୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ summary: daughter! reader confronts jack about always spending time at the hospital and never making time for her
pairing: jack abbot x teenage daughter! reader
warnings: use of medical terminology, descriptions of a hospital setting, probably incorrect medical scenes
notes: another jack abbot x daughter! reader fanfiction because i’m having sm fun with them!!! if you have any requests feel free to ask! <3
୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ masterlist / next
You had grown to hate the sight of the ED.
It wasn’t always like this. When you were little, the emergency department had felt almost magical, bright lights, fast movement, people in scrubs who always seemed to know exactly what to do. You used to sit in the corner with a juice box, swinging your legs off a chair that was too tall, watching your dad move through the chaos like he belonged to it.
Back then, you told anyone who would listen that Jack Abbot was a superhero.
My dad saves people, you’d say, like it was the most normal thing in the world.
Now, all you saw when you looked at the ED was everything it had taken from you.
The older you got, the more time Jack seemed to spend inside those walls and the less time he spent at home. Birthdays cut short. Dinners gone cold. Promises made with good intentions and broken just as easily.
You wouldn’t call him a bad father. That felt unfair. You knew, logically, clinically, almost, that he was trying. That people needed him. That emergencies didn’t pause for fireworks or family dinners.
But right now?
Right now, he’d made you come all the way down to the hospital on the Fourth of July because he’d forgotten his dinner at home.
A week ago, he’d promised you something different.
We’ll watch the fireworks together this year, he had said, already halfway out the door, keys in hand, voice distracted but hopeful.
You had nodded, pretending you believed him. You didn’t. And, of course, it went exactly how it always did.
“It’s gonna be a busy night,” he’d said yesterday, not even looking up from his phone as he scrolled through the staffing schedule. “Holiday weekends always are. Fireworks injuries, drunk driving… they’re gonna need all hands.”
You had just stood there, arms crossed, waiting for him to realize what he was saying. Waiting for him to connect the dots.
He never did.
So now you were here.
Walking through the sliding glass doors from the ambulance bay, the noise hit you first, monitors chiming, voices overlapping, the distant roll of a stretcher moving too fast over tile. The air smelled the same as always, antiseptic and something sharper underneath, something that never quite left.
You didn’t hesitate. You knew where everything was.
Your feet carried you straight toward the nurses’ station, weaving automatically around a paramedic pushing an empty gurney back outside and a nurse scanning medications into a chart. Someone nearby was calling for a set of vitals to be repeated; another voice asked for a respiratory therapist to come to room five.
Same chaos. Different day. Dana was exactly where she always was, behind the desk, glasses low on her nose as she looked over a chart.
You tightened your grip on the paper bag in your hand, Jack’s dinner, already cooling, and reminded yourself to look annoyed. To stay annoyed.
Before you could say anything, Dana looked up. Her expression softened instantly.
“Well, isn’t it my favorite Abbot.”
A smile spread across her face as she pulled off her glasses and stepped out from behind the counter, not even hesitating before wrapping her arms around you. The irritation you’d been holding onto slipped, just a little.
You melted into the hug before you could stop yourself, your forehead resting briefly against her shoulder. For a second, just a second, the noise of the department dulled, like the world had given you a break.
Then she pulled back, hands coming up to cup your face, thumbs brushing lightly under your eyes as she pushed your hair back to really look at you.
Dana had always been like that, like she could read everything you weren’t saying. You didn’t have the energy to fake it completely. Not with her.
You met her gaze, and whatever you were feeling must have shown, because her expression shifted, something more careful now, more concerned.
“How are you?” she asked softly, voice dropping just enough that it didn’t carry past the desk.
You let out a quiet sigh, glancing down for a moment as if the answer might be somewhere on the floor.
“I’m good,” you said, finally looking back at her, forcing a tight-lipped smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes.
Dana didn’t call you out on it. She just hummed quietly, one hand dropping from your face to your shoulder, giving it a small, grounding squeeze.
“Mm-hm,” she said, not convinced in the slightest.
You let out another sigh, sharper this time, frustration bubbling up at how easily she could read you. You hated that, how one look and she just knew. No pretending, no brushing it off.
Dana didn’t push.
She moved back behind the counter, slipping her glasses back on as she picked up the chart she’d been reviewing. Her eyes flicked over it quickly, pen tapping once against the paper before she glanced back up at you.
“You can sit at my station,” she said, already half-focused on what was in front of her again. “Jack’s gonna be a while, he just got called into a trauma.”
That did it. The irritation came rushing back, hot and immediate.
“Of course he did,” you muttered, the words slipping out before you could stop them.
Because why wouldn’t he be?
You moved around the counter, dropping into the chair beside her. The paper bag crinkled as you set Jack’s dinner down on the desk a little harder than necessary, like it had personally offended you.
A trauma. Of course that mattered more.
You pushed off lightly with your foot, letting the chair spin just a little as you glanced out across the ED.
From back here, everything felt different, closer, louder, harder to ignore. Phones rang intermittently. A printer spat out labels in short bursts. Someone nearby was drawing up medication, flicking a syringe to clear air bubbles before heading toward a room.
You got bored of looking around almost immediately.
There was a time when all of this felt fascinating, like every movement meant something important, like if you just watched closely enough, you’d understand how everything worked.
Now?
It was just noise.
You stared straight ahead for a moment, eyes unfocused, before glancing back at Dana. She was still looking down at the tablet in her hands, scrolling through a chart, completely locked in.
“Hey, Dana?” you said.
She hummed in response, not even looking up.
You hesitated for half a second before asking, “Can I watch Netflix on your computer?”
That got her attention.
Dana looked up slowly, giving you a really? look without saying a word. You immediately flashed her your most innocent smile.
It didn’t work.
“That look doesn’t work on me anymore, missy,” she said flatly, already looking back down at her tablet. “And you know the answer is no.”
“Oh, come on,” you pushed, leaning forward slightly in your chair. “You know it’s gonna be, like, an hour. You used to let me all the time.”
“Yeah,” Dana replied, scrolling again, completely unbothered, “when you were eight. You’re seventeen now. Why don’t you just go on your phone?”
You slumped back dramatically. “Because it never works here. Please, Dana, I’m gonna die of boredom.”
She huffed out a small laugh at that, shaking her head.
“You don’t have to stay, you know,” she said, glancing at you again. “I can give Jack his dinner when he comes out.” She paused for a second before adding, a little more gently, “Aren’t you supposed to be watching fireworks with your friends tonight?”
And just like that, the smile slipped.
It wasn’t dramatic, no big reaction, no sudden shift, but it dimmed, like someone had quietly turned down a light.
Because how were you supposed to explain that?
That the only reason you were here, sitting in an uncomfortable chair in a place you couldn’t stand, was because you hadn’t seen your dad all day?
That you had canceled on your friends, on actual plans, on something normal, because for once, he’d said he’d be there?
We’ll watch the fireworks together.
You swallowed, looking down at your hands, picking at the edge of the paper bag without really thinking about it.
“Yeah,” you said after a second, your voice quieter now. “I was.”
Behind you, a monitor alarmed again, sharp and insistent, followed by hurried footsteps and a voice calling out for a doctor.
The trauma room doors were still closed. Still busy. Still more important.
You leaned back in the chair, forcing your expression back into something neutral before Dana could look too closely.
“Guess not anymore,” you added, trying for casual and missing it just slightly.
Dana’s brows knit together, her mouth opening like she was about to ask what was really going on with you, but before she could, a familiar voice cut across the noise of the ED.
“Look who it is! The brooding teenager finally decided to grace us with her presence.”
Robby.
You didn’t even have to look up to know it was him.
A second later, he appeared at the counter, leaning casually against it like he had all the time in the world, even with everything happening around him. His scrubs were slightly wrinkled, a pair of gloves tucked into his pocket, stethoscope slung loosely around his neck.
He looked down at you expectantly, waiting for the usual reaction, some sarcastic comment, an eye roll, something.
Instead, all he got was a small, half-hearted chuckle and a quick smile before your gaze dropped right back to your hands.
You picked at the chipped burgundy nail polish on your thumb, scraping at the edge until it lifted.
Robby’s expression shifted almost immediately. It was subtle, but it was there.
Because this wasn’t you.
“Damn,” he said lightly, trying to recover the moment, though his tone had softened just a bit. “That’s it? No comeback? I’m losing my touch.”
You shrugged one shoulder, still not looking up. “Maybe.”
Across from you, Dana watched the interaction closely.
Robby glanced up at her, eyebrows raising slightly in a silent what’s going on?
Dana just gave a small shrug, lips pressing together, she didn’t know either.
A call rang out overhead, “Respiratory to trauma bay, now” and somewhere behind Robby, a monitor alarm escalated into a sharper, more urgent tone before being silenced.
The trauma doors still hadn’t opened.
Robby followed your line of sight for half a second, then looked back at you, something more serious settling in his expression.
“You waiting on your dad?” he asked, gentler now.
You nodded once, still focused on your nails, picking at another chipped edge.
“Yeah.”
It came out quieter than you meant it to.
Robby exhaled through his nose, shifting his weight against the counter. “He’s gonna be tied up for a bit,” he said. “That one’s… not quick.”
You didn’t respond. Didn’t look up.
Just kept picking at your nails like if you focused hard enough on something small, it would keep everything else from spilling over.
Behind him, the trauma bay doors finally swung open for a split second, just enough to catch a glimpse of movement inside. A team clustered around the bed, voices overlapping.
“Pressure’s dropping—”
“Get a chest tube tray—”
“Where’s Abbot?”
The doors shut again just as fast. Robby went still for half a beat. Then his eyes flicked back down to you. And this time, he didn’t try to joke.
Inside the trauma room, Jack finally had a second to step back, not fully disengaging, just enough to take in the bigger picture. The team was moving fast but efficiently. Monitors were cycling, numbers updating in real time. Someone was setting up for a chest tube, sterile packaging torn open and dropped onto the tray.
“BP’s still soft, eighty over fifty,” a nurse called out.
“Hang another liter,” Jack replied automatically, eyes already shifting.
He glanced out through the glass. A habit. A quick scan of the department, making sure nothing else was crashing, nothing else needed him, and that’s when he saw them.
Dana. Robby. And someone sitting at the station.
His eyes narrowed slightly, trying to place the figure and then you turned in the chair.
“Shit,” Jack breathed, the word barely leaving his lips.
He checked the wall clock without meaning to.
8:57 PM.
He’d called you at the start of his shift. Told you it would be quick. Told you to just drop it off.
He knew you hated being here. He just… hadn’t thought it would turn into this.
Hadn’t thought at all, really.
Jack dragged a hand briefly over the back of his neck before looking back at the team.
They had it under control for the moment.
“Hey, you got this for a sec?” he said, already stepping backward. “I’ll be right back.”
“Sure thing, boss,” Shen replied, not looking up as he worked.
Jack didn’t wait.
He pushed through the trauma room doors, the noise of the ED rushing back in immediately as he made a beeline for the nurses’ station.
“Ah! Just the person we were waiting for!” Dana called out as soon as she saw him, her tone light, but her eyes weren’t.
Robby looked at him next.
Then quickly over at you.
Then back at Jack.
A look passed between them, something silent, something questioning.
What’s going on with her?
Jack frowned slightly, not understanding. He didn’t have time to ask.
Because you were already moving. You didn’t say hello. Didn’t hesitate.
You pushed up from the chair, grabbing the paper bag off the counter and walking straight toward him.
“Hey, Bear, sorry I had you wai—”
The words were cut off as the bag hit his chest, your hand pressing it into him just firmly enough to stop him.
“It’s fine,” you said, your voice tight, controlled. “See you in the morning.”
You forced a small, tight-lipped smile that didn’t reach your eyes.
And then you were gone.
Turning on your heel and heading straight for the ambulance bay doors without waiting for a response.
For a second, Jack just stood there.
Holding the bag.
Watching you walk away.
“Bear—” he started, the word coming too late, too quiet to catch you over the noise of the department.
The doors slid open.
Then shut behind you.
And just like that, you were gone.
Jack exhaled slowly, something heavy settling in his chest as he stared at the empty space where you’d been.
Jack didn’t think.
For once, he didn’t calculate, didn’t prioritize, didn’t run through the list of everything that needed him more.
He just went after you.
“Shen’s got it,” he muttered, already pushing through the ambulance bay doors.
The noise dropped the second he stepped outside.
Not gone, just… distant. Muted by the open air.
Fireworks cracked somewhere overhead, bright flashes reflecting off the concrete and the side of the ambulances lined up along the bay. The smell of smoke drifted faintly through the air, mixing with the lingering scent of antiseptic that clung to him.
You were already halfway across the bay, walking fast, head down, shoulders tight.
“Hey!” Jack called. “Bear—hey, wait up.”
No response.
If anything, you picked up your pace.
He jogged the last few steps, reaching out and catching your wrist, not hard, just enough to stop you.
“Hey—”
You spun around immediately, pulling your arm free like his touch burned.
“What?” you snapped.
Jack blinked, thrown, not by the volume, but by how sharp it was. How done you sounded.
“I just—” he started, trying to find his footing, “you didn’t have to leave like that.”
You let out a breath through your nose, shaking your head slightly like you couldn’t believe what you were hearing.
“No, I didn’t have to come at all,” you said.
The words landed heavier than you probably meant them to.
Jack’s jaw tightened. “I said I was sorry. I got pulled into a trauma—”
“I know,” you cut in quickly. “I know, okay? You don’t have to explain it to me. I’ve been around this place my entire life, remember?”
There was something almost mocking in that, like the knowledge didn’t make it better, just made it worse.
Jack exhaled, slower this time, trying to keep his voice even. “Then you know I didn’t have a choice.”
You laughed, short, hollow.
“Yeah,” you said, nodding like that proved your point. “Exactly.”
He frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means you never have a choice,” you said, your voice rising just a little. “There’s always something. There’s always someone. There’s always a reason you can’t just—” you stopped yourself, pressing your lips together.
“Can’t just what?” he pushed gently.
“Be there,” you snapped.
Silence stretched between you for a second, broken only by another firework popping in the distance.
Jack ran a hand over the back of his neck, tension settling in his shoulders. “That’s not fair.”
“Isn’t it?” you shot back immediately. “You told me it would be quick. You said I could just drop it off and we’d go home.”
“I thought it would be,” he said. “I didn’t plan for a trauma to come in—”
“But it did,” you interrupted. “It always does.”
That hit something.
Jack’s expression hardened slightly, not angry, but defensive now. “People don’t schedule emergencies.”
“I’m not asking them to!” you snapped, throwing your hands up. “I’m asking you to stop acting like I’m just… something you can fit in when it’s convenient!”
He took a step closer, lowering his voice. “That’s not what this is.”
“Then what is it?” you demanded. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like I come second to everything in there.”
You pointed back toward the ED, the bright lights spilling out through the open doors behind him.
Jack followed your gesture for half a second before looking back at you. “That’s my job.”
“I know it’s your job!” your voice cracked now, frustration bleeding into something sharper. “God, everyone always says that like it’s supposed to make it better.”
