Butler says that when he began meeting with Aronofsky, he was very slight—it was awards season, he explains, and when he gets nervous or anxious, he sometimes forgets to eat. He weighed 150 pounds when he started training, and six months later, he was up to 185. After "a ton of hip thrusters," he achieved the mandatory tokus. "I've got a whole section of Celine pants that I just can't even wear anymore," he says woefully.
hey! this is a quick check in because i realised i haven't actually addressed this, but my posting will be inconsistent (i'm sorry!). i'm a uni student (yikes) and i've got a few assignments and exams to do before the school year ends & i also happen to be one of those really infuriating people that cannot - for the life of them - write all the time :( i can only write when i feel inspired.
that being said...i currently have a peaky fic or two (tommy and bonnie) in the works because i just finished s4 (an absolute MASTERPIECE), and i'm thinking of potentially trying to nail down a valarr thing? but i'm not sure when i'll get the time to finish them. again: :(
summary: thomas shelby had never been one enjoy happiness, not when he believed it would always run out. of course, he found that belief never really applied to you. (2.5k words)
notes: f!wife!reader, swearing, mentions of PTSD, nightmares, WW1 (canon violence and themes), reader has hair, implied pregnancy
Tommy wasn’t quite sure when he’d stopped waking up in cold sweats, heart racing under the worn cotton of his sleep shirt, eyes wide, and head still stuck in the violent clutches of the tunnels. It didn’t happen instantly, it was a gradual change. One that coincided with you.
He didn’t consider himself much of a romantic - his brain was a little too damaged for that - but there was something about you that inexplicably drew him in. You were quieter than most; content to watch rather than talk, but every word you spoke had weight and intent behind it. Focused and deliberate.
Intelligent, that one, Polly had said one evening, after watching Tommy watch you out of the corner of his eye. You hadn’t been doing anything particularly interesting: Ada was leaning her head on your shoulder and you had yours on top of hers; you’d both had a little too much to drink, and your cheeks were aching from smiling, eyes heavy from exhaustion, and Tommy had just watched you roll your eyes silently at John and Arthur.
Never one to fight for attention. You were just there, and loved, and admired, and respected.
Tommy smiled a lot that night, and only Polly knew the reason for it.
And somewhere along the line, after a few close shaves, he’d bitten the bullet and overstepped. Landed himself with a stinging cheek and a blow to his ego when you told him no because it would be embarrassing.
He’d scoffed in your face at that. Embarrassing? Tommy Shelby?
He’d thought about it for weeks after - months, even. Then figured out he had to earn you: you weren't someone to be bought through expensive jewellery or grand gestures. You needed effort, consistency, proof of affection.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d worked so hard.
And if he were to be honest, he wasn’t quite sure how the both of you had ended up with wedding bands on your fingers and peaceful mornings - but he certainly didn’t miss the darkness. The cold. The terror.
He woke up now simply because his eyes opened or because one of you hadn’t shut the curtains properly and the light of the sun disturbed him. In other words, he woke up like most people did: warm, cosy, calm.
Often you had an arm or leg slung over his waist, sometimes your hair was splayed across his chest. Other times he had his face buried in the pillow, an arm tugging you to his side - never too far from each other.
You’d brought up his night terrors - or lack of - a few weeks after the wedding, a year deep into a rather healthy relationship given the fact that he was who he was.
His eyes were shut, body submerged in warm water. You were sitting on the bathroom floor next to him, hair damp and in a robe already, massaging a lavender oil concoction into his hair with hands so gentle yet firm that if he thought about it for too long something would compel him to clear his throat and rid himself of the lump that had formed.
He felt himself melt a little the longer your fingers raked, simply massaging the tension from his body, even so much that when you murmured a low, thoughtful, “Tom?” under your breath he didn’t so much as move. Just hummed in reply.
“What have you dreamt about lately?” Your tone was soft, inquisitive, careful in a way to not disturb the atmosphere, but confident enough to not worry about offence.
You’d thought about it before, he realised.
Lately. You’d noticed the change before he did.
Yet, before he came to that realisation, his eyes blinked open slowly, the word France springing to mind automatically, lingering like a bad taste on his tongue. And then he’d thought about it - properly.
It was true, he did dream about France, but he no longer woke up screaming.
His eyes had flickered upwards slightly, mildly surprised as you blinked at him, hands slowing. Patiently waiting.
“Sometimes France, sometimes you.” He mumbled, “But mostly nothing.”
The corner of your mouth quirked upwards as you nodded slowly. He succumbed to the heaviness of his eyelids despite his racing heart. He was sure you could see how quick it was beating as the bathwater sloshed against his chest, each ripple cast by the thudding against his breastbone.
You hadn’t said anything in response, but Tommy went to sleep that night contemplating the meaning of inner peace.
Now he wakes, on this glorious Sunday morning, the sun peaking through the curtains - but not at all blinding - his heart beating softly in the safety of his sternum, his mind not plagued by the ghost of blood and the lethal glint of metal, resting easy in the knowledge that he would not have any duty to attend to other than his wife.
His family could call, in fact, he knew they probably would, but he hoped they’d leave him out of any trouble for as long as they could help it.
He inhaled softly, his hand resting comfortably on the skin of his torso, his sense of smell picking up the faint yet lingering scent of lavender that seemed to cling to the sheets, the pillows, and you.
He blinked up at the ceiling once before rolling his head to the side. You were curled under the duvet cover, the top of your head only just visible, but he could feel the knuckles of one of your hands resting against his ribs, a pressure that grew more prominent with every inhale.
You've been sleeping a lot lately, more than usual. He’d come home from finishing up the day’s business to find you dozing on the sofa, creases from pillows etched into your cheek. You kept leaving cupboard doors open in the kitchen, and in the last two weeks you’d pulled faces when you’d asked him if he fancied sausages for tea at all. He’d watched you grimace, like you couldn’t picture the idea of anything worse, and he’d file it away in his mind for safe-keeping - a collection of recent oddities that had struck him as unusual - before shaking his head softly, a trace of a smile on his face.
You were intelligent, sure. But no one quite knew you like Tommy knew you. Where you tended to brush things off as illnesses or viral bugs bound to pass, he worried more. Thought every time you pressed your lips together and inhaled deeply, uncomfortably, you were going to be ripped out of his grasp. Every time he noticed that, his step would falter or his words would slow, and his hands would flex as though ready to catch you before you even knew you were falling.
He wasn’t entirely surprised, then, that you had yet to notice. It had only been two weeks, he supposed, and Polly had yet to get her hands on you properly.
He swallowed, shifting slightly so that he could run his fingers through your hair by means of kind awakening. You were warm, in that lovely way where if he got close enough he could feel you radiate heat and smell something so distinctly you.
Your fingers twitched against his ribs, but his hand didn’t slow. Not until you lifted your head from the duvet, eyes still half-shut but clearly trying to blink yourself awake.
You sighed, before shuffling closer to him, nose tickling his shoulder. He had that stupid smile on his face, the one that told you he wasn’t aware that his mouth had curled ever so slightly, and he was so intently, but so adoringly, gazing at you.
Gazing - because Tommy didn’t do hard stares at you, he never had.
“What?” You mumbled, voice croaky from misuse, and the curl of his lips intensified, deepened, made the dimple in his cheek pop. The skin around his eyes crinkled, and you lifted yourself up onto one elbow, looking down at him with suspicion.
It wasn’t often he looked cheeky, but he’d clearly woken up this morning with secrets.
He shook his head, “Nothing.”
You hummed, not entirely convinced, before stating, with conviction and amusement, “Liar.”
“Perhaps.”
You rolled your eyes before settling yourself back down, ear pressed between the valley of his peck and collarbone, fingers tracing the outline of his tattoo, “What do you want to do today?” You punctuated the question with a yawn, the mere idea of even leaving the house unpleasant in your mind.
His hands were in your hair again, thumb swiping over your cheekbone delicately. He was watching you closely, you could feel his eyes on you, “Stay in bed.” He whispered into your hair.
Your hand stopped, palm slowly pressing wholly against his tattoo, able to feel the consistent thrum of his heartbeat against your skin. You tried not to let the relief bleed into your tone, but not much got past Tommy - it never did, “Really?”
