer finger on your left hand with a guillotine cutter. You had been rushing, trimming laminated worksheets, when the blade came down wrong. You didn’t register it right away. Not until you saw the blood. A lot of it. You reacted faster now grabbing a hand towel and wrapping it around your finger.
Jack had warned you about that damn cutter before.
You ordered an uber instead of driving yourself. You wish Jack was here to help but he was volunteering for the SWAT as a medical personal. You believed the last thing he needed was you panicking him mid-shift over something you thought was small.
You pressed your injured finger to your chest as the car pulled up to The Pitt. You walked through the metal detector and stood in line to talk to the front desk lady. You could ask for him and skip the wait. But as you looked around you could tell there were people here who needed treatment more than you did.
When you finally reached the desk, the woman behind the glass glanced up. Her name tag read Lupe Perez.
“Hi–” you started. Then you were shoved hard from behind. A tall man stormed forward, yelling to Lupe about wait times and incompetence.
“Hey! Don’t you see everyone else is waiting? They’re busy. Sit down and wait your turn instead of causing a scene.” Your teacher's voice came out without noticing. The man looked down at you eyes wide with anger but you stood your ground then, unbelievably, he backed off.
Lupe smirked and then looked up at you smiling. “Thank you, sweetie. Name?”
“Y/N Abbot.”
You watched as her fingers paused over the keyboard at your last name. She then brushed it off, she's met thousands of people. Could just be a last name.
“What brings you in?”
You lifted your left hand that was still wrapped in the bloody towel. “Guillptine cutter. It’s..not cute.”
“Alright, here is a packet you will give to them. I will call your name when ready.” She explained handing you the packet.
“Thank you.” You smile softly then take the packet with your good hand. You looked around and saw a seat in the corner. You sat down and waited to be called. You thought about what Jack was doing.
Three hours later, you were a little sleepy and your hand was aching from constant pressure.When your name was finally called, you stood up stretching your legs. A nurse met you at the entrance of the double doors, he swiped his card and led you inside.
That's when you saw the chaos. Nurses and doctors running around everywhere. You saw white boards set up all over the floor.
“Dana, are there any rooms available?” The young nurse asked, a blonde woman holding a clipboard looked up.
“Room 5!” She points in the direction, the nurse nods his head and walks you to the room.
You were ushered inside.
“Is it always like this?” You asked softly. The nurse starts taking your vitals.
“No…our uh systems are down.”He said softly then a doctor walked in.
“Hi,” She took your packet and read through it. “I’m Dr. Santos…Y/N Abbot huh..any chance you’re related to Jack Abbot-” Dr. Santos smirked softly; she couldn’t help but joke around.
The curtain snapped open again.
“You called,”His eyes met yours immediately. He froze, all color from his face drained.
“Y/N?! What are you doing here-what happened!?” He quickly walked towards you, eyes dropping to the bloody towel.
Dr. Santos looked between the two of you, a grin already forming.
“So..how do you two know each other?” Dr. Santos said with a smirk on her face, enjoying this far too much.
“She’s my wife.” He said softly his focus still on you.
Santos' mouth fell open then she turned and bolted out of the room like she’d just been handed the gossip of the century. The nurse followed her out not long after when he finished with your vitals.
You winced slightly as Jack gently took your hand.
“How did this happen?” He asked as he started to carefully unwrap the towel, it looked like he was mentally preparing himself.
“I was cutting some assignments using the guillotine cutter-” You admitted.”What are you doing here, I thought you were with the swat team-”
“I told you to wait for me when you use that thing,” He muttered, worrying through slight frustration. “Someone got hurt and we brought him here..” You frowned softly and placed your good hand on top of his to calm him.
“Jack.” Your voice is steady and grounding. “ I'm okay, I promise.”
“I know, but seeing you hurt in the ER I can't–I don’t like it.” He said softly, you watched as his shoulders slumped seeing your bloody pointer finger.
“See not that bad!” You said your tone positive, trying to ease the mood.
“You’re going to need stitches.”
“Good thing I married a talented Doctor.” You said. That finally earned you a faint smile. He looked at you and let out a deep breath. He then kissed your forehead standing up.
“Stay here, I'm going to get the supplies” He kissed your good hand and you watched him turn to leave.
The moment he stepped out, the curtain flew open again.
“There she is! Jack Abbot’s young hot wife!” Dr. Santos announced far too loudly. Behind her was Dana and two other doctors. You read their name tags, Rabby Robinavitch and Dennis Whitaker.
You straightened automatically, a little embarrassed. “Hi.”
“Well I'll be damned.” Dana said, smirking. “So you’re Jack's wife.”
“Right! I didn’t even know he dated.” Trinity whispered to Dana.
“Nice to meet you Y/N.” Robby, the tall one with the beard said, he gave you a small smile. Jack has told you about him.
“It’s really nice to meet you all. I’d shake hands, but uhm..” You lifted your injured finger. Your wedding ring glinting under the lights.
“And how did that happen?” Robby asked.
“Oh It was a huge paper cutter, I was prepping worksheets.” You said softly lowering your hand a bit embarrassed. They looked curious so you explained why. “Oh I’m a second grade teacher.”
“Of course he would bag an elementary school teacher.” Trinity said, grinning softly.
The curtain opened again. Jack stepped in and scooted past the audience with a tray of supplies. He took in the scene in one glance.
“Is there a consult I missed, or are you all just interviewing my wife?” Jack said evenly. He set the tray on the small table next to your hospital bed and then sat on the stool.
Immediate silence fell as they had been caught.
Trinity was the first to leave, dragging Dennis with her. You could hear them whisper but couldn’t make out the words. Dana excused herself shortly after giving you a warm smile. Robby just smiled.