“It should,” he said, a little firmer. “I’m helping people—”
“And I’m your kid!” you cut him off, louder now. “I’m supposed to matter too!”
The words echoed slightly in the open space.
Jack stilled.
You swallowed hard, blinking quickly, but once it started, you couldn’t stop.
“I canceled on my friends tonight,” you admitted, your voice shaking now. “I had plans. I had an actual night where I wasn’t just sitting at home waiting for you to maybe show up, and I canceled because you said—” your breath hitched slightly, “you said we’d watch the fireworks together.”
Jack’s face fell.
“I meant that,” he said quietly.
“Yeah?” you laughed again, but there was no humor in it now. “When? Between patients? While you’re checking someone’s vitals?”
“Hey,” he said, stepping closer again, softer this time. “I’m trying—”
“No, you’re not,” you said, shaking your head. “You’re trying there. You’re always trying there.”
The words hung heavier this time.
A louder crack split the sky above you, a burst of light illuminating everything for a brief second, the ambulances, the concrete, the distance between you.
Jack looked at you like he wanted to fix it.
Like he just didn’t know how.
“I didn’t ask you to cancel your plans,” he said carefully.
“No,” you said, your voice dropping, quieter but more cutting. “You didn’t. You just said something for once, and I believed you. That’s on me, right?”
Jack flinched at that.
“Don’t—” he started, but you shook your head again.
“I’m tired,” you said. “I’m tired of getting my hopes up every time you say something’s gonna be different. I’m tired of coming down here and pretending I don’t hate it, just so I can see you for five minutes in between everything else.”
Jack opened his mouth—
The ambulance bay doors slammed open behind him.
“Dr. Abbot!” a nurse called, breathless. “We need you, he’s crashing. Pressure’s dropping, they’re preparing to intubate—”
Time seemed to split. Jack turned halfway toward the voice, instinct pulling him back inside, then he looked at you.
You let out a quiet, defeated laugh, stepping back.
“Yeah,” you said, nodding toward the doors. “Go. Something more important.”
Jack’s head snapped back. “Hey, don’t do that.”
“Don’t do what?” you asked, almost exhausted now.
“Don’t make it sound like that,” he said, firmer. “This is someone’s life.”
“And I’m your kid,” you said again, softer this time, but somehow worse. “I’m supposed to be your life too.”
That one didn’t come out as a yell. It came out honest. And that’s what made it hurt.
The nurse hovered awkwardly near the door, urgency written all over her face. “Dr. Abbot—”
Jack closed his eyes briefly, jaw tight.
When he looked at you again, there was something heavier there. Guilt. Conflict. Helplessness.
“I do care,” he said quietly. “You know that, right?”
Your expression didn’t change.
“If you cared,” you said, barely above a whisper now, “you’d stay.”
The worst part?
He wanted to.
You could see it in the hesitation. In the way he didn’t move right away.
But then another shout from inside. And reality snapped back into place. Jack glanced toward the doors, then back at you.
“I have to go,” he said.
Wrong answer.
You nodded once, like you’d already expected it.
“Yeah,” you said. “I know.”
Another firework burst overhead, bright and loud and completely ignored.
Jack lingered for half a second longer, like he might say something else, like he might fix it but he didn’t.
He turned. And ran back inside.
Leaving you alone in the ambulance bay, surrounded by noise and light and everything you weren’t watching.
Imagine if... Santos's ex!bestie!reader now works at the Pitt.
[Lowkey wrote this while thinking of "Who's Sorry Now" with/by Isa Briones]
Ex!bestie!reader who simply purses her lips at her, sending a gentle and hesitant wave.
Ex!bestie!reader who works really well with her, but can never catch her to talk after treating a patient together.
Ex!bestie!reader who manages to catch her in the bathroom.
"Rin... how are you?"
"Fine. What are you doing here?"
"I'm considering neurosurgery or orthopedics here."
"Right. You ironically show up to where I work when it gets good, huh?"
"Rin-"
"Don't call me that."
Ex!bestie!reader who refuses to let her leave. After all of this time, she wanted an answer as to why she left her alone.
"I felt like it! Every study session, every test, every reward and achievement, mine was nothing compared to yours!"
"Because you distract me! Okay?! You always seem to be the best at everything you do, and always find time to help me, and it made me sick! I don't need you to be a good doctor or a good person-!"
"I never once thought that, Trinity."
"Did... did I ever do or say something to-?"
"No. And that's what made it worse."
Ex!bestie!reader's heart breaks when Trinity shoves past her in the hallway as they both exit. Trinity, who breaks her own heart, when she doesn't argue about it. Just... accepts it.
"Just- don't approach me, don't talk to me, don't ask me about anything that isn't about a patient or procedure- I had you out of my life for a reason."
"... okay."
Ex!bestie!reader who is more quiet throughout the day, getting noticed by everyone. Particularly, Langdon.
"... kid. You okay?" "Mhm." "It really doesn't seem like it... you're doing good if that's your worry. I mean, that case with that old guy? You caught him before anyone knew he was gonna crash."
"Yeah. It... it was just, I could tell."
"You said that, which is awesome. Seriously. Don't let anyone tell you that you're not a good doctor. Whatever path you end up choosing, I 100% support you."
Ex!bestie!reader who is a little bit lighter after that.
Ex!bestie!reader who continues to work, doing all that she can as quickly as she can, efficiently.
Ex!bestie!reader who's eventually stopped by Trinity when charting, the other girl awkward and practically stumbling.
Ex!bestie!reader who's done being chose when convenient.
"I, uh... good job on that last patient."
"Okay?"
"... I saw you talk to Langdon all day. What did he want?"
"Nothing. Just talked about my time over at Presby."
"How was that-?"
"Santos. You don't get to talk to me after all that you said because- what? You don't want Langdon talking to me? You don't want me to make friends here? Is that it?
"I- no, I-"
"I can't play this stupid ping pong game with you. Ypu said you wanted me gone. I'm trying to be gone. Let me be gone... please. You've hurt me enough."
AN: wow in case you can’t tell I’m suffering from baby fever recently. Something about Jack Abbot as the father of my kids has me in a chokehold. LOVE YOU GUYS!
Dedicated to @zivistardust bc your Y2K reader posts heavily inspired me!
Jack checked his watch again. 7:00, time to get the hell out of the Pitt.
He had switched to the day shift just for today in order to make a very special event tonight at 8:00.
“Woah, Abbot, can you slow down?” Shen pleaded as Jack very obviously rushed through handover.
“Shen, I have the recital tonight,” Jack said seriously.
Shen gasped, drawing the attention of Dana and all the others in the middle of the hand off, “well then HURRY UP! You can’t be late!”
Jack laughed, and continued hurrying through the charts and patients.
“What’s all the fuss about?” Dana questions, causing Robby and some of the residents to also tune in.
“Tonight’s the recital.” Shen said seriously.
Gasps were heard, “oh my goodness can we come see baby girl?” Dana asked hopefully.
Jack laughed, “if you guys can get me out of here in 20 minutes I will happily drive us all there.”
Shen scoffed, “well, now I want to go.”
His comment was ignored, and the Pitt day shift became more efficient then ever before.
He swears he’s never seen Robby and Dana work so quickly in his life, and all for your five year old girls first dance recital.
“Alright, I’m moving!” He said motioning to everyone, letting them know he was leaving with or without them.
They hastily followed him out to his truck with their bags in tow.
Robby took shotgun and Dana climbed into the back. When the door shut he turned to see Whitaker and Santos smiling at him.
He sighed, “get in.”
They cheered and climbed into the back with Dana.
He hopped in the front seat and pulled his phone out to text you.
Jack: on my way, and you’ll need to save four additional seats. Love you.
You: I figured. We just got here. She’s so excited❤️
He smiled down at his phone before placing it in the cup holder.
“Let’s go Abbot! I don’t want to miss a thing!” Dana instructed from the back seat.
Robby laughed as Jack rolled his eyes, placing the car in drive and heading across town.
They made it to the school with ten minutes to spare, piling out of the truck in their scrub pants and hoodies, all excited like children on Christmas.
It was his daughter’s first dance recital and Jack couldn’t hide the smile on his face, he was beaming with pride.
You have both been together for a long time, and you shared a beautiful family and life together. He sometimes thought you must have been put on this earth just for him.
Everyone in the Pitt adored you and your two children, which is why you fully expected to be sitting here basically taking up an entire row for a kindergarten dance recital.
Your oldest, Michael Jr., nearly threw himself off his seat when he saw his dad walk in with his Uncle Mikey behind him.
He jumped into his dad’s arms, at seven years old, he thought his dad was the coolest man on earth.
Jack leaned over to kiss your lips and say hello, which your son ewed at but you ignored.
“The whole gang made it!” You said as you said hi to everyone.
“This is our baby, honey. Plus the way Abbot’s been talking about this, we couldn’t miss it,” Dana said.
You felt a lump in your throat for the unconditional love your children were surrounded with.
Everyone started to sit down and your son climbed over to Robby’s lap to sit with his favorite uncle and godfather. Jack took his place next to you, interlocking your fingers.
“Missed you today,” he said quietly, kissing your cheek.
“I missed you too,” you said just as quietly, “you’re going to loose it when you see her. She looks adorable.”
He smiled softly, and just then the lights dimmed to indicate the start of the show.
The show was exactly what you would expect from a five year olds recital.
Uncoordinated limbs, teachers on stage, and plenty of tears. But god, if it wasn’t the cutest thing you’ve ever seen.
When your little girl was up you swore Jack was crying. Her smile was so big as she tried her hardest to remember the steps in the ballet routine she had been practicing so vigorously the last few weeks.
Robby, Dana, and Santos all had their phones out to record. Your little boy waved wildly to his sister on stage. And you and Jack were a mess.
When the ending came and all the little kids took their bows, your row was cheering the loudest. Everyone on their feet, including your son, shouting and clapping and everything in between.
You all piled out of the auditorium, waiting impatiently for your daughter to step out and join you.
“Thank you guys for coming, you must be exhausted,” you said looking around at Jack’s coworkers.
“It was totally worth it,” Dennis said with a shrug.
You smiled at him. Jacks arm remained firmly on your lower back, as it always did.
You watched as your son spoke to Trinity and Dennis animatedly about his day at school, and how they’ll have to come over soon because he has an even bigger collection of dinosaurs since the last time they were there.
Your thoughts were interrupted by a familiar scream heading in your direction.
“DADDY!” Your daughter came hurling at your husband, nearly knocking him over with her force as she jumped into his arms.
“DADDY! DADDY! DID YOU SEE ME?” She put her little arms around his neck, embracing him in a tight hug.
“I did baby, I’m so proud of you, you looked so good up there,” he said, kissing her cheek and squeezing her in return.
“You did so good, we’re so proud of you,” you placed a kiss on her other cheek, making her giggle.
“Mommy said we can go for pizza and icecream,” she said seriously before wiggling out of his arms to give everyone else hugs, “Daddy, can everyone come get pizza and icecream?” She begged as she now sat on Dana’s hip.
“Yeah Abbot, can everyone?” Trinity said jokingly.
Jack rolled his eyes, “yeah everyone can, my treat.”
“Oh brother, a recital and dinner? You’re too good to us.” Robby said patting Jack on the back.
You walked to your cars, everyone switching up from how they originally came, your children wanting to ride with “Daddy and Uncle Mikey,” so everyone else piled into your car.
As you all dispersed to go get treats, you couldn’t help but smile at all the people surrounding your family with love and pride.
Your heart felt so full, and you felt so lucky to have your Pitt family in your life.
Summary: Jack uses your daughter as a last resort before Robby leaves for his sabbatical.
For the past few days, all Jack could talk about was how worried he was about Robby. You saw the way his shoulders tensed, he would shake his head and sigh, like the topic caused him physical pain.
So when he asked you to pull out the big guns, aka your four year old daughter, you didn’t flinch.
You both had spent too much time in the house recently anyway, the heat making it hard to go out and enjoy yourself with a toddler on your hip. So, a trip to the Pitt with daddy seemed perfect.
While Jack slept, you spent the entire day baking goodies for the ER staff.
Your daughter sat at the table, tongue poked out of her mouth, using all her focus to draw her Godfather and favorite uncle, a picture to take on his vacation.
When Jack woke up a few hours later, she ran towards the bedroom door as she always did. Her excitement to see him always radiating from her.
As he got ready, you and your daughter wrapped everything up so you could all make your way to PTMC as a family.
When the ambulance bay doors slid open, the chaos hit you like a freight train. Jack held your daughter’s hand tightly as he surveyed around him, making sure she was safe.
She was looking around frantically, still holding the picture for Robby in her hand that Jack wasn’t holding.
When you were close enough to the hub, he released her hand. She all but sprinted to the nursing station the second her eyes landed on Robby, clutching the picture she drew for him like it was a winning lottery ticket.
She reached both her hands up at him and giggled happily.
He gasped in surprise and couldn’t help the smile that formed on his face just from the sight of her. “What are you doing here?”
He picked her up and she began showing him the picture she made, “for you to take with you!” She said proudly.
You placed the bake goods on the table, Dana happily accepting them before taking them all to the break room.
Jacks hand remained steady across your lower back, you could feel it nearly twitching at all the tension in his body. You leaned against the nursing station as you both watched her talk to Robby.
“You made this just for me?” He adjusted her so that she was on his hip comfortably, and kissed her cheek as she smiled.
She nodded, pointing to the different things she drew. “Dis is me and you and the sun and my house and my doggy and your bike because mommy says you’re riding a bike.”
She drew a tricycle, not fully understanding what type of bike you were referring to. He smiled down at her, “well I love it. I’ll keep it with me the whole time.”
“When will you back?” She said sadly, fiddling with the collar of his scrubs, but she looked up at him with those big hazel eyes she inherited from her father. She was quickly learning they could get her anything she wanted.
Jacks hand remained on your lower back, grounding himself in your touch.
You both watched the emotion swirl through Robby’s eyes, like a storm he was trying to contain in his head. “How about this, I’ll be back in time for your soccer games this fall, okay?”
Her expression shifted, she beamed up at him. “That’s right! Because Uncle Wobby I’ve been pwacticing so hard.” She said with full seriousness. “And you have to call me on mommy’s phone so you tell me all the animals you see.”
He furrowed his brows, “animals?”
She nodded very seriously, the way a toddler does when they’re the only one that can make sense of their thoughts.
“Okay kiddo, you got it,” he said, tone still sad but a little lighter than before.
She wrapped her little arms around his neck, nuzzling into him. Her pigtails splayed across her back. Robby brought his hand up to wrap it around her.
“Don’t miss me too much,” she said into his neck, making him laugh.
He kissed the side of her head as he made his way back to you and Jack.
She held onto him tightly as he looked between the two of you.
“Getting my god daughter to check on me?” He asked lightly.
Your lips twitched up and Jack laughed.
“Desperate times, brother,” Jack responded.
Robby laughed, seeming a little lighter than he was before.
You leaned into Jack’s touch a little more, “we need you, you know?” You said, looking between Robby and your daughter.
“She needs you,” you said emphasizing the words and nodding to her again.