You tilted your head back, and this time it was your turn to watch him. The sun hadn’t woken him this morning, his blue eyes weren’t clear pools, but they still glowed brightly. He hadn’t reached for his cigarettes yet, and the almost shy look on his face felt foreign without his fingers absent-mindedly fidgeting with the paper of one.
He nodded, “Today I shall be left alone with nought but the company of my wife to keep me sane.” His words packed a punch, but were spoken with such deliberate gentility that you couldn’t help but remain suspicious of his intentions.
You hesitated, “Is everything okay?”
He breathed a laugh that rumbled through his chest, before humming contentedly. Then, “I’m gonna go downstairs and collect today’s paper, and John will drop by with some fresh croissants from the bakery in a bit, but you can stay here. As long as you like.”
“And do what?”
“Read. Sleep. Talk. Whatever you want to do.”
You sighed, already sounding drained despite the early hour, and Tommy felt you melt a little against him, like you’d been given permission to simply exist without strings, “Are you winding me up?”
Tommy just grinned, eyes boring into the ceiling once more, delighted to simply live and breathe in your bubble. Delighted to temporarily cut the ties to his world and fulfil your whims and fancies should you desire anything of the sort, “If you want me to.”
You blinked against his skin - he could feel your lashes tickle him - before groaning and lifting your head up again. Perhaps it was the angle, or maybe it was because the room had managed to get that little bit lighter in such a short amount of time, but he could make out the bags under your eyes and the creases on your face from the pillow. He followed one divot down your cheek and mapped it across your shoulder, fingertip trailing down your forearm, goosebumps from his touch erupting in his wake.
You watched him closely, tongue poking the inside of your cheek. You looked a little more serious than just a moment ago, and Tommy wanted to chase it away as soon as he could.
“Have I missed something?” There was a crease between your brows, and where you were previously amused yet suspicious, there was instead an element of concern.
He felt his cheek twitch unconsciously.
Should he lie when he knew you would suss him out? Or should he simply tell you the truth? That he’d noticed your behaviours and routines had changed a little over the last few weeks, that you felt different in his hands, were more inclined to seek him out simply for seeing him. That the glaring symptom to him was that you were mostly just tired?
How could he explain that he was so attuned to you that the simple matter of a daytime nap was signal enough that something was clearly afoot, without sounding like a love sick fool (not that he would mind that title should you throw it his way)?
He considered you for a brief second longer, his hands roving once more down your arm to come to rest on the back of your hand, toying with your engagement ring and wedding band.
Brain fog, he realised. You’d been slower to recall things lately, nothing too noticeable, nor any particular cause for concern - he’d just brushed it off as fatigue initially, but now it was clearly another symptom you’d not yet deciphered the cause of.
You doubted yourself.
“No special occasion, if that’s what you’re asking.” He mumbled, watching with rather unabashed adoration as you stifled another yawn with the back of your hand.
But, ever sharp-minded, you caught the implication hidden between the lines, “But I have missed something?”
“Yes.”
You straightened, eyes suddenly wider, brighter, “What’s the date?”
Tommy’s cheek twitched again, “I’ll have to check the paper–”
“Go fucking get it then.” You complained, shoving at his arm half-heartedly. He went easily, laughing softly as he sat up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. He didn’t even need to reach for the gun holster today, nor his razor cap.
“Of course, my lady. At your command.”
He could hear you groan behind him, and when he turned you had your hands over your face, ring sparkling in the light, “Thomas.”
“Darling.” He smirked, before leaning across the bed, his hand tugging at your wrist, hair drooping in his face and yours when you peeked at him through your fingers, “Everything will be alright, yeah? You and me. Perfect, no matter what.”
You just breathed. He could feel your lungs expand with the close proximity of the arm supporting him on the mattress, eyes boring into his. Not seeking reassurance - he knew you well enough to know this wasn’t a completely daunting concept. Knew you well enough to know you just needed him to be a steady presence to lean on should you need it.
“You suspect?” You dropped your hands from your face and he took the opportunity to press a sweet kiss to your collarbone.
“I suspect.”
You hummed, poking a finger into the hollow of his cheek, “Please can you go and get the paper?”
He grinned, and you stifled your own at the sight of his, “Yes, my lady.” He began to pull away once more, and you - quickly, without thinking - you cupped the back of his neck and drew him closer, his elbow bucking slightly in surprise, before pressing a chaste, heated kiss against his mouth, immediately followed by a hand against his chest, shoving gently.
A pull and push meant to tease.
He rolled his eyes fondly, reaching for the pair of wool socks on his bedside cabinet, before standing up next to the bed, eyes lingering on you as you pushed yourself back under the duvet, watching him leave.
“Make haste.” You spoke into your pillow but he heard it all the same, an affectionate smile on his face, reserved only for you.
Happiness beats misery. He could only hope it wouldn’t run out.
summary: details of a case keep you up at night. of course carl controls what he can.
notes: gn!reader, reader has hair, swearing, allusions to sex, soft!carl, the usual dep q violence/themes
There was something bugging you. Something niggling at the back of your mind, that seemed to grow stronger, get louder with each passing second. You were fighting sleep, had felt the seventy three minutes you’d been lying awake staring at the ceiling practically pass through you.
Every so often a car would pass, its headlights illuminating the ceiling as the light snuck through the blinds, before it danced across the room, disappearing completely.
But you couldn’t even let that lull you to sleep. The same issue applied to the sleeping man beside you: it wasn’t often Carl Morck slept like he was dead to the world, but not even the soothing lull of his breathing brought you enough comfort to slip into unconsciousness. And that was how you knew you probably weren’t sleeping.
With that, the itch returned. Instead of staring at the ceiling, your eyes drifted towards the corner of the room. The desk - originally Carl’s, but since you started staying over he’d shoved his stuff over to make room for yours. It was your notebook, that A5, lined black one, the one you took all your notes in, no matter how apparently inconsequential they seemed at the time. If you squinted, you could just about make out the shadow of it, and the more you looked, the more you felt the need to get up and take a seat.
You’d missed something - you knew you had. Something was wrong.
The case: a missing child, an armed robbery, two homicides, and a gang. It was like you had all the pieces of the puzzle bar the one that completed it.
You swallowed nervously, turning your head to catch a glimpse of Carl. He was on his front, one arm tucked under his pillow, and you could make out the sharp contour of his nose, the dark shape of his beard. His hair was shorter; when you both got in he’d asked you to trim it a little, and although you missed the length, he looked…gorgeous. Like always. But you loved that his eyes seemed to shine a little brighter now.
In a way it felt like you could see more of his face, and - the notebook.
The fucking notebook.
Your hands came up to cover your eyes, and if it weren’t for him asleep next to you, you’d probably have sworn out loud or kicked off the duvet in frustration. Instead you peeled back the covers, refraining from letting out a sharp hiss at the cold floorboards on your feet as you stood, knees and back cracking with the effort. The clock at your bedside read 01:32 and you rolled your eyes.
If you didn’t figure out what was bugging you in the next three hours, you knew you’d be an absolute pain to deal with for the entire week.
No pressure, or anything, though.
You tiptoed across the floor, grabbing a hoodie out of the washbasket because you knew the wardrobe doors would creak if you opened them. One sniff at the thick cotton and you knew it was one of Carl’s. Socks and slippers found themselves on your feet before you cautiously tugged the door handle down, slipping into the kitchen - minding Jasper and Martin - and fixing a cup of tea before sneaking back into the bedroom.
Carl was still asleep, mercifully, and you took a seat at the desk chair, knees pulled up to your chin, before clicking on the little lamp he’s put there for nights where the insomnia seemed to maintain a vice grip on your mind - his mind.
You opened your notebook carefully, starting from the very first page. Details of the first robbery, bags of drug money taken from the personal homes of gang members. Then the third robbery: mistakes were made, shots were fired, two were found dead and a child was missing.
You weren’t quite sure how long you re-examined every little detail for, but by the time you’d rewritten the important bits - snippets of information from interviews, relationships, identities - your hand was cramping, you’d drunk your tea, and you found yourself looking at a photo.
Stuck looking at it for so long you lost track of time. There was something about it that made the thought of it ever leaving your hand so inexplicably wrong that you found yourself flipping it over, eyes roving over your handwriting from yesterday.