“We’ll talk later, Jack,” He said softly, crossing his arms. “Nice meeting you Y/N” he walked out of the room leaving you and Jack alone. He was quiet and prepping your finger.
“They were nice.” You said softly. He picked up a needle and your eyes widened.
“This is going to numb your finger..One..Two–..” He poked your finger and you winced. He had all his focus on your finger but you knew something was off.
“Jack.” He doesn’t look up as he strings the thread through the needle. “What’s wrong?” Your voice was soft and warming which only stung Jack’s heart more.
“Nothing,” he said quietly.
“Jack.” You said more firmly, he started stitching your finger, but your eyes were just on him not your finger.
“I just,” He finished one stitch. “I don’t like seeing you here..in these rooms.” He finally admitted.
You took a deep breath.
“I’m sorry.” You said softly while watching him work. He stitched carefully,methodical, and controlled. His thumb brushed your knuckle like he needed to confirm you were real.
“Don’t be sorry,” He said, finishing the last stitch. “Just be more careful.” He finished the stitch and then added some neosporin and started wrapping it in gauze.
“I will be..” You said assuring him. He was cleaning up the mess. You placed a hand on his cheek, leaning forward and kissed him. This kiss was soft at first, he melted into it and his shoulders relaxed.
“And please next time,” he murmured against your lips. “ You tell them you’re my wife and you’ll get the special treatment you deserve. No more waiting for hours.”.
“How did you-”
“I asked Lupe,” he said softly. He looked tired already. You could see it in his eyes this was a long shift that had just begun.
“Okay, I’ll follow your orders,” You kissed him again this time a little more slowly and deeper. His hand slid to your waist all the way to your hips. you pulled away from the kiss then whispered in his ear. “And maybe when you get home..I’ll reward you for taking such good care of me”
Jack cleared his throat trying to keep his thoughts clean…he was working for fucks sake he had to keep his thoughts clear. His grip tightened slightly on your hips.
“I called you an uber.”
“You don’t have to–”
“I do.”
His forehead rested briefly against yours.
“I'll take care of your injury when I get home.”He said in a firm but protective way. “You rest and wear that thing you bought on Valentine's Day.”
“Doctor's orders?”You asked teasingly.
“Always, Darling.”
When he got home he definitely got special treatment…and a lecture because Jack forgot to tell you about the bullet that grazed his back.
pairings: jack abbot x fem!reader (established relationship)
summary: javadi and santos whine about the seemingly never ending pairs of heels you have. is it your fault your boyfriend loves to see your ego boosted?
warnings: age gap, cursing, mentions of sugar baby, allusions to jack being a foot lover 😔, girly reader i fear, no y/n usage, pet names, reader works in the pitt as a resident
if you could count all the pairs of heels within your walk-in closet, you think your friends would be more insufferable.
“i swear everytime it’s a new pair. it makes me want to fucking stab myself with your heels.” trinity had been nursing the same drink for the last hour as yourself, trinity, and victoria sat on your night off at the bar.
victoria scoffed at trinity’s exaggeration.
a quick flick of your eyes allowed you to admire the fine pair of red bottom heels adorning your feet. at the beginning of your relationship with dr jack abbot, you only had around three pairs. a wedge, stiletto and kitten heel.
yet when you mentioned this to your older boyfriend, jack raised his eyebrows in shock, “baby, a girl should always have a few nice pairs.” strong and capable hands had been massaging the ball of your foot as his tv hummed in the background, “i don’t know, medical school kicked my ass, didn’t really feel like i had the money to spare on heels i never really got to wear.”
his heart ached a little at the glint of sadness brimming in your eyes. jack hated you had to choose between what you wanted and what you could afford.
“tomorrow, after my shift, we’ll get you some okay?”
a sniffle left your nose at the idea, “really? you don’t have to do that jack.”
the older man sighed and shook his head, “what’s the point of me having such a sweet thing like you and all this money if i can’t spend it? don’t worry, i have you.” and with that, his skilled hands grabbed onto the next foot as his eyes squinted slightly to focus on the tv.
you gladly took a photo at the domestic scene.
“gramps we need to get you glasses for every room of the house.”
“oh really?”
“no i’m kidding! stop biting!”
victoria glanced at her own flats and back to the large stilettos of yours, “i don’t even know how you manage to walk in those. you’d think an er resident would avoid—,” she stopped midway as you raised a hand to interrupt, “i don’t wear them all the time, just when i want to feel cute. and when i’m dancing i take them out. plus i bring a big bag which has flats.”
trinity rolled her eyes at the over complicated manner in which you wore heels. “either rock them the whole night or don’t.” you jabbed her side to shut her up.
“jackie likes them what can i say?”
a giggle erupted from victoria’s mouth where trinity simply gagged, “you call him jackie? god you’re a sugar baby to a t. what’s next? daddy?”
“she does infact call me both of those, you ready to go baby?” jack stood with his arms crossed as you all turned to the curly headed man. he was wearing a tight black shirt and black jeans with a belt. since he started dating you, his closet had definitely upgraded.
jack put more effort into how he dressed when he was around you since it felt like an extension of his love for you. he knew what people thought when his scarred and veiny hands found their way to your waist or lower back. was he old enough to be your father? yes. did he care?
not at all. especially when he took the time to take you in fully. and then all the words and stares shot his way meant nothing.
“jackie!”
the arms wrapping around his neck grounded him in the present moment, “nice boots baby,” you kicked your left out slightly and rotated your ankle to show off the heel, “thank you for buying it, i feel really nice in it.”
kianamaiart
germansingergirl
romaincrisis
tangentwithtanner
vaporwave