Robby gave you a tight lipped smile, the kind that was trying to keep in all the emotion, “I know,” he said quietly, as if not trusting his own voice. “I know.”
“Great, so I’ll see you in three months on the sidelines as assistant coach to the kindergarten soccer league?” Jack asked, making your daughter gasp and twist in Robby’s arms.
“Uncle Wobby! You’re going to coach me with Daddy!” She squealed in excitement, making you smile.
Robby narrowed his eyes at Jack, who was now smirking, “low blow, brother.”
He turned to face his goddaughter again, “yes, I guess I will be coaching you with daddy.”
She clapped her hands and cheered.
“Alright. Now that it’s settled we’ll see you in September, we have to go. It’s almost bed time.” You said, extending your hands to take your daughter.
“Awwwww,” she whined.
“Come on, I’ll walk you both out,” Jack said, taking your daughter’s hand in his. She skipped beside him, chatting his ear off about whatever was coming to her mind. He attentively listened to every word.
You smiled at the site, turning to Robby before you followed.
“I love you, Michael. Jack loves you. She loves you, so much. Please call us if you need anything. And I’ll see you at soccer in September,” you said genuinely.
He nodded, huffing a laugh, “okay, I’ll see you in September.”
You smiled and gave him one last hug before turning around and following Jack. You both could only hope that it worked.
Summary: She has always been jack's carbon copy, so when Pittsburg police brings in an altered man after he started hitting himself on the car on the way to the station, jack isn't surprised by who walks in.
Warnings: drugs, harassing a police officer, blood, stitches
Authors note: Haven't written in ages
Word count: <1k
Late evening. Shift overlap. Patients everywhere. A waiting room that had long since stopped pretending it was under control.
The Pitt was chaos like usual.
“Alright people—man, mid-thirties, under unknown substance, being brought in by PD,” Dana Evans said, hanging up the phone.
“Sounds like PD is also having a fun night,” Lena Handzo muttered, not even glancing up.
“Now it’s a night shift problem,” Dana added, turning just as Jack walked in. “Hey, Dr. Abbot—you’re on this one.”
“I just clocked in. Can’t I have five minutes of peace?”
“No.”
A beat.
“Trauma 2 is open. PD’s here in under ten.”
—
Before the ER doors even opened, the noise hit first.
“HEY—HEY—STOP DRAGGING ME—HEY YOU STUPID B*TCH JUST LET ME GO—”
“Man, mid-thirties, no idea what he’s on, hit his head on the cruiser—hard. Had to secure him in the back,” Officer Rowan Abbot said, voice steady despite the chaos, as she and her partner hauled the man inside.
And Jack—
Jack didn’t even look surprised.
Of course it was her.
Same last name. Same tone. Same unshakable control in the middle of absolute disaster.
His carbon copy.
“Watch his head—he’s already taken a hit,” Rowan added, already moving with the team as they transferred the patient.
The man thrashed, restraints groaning.
“YOU THINK YOU CAN LOCK ME UP—YOU THINK—”
“Yeah, yeah,” Rowan muttered, pressing him down with practiced ease. “We’ve heard it all before.”
Jack stepped in, gloves snapping tight.
For a split second, their eyes met.
Nothing.
Not here.
“Vitals?” Jack asked.
“Elevated across the board. Pupils blown,” Rowan shot back instantly.
Like she belonged here.
(And she did.)
The patient bucked again, harder.
“HEY—DON’T TOUCH ME—”
He spat.
It landed across Rowan’s arm.
Jack didn’t even blink.
“Alright, that’s enough for tonight. Someone sedate him.”
“Already on it,” Mateo said, moving in.
“HEY—I’M NOT DONE WITH YOU—”
“Yeah, yeah,” Rowan’s partner muttered, pulling back as the team took over. “Save it for the charges.”
Rowan stepped away—
And only then did Jack notice.
Blood.
Running down her cheek.
Not hers at first glance—
Until it kept going.
A thin line from her hairline, cutting down past her temple.
“Dana,” Jack called, already moving.
“I see it,” Dana said, grabbing Rowan by the arm and steering her toward an open bay. “Come on, Officer, you’re benched.”
“I’m fine—”
“You’re bleeding.”
“I’ve had worse—”
“I don’t care.”
—
Rowan sat on the bed, jaw tight, while Dana grabbed supplies.
Jack followed.
Of course he did.
He hovered for half a second.
Then—
“Oh, this is great,” he muttered.
Rowan didn’t even look at him. “Hi to you too.”
“You get assaulted often or is this a new hobby?”
“He was high.”
“Oh good,” Jack deadpanned. “That makes it better.”
Dana shot him a look. “You gonna help or just emotionally damage your kid?”
“I’m multitasking.”
Rowan huffed a quiet laugh despite herself.
Dana cleaned the cut, pushing Rowan’s hair back.
Rowan didn’t flinch.
Jack noticed that too.
“You let him get close,” Jack said.
“I had him controlled.”
“He split your head open.”
“It’s superficial.”
“It’s bleeding.”
“So are half your patients—what’s your point?”
Jack stared at her.
Same stubbornness.
Same refusal to back down.
It was like arguing with a mirror that had chosen a badge instead of a stethoscope.
“You don’t get points for taking hits,” he said flatly.
“And you don’t get points for being an ass, but here we are.”
Dana snorted under her breath.
Jack ignored it.
“You’re supposed to call it before it escalates.”
“I did.”
“Clearly.”
“He was already gone, dad.”
The word slipped out.
Accidental.
Automatic.
The room went just a little quieter.
Dana didn’t react—but her eyebrows definitely did.
Jack didn’t miss it.
Neither did Rowan.
Too late to take it back.
Jack sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face.
“Great. Fantastic. Subtle.”
“Your fault,” Rowan muttered. “You started lecturing.”
“I’m always lecturing you.”
“Exactly.”
Dana finally stepped back. “Two stitches. You’ll live.”
“Disappointing,” Jack said.
Rowan smirked. “To you, maybe.”
Dana pointed between them. “You two? Done. Take it outside or I’m assigning you both to psych evals.”
Jack held Rowan’s gaze for a second longer.
Checking.
Always checking.
“You dizzy?” he asked, quieter now.
“No.”
“Nausea?”
“No.”
“Vision?”
“Perfect. Unfortunately, I can still see you.”
Jack nodded once.
Satisfied.
Annoyed.
Relieved.
All at once.
“Alright,” he said, stepping back. “Try not to get assaulted again tonight.”
Rowan hopped off the bed. “No promises.”
She paused as she passed him.
Just for a second.
Low enough that no one else could hear—
“You should see the other guy.”
Jack snorted.
“Yeah,” he muttered. “I did.”
After a bit
-
Jack just hooks a finger in the fabric of her sleeve, quiet but deliberate.
“You’re not still seeing that partner of yours, are you?”
Rowan stops walking. Doesn’t turn.
“…Excuse me?”
He remains close, expression neutral, voice softer than she expects.
“In my defense,” he says, slower, controlled, “last week I saw a notification—Daniel—on your phone. And that’s, uh… that’s his name.”
Rowan finally turns—just enough that he can see it in her eyes.
“Just like it’s the name of your other kid, old man.”
She shrugs off his finger from her sleeve and starts back down the hall again.
Jack doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t follow her step‑for‑step. He tilts his head fractionally, like he’s processing a patient’s late lab results.
“Watch out,” he says—matter‑of‑fact, devoid of flourish—“I know where you sleep.”
She pauses mid‑stride.
Jack doesn’t move a muscle.
“…And I know where you keep your metal leg,” she says, voice flat.
Jack’s eyelids don’t flicker, but his jaw subtly tightens for a beat—just that. No grin. No retaliation.
summary: a few people start speculating that you and dennis have a kid after seeing the two of you with your niece.
pairings: dennis whitaker x RT!reader
cw/tags: no use of y/n, established relationship, use of nicknames for a child (monkey, peanut, sweet pea, etc etc). swearing. no one in the pitt can mind their business as per usual, implied but not explicit afab!reader. fluff!!
word count: 2.3k
dennis whitaker x RT!reader masterlist
general masterlist
“You’re sure you don’t mind having her overnight?” Dennis’ sister-in-law asks, hovering in the doorway of your apartment, eyes trailing over you and your niece. She’s resting on your hip, toying with your necklace, babbling to herself as you give her a reassuring nod.
“Are you kidding?” You ask. “We love her, and you guys deserve a night off.”
“She’s gonna’ be fine, sweetheart,” Dennis’ brother says, already partially turned away, ready to get to their hotel for the night. “We’re leaving her with the smartest people we know.”
You laugh at that. “We can handle any medical emergencies, I swear.”
“Yeah, okay,” She says, nodding, leaning forward and pressing a kiss to her baby’s forehead. “Be good for your aunt and uncle, bye baby! I love you!”
“Say bye!” You exclaim, and she lifts her tiny hand up, waving it back and forth a few times as the door closes. “Okay, monkey, we’re unsupervised. What should we do?”
She stares at you for a few seconds, eyes wide before she breaks into a grin, giggling. You smile too, walking back into the living room, listing options as you go—not that she knows what any of them mean.
You start getting her ready to go pick Dennis up around six-thirty, hoping that he’ll be off relatively on time tonight. You strap her into her carseat, climb into the drivers side, and pull out of your parking spot. She babbles along to the music you’re playing the entire drive, which is a country playlist of Dennis’, mostly featuring songs his parents listened to when he was a kid that always seem to come on at his family get-togethers.
You park the car in one of the staff spots, checking the time before twisting around in your seat. “Uncle Den should be done soon, yeah?”
“Den!” She exclaims, and you nod.
“Exactly,” You say. “Crushed it.”
The first fifteen minutes of waiting are fine, but then she starts to get restless, wiggling in her carseat and pulling on the straps. You try to keep her distracted as best you can, but there’s only so much you can do in a car. She starts to whine, tears pooling in her eyes.
“Okay, why don’t we go for a walk, hey?” You ask, getting out and opening the backdoor, unclipping the belt and scooping her into your arms. She huffs, and you can’t help but smile. “I know, sorry, I thought he’d be done by now.”
She perks up now that she’s no longer trapped in the carseat, head turning as she takes in the outside of the hospital. You shiver, the temperature having dropped now that the sun is setting, taking her through the front doors and into the main foyer.
“This is where me and Den work,” You explain, bouncing her a few times. “I usually work upstairs, he works just through those doors.”
You point to the double doors that lead to the ER, and she follows your finger.
“That’s where he’ll come out,” You add, checking the time quickly. “Soon. Hopefully.”
You walk laps around the main floor for a bit, avoiding getting in anyone’s way, letting her stare at all the paintings on the walls and the people passing by. You circle back to the main lobby at seven fourty-five, your arms growing tired from carrying a one-year-old around for thirty minutes.
You sit on one of the benches, shuffling her so she’s facing you, putting both hands on her back to keep her upright on your lap. She rubs her eyes, making you frown.
“Yeah, it’s almost bedtime,” You say, letting her settle against your chest.
The door to the ER swings open a few minutes later, revealing Dennis, Trinity, Cassie, and Dana. Dennis’ face lights up when he sees the two of you, and she lifts her head off your shoulder, sitting up straighter as he gets closer.
“Hi peanut!” He exclaims, kneeling in front of her.
“Den!” She says, but in her tired state it comes out a little garbled, sounding an awful lot like ‘dad.’ Neither of you realize, knowing exactly what she said, but Trinity stops dead in her tracks, casting a look over her shoulder to see if Cassie and Dana heard the same thing.
“Dad?” Cassie whispers, just as Dana’s eyebrows lift, a slight smirk tugging at her lips. Trinity shrugs, mouthing ‘I don’t know?’ in response.
“How are you, sweet pea?” He asks, lifting her up when she raises her arms towards him, settling her on his hip. She tucks her head into his neck, sighing, tiny fists grabbing handfuls of his hoodie.
You stand up, smiling at the pair, reaching over and smoothing some of her hair out of her face.
“Hi,” Dennis says, his attention now on you.
“Hi,” You echo. “Rough day?”
“Yeah,” He breathes. “Sorry for taking so long, a trauma came in right before seven and Ellis was running late, so-”
“It’s okay,” You promise, eyes finally looking over his shoulder, seeing the three women standing across the foyer, watching you. You lift your hand to wave, but the action is cut short when a sharp cry rings out from your niece.
“Okay, yeah, fair enough,” Dennis says, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “Let’s get you to bed.”
You actually wave as you and Dennis rush through the doors, leaving them dumbfounded for a few moments.
“Do they have a fucking kid?” Trinity asks, incredulous.
Dana chuckles. “Seems like they might.”
“Wow,” Cassie says. “I thought they’d only been together for…I dunno’, maybe a few months?”
“The kid was probably a year old,” Trinity adds. “Was she ever on leave or anything?”
Dana shakes her head. “Not that I know of, but she was almost entirely up in the ICU until last year, then she got started on the trauma team by doing the night shift. I didn’t see too much of her.”
“No. Fucking. Way,” Trinity says, laughing in disbelief. “She’s got a kid.”
“You think she isn’t Whitaker’s?” Cassie asks.
“He only started here, like, a year ago,” She explains.
“Well, maybe they met before that,” Cassie counters.
“Who knows?” Dana asks, already walking away. “Good night!”
Cassie leaves too, but Trinity turns right around, heading straight back through the doors to go find Princess and Perlah.
Robby and Jack finish up with the trauma patient, coming out of the room to see that there’s still a decent portion of the dayshift around, most clustered by one workstation. Princess has her phone out, typing variations of your name into the Instagram search bar, trying to find your account. Perlah, Trinity, and Victoria all hover nearby, tossing out suggestions that she should try.
“Maybe she uses her middle name?” Victoria asks. “Is there a way to find that in the hospital system, or something?”
“We only have doctors middle names,” Perlah says, shaking her head. “What about Facebook?”
“She’s, what, twenty-five?” Princess asks. “She doesn’t have Facebook.”
Jack leans over the desk. “Who are we stalking?”
Trinity says your name, not taking her focus away from the phone. “You know her middle name?”
He raises an eyebrow. “Uh, no.”
“Why are you looking her up?” Robby questions, taking a spot beside Jack, both attendings now thoroughly invested, even if they’d never admit it.
“Santos saw her and Whitaker with a baby,” Princess explains. “Said the kid called him dad.”
Robby’s eyebrows shoot up, whereas Jack just leans closer.
“She never took time off when she worked nights with you?” Victoria asks, having been filled in completely by Trinity.
“Not that I remember,” Jack says. “How old was this kid?”
“At least twelve months,” Trinity says. “Maybe a little older.”
“So your theory is…what?” Robby asks. “She kept the pregnancy a secret?”
“We’re open to suggestions,” She counters.
He lifts his hands up with an exaggerated shrug. “It wasn’t their kid?”
“She called him dad.”
Robby sighs, rubbing his forehead, closing his eyes for a moment. Jack smirks.
“Pretty damning evidence,” He says. He knows the two of you don’t have a kid, but he’s not about to ruin the fun—nor give them your Instagram handle, which contains several photos of your nieces and nephews.
“Okay, everyone go home, get some sleep,” Robby says. “You can all hound him about it tomorrow.”