Brothers. The one on the right had been killed a few years ago, something about broken gang rules, and…the breath stilled in your lungs. You flipped the photo back over, so sure you’d missed something, and–
Fuck.
You froze again, before quickly scrambling around one of the pen pots for a pair of Carl’s old glasses. In your revelation, you’d momentarily forgotten to be completely quiet, mumbling under your breath and letting the pens clatter around. In the silence of the room, the noise was loud, and unbeknownst to you, the sleepy eyed detective in the bed began to blink awake.
But you? You were on a roll.
The brother. The first time you’d seen this photo he hadn’t looked that familiar, but something - namely the thing - about him bugged you. You’d remember someone if you came face to face with them, but what if you never did? One of the robbers had already shown up dead, and before that you’d made the trip to his house, looked at his stuff.
His photos.
You switched the tablet on, waiting impatiently for the screen to load so you could log into the database and access the forensic photos.
And…there. There he was - the brother. There, in both photos. It had been one of thirty three stuck to the robber’s fridge.
The mystery second robber had been right in front of you, and if you were right - if your hypothesis was correct - finding him would also mean finding the missing kid–
“What the fuck are you doing?” A low, gravelly voice dripping with exhaustion muttered in your ear, and if you hadn’t gotten used to his sneaking around, you’d have probably jumped out of your seat or tried to elbow him in the face.
Instead, you simply raised your brows, flicking through the files. Something zipped down your spine as he came up behind you, one hand resting on the back of the chair as the other leant on the desk, effectively caging you in. You could feel his warmth without him even touching you, and you suppressed a smile.
“My job.” You replied simply, only allowing yourself to sit back into your chair when you pulled up the file of a certain Gregory Walsh. The missing man, the final piece.
Carl hummed once, and you could practically hear his eyes skimming over everything, “And?”
“I think I’ve figured out the identity of the second robber, which means–”
“Finding the kid.”
You nodded, about to open your email to send the message to your team. If anything, Gregory would be a potential lead to exhaust and cross off the list if it turned out to be wrong, but…you trusted your gut.
Except Carl - when it got past a certain time - had a rather difficult time managing to shut himself off from cases when he was supposed to be sleeping, and so instead of reading your notes like he would during the day, he turned his attention to you.
The arm on the back of your chair trailed a path over your spine, before gently shifting your hair to the side.
You tried to focus on typing in your contact information, but as soon as he leaned down to press delicate kisses to the back of your neck, your hands faltered.
“That’s great and all, but come back to bed.” He muttered, hooking his chin over your shoulder, and you resisted the urge to smile.
This might be one of your favourite versions of Carl: soft, sweet from sleep, completely shut off from police work. Inevitably, unmistakably him - only without some of the usual grumpiness he harboured.
(He said it was because he didn’t have the energy, but you had a feeling it was because he was trying to get laid.)
Your teeth caught your bottom lip momentarily, aware of his burning gaze on the side of your face, “Just a sec, I need to send this over to my team.”
He made a noise of protest that seemed to catch in his throat, and he rolled his eyes fondly, “A sec is at least ten minutes when it comes to you.”
“But hypocritical, don’t you think?”
“I never said it wasn’t.”
You sighed, though there was hardly any complaint in it, “One email and then I need to clean my teeth again.”
He seemed to think about it for a moment or two, before nodding in compliance, “Deal, but if you’re still sitting there in five minutes time I’m gonna carry you over there. I’ve watched you sit and shiver for too long to be comfortable with it anymore, alright?”
You frowned, “I’m not-”
And then you seemed to register the deep chill in your bones, your skin so cold to the touch that it was no wonder you’d taken note of how warm he was.
Fuck, you were properly cold.
“Oh.” Was all you managed.
“Yeah, ‘oh’.” Carl parroted, and this time you actually did take your attention away from the screen; using a palm to shove his head away with as much gentle force as you could manage. Your efforts backfired massively when he caught your wrist, using the leverage to wrestle you over his shoulder.
“Oi!” You protested, lifting your head from where it’d landed against his back, his arms wrapped tight across the back of your legs, “Put me down.”
“With pleasure.” He muttered, tone dripping with sarcasm that had you rolling your eyes again as he dropped you unceremoniously on the bed.
“My–”
“Tablet, yes.” He let his eyes linger on you for a moment, corners of his mouth ticked up in a barely disguised smirk, before reaching across the desk and holding it out to you.
Your eyes narrowed in his direction, hand slowly reaching out to take it off him, but still very much expecting him to rip it out of your reach at the last second, “Are you gonna be mean?”
Carl shrugged, “Don’t know what you mean.”
“Like fuck you don’t.” Your fingers touched the glass screen, eyes fixated on him as he raised a brow in challenge, before your grip tightened.
It slid out of his hands and into yours, and he smiled wider - equally sardonic - and you huffed a small breath of victory before scrambling to bury yourself under the covers, the light on the desk switching off and plunging the room into darkness once more.
Your eyes were heavy - much heavier than they had been five minutes ago - not helped in any way by the immediate blanket of warmth that greeted you from under the duvet, the electric blanket clearly on full blast, and your head snapped in the direction of Carl - watching his shadowy figure make his way around the bed, before climbing in next to you.
He turned on his side, eyes blinking up at you from your seated position, and you looked away.
“What?”
“Nothing.” You answered a little too quickly, turning your attention back to the half-written email. You stared at the words, but your mind remained blank, full of the rather enticing image of his blue eyes - still blue even in the dark - looking at you, waiting patiently for you to finish.
And, despite the hours you’d put into working on the case, you hurriedly typed out some bullet points, before saving the email to drafts. It didn’t really matter what time you sent the email; no one would be awake to receive it at this time of night anyway, and you knew you’d wake up early anyway because Carl was never one to sleep in, and you always woke up when he was getting dressed.
“You put the electric blanket on.” You muttered, switching off your tablet and placing it on your bedside table, before sliding back under the covers.
He hummed lowly, the kind of hum you’d learnt translated into a human ‘yeah, and?’, and you truly couldn’t help yourself when you planted yourself right in front of his face, nose-to-nose, “You wouldn’t be able to finish the case if you froze overnight.” Was his only answer, and you could feel his warmth, feel his eyelashes flutter closed, feel the blankets lift and shift as he moved his hand to rest over the curve of your waist, dragging you into him, leg shifting to accommodate him properly.
The kiss that followed was natural, soft, languid, entirely drenched in emotion that two sleep-deprived people were too tired to speak aloud.
You pulled away, lips tingling, warmer with something other than the manufactured heat beaming from underneath you, “You can be really cute sometimes.”
He groaned into your neck, gently biting down at the junction of your shoulder, “Fuck you.”
summary: “I will pay for your coffee,” you add quickly, stepping forward and leaning into his space. He keeps shaking his head, so, in a moment of pure madness, and lacking better ideas, you just say: “I’ll go down on you.”
word count: 4k (smut and fluff mainly)
a/n: i know i'm supposed to work on the part two of my andrew story, but...yeah, episode 7 was really something for my brain
❤︎ Thank you so much for reading!
One of the few undeniable advantages of the apartment is its location.
A single block separates your front door from the ER, which means: no subway delays, no buses filled with people’s germs and no waisted minutes that could be spent studying.
The apartment itself, however, is less impressive. It’s small, a fifth-floor walk-up with a radiator that only works every other day in winter, but it saves you from many issues, especially after a twelve-hour shift. Like most attendings say: efficiency is survival in third year. And this place is efficient.
The other perk is Jack Abbot, who objectively is a good roommate.
He pays rent two days early, every month, without fail. He wipes down the counter after he cooks, because apparently, in Jack’s mind, you could be an M3 and have the time to cook (Oh, fuck off, is your main and consistent thought every time he sets a plate of actual food in front of you at breakfast and dinner). He rewinds the VHS before returning it, and he even agrees to 4am study sessions when you are doubting yourself with the tracheobronchial tree structure.
The only problem with Jack Abbot is…he does not bend. For anyone.
It’s a mistake people make about him at the hospital. They assume that because he listens more than he talks and doesn’t talk the loudest in the room, he must be easygoing. They’re all wrong because in ‘easygoing’, there’s the word easy. And Jack is many things – observant, funny, annoyingly competent - but easy is not one of them. Right now, for instance, he’s being impossible.
Sprawled at the dining table, legs stretched out, hair still damp from the shower and curling at the nape of his neck and a gray shirt clinging enough to make you look away, Jack is in the middle of Sabiston Textbook of Surgery, annotating it.
You pause in the doorway for a second, watching him read before clearing your throat.
“Jack.”
He doesn’t even look up. “No.”
“I haven’t said anything yet!”
“Don’t need to,” he replies, flipping a page. “If it’s prefaced with my name in that tone, the answer is no.”
You step closer and place your hand flat over the open page of Sabiston, earning a mildly annoyed look from him.
“I just need a small, tiny favor.”
“No.”
“Please at least listen to me!” you implore.
One corner of his mouth lifts, and there it is, that smirk that you want to either punch or kiss “You want to switch our trauma shifts tomorrow.”
You hesitate just long enough for him to catch him, his eyebrow lifting slowly. “Why do you need it?”
“I…” you exhale, a little embarrassed. “I haven’t completed my procedure log. I’m missing one intubation and I really need it to pass the rotation.”
“One intubation,” he repeats, a little judgy, closing the book with his pen marking the page. “Haven’t you been on three different procedures already?”
“I know,” you snap, heat creeping up your neck. “I know. But Meyers took the first one because he is an asshole who can’t stop himself from playing mister Know-it-all, the second one went to Patel because he hadn’t logged one either, and the third…”
“You froze.”
I hate you for remembering this, I hate that you noticed, I hate how right you are, you thought.
“It was just…one second.”
“In trauma,” he replies, leaning back in the chair and hands folding behind his head, “one second is the difference between life and death.”
You glare at him. “Jack…I am missing one intubation. Just one. If I don’t log it, Reyes will tank my evaluation, and I’m not repeating this rotation, I physically cannot handle doing another six weeks of this while pretending I don’t care when he calls me ‘sweetheart’ in front of the interns like I’m a pretty accessory instead of a med student. So yes. I want your trauma shift cause I need it. You can’t even fathom the depth of my despair right now.”
“Oh, I think I have a pretty vivid imagination,” he replies.
“I’ll do the dishes for a month.”
He snorts.
“I’m serious!”
“You can’t be trusted with my plates.”
“I will pay for your coffee for a month,” you add quickly, stepping forward and leaning into his space.
He keeps shaking his head, so, in a moment of pure madness, and lacking better ideas, you just say: “I’ll go down on you.”
That gets his attention. “You…You’re not going to go down on me.”
“I’m sorry, which part of ‘despair’ don’t you understand with your so-called vivid imagination?”
He frowns, with that tiny crease between his brows that you want to kiss as much as his smirk, his throat moving as he swallows. “You’d actually…do that?” he asks carefully.
You hadn’t expected that answer and for a moment, the weight of what you just offered settles in. The apartment suddenly feels too quiet, and you become acutely aware of the fact that you are standing very close to Jack, that his hair is still damp and you want to run your hands through those curls, and the way the lamplight catches in his hazel eyes and turns them warmer, almost golden.
The fact is…you like Jack. You’ve liked him for the past few months, and quite frankly, being his roommate has not helped with your massive crush problem.
You shrug, forcing your voice into something light and easy. “Yeah. I’m okay with it. If you are, I mean.”
His fingers flex against the edge of Sabiston, not looking away from you and saying quietly. “So, um…we do this and you get my shift?”
“A privilege for another,” you clarify, voice steady even if your pulse is sabotaging you. “You help me log the intubation and I… return the generosity.”
He nods once, and to your quiet, personal satisfaction, a faint blush creeps across his freckled cheeks, like a tell he can’t suppress. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Okay,” he says again, quieter.
You reach for the back of his chair, gently turning him toward you, your faces now inches to each other. “How about now Jack? Or are you too busy studying…let me guess: the saphenous vein?” you murmur, with a teasing smile.
“It was the VSD actually,” he breathes, his gaze dropping briefly to your mouth before snapping back up. “But…yeah. Now is fine.”
You drop to your knees, his knees parting quickly, confirming your personal theory: it has been a long time for him. Probably as long as it’s been for you. Third year is not exactly fertile ground to start having relationships: no time, no personal life, no sleep and not to mention that you have never seen him bring anyone back here. Not once. He’s never acted on any nurses’ or classmates’ flirtations. The apartment has always been just the two of you.
You hook your fingers into the waistband of his sweatpants, pulling it down as he lifts his hips. “I’m not entirely sure that I haven’t passed out on the table and this is all just a hallucination,” he continues, a groan escaping his mouth when you let your palm graze over his half hard cock, eyelids shutting completely the moment you wrap your hand properly around him.
“I don’t know…” you joke as you start moving, enjoying the view of Mr. Perfect Grades keeping his hands diligently on his legs and pressing his teeth on his lips. “You look very awake to me.”
You wet your lips lightly, running your tongue over them as his gaze finds yours. You’ve always loved that part: the control, deciding when and how it happens, to go slower or faster, feeling someone react under your hands and mouth, but still…you’re a little nervous. It’s been a while and you hope you haven’t lost it in…oh my god a year ago now? Yeah, it was definitely a year.
Either way, you don’t give yourself more time to think about it before dipping your head to take him in.
Multiple things come up to your mind: first, he’s not the kind of guy to put his hands on your hair to get you to move faster or deeper – which you appreciate - second, he’s vocal, muttering your name and profanities each time you manage to fit him entirely in your mouth - you still don’t know how you do that, the guy is huge - and third, you are officially on your knees, blowing your roommate, crush and student rival.
Once he’s done, you stand back up, knees numb and wiping the back of your hand over your lips, both struggling to catch your breaths.
“6am. For tomorrow. But get there at 5.30,” Jack says, closing his eyes briefly before putting his pants back on. “And you better do this intubation.”
──────────
Two weeks later, he’s the one standing in the living room.
“Hey.”
You don’t look up from your notes. “No.”
He exhales sharply through his nose, dropping onto the couch beside you. “Please.”
“No,” you repeat, turning a page calmly even though the corner of your mouth is threatening to betray you. There’s something so satisfying about denying Jack Abbot anything.
He drags a hand through his hair, mussed from the shift at the hospital, and puts his hand on yours (don’t freeze over that, it’s stupid anyway). “It’s just one procedure.”
You raise an eyebrow, finally looking at him. “Doctor Abbot missing something on his log?”
“No,” he starts before hesitating, his pride wrestling with the request, “it’s about the thoracostomy. Reyes is letting one M3 take lead tomorrow and I need someone to cover triage so I can stay in trauma long enough to be picked.”
You let your gaze drag slowly over him, pretending to think. “No.”
“You’re enjoying this,” he sighed, his hand still clasps around yours.
“Oh, immensely.”
“Please. I’ll make it up to you.”
You snort softly and close your notebook, setting it aside before turning fully toward him, your knees brushing his. “How, doc?”
“I’ll go down on you.”
“What?” you ask slowly.
He shrugs, trying for casual, one hand still loosely wrapped around yours, his thumb brushing absently over your knuckles. “One privilege for another. That’s…that’s our thing, right?”
“Um…yeah. You really want to do this thoracostomy?”
His lips pull into that maddening kissable half-smile that you love more than anything, the one he gets in the ER whenever he answers correctly to one of the residents’ questions. “I really want to do it and erase Meyers’ smile once and for all. So, what do you say?”
“Okay,” you reply, parting your legs (oh yes, Jack, you’re gonna have to kneel for this one, no way I’m passing on an occasion to let you do everything) “but be quick, I still have to read the biological markers of…”
The words don’t get out of your mouth when he kneels in front of you, pulling off your pajama short and underwear, the leather of the couch making you feel hotter than you were already.
“I’ll be very quick and thorough, I promise,” he replies, amused – probably because you were now completely silent – before working his tongue on you.
And wow, you have received plenty of good cunnilinguses in your life, even if it’s been some time, but this one…is miles from the rest. You can recognize it happily… Jack has some wicked knowledge of the human anatomy and how to get you there in a few minutes.
“You better be fucking great for this thoracostomy, Doctor Abbot,” you say as you’re try to catch your breath, Jack picking up your notes, ready for a new study session (you don’t comment over the fact that he doesn’t go rinse his mouth or put distance between you and just…drags his thumb across his lower lip and then licks it clean).