Dennis arrives at the hospital the next morning, gaining the attention of everyone sitting at the central hub. He nods as he walks by, smiling a bit.
“Morning,” He says, getting various responses back, all of them teetering on the edge of being too enthusiastic. He keeps moving, ignoring the strange behaviour.
Cassie lands beside him once he’s out of the locker room, both of them looking up at the board. Dennis blinks a few times, vision a little blurry from the lack of sleep he got last night.
“Tired?” Cassie asks.
He hums. “Is it that obvious?”
“No, no, not really,” She says. “She sleeping through the night yet?”
He raises an eyebrow, confusion evident. “...who?”
Cassie falters for a second, now equally as confused. “Your daughter?”
“My—my what?” He asks.
“The baby yesterday?” She questions. “Your daughter?”
Dennis’ eyes go wide with realization. “Oh! Oh, uh, no—that was our niece.”
“Oh!” Cassie exclaims, letting out a breath, laughing. “That…makes more sense. We were trying to figure out the timeline yesterday, and it really wasn’t adding-”
She cuts herself off, finally processing what he said.
“Wait, our?” She asks
“Uhm, yes?”
“Our niece,” She repeats.
“Yeah, my brother’s daughter,” He says, the sentence coming out slowly, having no clue where her confusion’s coming from now. “You know…?”
“Your niece, then,” She clarifies, and he shakes his head.
“No, well, technically yes,” He stutters. “All my nieces and nephews are her nieces and nephews, too. They call her ‘auntie’ and everything.”
Cassie nods, brows furrowing a little. “Wow, that’s…wow. That’s sweet, especially since they haven’t known her all that long.”
“Well, uh, actually they’ve known her for awhile,” He says. “I took her back home when we had only been together for a few months, so, she’s been around.”
She nods. “Right, and how long have you been together?”
“Almost four years now,” He says, as though it’s the most casual answer in the world. “The youngest three hadn’t even been born yet when she visited for the first time.”
“Huh,” Cassie says, too stunned to say much else. “Well, hey, congratulations.”
She pats his shoulder before walking off, leaving Dennis slightly bewildered.
“Uh, thank you?”
Frank comes out of a room across the department, closing the curtain behind him and walking towards the board. Mel intercepts him on the way, falling in line beside him, hands clasped in front of her.
“Morning,” He says.
“How old were you when you had Tanner?” She asks, bypassing the small talk, her eyes trailing after Dennis as he goes to see a patient.
“Twenty-seven,” He says. “Why?”
She shakes her head, scrunching her face up and raising her shoulders up towards her ears. “I don’t understand having kids in medical school.”
Frank clicks his tongue behind his teeth, chuckling. “Yeah, fair enough. It was pretty brutal.”
“Did, uhm, was Abby working too?” She questions.
“No, no, her job had decent benefits, she was off for six months,” He explains. “Why?”
She gestures vaguely to where Dennis had been standing. “Just…wondering how they managed.”
“How who managed?”
She says your names. “She never took mat leave, and he would’ve been in his last year of school.”
Frank stops entirely, turning to look at her. “Hang on, they have a kid?”
She nods. “That’s what I heard.”
Robby and Dana are working side by side a few hours later, a rare moment of downtime giving him the opportunity to ask her if she knows anything about yours and Dennis’ supposed child. She smirks, putting her glasses up on her head and leaning back in her chair.
“Overheard him tell McKay she’s his niece,” She says.
“So…she didn’t call him dad?”
Dana scoffs, laughing. “Definitely sounded like it.”
The hushed conversations continue for the rest of the day, various theories bouncing around to the point that Ahmad pulls out the betting board, but Dana tells him to put it away before it can go anywhere. Somehow, the story spirals into absolute ridiculousness, with far too many people believing that the niece story was a lie.
Frank walks out of the ER with Dennis at the end of their shift.
“It’s a tough age,” Frank says, opening his car door. “Penny barely slept until she was eighteen months.”
Dennis slows, hand pausing on the ‘unlock’ button on his key fob. “She’s not-”
“I know how tough it can be to have a baby during residency,” Frank continues, getting into the drivers seat. “But it's worth it. Hang in there, man.”
He closes the door before Dennis can say anything else.
You laugh so hard you can barely breathe when he relays the story to you later that night.
Your shifts don’t overlap for a few days after that, but you feel the energy change when you walk into the department for a non-urgent page halfway through the day. Dennis looks up from where he’s sitting, watching you approach the desk wearily.
“What?” You ask, looking right at Princess, knowing you can get her to talk.
She smiles. “What?”
You narrow your eyes. “Is this about the kid?”
Her face lights up. “So there is a kid?”
You laugh, shaking your head. “No! She’s our niece.”
“Yeah, that’s what Whitaker said,” She counters. “But she called him dad.”
“What?” Dennis asks. “No, she didn’t.”
Princess holds her hands up. “Santos said she did.”
“She definitely called him ‘Den,’” You clarify, grinning. “Not dad.”
Princess processes that for a second, her mouth dropping into an ‘o’ shape.
“Did you actually think that I managed to hide a pregnancy from the entire hospital?”
A/N - see u all tomorrow for dennis x ballerina!reader happy pitt thursday eve!
tags (not the full list im so sorry i need to go through it and do some reconfiguring lmfao):
Summary: When you lose a patient, there’s only one person you run to.
A/N: I'm trying to upgrade my angst writing, so here's kinda a sad one for you guys. This work is all mine, and proofread by Grammarly.
Masterlist
The emergency department was buzzing with patients flowing through the doors. From simple coughs to multiple trauma victims rolling in, the ED was in full swing.
You jumped on the case in room four with Robby, a young boy with flu symptoms, but overall, it seems to be a simple cold.
The child on the gurney looked stable, vitals steady, and for the first time that morning, you allowed yourself to take a slow breath. Pediatric patients held a soft spot in your heart; hell, for most of your life, you thought you would be a pediatrician. But something about emergency medicine had called to you instead.
Robby adjusted the young boy's oxygen mask while you checked the monitors, your hands confident and practiced.
“His vitals look good,” you say, glancing at him.
He nods, a small tug at the corner of his lips. “Nice and calm. Nothing we can’t handle.”
You share a quiet laugh, a rare moment of lightness amid the usual chaos of the ED. The boy is responding well to treatment so far; his colour is improving, and he is breathing steadily through the mask. The case feels routine. For a second, you allowed yourself to believe that this would all go smoothly.
“Let’s step out for a moment. Give him some rest. Check on other cases. He should be fine for a few minutes,” Robby said, giving you a reassuring look. You stepped back, letting him handle the boy while you moved towards the doorway.
And then it happened.
The monitor beside the gurneys erupts with alarm, shrieking and urgently.
Your stomach dropped as you whirled around. Your heart hammers as the steady beeps turn into frantic, jagged rhythms. The boy’s tiny chest barely rises.
“No… no, no.” The words escape before your mind can process them.
You were at Robby's side in an instant. His eyes were wide, voice sharp. “BP dropping fast! He’s coding!”
Nurses rushed in from the hall, the crash cart rattling in behind them. They moved quickly, but you and Robby were already on the child. Your hands move before you can think, adrenaline taking over as you start compressions.
“Epinephrine! Bag him! Crash cart, now!” You barked orders, voice tight, desperate.
Robby is working alongside you, his hands on the oxygen bag, adjusting lines, keeping the IV running. But the monitor refuses to stabilize. Around you, the team moves quickly, drawing up medication and preparing equipment.
Each second stretches is impossibly long.
You feel your hands tremble, your shoulders and chest starting to ache from the force of compressions. Sweat runs down your forehead into your eyes, but you don’t stop.
You can’t. You won’t.
“Stay with me, please… Come on,” you whisper over and over, voice cracking, hoping that the child might hear you and fight his way back.
Minutes drag by in a blur of motion and noise.
More medication. Another shock. Adjust the oxygen. Reposition. Check pulse. Compress again. You try every protocol you know, every step drilled into you through years of training.
Still, nothing works.
The alarm doesn't stop. It screams at you, sharp and merciless, each beep a reminder that you're losing him.
Your vision blurs. Your body feels like it's on fire from the effort. Your lungs burn with every breath.
And still the monitor refuses to respond.
Then the flatline comes.
The alarms continued screaming, but the boy is gone.
You freeze, hands hovering over the child’s small body, chest heaving. Robby’s hand lands on your shoulder as an anchor, but even that couldn't fill the hollow ache that was starting to spread through your chest.
Robby can’t make the monitor change. Nothing can.
Hot tears burn behind your eyes.
It was like something inside you snapped.
Not heartbreak. Not just grief.
Something deeper, tearing at your very core.
This was the first child you couldn't save. The first young life that slipped through your fingers despite everything you tried.
You had handled emergencies before. You have saved lives.
But never a child who couldn’t fight their way back.
Around you, Robby and the team speak quietly, tidying lines, shutting off equipment and checking the monitors. But you could barely notice their voices, all blur together, distant and muffled.
You barely hear any of it.
The room around you feels completely unused.
You can’t breathe.
You can't think.
And through the haze, only one thought breaks through.
Jack.
You need him.
Before you even realize you’re moving, your feet are taking you away from the gurney. The room feels smaller now, suffocating almost, and the lights are suddenly too harsh.
Robby says your name. You don’t even register it.
“Hey–” he starts, stepping toward with concern in his tone.
But you’re already out the door. The hallway feels louder than before, monitors beeping, phoneringing, stretchers being pushed across the floor. The noise hits you all at once, overwhelming your senses.
“Hey! Wait–” Robby calls after you, but his voice is fading behind you.
You keep walking.
Your legs move faster and faster until you’re basically stumbling through the corridor. Nurses brush past you, doctors call out orders, but their voices all blur into one.
Your chest feels tight as if someone has wrapped you up in restraints.
You lost him.
You lost a child.
That thought hits like a punch in your gut.
Your hands are shaking, and you can feel the pressure of the compressions on your palms. The fragile rise and fall of the child’s chest beneath them, except there is nothing.
No heartbeat. No breath.
You can feel the lump in your throat as your vision blurs.
The corridors seem impossibly long, stretching further with every step. Every corner you turn, every room you pass, he’s not there.
You pass the nurses' station, earning a few looks.
He is not there.
You glance towards triage.
Not there either.
Your breathing grows heavier, shallow and sharp. Panic starts to creep into your mind around the edges of your grief.
Where is he?
You turn another corner too quickly and nearly collide with a resident rushing past with a chart. They mutter an apology, but you don't hear.
You can’t stop.
The world feels like it's collapsing around you.
You’ve lost patients before. You’ve seen death countless times in the emergency department.
This is different.
This was a child.
And you couldn't save him.
You turn another corner, walking faster now, almost running. Your breath comes in short bursts, chest tight, vision still blurred with unshed tears.
The hospital feels endless tonight.
Too many hallways. Too many rooms. Too many people moving past you like nothing just happened.
You wipe roughly at your face with the back of your sleeve, but it doesn’t help. Your hands are still shaking. Your chest still feels like it’s caving in.
Where is he?
You round the corner toward the staff lockers, and then you see him.
Jack.
He’s standing by the row of mental lockers, one of them open as he hangs his jacket inside. His movements are calm and routine, just another moment in the middle of a shift.
The sounds of your footsteps echo down the hallway.
Jack glances over his shoulder at the noise.
And then he sees you.
Your hair is a mess, your chest rising and falling too fast, tears streaking down your face. Your hands are still shaking, and you look like you could faint at any second.
The control you’d been clinging to shatters. Your knees buckle, and you stumble forward, unable to hold yourself up any longer.
Jack is there instantly.
His arms out to catch you, steady you before you can fall. He doesn't say a word, just wraps you against him, holding you close and giving you one of his famous Abbot hugs. He guides you into the nearest staff room off the hallway, closing the door behind you.
You collapse against his chest, body shaking, tears soaking into his scrubs. Your face buries into his shoulder, and the words you’d been holding back finally spill out:
“He was just a child, Jack… a small little boy…”
The confession hit the quiet room like a blow. You all lost patients, but there was something about losing a child that just cut deep.
Jack stiffens slightly at first, then immediately tightens his hold around you. One hand cradles the back of your head, threading through your hair, while the other wraps firmly across your shoulder, keeping you upright, safe and anchored.
“I know, sweetheart,” he whispers, his voice low and thick with emotion as he could feel your pain. “I can’t take away the pain, but I’m right here. You’re not alone. Not now, not ever.”
You gripped him, sobs wracking through your body, tears making his scrubs darker. He gently rocks you, slow and steady, pressing soft kisses to your temple, the top of your head and your cheeks. Each touch is deliberate, full of love, care and promise he had for you.
“I did… everything,” you managed to choke out, voice cracking. “Compression, medications…I–he just didn’t..”
Jack lifts your head so your eyes meet his. “I know,” he repeats softly. “I know you're tired. You have everything you had. That’s all anyone could ask for, and it's more than enough.”
You shake your head, clinging to him, letting yourself be vulnerable as you lie in his arms. “It’s not enough… he was so small… so fragile…”
Jack hums softly, pulling you closer, rocking you slightly as you tremble. “I know… “ he whispers. “But you’re not alone. I’m right here. I’m not letting go.”
His fingers stroke your back, fingertips brushing your hair. He murmurs over and over, soft words of love and care, grounding you as the storm of grief crashes through your body.
“I love you,” he whispers finally. “I love you so much. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere. ”
You cling to him, forehead pressed to his chest, letting yourself fall apart completely, letting him carry your grief with you. Outside, the hospital hums on, footsteps, alarms, the distant chaos of the emergency department, but in this quiet room, it feels far away.
And for the first time since the alarm went off, since the little boy’s flatline, the crushing weight of the world eases, if only for a moment.
summary: maddie pierce is a doctor. a good doctor? she isn't sure. maddie pierce is a big sister. a good sister? she isn't too sure about that either. maddie pierce is completely and utterly lost in her own life. she also has strange underlying sexual tension with her coworkers! can maddie make it through her shift at PTMC without having a mental breakdown or have HR involved? find out here! follows season one of the pitt! each chapter is one episode!
prologue
CHAPTER ONE - 7:00 AM
Maddie steps through the hospital doors and veers immediately toward the stairwell, her sneakers squeaking faintly against the polished floor. She takes the steps two at a time, her hand barely grazing the railing as she descends, the fluorescent lights flickering overhead. She emerges into the waiting room and slows instinctively, her momentum bleeding away as the space unfolds before her. Families cluster together in tight knots. Couples whisper with their heads bent close, fingers intertwined or gripping plastic cups of bad hospital coffee. Individuals pace shallow paths worn into the tile, their eyes distant. Someone laughs too loudly at a phone screen, the sound jarring and out of place. Someone else stares straight ahead, unmoving, their hands folded so tightly in their lap that their knuckles have gone white.
She exhales softly and threads her way toward the ED doors, weaving between chairs and abandoned magazines. She scans her ID against the reader. The doors buzz open with a mechanical click, and she slips inside, the sound of the doors closing behind her sealing her away like an airlock.
She spots Robby almost immediately.