“You know me,” he replies with a smug smile that makes you roll your eyes.
And yes, you know. The next day proves it. You’re buried in triage when you hear from your resident, the Doctor Robinavitch – a young, tall man, barely a few years older than you who keeps trying his best to be half your friend, half your boss – that Jack had been an example of calm and solid, earning a fist bump from both Reyes and Robinavitch.
You nod slowly, pretending you don’t feel the faint flare of something warm under your ribs, travelling down your body. Pride. You are so proud of him, and you want to reply to the resident, of course he was solid, of course he didn’t choke, this man is great and kind and…actually is also a great giver, but you don’t need to know that.
You catch sight of him later in the hallway, walking toward you with a protein bar in hand, a little smile on his face. And that smile, Jesus, all warm and bright and unguarded…it’s definitely a second privilege he doesn’t need to know about.
──────────
Four days after, you get behind on your charting.
Because you’d rather slit your wrist than stay late in the ER with Reyes breathing into the back of your skull, you make another deal with Jack.
“If you stay up with me until it’s done,” you murmur to Jack in the CT-Scan room, “I’ll give you a very nice orgasm.”
He checks to his left and right. “Define ‘very nice’”.
“You’re insufferable.”
“Hey, I’m the guy who’s gonna stay to help you, so be a little more grateful.”
You salute him with your pen. “Aye aye doc.”
Late that night, steam fogs the bathroom mirror, the water running hot. He’s already under the spray when you step into the doorway, taking off your clothes (after all there’s almost nothing he hasn’t seen already). You step closer before putting your hand on him, his palms ending up on the tiled wall behind you and muttering a “Jesus fucking Christ.” at the combined feeling of the water cascading on his body and your movements who only grows faster, making him come in a few minutes, your name on his lips.
“You know…it’s stupid to waste the water,” he murmurs after a while.
“Oh, really.”
“I mean, we’re two broke med students, it’s cost-effective. And we’re already in here anyway.”
Surely you can’t disagree with this idea.
Efficiency, after all, is very important in medicine.
──────────
“Hey kid.”
You look up, the Doctor Robinavitch standing there with that expression – the one who wants to gossip but tries to refrain himself from it.
“Um,” you say cautiously, pen lingering over the chart. “What?”
He glances down the hall then back at you. You follow his gaze automatically.
Jack is at the nurses’ board, talking to one of them, arms crossed and sleeves rolled up. He laughs at something, shaking his head. You look away, glancing back at the resident, who’s already staring at you, leaning over the table just enough to meet your eye level.
“…What?” you repeat, sharper now.
“How long?”
You blink. “How long what?”
“Whatever that is,” he replies, gesturing vaguely between you and the air.
You scoff lightly, going back to writing your charting. “There is no ‘that’, Doctor Robinavitch.”
He sighs deeply, rubbing a hand down his face. “Listen kid, you realize the entire staff has a betting pool, right?”
Your pen freezes mid-word. “On what?”
He just stares at you until you break (my god how you hate when he does that, condolences to all the future doctors who’ll get him as an attending).
“We’re not together. It’s…it’s not like that,” you try to explain weakly instead of saying we’re just roommates who are the type to perform oral sex to get what we want, no big deal there. oh, and now we take showers together every night to save the planet, not to…give the other a freebie.
His smile widens. “Oh, so there is a ‘that’.”
You look back at the nurses’ station. Jack is still there, but now he’s looking directly at you, an eyebrow raised with a small, knowing smile – like he can feel that your mind is turned to this morning and the two orgasms he gave you before going to work.
You can’t help but smile back at him.
Robinavitch follows the silent exchange, then looks back at you with open disbelief. “That,” he says slowly, “right there, is definitely a thing.”
Before you can gather your words to get a more convincing denial, a monitor alarms from down the hall.
“Go, kid. And try not to share lovey-dovey looks over the patient.”
You shove his shoulder as you pass him, heat rising in your cheeks.
“I hate you, Robinavitch.”
“I know that’s not true!” he calls after you.
Annoyingly…he’s right. You don’t hate him.
And there is a thing.
──────────
It happens after the code blue.
You and Jack are walking home in silence, refusing to mention how, when you had stepped into the patient’s room, he had handed you the laryngoscope without hesitation – you, not himself – like there has been no other option in his mind.
Your hands brush every few steps, neither of you pulling away.
By the time you reach the apartment, your body feels heavy, exhausted, dumping your bag on the hallway floor and ripping of your jacket as you go straight to the bathroom.
The light is too bright. It exposes everything: the smudged mascara under your eyes, the dark circles who can’t be hidden well by the foundation, the way your eyes are reddened by your need to cry.
You grip the edge of the sink and stare at yourself, murmuring “You did well, don’t worry. The woman is alive. The baby is alive. You did well.”
The door opens quietly behind you.
“If you’re about to tell me I did great, don’t.” you mutter, voice flat, refusing to meet his eyes in the mirror. If you look at him, you might crack.
He doesn’t answer. Instead, you feel him step into your space, listening to him opening the cabinet and the rustle of cotton pads. He reaches around you, close enough that his arm brushes you before gently turning you by the shoulder so you’re facing him instead of your – miserable, pathetic – reflection.
“Hold still,” he murmurs.
His face is close to yours – barely four inches away. Close enough that you can see the freckles across his nose. Enough that you could close that distance with the smallest tilt forward and drown your thoughts in something easier than this ache sitting in your chest.
The cotton pad is cool against your skin. He wipes slowly beneath your eye, careful, his thumb steadying your jaw. “Can you do me a favor?” he asks quietly.
“I’m not in the mood tonight,” you reply automatically.
He rolls his eyes, but there’s no heat in it. “No, not like that. Not…” he exhales, dragging the pad gently across your cheek, “not everything is about having sex.”
“I wouldn’t call exactly what we’re doing ‘having sex’,” you say, sharper than you intend.
He stills and for a fraction of a second, something flickers across his face in between surprise and hurt. “Oh. Um…Okay.”
His throat bobs as he switches to a clean pad, focusing on your eyes.
Eyes closed, you try to explain yourself better, words coming out before you can filter them. “That’s not what I meant,” you murmur. “I just…I don’t want this tonight and I don’t want this to be another thing that happens because we almost lost someone. We…we can’t keep doing this.”
Fuck, you don’t even know what this is anymore.
You feel him getting even closer – so close that his breath brushes your lips when he exhales. He finishes wiping up your face. “Can you…” he starts, voice lower now, uncertain like you’ve never heard from him, “can you let me just be here? With you?”
You open your eyes slowly, now seeing everything: the faint traces of tears at the corner of his eyes, the way his curls have fallen messily over his forehead from running his hand through them too much. He looks younger like this.
“I’m sorry Jack. I didn’t mean to make it sound like…like what we do doesn’t matter. I just…” your voice breaks, “I don’t want it to be the only reason we touch.”
He doesn’t hesitate. “It’s not.”
You study him, skeptical.
“Fine,” he admits quietly. “It started that way because we’re two massive idiots who don’t know how to say what we want without turning it into…a mess. But it’s not why I continued doing that.”
He sets the cotton pad down in the sink and brings both hands to your face now, his palms feeling warm against your cheeks.
“I don’t want this to be about that. I…I want to be the person you come home with after something like tonight. Not just the guy you’re giving blowjobs to who turns out to be your roommate.”
“Great blowjobs, you mean. Wonderful. Fantastic,” you reply, trying to smile a little.
“Yes, sure. All of the above and more,” he nods, matching your grin with that crooked, infuriatingly gorgeous one before leaning in slowly, giving you time to pull away if you want to. He waits until you give the smallest eager nod before his mouth brushes yours.
Oh. Oh. Okay. You should have started here weeks ago.
The kiss is nothing like the moments you’ve shared before. It’s unhurried and soft, his lips moving against yours like he’s learning a part of you he doesn’t know.
And God, he’s a good kisser too – good doctor, good giver, does this man know how to be bad at something?
He tilts his head slightly, deepening it and learning to read every small reaction: when you sigh softly against his mouth, he runs his tongue against yours, when your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, he pulls you closer.
Out of breath, he rests his forehead against yours, noses brushing.