He's standing near the wall of framed doctors, his broad shoulders slightly hunched, eyes fixed on a face that will never leave him. Dr. Adamson. The weight of the anniversary of his death hangs around him like a heavy coat. He looks distant, like he's somewhere else entirely—somewhere Maddie can't follow. His first time working this day since Dr. Adamson died during COVID.
"Hey," she murmurs as she approaches, her voice soft enough not to startle him.
He towers over her, as always. A full foot taller, maybe more. She has to tilt her head back just to meet his eyes. He smells like coffee and the city: warm, faintly bitter, with an undertone of some sort of woodsy soap and something distinctly him, grounding in a way she didn't realize she needed.
Her voice reaches him.
Robby turns, the distant look fading as his eyes settle on her, sharpening with recognition and something softer beneath. "Hey yourself," he says, his smile slow and easy as he runs a hand over his salt-and-pepper beard. His brown eyes meet hers and linger, just a fraction too long, enough to make something in her chest flutter.
Maddie swallows hard and drops her gaze to her Converse—scuffed, breaking down at the sides, the laces fraying. She keeps meaning to replace them and never does. Another thing to add to the list.
She's suddenly hyperaware of the space between them, specifically the lack of it. She tips her head awkwardly toward the center desk, a half-formed suggestion. Robby catches it, something soft flickering across his expression, before he falls into step beside her.
They cross to the center desk together, movements synchronized. Dropping her messenger bag onto the counter with a dull thud, Maddie slips her stethoscope free from where it's tangled with her keys and hospital ID, and settles it around her neck. The familiar weight presses lightly against her collarbone, cool metal against warm skin. She closes her eyes briefly, letting out a slow breath. Drop it here, Maddie, she tells herself. The overdue electric bill. Milo being weird. Dad’s constant calls. This isn’t the place.
“Gloria’s looking for you,” a voice calls from behind the desk, cutting through her thoughts.
Maddie opens her eyes to find Dana looking up at them, one brow already arched, as if she’s been waiting.
Robby groans theatrically as he pulls out his own stethoscope, the sound rumbling from deep in his chest. "No guts, no Gloria. Must be time for my weekly spanking."
Maddie snorts before she can stop herself, pressing her lips together to hide it. Dana shoots her a look that's half warning, half fond, the corner of her mouth twitching.
“Try to behave, for all our sakes,” Dana says, smiling despite herself. Her gaze shifts back to Robby, softening just a touch. “You sure you’re okay being here today?”
“Yeah,” Robby replies suspiciously easily, “Why wouldn’t I be?” His eyes slide past hers, already finding something else to focus on, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly.
Maddie notices. Dana does too. They exchange a look.
“Well,” Dana says gently, “if you need to talk—”
“I won’t,” Robby cuts in, eyes lifting to the board above her head. “But thanks.” A beat. “Where’s Abbott?”
“Getting some air,” Dana answers, her mouth tightening as she nods toward the stairs. She gives them both a look that says more than she does.
Maddie and Robby sigh at the same time. Robby turns toward the stairwell without hesitation. Maddie follows, then stops short when a hand catches her arm.
Dana’s touch is light, but firm.
“Make sure they’re okay, yeah?” Dana says softly. “Both of them.”
Maddie swallows around the sudden thickness in her throat, nods once, and offers a synthetic smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes, before turning back to the stairs.
—
The roof door creaks shut behind them with a metallic groan, and the cold bites through Maddie's scrubs instantly, bitter and unforgiving. She sucks in a breath through her teeth, her arms crossing instinctively over her chest as goosebumps ripple down her skin. Maddie had always hated the cold.
Jack Abbott stands beyond the safety rails, facing the city. A siren wails somewhere below, weaving through the low rumble of traffic.
"Morning, Jack," Robby says, stepping closer, hands buried deep in his pockets, shoulders hunched against the cold.
Maddie drifts to the opposite rail, mirroring him. She observes Jack in silence—the slump of his shoulders, the way he shifts his weight onto one leg as if the other aches. She knows the prosthetic wears on him after a while, especially during long shifts. Her brow furrows. He shouldn't be up here alone.
Jack glances at Robby, then flicks a look at her, his hazel eyes tired and rimmed with red. "What are you doing here?"
"Working," Robby replies easily, "And you?"
Jack shrugs, eyes still on the city. “Had a guy come in. Hit by a drunk driver in a crosswalk. Thirty-nine-year-old vet. Survived three tours without a scratch. I spent the last two hours coding him.”
Something tightens in Maddie’s chest. She looks down at her shoes, the familiar ache of loss settling in quietly. "That's always a rough way to end the night," she says, voice low, barely audible over the wind.
Jack leans a little further over the edge, “I must’ve had a reason to keep coming back once…can’t think of it right now.”
Robby’s voice cuts in, calm but firm, “Because this job…it keeps on giving. Nightmares. Ulcers.”
Maddie adds, “Suicidal tendencies.”
Jack lets out a small, dry laugh. The sound is rough around the edges, but real. Something stirs inside Maddie at the sound, something warm and fluttering that she has no business feeling right now. She pointedly ignores it, pressing her lips together and refocusing on the skyline.
“Besides,” Robby says, smirking, “if you jump on our shift, that’s just rude, man.”
Jack exhales, then ducks back under the railing to stand safely on the other side, “Hope I’m never one of your patients,” he says, a faint grin tugging at his mouth, softening the harsh lines of exhaustion on his face.
“That makes two of us,” Robby replies, clapping him on the back. The two exchange a soft look, one that comes with years of knowing and understanding each other.
They head toward the door together, their footsteps echoing across the empty rooftop. Maddie follows, the knot in her stomach loosening. Jack glances at her as they go, something softer in his eyes, and a faint smile pulling at his lips. Warmth spreads through her chest in response, quiet but unmistakable, like sunlight breaking through clouds. She returns the smile, lets it linger just a beat longer than necessary, then falls back behind them, giving them space. She keeps her gaze on her shoes as they move toward the elevator. Stop it, Maddie, she tells herself again, tightening her jaw. Now is not the time.
The elevator doors slide shut with a soft hiss. Maddie naturally settles between Robby and Jack, like she's always done, her shoulder brushing Robby's arm, the heat from Jack's body radiating through her skin. She can smell Jack's cologne, something warm and citrusy, mixing with the lingering scent of Robby's coffee.
Jack speaks first, his voice softer now, breaking the silence. "How's your brother? Milo? Kid doing okay?"
Maddie's smile falters just slightly before she steadies it, muscle memory kicking in, the same smile she's been using since she was old enough to lie convincingly. "Yeah… yeah, he's alright. Acting a little weird, but… probably just school stress."
Probably. The word tastes like uncertainty. Like the knot that's been sitting in her stomach for the past week. The one that tightens every time Milo comes home and goes straight to his room without saying hello. Every time he picks at his food instead of eating. Every time she catches him staring at nothing, his dark eyes distant and unreachable.
Maddie's eyes look everywhere but at the two men beside her; the floor numbers ticking down, the dents on the metal walls, her own reflection distorted in the polished surface. Jack nods once, his gaze drifting to Robby. Robby's eyes flick to Jack's, then back to Maddie, something passing silently between them. They know I'm lying. Of course they know.
"I'm sure… he's just being a dumb kid," Robby says softly, his tone deliberately casual, giving her an out. "Nothing else going on, right?"
Maddie shakes her head, though her brow creases, doubt etching itself across her features. "No… no, not that I can think of—"
Her phone buzzes against her hip, the vibration sharp and insistent. The sound feels louder than it should in the enclosed space. She checks it reflexively, sees another missed call from her dad: Padre flashing across the screen with a photo she’s been meaning to delete, and huffs a breath, before tucking it away without answering.
Jack tilts his head, “Important call?”
"N-No, no. It's just… my Dad. He's been calling for a little while. Nothing major." The lie tastes bitter on her tongue. Discomfort radiates through Maddie's body, crawling under her skin like insects, making her squirm in her skin. Now he's calling me at work, she thinks, her jaw clenching involuntarily. Asshole. She hasn't spoken to him in eight months, not since he banged down her door that night. And now he's bleeding into her job, into the one place she's supposed to be able to focus on something other than the mess of her personal life.
Robby shifts his weight, drawing her attention. Jack's fingers tap once against the railing, then still. The two of them allow a moment for Maddie to say something else, to elaborate, to ask for help. She doesn't. She never does.
"I've got a pregnant teen coming back today for Mifepristone," Jack says, shifting gears, knowing when to drop a subject. "And a small bowel obstruction that's been waiting for surgery for the last three hours."
They both nod, absorbing it.
“Oh, and unfortunately… the Kraken is still boarding in BH.”
Maddie groans, tipping her head back against the cold metal wall, “Still?”
"Guy's been here a week waiting for the psych ward," Robby says, stepping aside as a nurse pushes an empty wheelchair into the elevator, the wheels squeaking softly. He presses himself against the wall to make room, his arm brushing against Maddie's.
“Yep. He’s only getting worse,” Jack adds, mouth pressing into a grim line. “Catching some Zyprexa Z’s at the moment, but when he wakes up… God help you all.”
Maddie chuckles under her breath. Robby’s mouth curves briefly before flattening again.
“I wrote a note for the family of my dead vet, if anyone shows,” Jack continues, handing Robby an envelope. “Oh, and the med students and new interns start today. Good luck with that.”
“Lucky, lucky me,” Robby mutters, his breath heavy with resignation.
"Hey, they might not be so bad!" Maddie says as the doors open with a cheerful ding, a bounce in her step as she moves forward.
Both men groan.
“You just see the absolute best in people,” Jack says, sarcastically, “And you like making new friends.”
Robby snorts. Maddie rolls her eyes, crossing her arms over her chest, “Whatever. I wasn’t bad my first shift.”
They both pull skeptical faces.
“What?! I wasn’t!”
“You told a patient’s father that he was ‘an experiment in artificial stupidity’ if he was being ‘this dumb’ not to let you operate on his son,” Robby says dryly.
Heat floods Maddie's cheeks. "I was just saying what everyone was thinking! And it worked, didn't it?"
“Yeah, yeah, whatever, kid,” Jack mutters, rolling his eyes and rubbing his face.
Maddie frowned slightly as Jack's words settled over her like a wet blanket. Kid.
Jack wasn't wrong. She did like meeting new people. Liked being friendly. That was part of why she did this job, right? Seeing new faces, connecting, helping people… it wasn't wrong to care.
But… what if it was? What if it just made her look… naive? Childish? Like she didn't belong here, like she was playing doctor instead of being one? Her stomach twisted, anxiety coiling tight. Usually, she could keep it together. But sometimes she… didn't. Sometimes she snapped. Sometimes she lost her temper and said things she probably shouldn't, let her emotions bleed through the careful walls of professionalism she had built. Did that mean she wasn't good enough? Did Robby and Jack think less of her? Think of her as a kid? Was that all she was to them? Should she even care what they thought?
You're twenty-two, Maddie. You're a second-year resident. You're allowed to not be perfect.
But the voice in the back of her head that sounds suspiciously like her father whispers back: Why aren’t you? You're supposed to be perfect. I made you to be perfect.
She opened her mouth, half-formed words hanging there—some kind of defense or explanation or maybe just a joke to deflect—but before anything came out, chaos hit like a freight train.
A naked man bursts out of a nearby room, slamming the door behind him with enough force to rattle the frame. His skin is pale and blotchy, covered in a fine sheen of sweat, his eyes wild and unfocused.
“Sir! Get back here!” a nurse shouts.
"No needles! No needles!" the man screams, his voice cracking with genuine terror, bare feet slapping against tile as he tears down the hall, his hospital gown nowhere in sight.
Perlah is already in motion, security right on her heels.
The three of them freeze mid-step, watching the chaos disappear around the corner like a tornado moving through the ED, leaving stunned silence in its wake.
Jack turns slowly to Robby, “You sure you wanna work today?”
—
The trio make their way over to Jack's workspace, weaving around a gurney being steered toward imaging. The orderly pushing it nods at them as they pass, and Maddie returns the gesture automatically.
Jack leans over his chair and wakes his screen with a tap of the spacebar, shoulders squared. His fingers find the keyboard and begins working on last-minute charts. The faint crease between his brows doesn't ease.
He looks exhausted, Maddie thinks, her chest squeezing with concern. When's the last time he actually slept?
Robby claims the adjacent station, setting his coffee down within easy reach, before logging in. Maddie takes the station beside him, slipping her messenger bag beneath the desk where it won't be in anyone's way, and smoothing the wrinkled edge of her scrub top with both hands before pulling up her charts. The blue glow of the screen reflects in her eyes. Familiar. Constant. Consistent. The rhythm of charting, checking labs, reading notes left by the night shift calmed her down.
Her phone buzzes again in her pocket, insistent against her thigh. She groans quietly. This did not.
The ED carries on around them: keyboards clacking, a phone ringing at the nurse’s desk, Collins and Langdon talking nearby. Maddie catches only fragments of it, the words dissolving into background noise as she settles in, pulling up her last chart:
Patient: Marcus Thompson, 67M, chest pain, possible MI, awaiting cardiology consult—
A woman approaches from the desk, slowing as she reaches them. She’s blonde, hair pulled back into a slightly too-tight braid, not a single hair out of place. Glasses sit high up on her nose. She stands straight, hands clasped tightly in front of her, practically buzzing in place.
New intern, Maddie thinks immediately, recognizing the bright-eyed look. Looks like she’s gonna vibrate out of her skin.
“Dr. Robinavitch? Melissa King. I will be joining you today. I just came from two months at the VA,” the woman says excitedly.
Robby turns toward her, and he offers his hand. “Hey, welcome to the Pitt,” he says. “This is Dr. Jack Abbot and Dr. Madeline Pierce.”
Maddie steps forward before Jack can look up—saving him from having to engage when he's clearly running on fumes—smiling softly as she extends her hand to shake Melissa's. Her grip is firm but warm, something she'd learned to get right over time through repeated practice. A good handshake matters, Madeline, her father used to say, standing too close, his breath smelling of whiskey and cigarettes. Too strong and you're aggressive. Too soft and you're weak. Never be weak. She pushes the memory away, focusing on the woman in front of her instead.
“Nice to meet you,” Melissa says, practically vibrating with excitement, breaking Maddie out of her thoughts, “I can’t tell you how excited I am to be here today, so…”
Maddie grins as she nods along. There’s something sincere about Melissa, and Maddie can’t help but feel a quiet pull of affection. It’s been a while since she’s seen someone who’s this genuine. This…present. It’s a nice change.
"Talk to me at the end of the day," Abbott says from his workstation, not bothering to look up, casting Melissa a sideways look from the corner of his eye before returning to his screen. "See if you're still excited then."
Robby lifts his coffee mug as he steps away from the desk, "Ignore him. He had a rough night."
Maddie follows, falling into step beside him, glancing back over her shoulder at Jack. "And is having an ongoing existential crisis," she adds, tone teasing but not unkind, eyes flicking briefly to Jack's profile; the tired lines around his eyes still concerning her.
“Don’t worry, you’ll get there soon enough,” Jack says, his eyes following them.