“I like you, okay? I like you when you study until four in the morning. I like you when you are right about a diagnosis and high five me. I like you when you’re scared. And stubborn. And exhausted,” he whispers against your mouth. “You’re my person. In the ER, here, everywhere.”
You swallow. “My god, how didn’t you get with, like…all the girls of the hospital?”
“Well, you see, I was a bit busy trying to get the attention of a certain woman,” he replies, chuckling.
“Oh, do I know her?”
“Hm. I’m not sure,” he murmurs, lips still close enough that your breath mingles. “She’s obstinate. Overworks herself and pretends she doesn’t need anyone. Terrible at dishes.”
You pinch his side. “Rude.”
“Oh, and she rolls her eyes when I’m right,” he continues. “Which is very often.”
“Unbelievable.”
“And,” he adds, softer, “she has this look she gives me every time there’s an alarm. Like she’s checking if I’m okay.”
You swallow. “Oh. Her.”
“Yeah.” His mouth curves, his nose brushing yours deliberately. “Her.”
You shake your head, smiling despite yourself. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And you love that.”
You hesitate before nodding. “Yeah,” you admit. “I do love that.” I love you, I love you, I love you.
“Yeah?” he asks, a smile spreading across his face as his hand slides to the small of your back. “Good.”
You don’t give him time to get smug about it before kissing him again, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt and pulling him closer until there’s no space left between you. His breath catches against your mouth, a surprised sound that makes you press him against the bathroom’s door.
Against his lips, still holding onto his shirt, you murmur, “Shower?”
summary: jack jumped at the chance to take howard to presby. the reason? he missed his wife. (wc: 2.3k)
warnings: f!attending!reader, swearing, mentions of GSWs/active fire (incl. past military experience), medical inaccuracies etc.; the phrase 'i don't wanna die'
Truth be told, Jack jumped at the chance to take Howard to Presby - itched for it, even, and he had the decency to feel a shred of guilt at his selfish reasons as to why.
It had already been a hell of a day: a preemptive shut down at the Pitt, his shoulder was killing him, and he was running on fumes of adrenaline and sheer will. And in his mind, his fucked up mind, the central reason for taking Howard to Presby was because he knew it’d be quicker than getting sucked into the chaos of the Pitt - and the quicker he managed Howard’s case, the quicker he could go home, because, man, he missed his wife.
The close call earlier that day had done something to him, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. His chest felt tighter every time he thought of the graze on his shoulder, his lips twisted themselves into a grimace and he felt that odd sensation of impending doom weigh his body down.
At first he attributed it to stress. Then he decided it was simply because this was his first close call since the Middle East. Then (he’d been self-reflecting because it had been eating away at him; he knew he hadn’t quite pinpointed the mystery to this sudden, knee-jerk ‘no’ reaction to the mere thought of volunteering for another SWAT shift), he concluded that maybe he didn’t have to figure it out in the mess of the 4th of July day shift.
That being said, however, the entire journey to Presby, amid a rather jolly conversation with Howard (he knew the chances of sleep were slim anyway), he felt…off. The muscles in his back were tense, and his skin prickled with goosebumps despite the hot weather - like he was anticipating the next disaster with every corner they turned.
He shrugged it off, tried to shelve it, but the sight of your car by the ambulance bay seemed to yank everything to the forefront of his mind. He froze for a second, double-checking the number plate, but…definitely your car.
Howard noticed. To say the man was bed-bound, he was remarkably observant.
“Are you okay?” The robotic voice snapped his attention back to his patient, and Jack blinked, swallowing harshly, unable to help it when his eyes darted back to your car. Not too outwardly worried - there were plentiful reasons as to why your car was here - but a little concerned nonetheless. Confused, maybe.
Neither of you were supposed to be working today, but somehow those plans had both derailed within hours of your last shift ending.
Jack nodded, clearing his throat, “Peachy.” Fuck it was hot outside, “You ready for this? Presby’s attendings are real pieces of work.”
He didn’t bother mentioning that said attendings were aware of their oncoming patient, nor did he mention one of the attendings was his attending, but he knew Howard got the gist of everything.
He watched the man’s face closely as his eyebrows lifted, as much of a smile as he could manage softening his eyes, “Put me in, coach.” The reply came after a short delay, and Jack chuckled a laugh, eyes scanning the madness. It was significantly less disorderly than the Pitt, but still nigh on the busiest he’d ever seen it here. Patients lining the corridors, a cool room on the go, staff everywhere. At least you guys still had your systems up and running for the time being, but it was clear you’d also received some less urgent cases from Westbridge.
No sign of you, though. That realisation coincided with striking disappointment.
“See, you say that now.” Jack leaned down to whisper, rather loudly, in Howard’s ear.
It was only when he’d handed Howard off to the Presby radiologists that he stopped. Simply stopped where he was in this ED that was a reflection of his, yet lacking something distinctly homely, and scanned the sea of faces for yours.
He twiddled his wedding band restlessly, before wandering over to the nurse’s station and flagging down Julie. She’d just slammed the phone down and logged onto one of the screens at the desk.
“Hey, Julie–”
“How–Jack?” The charge nurse blinked behind her glasses, eyes scanning over his form, before something clearly registered in her mind, “Did you bring the patient over from PTMC?”
“Yeah.” Jack shook his head, wary that he was cutting it close with time, “Really sorry, but is she–”
“She’s in on-call room three.” Julie smiled warmly at him, and Jack tried to give her one back. It fell short. Tight around the edges. He ran his hand across his chest, massaging at the weight that had settled there.
“Perfect, thank you.”
Chest tight, mind racing, heart thudding. His fingers remained attached to his wedding ring, spinning it constantly as though it tethered his boots to the ground. He wasn’t sure where this carnal need to just see your face had come from; this incurable itch - he wasn’t usually this bad.
But he couldn’t stop thinking about the SWAT mission. Stray bullets ricocheting as the robbers panicked, no doubt also attributed to the sight of camo uniforms and guns twice the size of their own.
A close shave for everyone. A close shave for Jack. His wound tingled once again, and he rolled his shoulder in an attempt to rid himself of the sensation.
He inhaled deeply, people passing him in a blur as he ducked his head down, steps quick and sure as he knocked on the door bearing a number three, before stepping inside.
Darkness.
He exhaled softly, the metal of his ring clinking on the cold doorknob as it clicked shut behind him. He barely had time to compose himself before the sound of sheets rustling drew his eyes to the vague outline of a bed.
It hadn’t even occurred to him that it wasn’t you in the bed, but he could almost sense it. That tugging sensation: like the golden thread had suddenly been pulled taut at the close proximity. He felt his shoulder drop slowly, an inch, maybe. Felt the trembling of his ribs ease.
Then a light flicked on.
He blinked a few times, and so did you.
You were sitting upright, but not wearing scrubs - only a pair of cargos and a grey vest. Whilst he was trying to decipher the sudden dissipation of stress symptoms at your mere appearance, you were staring at him with wide eyes and parted lips.
Your eyes raked over him, stood stiff as a board, jaw clenched tightly, a slightly wild look in his eyes. He looked more rigid, more rough than you were used to. Like he was thinking too much about holding himself normally. He wasn’t soft at the edges: there was a slight crease between his brows, and his hand was fidgeting at his side, as though he couldn’t quite decide what to do with himself. Like he’d been caught with it in the cookie jar.
It wasn’t a thought, more so an innate feeling that something wasn’t quite right. And maybe it was because you’d not been able to get a wink of sleep after he’d left for his SWAT shift, maybe it was because he was all you’d been able to think about, maybe it was because you hadn’t stopped worrying since he got the call, but you couldn’t quite believe he was here. Like you’d summoned him by sheer will, or something.
“Jack.” It wasn’t a question - it was devotion, vexation, love, and fear all poured into one mix like a promise.
His throat worked as he swallowed, and his eyes fluttered as he fought the urge to blink again. His hand fell from the doorknob with a soft swish.
He didn’t say anything, he didn’t even have to for you to push yourself up off the bed. He met you halfway, his limbs feeling a little heavy as you wrapped your arms over his shoulders, mindful of his wound, and he buried his cold nose into your neck, his own arms finding their home on your waist before yanking - ever closer.
“I just need a minute.” He mumbled, ever steady, ever sturdy, ever reliable, yet still folding completely in your presence.
“However long you want.” You corrected, one hand curling around to lightly scratch the curls at the nape of his neck, still damp with sweat. He hadn’t showered, that much was obvious from the smell coming off him, but after tending to a few of your own patients you’d grown accustomed to it.
He felt tense against you, and despite the rate your brain was working, you managed to keep every burning question inside until you knew he was ready. He just needed a moment to catch his breath. A little slice of peace with no duty to fulfil, no responsibilities to attend to. And who were you to deny him of that?
He readjusted his grip, thumb slowly gliding over the soft cotton of your top in timing with every breath you took - grounding himself as best as he could. His heart was beating so hard you could feel it from where you were pressed together, and his own body heat was slowly bleeding into yours.
And then you couldn’t take it a second longer, the worry tumbling out of your mouth, “Are you okay?”
You tried to rein in the concern that inevitably bled into your tone, but the last text you’d sent him asking for clarification on the ‘minor graze on my shoulder, all good x’ text had remained unanswered, and although you wouldn’t outwardly say that his appearance at your place of work worried you slightly, it wasn’t exactly usual for him to show up in this way.
He nodded, humming gruffly, but didn’t let go just yet, “Came in with a patient, he needed a scan but our machines can’t take his weight.”
“Okay.” You muttered the hand massaging his hair slipping to trace the freckled-spattered skin under the neck of his t-shirt, “Your shoulder?”
A beat of silence.
“Fine. Cleaned and bandaged. Small, shallow.” His voice was flat, listing off information methodically, like it hadn’t happened to him, but one of his patients.
You felt one of your eyes twitch, “Bullet?” Your voice sounded small, tinged with thinly-veiled apprehension.
He raised his head a little, “Yeah.”
You felt something in your chest splinter, and you exhaled softly, hand stilling in his shirt, worry knocking against your sternum. You didn’t say anything, you didn’t even need to; he already knew how you felt about his extra-curricular, adrenaline-fuelled excursions, and with the way his heartbeat up-ticked at his breath of an admission, you figured it was that that had spurred this little meeting.
Shot at, a voice echoed through your mind, and you resisted the urge to get his top off and look at the damage for yourself.
He huffed a little breath, and you waited for him to speak.
“I think I want to stop with the SWAT stuff.” He mumbled the words into your neck, and your brain stalled for a moment.
Stop? Jack Abbot?
Your brows furrowed of their own volition, and you felt yourself pull away from him slightly, just far enough to look at his face, read the unspoken words etched into the lines of his skin.
There was not a single trace of amusement on his features whatsoever. He looked stern, almost, his mouth set in a straight line, eyes looking straight into yours, the only hint of softness evidenced through the small crease in the middle of his forehead. He blinked, his cheek twitching under your scrutiny, before shying away from your gaze, eyes flickering to the floor.
“Are you sure?” You lifted one hand to his face, palm resting against the hollow of his cheek, thumb sweeping under the fragile skin of his eye, trying to wrestle his attention back to you.
To confirm that this wasn’t some cruel joke to get your hopes up.
He nodded, humming, before dragging his eyes back to yours.
“Can I ask why?”
His lips parted, and he readjusted his stance, eyes briefly darting to the clock on the wall, “I’ve got too much to lose to be throwing myself in the way of active fire.”
The breath in your lungs stilled, as did your thumb on his warm skin, but he hadn’t finished.
“And I don’t mean I didn’t know how lucky I was beforehand, because I did. I do. I just…Getting shot at really put things into perspective, and I…don’t wanna die.” He swallowed, before slowly nodding his head.
You raised your brows, head tilting curiously, “That’s nice to know.”
He hummed again, teeth teasing his bottom lip, “I thought so too.”
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Your hands slid from him, coming to rest at his hips, your fingers twisting the black cotton of his shirt.
“Promise.” He nodded, raising a hand to trace your brow bone - an unconscious, affectionate caress, “You coming home later today or pulling a double?”
“Coming home; I only came in to distract myself. I’ll follow your ride back to the Pitt and we can go back together. Good?”
“Perfect.”
After a moment of silence, he sighed out of his nose, before stepping into your space like he couldn’t quite help it, and wrapped himself around you once more.
You felt him smile against your neck as he planted a soft kiss there, before he mumbled a low, “One more minute.”
summary: jack jumped at the chance to take howard to presby. the reason? he missed his wife. (wc: 2.3k)
warnings: f!attending!reader, swearing, mentions of GSWs/active fire (incl. past military experience), medical inaccuracies etc.; the phrase 'i don't wanna die'
Truth be told, Jack jumped at the chance to take Howard to Presby - itched for it, even, and he had the decency to feel a shred of guilt at his selfish reasons as to why.
It had already been a hell of a day: a preemptive shut down at the Pitt, his shoulder was killing him, and he was running on fumes of adrenaline and sheer will. And in his mind, his fucked up mind, the central reason for taking Howard to Presby was because he knew it’d be quicker than getting sucked into the chaos of the Pitt - and the quicker he managed Howard’s case, the quicker he could go home, because, man, he missed his wife.
The close call earlier that day had done something to him, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. His chest felt tighter every time he thought of the graze on his shoulder, his lips twisted themselves into a grimace and he felt that odd sensation of impending doom weigh his body down.
At first he attributed it to stress. Then he decided it was simply because this was his first close call since the Middle East. Then (he’d been self-reflecting because it had been eating away at him; he knew he hadn’t quite pinpointed the mystery to this sudden, knee-jerk ‘no’ reaction to the mere thought of volunteering for another SWAT shift), he concluded that maybe he didn’t have to figure it out in the mess of the 4th of July day shift.
That being said, however, the entire journey to Presby, amid a rather jolly conversation with Howard (he knew the chances of sleep were slim anyway), he felt…off. The muscles in his back were tense, and his skin prickled with goosebumps despite the hot weather - like he was anticipating the next disaster with every corner they turned.
He shrugged it off, tried to shelve it, but the sight of your car by the ambulance bay seemed to yank everything to the forefront of his mind. He froze for a second, double-checking the number plate, but…definitely your car.
Howard noticed. To say the man was bed-bound, he was remarkably observant.
“Are you okay?” The robotic voice snapped his attention back to his patient, and Jack blinked, swallowing harshly, unable to help it when his eyes darted back to your car. Not too outwardly worried - there were plentiful reasons as to why your car was here - but a little concerned nonetheless. Confused, maybe.
Neither of you were supposed to be working today, but somehow those plans had both derailed within hours of your last shift ending.
Jack nodded, clearing his throat, “Peachy.” Fuck it was hot outside, “You ready for this? Presby’s attendings are real pieces of work.”
He didn’t bother mentioning that said attendings were aware of their oncoming patient, nor did he mention one of the attendings was his attending, but he knew Howard got the gist of everything.
He watched the man’s face closely as his eyebrows lifted, as much of a smile as he could manage softening his eyes, “Put me in, coach.” The reply came after a short delay, and Jack chuckled a laugh, eyes scanning the madness. It was significantly less disorderly than the Pitt, but still nigh on the busiest he’d ever seen it here. Patients lining the corridors, a cool room on the go, staff everywhere. At least you guys still had your systems up and running for the time being, but it was clear you’d also received some less urgent cases from Westbridge.
No sign of you, though. That realisation coincided with striking disappointment.
“See, you say that now.” Jack leaned down to whisper, rather loudly, in Howard’s ear.
It was only when he’d handed Howard off to the Presby radiologists that he stopped. Simply stopped where he was in this ED that was a reflection of his, yet lacking something distinctly homely, and scanned the sea of faces for yours.
He twiddled his wedding band restlessly, before wandering over to the nurse’s station and flagging down Julie. She’d just slammed the phone down and logged onto one of the screens at the desk.
“Hey, Julie–”
“How–Jack?” The charge nurse blinked behind her glasses, eyes scanning over his form, before something clearly registered in her mind, “Did you bring the patient over from PTMC?”
“Yeah.” Jack shook his head, wary that he was cutting it close with time, “Really sorry, but is she–”
“She’s in on-call room three.” Julie smiled warmly at him, and Jack tried to give her one back. It fell short. Tight around the edges. He ran his hand across his chest, massaging at the weight that had settled there.
“Perfect, thank you.”