Maddie glances back again, unable to help herself, giving him a playful glare that doesn't quite hide the concern underneath. Are you okay? Really? she wants to ask, but doesn't. Not here. Not now. She can’t let herself fall so easily.
Instead, she catches the faint lift at the corner of his mouth. Their eyes meet for a moment—quick, almost accidental, charged with something she can't quite name—and she turns away a little too quickly, swallowing hard, heat creeping up the back of her neck.
Robby signals to Maddie that he’s going to check on Dr. Mohan, and she nods, staying behind with Melissa.
"Uh, I go by Maddie, by the way," she says, turning back to Melissa with a friendly smile, tucking a stray strand of dark hair behind her ear that's escaped from her ponytail. “Nobody really calls me Madeline.”
“Yeah, same! Well, not the same. I don’t mean that I go by Maddie or that nobody calls me Madeline—” Melissa stumbles over her words, twisting the ends of her stethoscope. Maddie can’t help the small smile that creeps across her face, the corners of her eyes softening. Oh, she’s adorable.
“I-I, uh, I go by Mel. Not Melissa. Nobody calls me Melissa,” she finishes, glancing to the side, cheeks faintly pink. Maddie lets out a short laugh, the sound warm, not mocking. She nods, tilting her head to the side to deliberately catch Mel's averted gaze, waiting patiently until their eyes meet again.
“Cool. Guess we’re nickname twins now,” Maddie says, a grin tugging at her lips. She lets her posture relax, leaning on the counter. See? I’m chill. You’re chill. We’re chill.
Mel lifts her gaze, meeting Maddie’s. She tilts her head, squints slightly, and then her smile spreads, hesitant, but relieved. Her fingers stop fidgeting, resting loosely at her sides, though her foot taps once against the floor before she catches herself. Cute.
“So, you’re a resident, then?” Maddie asks, leaning a little forward, her elbow brushing the counter, eyes scanning Mel as if trying to get a read without looking too obviously.
“Uh, yeah. R2. You?” Mel studies her back, eyes flicking around Maddie’s face.
"Same. R2," Maddie says, already anticipating where this is going due to Mel’s scrutiny. She tucks her hands into her pockets for a moment, adjusting her scrubs, "And, yeah… I'm young. Graduated at twenty. I'm twenty-two now."
She says it matter-of-factly, like it's just another piece of information, but her jaw tightens. She's had this conversation hundreds of times. Sometimes it goes well. Sometimes it doesn't.
Maddie suppresses a laugh, the corner of her mouth twitching as she glances down at her shoes. Here we go, Maddie sighs internally, bracing herself for the usual line of questioning. How? Why? Are you some kind of genius? Were you homeschooled? Did you skip grades?
Mel swallows visibly, her throat working, and straightens her spine, fingers twisting lightly in front of her as if trying to channel her surprise into something resembling professional composure. "I-I mean, wow. Yeah. That's… really impressive. I-I thought you looked young, but… wow. N-No biggie, though! Sorry, I'm just impressed."
There's no condescension in her voice. No skepticism. Just genuine admiration that takes Maddie by surprise.
“No worries,” Maddie says, letting her smile linger, softening her shoulders as they drop from their defensive hunch. Huh. “A lot of people react that way. I just don’t like it when people assume I’m unqualified.”
Which happens more frequently than I would like, she adds silently, thinking of past attendings who dismiss her input, patients who would ask to speak to a "real doctor," the way some nurses would treat her like she had no clue what she was talking about.
Mel nods, eyes steady and earnest. “Yeah. Totally get it.”
Maddie smiles again, gentler now, warmer. But not from you. There's something about the way Mel looks at her—respectful, curious without being invasive—that feels different.
She straightens before she can think too much about it, checking the clock on the wall. "It was good to meet you, Mel. Dr. Robby's probably gonna call rounds in a few minutes, and I just need to check in with someone real quick."
Mel’s shoulders lift slightly, her smile widening just a touch, “Good to meet you, too! See you in a bit!”
She seems…thoughtful. Kind. Friendly. That’s good. She smiles again to herself. Jack can suck my balls.
—
Maddie drifted over to where Langdon and Collins stood reviewing the board. The board glowed with color-coded names and room numbers, a visual representation of the chaos they'd be navigating for the next twelve hours. She came up beside them and rested her elbow on the edge of Langdon's desk, settling into a comfortable lean.
"Morning, you two," she chirped, her voice deliberately bright, trying to inject some positivity into the pre-shift tension that always hung in the air.
“Morning, sunshine,” Langdon said without looking up, mouth slanting into a smirk as he typed.
Sunshine.
Maddie's smile faltered—barely, just a tiny flicker, a microscopic crack in the facade—and a small crease formed between her brows before she could smooth it away. Langdon’s nickname for her always landed a little… wrong. A little patronizing. A little kid-sister, like she was the ED's child instead of an actual doctor. She knew Langdon didn't mean it that way, at least, she didn't think he did, but it still made something in her chest tighten uncomfortably, made her want to prove herself time and time again.
She smoothed her expression before either of them could notice, forcing the smile back into place, wider this time, more convincing.
"You ready for today? New interns," she said brightly, redirecting, pushing past the discomfort.
"Yup. Thrilled," Collins deadpanned, her gaze still glued to the board, not even pretending to be enthusiastic. Her voice was flat, exhausted.
A beat of silence passed, heavy and awkward. Collins blinked slowly, like she was processing on a delay, then sighed, a deep, bone-tired sound, "Sorry. Rough morning."
“All good,” Maddie said gently, studying her face. “You okay?”
"Yep," Collins answered too quickly, already stepping back from the desk. "Just tired. I'm gonna go prep before Robby starts rounds."
Maddie watched her go for another moment, concern tugging at her, then turned back to Langdon, "You know what's up with her?"
He lifted a shoulder in a shrug, still typing, "No clue."
He finally pushed away from his desk with a squeak of chair wheels and came around to face her properly, stretching his arms above his head until his back cracked audibly. "But you—" he pointed at her with a pen, "—better be on your A-game. Heard this batch of newbies is… something."
Maddie raised a brow, half amused, half intrigued, crossing her arms over her chest. "Something how? And when have I ever not been on my A-game?"
Langdon gave her a slow, knowing look, "Mmm-hmm," he hummed, the sound dripping with sarcasm.
"What?" Maddie demanded, but he was already turning back to his computer, effectively ending the conversation with a dismissive wave of his hand.
She rolled her eyes and pulled out her phone, checking her messages. Three texts from Milo's school about an upcoming parent-teacher conference she'd already scheduled. Another missed call from her dad. Her thumb hovered over the notification before she swiped it away.
After a moment, Langdon nodded toward her phone. “Your dad still calling?”
Maddie slipped the phone back in her pocket. “Yeah. Still calling. I’ll…deal with it eventually.”
Eventually. Maybe never. Preferably never.
Langdon hesitated, his fingers stilling on the keyboard. "Maybe you should do it sooner rather than later. Give him a chance. If he's trying this hard, he must have something he needs to tell you."
Maddie froze, her whole body going rigid. She turned fully toward him, pivoting on her heel, an incredulous look spreading across her face like a storm cloud. Is he serious right now?
He knew her past with her father. She'd told him—over drinks one night after a particularly brutal shift, when the alcohol had loosened her tongue, and the exhaustion had stripped away her usual defenses. He knew about the bruises, about the drugs, about the years of broken promises and empty apologies.
"You're joking," she said, her voice flat, disbelieving.
His brows knit together, "No? I just mean, he told you he's been working on himself. Maybe it's worth hearing him out."
She let out a humorless laugh, the sound sharp and bitter. Her hands clenched into fists at her sides, nails digging into her palms. "I've given him a second chance. And a third. And a fourth."
Her voice was rising slightly, emotion bleeding through despite her best efforts to keep it contained. "When he says 'working on himself,' that means he found a new wife to disappoint, checked himself into rehab just long enough to get the completion certificate, and bought a self-help book he'll never open. It doesn't matter. He was a shitty dad before the drugs. They just made it easier to pretend that was the only problem."
The words came out harsher than she intended, raw and unfiltered. She watched Langdon's expression shift. Something tightened behind his eyes, something unsettled by her bluntness.
Good, part of her thought viciously. Be uncomfortable. You should be.
But another part of her—the part that hated conflict, that wanted everyone to like her, that spent her childhood learning to read rooms and defuse tension before fists started flying—immediately felt guilty for snapping at him.
Maddie frowned at his reaction, her anger cooling into confusion, about to ask what his deal was, when Robby reappeared at the end of the hallway with McKay and the new interns following behind him in a nervous cluster, effectively cutting off their conversation.
Saved by the bell, Maddie thought, forcing her hands to unclench.
“As you can see, we have some new faces with us this morning,” Robby starts, “Good morning, good morning. Come on over.”
Maddie's eyes drift over the group almost immediately, her body shifting into assessment mode without conscious thought. A habit she's utilized to her advantage since she was young. Old habits die hard.
Let's see what we're working with here.
He moves to Mel. “Starting with second-year resident Dr. Melissa King, fresh from the VA.”
Mel's hands are clasped tight in front of her, knuckles white with the pressure, and her smile is wide—almost painfully wide, like she's trying to physically manifest enthusiasm through sheer force of will. "Everyone calls me Mel," she adds quickly, her voice a touch too loud in her nervousness. "I'm so happy to be here."
Maddie shoots her a small smile, which Mel immediately returns. Something warm flickers in Maddie's chest at the exchange. We're gonna be friends. I can feel it.
Robby nods at the taller woman beside Mel, signaling her forward.
“Trinity Santos, intern,” she says, arms tucked behind her back, chin high. Maddie studies her more carefully, noting the small smirk playing at the corner of her mouth. Confident. Good. We need confidence here. But maybe a little too confident. That could be a problem. Especially when working with others.
“Victoria Javadi, MS3,” the next woman says. Maddie turns to her, noting her younger appearance. She looked nineteen, maybe twenty. Huh. Similar to me. She gives Victoria a knowing nod with a smile, which the girl hesitantly returns.
"Uh, Dennis Whitaker, MS4," the guy standing next to Victoria says, and immediately Maddie's attention zeroes in on him.
Oh, honey.
Small frame, maybe 5'7" if he's lucky. Pale, like hasn't-seen-sunlight-in-months pale. Mousy brown hair that’s definitely not in style. Maddie notices the dark circles under his eyes. Chronic sleep deprivation? Or just one bad night? His hands fidget constantly at his sides, fingers twitching, adjusting his stethoscope, never quite settling. His eyes dart around the room, as if sustained eye contact is physically painful.
She wonders if he's always that tense, or if it's just first-day jitters amplified by the intensity of the ED. Dude looks like he's about to cry. She can see the shine of moisture at the corners of his eyes, the way he blinks repeatedly like he's trying to keep his composure.
Cute, she thinks. Hope he’s actually cut out for this.
"Welcome to the Pitt, I'm—" Robby starts, but Dana cuts him off mid-sentence, appearing at his elbow with a phone raised up to her ear.
“We’ve got two traumas from the T. Five minutes out,” she says, sharp, all business.
“Okay, copy that,” Robby replies, calm as a river. “Actually, this is the most important person that you’re gonna meet today. This is Dana. She’s our charge nurse. She is the ringleader of our circus. Do what she says when she says it.”
Maddie watches as he gestures to Dana. She throws Maddie a small wink, and Maddie returns it with a small smile.
“As you can see, our house is always packed, and our department is mostly clogged up with boarders. Those are admitted patients waiting for a room upstairs, sometimes for days. Beds are a very precious commodity around here, so please be quick and efficient with your workups.”
The interns nod. Maddie studies them, mentally rating their survival odds. Mel—90%, she's got the VA experience. Santos—75%, confidence will either save her or kill her. Victoria—60%, she's young but seems clever enough. Whitaker—40%, unless he gets out of his own head.
“What else…” Robby continues, “We treat the sicker patients back here, but please keep your eye on that waiting room, make sure nobody’s gonna die out there.” He gives them a serious look, drilling it into them.
"Your senior residents are Dr. Collins and Dr. Langdon." Both nod on cue, Collins having returned from wherever she'd disappeared to. "You report to them, they report to me. Your other residents are Dr. McKay, Dr. Mohan, and Dr. Pierce." The interns nod again.
“Great. Senior residents, you got your sign-outs?”
“Yep,” Collins replies. Langdon nods.
“Okay. Let’s do this,” Robby says, leading the group down the hallway.
Maddie falls into step behind them, her earlier conversation with Langdon still sitting uncomfortably in her chest. Her phone buzzes again in her pocket. She ignores it.
—
“Virgil Straker,” Langdon starts as the group shuffles into the room, his tablet already in his hand, “9mm GSW to the left shoulder. CT angiogram negative. Surgery wants to admit for overnight observation.”
Maddie gives Straker a warm smile as she checks his vitals, “Good vitals,” she reports, angled toward Robby.
"They repeat a crit?" Robby asks without looking up, his attention focused on carefully peeling back the edge of Straker's shoulder dressing, checking for any signs of fresh bleeding or infection.
“Stable crits every two hours times three,” Langdon says.
Robby nods, satisfied, re-securing the dressing. "Discharge on Ceftin, recheck tomorrow. He'll get more rest at home." Then he drops into that gentler mode he reserves for patients, the one that makes Maddie's heart do something strange, leaning down with a half-smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes. "Good morning, Mr. Straker. Feel like going home?"
“Hell yeah,” Straker says, glancing up from his phone with a grin. Robby laughs under his breath.
“Okay,” Robby says, amused, giving the shoulder wound one more glance before stepping back and motioning them toward the hall.
They’re halfway down when Collins picks up the thread. “All right, Murphy Rottenstein. Forty-eight-year-old woman with cirrhosis and upper GI bleed. Intubated and stable after one unit. Waiting on an ICU bed.”
Maddie nods, and before the group steps into the room, a cheerful voice calls out.
“Hey, Doc!”
She doesn’t even need to look. The grin is automatic. “And we all know Louie Cloverfield,” she says, detouring toward him with the others following. “Blood alcohol of four hundred-twenty at eleven last night.”
“I’ve been cutting back,” Louie beams up at her from his wheelchair.
"How is he still breathing?" Collins says, shaking her head, but she's smiling too—it's impossible not to smile at Louie, who should be dead a dozen times over but somehow persists through sheer stubbornness and a liver that apparently defies medical science.
“That’s a lethal dose for you and me,” Robby says as he crouches down, smiling softly, “that’s happy hour for Louie.”
Maddie catches herself watching Robby's profile—the way his eyes soften when he talks to patients, the lines that appear at the corners of his eyes when he smiles—and forcibly redirects her attention back to Louie's chart. Jesus, Pierce. Get it together.
“Sobered up. Had two rounds of lorazepam,” Maddie adds.
“Hold out your hands for me, Louie,” Robby says. Louie does, and the tremor is still there. "Another two of lorazepam," Robby says, standing fully, his hand briefly touching Maddie's elbow; just a brush of contact, a signal to handle it, gone before she can really register it. But her skin tingles where his fingers were.
“On it,” Maddie nods, stepping away to find a nurse.
She finds Mateo near the med cart, his dark curls bent over a tablet, and relief floods through her. Thank God, someone I can actually talk to.
"Hey," she says, coming up beside him. "Louie needs another two lorazepam. And a Librium script for when we discharge him."
Mateo huffs a laugh, tapping the order into the system. "Back already? He's gonna outlive us all."
"Probably." Maddie forces out a laugh, the sound hollow, trying to seem casual and probably failing spectacularly if the way Mateo's eyes narrow at her immediately on her is any indication.
They've known each other since they were kids; their mothers were friends. Mateo had been there for everything: her mother's funeral when Maddie was seven, the first time her father hit her and she showed up at his house with a split lip at nine, the day she took Milo and left at twenty. He knows her tells, which tends to greatly irritate her.
Mateo gives her a sideways glance, the kind he's been giving her ever since they were kids, the one that says I see right through you, "You good?"
"Yep," she says too quickly, her eyes shifting away from him, focusing intently on the med cart.
He pulls a face, raising one eyebrow that clearly says bullshit.
She groans, her shoulders sagging in defeat. "Fine. No. My dad's still been calling nonstop."
"Again?" Mateo's whole expression morphs into one of disgust, his nose wrinkling like he's smelled something rotten. He knows her father almost as well as she does, has his own collection of memories involving raised voices and slammed doors, with Maddie sharing his bed more nights than he could count.
"Yeah." Maddie rubs at her forehead with the heel of her hand, pressing hard enough to leave a red mark, trying to massage away the tension headache that's been building since she woke up. "He's calling me at work now, too. Literally just as I clocked in. He knows that I hate that," she hisses, her voice dropping low.
"Since when does he care?" Mateo mutters, typing on the tablet angrily. The two have had this conversation hundreds of times, all resulting in the same conclusion. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t care that I hate it when he calls while I’m working. He doesn’t care that I don’t want to speak with him. He only cares about himself. What’s best for him.
"I know." She spreads her hands over her face in a helpless gesture, frustration bleeding through. "Nothing's changed since last time. He's just… doing what he does best. Creating more problems, pretending to solve them, and crawling back to me so that I can fix it for him.”
"Yeah," Mateo says quietly, and she loves him for not trying to fix it, for not offering solutions that won’t help or suggesting she give her father another chance or any of the typical bullshit people usually say. He just creates a safe space, with no pressure. She appreciates it.
She blows out a breath, "And then Langdon—out of nowhere, mind you—tells me maybe I should give him another chance." She squints at Mateo, still genuinely baffled by the interaction. "Like… what?"
Mateo stops typing entirely, his hands freezing mid-motion. He turns to look at her fully, his expression morphing into confusion. "Langdon said that?"
“Right? I get he’s coming from a good place and all, but…he can’t possibly think I’m going to give that fucker another chance.”
Mateo’s mouth twists, “Weird.”
"I know. I wanted to ask what his deal was, but we got interrupted—"
The front doors burst open, and EMTs barrel through the entrance, moving fast, the noise swallowing her words completely.
"Incoming!"
Maddie snaps into motion the second the doors swing fully open, her body responding before her brain fully processes, muscle memory from the hundreds of traumas she’s done. She's moving toward the trio of EMTs with Robby appearing at her side almost instantly. The rest of the team trails after them in a loose cluster, students scrambling to keep up.
"Forty-two-year-old male, Sam Wallace," one EMT reports, his words coming fast and clipped as they roll the stretcher through, the wheels squeaking against the floor. "Blunt head trauma with agonal respirations. Dropped down on the T tracks. Couldn't tube him, LMA in place."
"Suicide attempt?" Maddie asks as she pulls on gloves from the box mounted on the wall, the latex snapping against her wrists, eyes already sweeping over the man on the stretcher.
“Rescue,” the EMT answers. “Good Samaritan. Took a spill helping an elderly woman who fell off the tracks. She’s right behind us.”
Right on cue, the woman’s screams echo through the bay, loud enough that Maddie winces.
"Okay. Trauma one. Go ahead," Robby says, his voice cutting through the chaos with calm authority, directing half the group toward the man with a gesture.
Maddie steps forward, intercepting the elderly woman as the EMTs roll her in.
“Elderly woman, fell from the T platform,” one EMT explains, raising his voice over her cries. “Good vitals, no head injuries. Degloving injury, right lower leg with open fracture dislocation to the ankle.”
Robby lifts the cloth covering her leg. The fabric peels away to reveal a mess of exposed tissue and bone, muscle glistening wet and red, the foot hanging at an unnatural angle. Maddie grimaces at the sight. Jesus Christ.
He breaks off toward trauma one, while Maddie heads to trauma two, Victoria and Whitaker following behind her.
The room is already buzzing when Maddie steps in. Gloves snap, carts clatter.
The elderly woman is still screaming, the sound piercing through the air.
Whitaker’s stationed at the bedside, eyes wide, hands hovering like he’s not sure where to place them. She slips in beside him, close enough that their arms nearly touch. He stiffens at the proximity, but she catches the way his shoulders drop just slightly, tension releasing incrementally.
Maddie nods towards the woman’s leg, signaling for him to grab it so that they could all lift her onto the table.
He fumbles for half a second, then gets a grip.
“On three,” a nurse says from the head of the gurney.
They lift together, careful and synchronized, easing the woman from the stretcher onto the table. Robby rushes back into the room, snapping on a fresh pair of gloves as he walks.
“Did she faint or did she trip off the platform?” Collins asks.
"Nobody knows," the EMT says, stepping back out of the way as the team swarms the patient. "Guy jumped down, pulled her off the tracks just as the train came in. Isolated injury to the foot."
"The train ran over her foot?" Maddie asks as she grabs trauma shears and begins cutting through the woman's bra and clothing, exposing her torso to check for other injuries they might have missed.
“Caught between the platform and the train,” the EMT confirms.
The woman screams, raw and panicked.
"Ma'am? Ma'am, what's your name?" Collins calls, projecting her voice over the noise, leaning into the patient's line of sight. "Do you speak any English?"
No answer. Just more screaming, high-pitched and frantic, words tumbling out in a language none of them recognize.
"Type three open fracture," Maddie announces to Langdon as she carefully peels back the temporary dressing, exposing the full extent of the shredded tissue beneath.
Langdon nods, already drawing up meds from the crash cart. “Two grams Cefazolin—”
Maddie leaves him to it, stepping toward Whitaker. He’s pale, frozen between the supply cart and the bed, squeezing his hands together.
She positions herself directly in his line of sight, blocking his view of the injury, and keeps her voice low, just for him. "You good?"
He swallows hard, Adam's apple bobbing. "Yeah. Yes. I'm good." His voice cracks halfway through anyway, betraying him.
"You'll get used to it," she says, grabbing a stack of gauze from the cart beside them, "Just gotta get through the first horror show. After that, your brain sorta… recalibrates. Stops seeing it as horrifying and starts seeing it as a puzzle to solve." Baptism by fire.
He exhales a shaky laugh but remains pale.
He'll be fine, Maddie thinks, studying his face. He just needs some time. And maybe a vomit bag.
"Airway and breathing are perfect," Collins reports from the head of the bed, her hands checking the woman's neck and jaw.
"As is circulation," Maddie says, turning away from Whitaker, "BP one-forty over eighty-five."
Robby nods. “Students, what might’ve made her faint on the platform?”
"Uh, TIA or CVA," Victoria says first, her voice uncertain, eyes locked on the cardiac monitors.
"Could be arrhythmia, or a cardiac event," Whitaker adds, stepping forward slightly.
"So she needs…?" Maddie prompts, encouraging them to follow the thread.
"Head CT," Victoria answers quickly, at the same time Whitaker says, "EKG and troponin."
"Good," Robby says, nodding at both of them with approval.
The doors sweep open, and Garcia breezes in. “What do we got, party people?”
“Subway train degloved her foot with an open fracture-dislocation,” Maddie answers, shifting aside so Garcia can see the leg.
"Ooh. And I thought my heels were painful," Garcia mutters, moving closer to examine the injury with a critical eye. She leans down toward the patient, raising her voice. "Ma'am, I'm Dr. Yolanda Garcia. Any pain in your chest or belly?"
The woman keeps screaming.
“Can we please push the morphine?” Garcia snaps.
“No,” Collins says firmly. “It could cloud her mental status.”
“I can’t do an exam like this. Push the damn morphine.”
"We could do a popliteal block," Maddie offers, her voice cutting through the rising conflict. "Numbs the lower leg completely, no systemic side effects. She'll still be alert enough to assess for neurological issues." Maddie catches Robby’s eye, who nods approvingly.
Garcia points at her with her index finger, a grin spreading across her face. "Wonderful. I knew we kept you around for a reason. Where's the other guy?"
"Next door, he's a bit worse," Robby says, already walking Garcia toward the door.
“Pan scan her,” Garcia calls as she leaves. “And let me know when she quits screaming.”
Princess and Maddie set up for the block. Princess positions the ultrasound probe against the back of the patient's knee, angling it slightly, searching for the popliteal nerve bundle on the grainy black and white screen. She steadies the probe, and Maddie begins threading the needle under the ultrasound guidance, watching the bright white line of the needle track through tissue layers toward the target. The needle tip reaches the nerve sheath, and Maddie slowly injects the anesthetic, the medication spreading around the nerve in a dark bloom on the ultrasound. Perfect.
Robby returns just as Princess tapes the dressing. “Nerve block complete?”
“Seems like it’s starting to work,” Maddie says, as the woman begins to quiet down, “Takes ten minutes for the full effect, and the Marcaine lasts a good four hours.”
“She’s next for CT,” Langdon says without looking up from the monitor.
Robby glances at the woman’s face. Her screams have dwindled to heavy, breathy mumblings.
“You have any idea what language that is?” he asks Princess.
“Definitely not Tagalog. Maybe Hindi or Urdu,” she says, as she adjusts the patient's IV line.
"I'll get language services on the phone," Robby says, already pulling out his cell as he heads toward the door.
Collins raises an eyebrow at Princess. “Don’t you speak, like, five languages?”
“Six,” Princess corrects, “But that’s not one of them.”
“Six?” Langdon says, “And here I thought Maddie was the smart one.”
Maddie clicks her tongue. “It is way too early for you to start being an asshole, Langdon.”
"Open hostility? In front of the patient? Really, sunshine?" His tone is teasing, but the nickname still lands wrong.
Maddie stiffens, "Thought I told you to stop calling me that," she mutters, her voice low but sharp. "And she doesn't speak English.”
Langdon smirks, clearly enjoying getting a rise out of her. "Judgmental. Dismissive." He gestures toward the two interns clustered near the end of the table, watching the exchange with wide eyes. "Observe: this is how Dr. Sunshine teaches. With compassion and grace."
“I swear to god, Langdon!” Maddie says, but she’s fighting a smile, “I will file a complaint for workplace harassment.”
"Looking forward to it. I'll wear my best tie to the hearing."
Robby returns before Maddie can formulate a response, his presence immediately shifting the energy in the room back to professional. "How's she doing?"
"Vitals stable," Maddie reports, grateful for the interruption, checking the monitor. "Heart rate's coming down now that the pain's controlled. BP holding steady."
“Unlike these two,” Princess adds, nodding at Maddie and Langdon.
"Ooh, good for you," Langdon fires back immediately. "Princess made a joke. Alert the press. This is unprecedented."
Princess mutters something vicious in Tagalog. Maddie snorts.
Langdon places a hand over his heart. “And I thank you for that beautiful blessing. Namaste.”
Robby scans the woman again, then looks up. “Okay, do we have a phone or anything with a relative’s name on it?”
Maddie shakes her head as she strips off her bloodstained gown, balling it up and tossing it in the biohazard bin. "EMT said the purse got obliterated when the subway ran over it. Total loss. Whatever ID or phone she had is gone."
“Any way I can speak with her?” a police officer asks, stepping into the room, notebook already out.
“Highly doubt it. We don’t know what language she speaks,” Robby says, walking over. “Hey, um, any chance she jumped?”
The officer grimaces, his expression darkening. "She may have been pushed." Maddie’s stomach drops.
“Jesus,” Robby murmurs.
“Yeah. Could be looking at a possible hate crime.”
Maddie looks down at the patient’s trembling hands and quietly shakes her head.
“I take it you’re free now?” a grating voice calls from the doorway.
Maddie doesn’t need to look; she sighs before even turning her head. Gloria. Of course.
Robby gives the officer a tight, pained smile, then glances back at Maddie with a kill me now expression that makes her mouth lift in the corner. He follows Gloria out of the room like a man walking to his own execution.
Maddie watches them walk toward Dana's desk through the clear doors, Robby's posture stiffening with each step, his shoulders drawing up toward his ears. Gloria's gesturing animatedly, her mouth moving rapidly, and even from here, Maddie can tell whatever she's saying isn't pleasant.
Langdon bumps her elbow lightly with his, startling her out of her observation. "Step out for a sec," he says quietly, his voice lacking its usual teasing edge. "Go check on him. See what's up."
Maddie blinks. “You sure?”
“Yeah, we’re good here.” He lowers his voice. “Gloria’s a piece of… work. And we both know Robby doesn’t need this today of all days.”
Today. The anniversary.
Maddie nods, understanding settling in her chest, and tugs off her gloves. She slips out of the trauma bay and heads toward Dana's desk.
As she approaches, Gloria’s voice cuts through the hallway like nails on a chalkboard.
“Boarding is a nationwide problem. Your predecessor, Adamson, sure as hell knew that. Or wasn’t that something he taught you?”
Maddie's eyebrows shoot up so fast they nearly reach her hairline. She did not just—
She steps beside Dana, who looks equally unimpressed, her arms crossed over her chest, her expression thunderous.
“Fuck,” Robby says, the word punched out of him, stunned and furious. “Wow. Really?”
“Yes, really. Other hospitals are managing this crisis much more effectively. So you can either step up your game, or you can step aside.”
Gloria spins on her heel and leaves. Robby stays there, shoulders tight, one hand braced on the edge of Dana’s desk.
Dana gives him a thumbs up, a quick sign of solidarity, then pats Maddie’s arm before walking off.
Maddie steps closer. “She’s a bitch.”
Robby huffs out a humorless laugh, shaking his head. “You have no idea.”
Maddie studies his face, “You sure you’re okay today?”
His face shutters instantly. He grabs his tablet like a shield. “I’m fine.”
He turns to leave, walking towards the stairwell.
"Robby—" Maddie follows him, reaching out but stopping short of actually touching him, her hand hovering in the air between them.
He spins back around, sharp and sudden, and Maddie instinctively takes a half-step back, her body remembering before her mind catches up.
"I said I was fine!" he yells, his voice echoing off the concrete walls of the stairwell.
Maddie flinches. Her shoulders come up toward her ears, her head tilts slightly down, and her weight shifts backward onto her heels. All the old defensive positions activating like muscle memory.
For a fraction of a second, she's not in a hospital stairwell. She's thirteen years old, standing in the kitchen doorway of their old apartment. Her father is drunk, the mean kind of drunk, the kind where his words get sharper, and his hands get heavier. She'd just told him that Milo needs new shoes because his toes are pressed against the front of the ones he has, and her father is spinning around from the refrigerator with that same sudden movement.