Chest tight, mind racing, heart thudding. His fingers remained attached to his wedding ring, spinning it constantly as though it tethered his boots to the ground. He wasn’t sure where this carnal need to just see your face had come from; this incurable itch - he wasn’t usually this bad.
But he couldn’t stop thinking about the SWAT mission. Stray bullets ricocheting as the robbers panicked, no doubt also attributed to the sight of camo uniforms and guns twice the size of their own.
A close shave for everyone. A close shave for Jack. His wound tingled once again, and he rolled his shoulder in an attempt to rid himself of the sensation.
He inhaled deeply, people passing him in a blur as he ducked his head down, steps quick and sure as he knocked on the door bearing a number three, before stepping inside.
Darkness.
He exhaled softly, the metal of his ring clinking on the cold doorknob as it clicked shut behind him. He barely had time to compose himself before the sound of sheets rustling drew his eyes to the vague outline of a bed.
It hadn’t even occurred to him that it wasn’t you in the bed, but he could almost sense it. That tugging sensation: like the golden thread had suddenly been pulled taut at the close proximity. He felt his shoulder drop slowly, an inch, maybe. Felt the trembling of his ribs ease.
Then a light flicked on.
He blinked a few times, and so did you.
You were sitting upright, but not wearing scrubs - only a pair of cargos and a grey vest. Whilst he was trying to decipher the sudden dissipation of stress symptoms at your mere appearance, you were staring at him with wide eyes and parted lips.
Your eyes raked over him, stood stiff as a board, jaw clenched tightly, a slightly wild look in his eyes. He looked more rigid, more rough than you were used to. Like he was thinking too much about holding himself normally. He wasn’t soft at the edges: there was a slight crease between his brows, and his hand was fidgeting at his side, as though he couldn’t quite decide what to do with himself. Like he’d been caught with it in the cookie jar.
It wasn’t a thought, more so an innate feeling that something wasn’t quite right. And maybe it was because you’d not been able to get a wink of sleep after he’d left for his SWAT shift, maybe it was because he was all you’d been able to think about, maybe it was because you hadn’t stopped worrying since he got the call, but you couldn’t quite believe he was here. Like you’d summoned him by sheer will, or something.
“Jack.” It wasn’t a question - it was devotion, vexation, love, and fear all poured into one mix like a promise.
His throat worked as he swallowed, and his eyes fluttered as he fought the urge to blink again. His hand fell from the doorknob with a soft swish.
He didn’t say anything, he didn’t even have to for you to push yourself up off the bed. He met you halfway, his limbs feeling a little heavy as you wrapped your arms over his shoulders, mindful of his wound, and he buried his cold nose into your neck, his own arms finding their home on your waist before yanking - ever closer.
“I just need a minute.” He mumbled, ever steady, ever sturdy, ever reliable, yet still folding completely in your presence.
“However long you want.” You corrected, one hand curling around to lightly scratch the curls at the nape of his neck, still damp with sweat. He hadn’t showered, that much was obvious from the smell coming off him, but after tending to a few of your own patients you’d grown accustomed to it.
He felt tense against you, and despite the rate your brain was working, you managed to keep every burning question inside until you knew he was ready. He just needed a moment to catch his breath. A little slice of peace with no duty to fulfil, no responsibilities to attend to. And who were you to deny him of that?
He readjusted his grip, thumb slowly gliding over the soft cotton of your top in timing with every breath you took - grounding himself as best as he could. His heart was beating so hard you could feel it from where you were pressed together, and his own body heat was slowly bleeding into yours.
And then you couldn’t take it a second longer, the worry tumbling out of your mouth, “Are you okay?”
You tried to rein in the concern that inevitably bled into your tone, but the last text you’d sent him asking for clarification on the ‘minor graze on my shoulder, all good x’ text had remained unanswered, and although you wouldn’t outwardly say that his appearance at your place of work worried you slightly, it wasn’t exactly usual for him to show up in this way.
He nodded, humming gruffly, but didn’t let go just yet, “Came in with a patient, he needed a scan but our machines can’t take his weight.”
“Okay.” You muttered the hand massaging his hair slipping to trace the freckled-spattered skin under the neck of his t-shirt, “Your shoulder?”
A beat of silence.
“Fine. Cleaned and bandaged. Small, shallow.” His voice was flat, listing off information methodically, like it hadn’t happened to him, but one of his patients.
You felt one of your eyes twitch, “Bullet?” Your voice sounded small, tinged with thinly-veiled apprehension.
He raised his head a little, “Yeah.”
You felt something in your chest splinter, and you exhaled softly, hand stilling in his shirt, worry knocking against your sternum. You didn’t say anything, you didn’t even need to; he already knew how you felt about his extra-curricular, adrenaline-fuelled excursions, and with the way his heartbeat up-ticked at his breath of an admission, you figured it was that that had spurred this little meeting.
Shot at, a voice echoed through your mind, and you resisted the urge to get his top off and look at the damage for yourself.
He huffed a little breath, and you waited for him to speak.
“I think I want to stop with the SWAT stuff.” He mumbled the words into your neck, and your brain stalled for a moment.
Stop? Jack Abbot?
Your brows furrowed of their own volition, and you felt yourself pull away from him slightly, just far enough to look at his face, read the unspoken words etched into the lines of his skin.
There was not a single trace of amusement on his features whatsoever. He looked stern, almost, his mouth set in a straight line, eyes looking straight into yours, the only hint of softness evidenced through the small crease in the middle of his forehead. He blinked, his cheek twitching under your scrutiny, before shying away from your gaze, eyes flickering to the floor.
“Are you sure?” You lifted one hand to his face, palm resting against the hollow of his cheek, thumb sweeping under the fragile skin of his eye, trying to wrestle his attention back to you.
To confirm that this wasn’t some cruel joke to get your hopes up.
He nodded, humming, before dragging his eyes back to yours.
“Can I ask why?”
His lips parted, and he readjusted his stance, eyes briefly darting to the clock on the wall, “I’ve got too much to lose to be throwing myself in the way of active fire.”
The breath in your lungs stilled, as did your thumb on his warm skin, but he hadn’t finished.
“And I don’t mean I didn’t know how lucky I was beforehand, because I did. I do. I just…Getting shot at really put things into perspective, and I…don’t wanna die.” He swallowed, before slowly nodding his head.
You raised your brows, head tilting curiously, “That’s nice to know.”
He hummed again, teeth teasing his bottom lip, “I thought so too.”
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Your hands slid from him, coming to rest at his hips, your fingers twisting the black cotton of his shirt.
“Promise.” He nodded, raising a hand to trace your brow bone - an unconscious, affectionate caress, “You coming home later today or pulling a double?”
“Coming home; I only came in to distract myself. I’ll follow your ride back to the Pitt and we can go back together. Good?”
“Perfect.”
After a moment of silence, he sighed out of his nose, before stepping into your space like he couldn’t quite help it, and wrapped himself around you once more.
You felt him smile against your neck as he planted a soft kiss there, before he mumbled a low, “One more minute.”
It was Jack’s first day off in a while, which naturally meant that by the time you’d decided the agenda was to stay in bed, he’d already checked the night shift group chat five times, grumbled about a couple of emails, and found Robby had blocked him altogether after he asked if it was a busy day.
It also meant that he was completely at the mercy and the whims of an adorable four year old that he found difficult to say the word ‘no’ around. It was how all three of you had ended up under the duvet, a Tinkerbell movie on in the background, his daughter wearing a unicorn cape, decorating his torso with sparkly temporary tattoos with your help and guidance. It was barely lunchtime but it was her birthday, and because Jack was a softie, he’d been unable to say no to breakfast-dessert, which was why his beautiful chaotic, red-headed handful of a child had chocolate caked around her mouth and a happy smile on her face.
So, yeah. Jack Abbot had had a busy morning. His cheeks were aching from smiling, his chest felt warm, and he hadn’t felt like the world was falling apart at the seams when he was given permission to simply exist.
trinity santos is a study in fandom misogyny because they gave her all the characteristics fandoms usually salivate for in men, being gruff, quippy and misunderstood with a tragic backstory but a heart of gold beneath it all. they put all this into her AND let her be a lesbian. she's everything you could ever want in a character but she's not a man so half the fandom either hates her or constantly mischaracterizes her as petty, callous and aggressive while doing mental gymnastics to baby the male characters around her
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