"I said we don't have the money! Stop fucking asking me for things!"
The beer bottle in his hand, sweating with condensation. The way she'd calculated the distance to Milo's room, mentally preparing to grab her brother and lock the door if the bottle left his hand and came toward her face.
She'd learned to read the trajectory of violence before it happened—to know from the set of someone's shoulders, from the clench of their jaw, from the particular quality of their voice, whether words would turn into fists. Whether she'd need to put herself between her father and Milo again. Whether tonight would be the night he went too far.
She'd gotten good at taking the hits meant for her brother. Good at calculating angles and absorbing impact. Good at making herself a target so Milo could stay safe in his room, oblivious, protected by her body and her willingness to break before he did.
You can hit me, she'd thought so many times, standing in that kitchen, in that hallway, in that living room. Just don't touch him. I can take it. He's too small. He won't understand. So hit me instead.
But, she's not thirteen anymore. Robby isn't her father. This stairwell isn't that kitchen.
But her body doesn't know the difference. Not in this moment. Not when someone she cares about is yelling at her with that same fury, that same desperate need to lash out at whoever's closest.
Her breathing has gone shallow without her realizing it. You're safe. You're safe. He's not going to hurt you. Robby isn’t him.
But the knowledge doesn't stop the fear that floods her system like cold water. Doesn't stop her from seeing her father's face overlaying Robby's for a terrible, disorienting moment.
Robby's chest is still heaving, his eyes wild, but something in her expression must register because his face suddenly changes, the anger draining away, replaced by a dawning realization.
"Maddie—" he starts, his voice completely different now, softer, regretful.
But she's already moving, already pushing past him in the narrow stairwell, her shoulder brushing his chest as she passes. She needs space. She needs air. She needs to not be in this confined space with someone who just made her feel like that scared thirteen-year-old again.
"I'm fine," she says, her voice flat and mechanical, "You're right. I’ll leave you alone.”
"Maddie, wait, I didn't mean—"
But she's already gone, pushing through the stairwell door and back into the ED.
Just keep moving, she tells herself, her vision blurring slightly at the edges, her heart still racing. Keep moving, and you'll be okay. Keep moving. Keep moving.
Don't let him see that he scared you. Don't let anyone see.
Don't be weak.
Maddie spots Garcia and Santos heading toward trauma two.
She breathes out slowly, physically shakes off the moment—shoulders rolling back, spine straightening—and follows them back into the trauma bay.
Focus on the work. What you can control.
Inside, she pulls on new gloves and a fresh gown as Garcia starts briefing, her voice cutting through Maddie's spiraling thoughts.
"Good Samaritan dude has a small left temporal intraparenchymal bleed. Nothing surgical at this point."
"No epidural, no subdural, no midline shift in the brain," Santos adds.
“That’s good news,” Collins says. “He could recover.”
Garcia gestures toward the elderly woman’s leg. “CT can take her in five. Let’s have a look. Bandage scissors?”
Maddie hands them over immediately.
“All right,” Collins says to the interns, sliding into teaching mode. “If an artery is totally transected, the smooth muscle and the tunica media contracts with hemostasis.”
The interns nod.
“But if it’s a partial cut, get out your umbrella,” Maddie jokes, pushing down her anxiety.
“Grab a culture from the open fibula before you reduce,” Garcia says.
“You’re up,” Collins signals to Victoria, handing her the culture swab.
Victoria inhales, steps closer, and carefully takes the sample. Maddie gives her an encouraging nod.
“Dr. Pierce will stabilize the knee for the reduction,” Collins continues. “Dr. Langdon will be distracting distally before moving medially to clear the tibia.”
Maddie shifts into place at the knee, bracing it between her palms. She nods at Langdon, letting him know to start.
Langdon slides lower on the leg, gripping the ankle, maneuvering the tibia, pulling gently but firmly, trying to coax the displaced bone back into proper alignment.
Out of the corner of her eye, Maddie spots Victoria’s face lose color. A beat later, her eyes roll back, and she collapses onto the floor with a dull thud.
Without looking up from the patient, Santos says dryly, “Med student down.”
—
Maddie guided Victoria and Whitaker out of trauma two, keeping a gentle hand on Victoria's elbow—fingers light but ready to catch her if her knees buckled again—just in case she decided to faint a second time. Whitaker trails close behind them.
They reached the central desk, where Robby was hunched over a monitor.
"Dr. Robby?" Maddie says, keeping her voice flat.
He looks up immediately, his eyes finding hers. Something flickers across his face—relief, maybe concern—before his gaze shifts to Victoria.
"She took a fall," Maddie continues, tilting her head toward Victoria.
"No, I–I tripped on the gurney. I'm fine," Victoria blurts out, the words tumbling over each other. Her cheeks are flushed with mortification, her hands twisting together.
Whitaker, standing just behind her, slowly shakes his head.
Robby steps toward Victoria, "Why don't you go get a cold drink in the staff lounge? Maybe sit down for a few minutes."
"I'm fine, really. I swear," Victoria insists, her voice rising slightly with desperation. "I don't need—I can keep working."
"Oh, I know," Robby says kindly, but still firm, "But it's hospital policy. Anytime someone gets a paper cut around here, we have to fill out a workers' comp report."
Victoria nods solemnly, giving up for the moment, going to walk past Robby.
"Other way," Robby calls after her.
Victoria spins around mid-step, her cheeks flaming red, and Maddie automatically points her in the opposite direction, a sympathetic smile on her face. Sorry, girl. It sucks to get benched.
Robby's eyes flick up as Victoria hurries past, trying to meet Maddie's gaze, but she deliberately looks past him, focusing on a point somewhere over his left shoulder.
His jaw twitches. Barely perceptible, but she catches it.
He noticed.
Good. Let him sit with it.
The petty satisfaction of it surprises her; she's not usually one for games, for deliberate cruelty, but the sting of his earlier words is still fresh, still sitting uncomfortably in her chest.
She can't deal with him right now. Can't look at him without seeing that moment of rage, without feeling the echo of old fear.
She turns to Whitaker.
Maddie sighs. “Let’s take a walk.” She hooks her arm through his and steers him down the hall toward trauma one. He stiffens automatically, then relaxes half a beat later.
"You doing okay?" she asks as they walk, keeping her voice low, just between the two of them.
He nods a little too fast. “Yeah—yeah, I’m alright. Just, uh… feel like I’ve been thrown into the deep end with no knowledge of how to swim. And also extremely nauseous.” He lets out a shaky laugh.
Maddie gives him a sympathetic smile, bumping his shoulder with her arm. “Hey. It’s all good. Everyone starts out like that.”
Whitaker looks up at her. “Did you start out like that?”
Maddie presses her lips together, looking vaguely guilty. “Uh… well. Not exactly.”
Whitaker huffs a small laugh and looks at the floor, still feeling self-conscious.
“I had more experience with this sort of thing before,” she adds quickly.
He looks up, brow creasing like he’s about to ask what she means, but Maddie pushes open the doors to trauma one before he gets the chance.
Inside, Mel is stapling the Good Samaritan’s scalp, forehead scrunched in concentration.
"So, what's the plan for this guy?" Maddie asks, stepping into the room, her eyes scanning the monitors automatically: oxygen saturation good, heart rate steady, blood pressure stable. She gives Mel a small smile, catching her eye. Mel returns it briefly before refocusing on her work, placing another staple with a soft click.
"ICU, when we can get a bed," Samaira answers from near the computer, where she's been charting, walking away from the monitor as she speaks. "Admit for supportive care. Repeat head CT in three hours. Or sooner, if he blows a pupil or shows any neurological changes."
Maddie nods. “Want a Keppra load?”
Samaira shakes her head, smiling. “Order’s already in.”
Maddie returns the smile as Samaira heads out. She turns back around. “Nice job,” she tells Mel.
Mel pauses mid-staple, the stapler hovering above the patient's scalp, and looks up at Maddie with worried eyes. There's a faint crease of concern between her eyebrows. "Do you think he'll wake up?"
Maddie sighs softly. “Maybe. Maybe not.” She adjusts the drape over the patient’s shoulder. “No good deed goes unpunished, unfortunately.”
As she gestures for Whitaker to follow her back toward trauma two, Mel calls, “Oh—has anyone, um, notified the family?”
Maddie stops in the doorway, turning back. She shakes her head, "No, I don't think so. Good call, Mel.”
Mel brightens at the praise, her shoulders straightening with renewed confidence.
"Once you're done here, go find Dana; she'll take care of it," Maddie adds. "She's way better at those conversations than any of us."
Mel nods, returning to her staples with renewed purpose.
Maddie and Whitaker slip back into the hallway, their footsteps quick as they head toward trauma two again.
When they walk in, the nurses are already wheeling the elderly woman back into the room, settling her into place.
“Pan scan is negative. That means you can admit to orthopedics,” Garcia says without looking up from her phone.
“But there may have been a medical etiology if she fainted,” Maddie says, scanning the monitor.
“That’s not surgical. Get an internal medicine consult. Or admit to medicine with ortho consulting. Either way, I’m off the case,” Garcia replies, smirking as she exits the room.
Langdon huffs, throwing his hands up in exasperation. “Okay. Thanks for nothing!”
“Did we figure out what she’s speaking?” Whitaker asks, from beside Maddie, like he’s unsure if he’s allowed to ask questions.
“Last interpreter thought she might be from Pakistan,” Langdon says, rubbing his forehead.
“There are seventy-seven languages in Pakistan,” Maddie mutters.
"Okay, well, I will buy lunch for whoever figures it out," Langdon sighs, already heading toward the door. "Good luck. If you need me, I'll be saving lives. See ya, sunshine."
He salutes Maddie lazily on his way out, two fingers to his forehead.
Maddie’s eye twitches at the nickname, flipping Langdon the bird as he walks out.
“That was wicked,” Santos says, grinning as she logs into the monitor.
Whitaker stops writing for a moment, frowning. “That was gross.”
“Yeah. Too much for Little Miss Crash and Burn,” Santos smirks. Maddie shakes her head at the dig at Victoria. “What’d you do with her?”
“Nothing. I think she’ll be fine,” Whitaker says, trying his best to sound confident.
“Are you kidding? If that took her out, she’ll be lucky to make it through this rotation,” Santos snorts.
“Hey, easy on Javadi, alright?” Maddie says, giving her a pointed look. “It’s her first day. She’s only an MS3. Cut her some slack.” Whitaker swallows hard, glancing between them like a tennis match.
Santos lifts her hands in fake surrender. “Listen, all I’m saying is that some people aren’t cut out for this. And, anyway, she’s hella young too. She’s like twenty or something. Doubt she even knows what she’s doing.”
Maddie’s head snaps up. “I’m twenty-two, Santos. Do you think I don’t know what I’m doing?” The room goes quiet.
Santos freezes, startled, then laughs nervously. “Twenty-two? Holy shit. Makes you younger than all of us, even baby-faced Whitaker over there.” Whitaker looks startled, eyes widening at Maddie. “Didn’t mean to offend, sunshine. Just teasing.”
The nickname lands differently this time. More barbed, carrying an undercurrent of mockery that makes Maddie's skin prickle with anger. But she forces herself to breathe through it; in through her nose, out through her mouth.
Don’t engage. Don’t give her the satisfaction. Be professional. She’s new. She just needs to be humbled.
“Right. I’m gonna go try to figure out what language this lady speaks. You two have fun,” she says, pushing out of the room before the irritation spills over.
She makes it only a few steps before Robby spots her and heads over.
Of course. Just what I needed.
"Hey," he says quietly, stopping close. "Got a sec?"
Maddie's shoulders tense involuntarily, but she nods, sanitizing her hands at the nearby dispenser.
They stop in a quieter corner, tucked away from the rest of the ED.
Robby turns to her, rubbing his palms against his beard. "Look. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have yelled at you in the stairwell. That was out of line."
Maddie's eyes drop to the floor, her jaw tight. When she finally looks up, her voice is carefully controlled. "I don't deserve to be screamed at. Not when I was just trying to help. I was just worried about you."
"I know, I know," he says, exhaling hard, "I shouldn't have yelled. That was—that wasn't okay. But, uh, I really don't need you to try and fix me, okay?"
There's a subtle edge there, defensiveness bleeding through the apology, and it cuts deeper than his earlier outburst did.
Fix him?
Maddie's brows knit together, confusion and insult flickering across her face, "What? I don't want—I'm not trying to fix you, Robby. I'm just trying to help you. Give you support. Be there for you on a day that I know is hard." Her voice rises despite her efforts to keep it level.
"And I appreciate that," he cuts in, his tone edging toward final. "But I don't need it. Okay?”
Maddie stares at him, her anger draining into something colder.
He doesn't need me. Doesn't want me.
Just like—
She stops the thought before it can finish.
"Heard," she says flatly. Then she walks away before he can see her hands shaking.
Behind her, she hears Robby let out a frustrated breath, hears what might be him saying her name, but she doesn't turn back.
—
Moments later, the doors burst open and EMTs come rushing in through the entrance, transporting the morning's nursing home patients. Every morning after the nurses did their bed checks at the facilities, there were always elders who ended up needing to come to the ED; the predictable wave of bodies that had given up overnight or hearts that had decided to stop.
7:35, Maddie thinks, checking the clock on the wall. Like clockwork.
She walks closer to the EMTs as they bring the patients in, already assessing from a distance. Two gurneys. One patient moving, one patient not. The mechanical thump-thump-thump of a LUCAS device audible as she got closer.
"Eighty-nine-year-old woman from a SNF," the lead EMT calls out, breathless from the rush, rattling off information rapid-fire. "History of emphysema, CHF, MS. V-fib, unresponsive to three shocks. Two rounds of epi already administered." Maddie nods, walking them to room fourteen. Robby appears at her side almost immediately, walking beside her but keeping his distance.
“What is that?” Whitaker asks from behind her.
"LUCAS chest compression system," Maddie responds, pulling gloves from the box mounted outside the room and snapping them on.
“Robotic CPR,” Langdon explains, coming up from behind them.
Reaching the room, everyone surrounds the gurney.
“Everybody, get a hold. One, two, three.” Robby counts off as they lift in unison transferring from the gurney to the table in one smooth motion. Except there's a sudden sharp cry from the foot of the bed, high-pitched and pained. Whitaker jerks backward, pulling his hand free, cradling it against his chest.
Robby and Langdon sigh.
“Students are dropping like flies,” Langdon mutters.
“Take a break,” Robby says, not unkindly, but firm.
“Ice the finger, find someone to help with it after,” Maddie says gently. Whitaker nods, flustered. This is just not a good day for this guy.
“You can count on getting a couple elderly patients every day around 7:30, after the nursing homes and assisted living facilities do their morning bed checks. You can practically set your watch.” Langdon explains. The LUCAS continues pumping at the woman’s chest.
"Was there an advanced directive?" Maddie asks, positioning herself beside the LUCAS, one hand resting on the machine's frame
“No, full code, per the nursing home,” the EMT says.
Maddie’s eyebrows shot up, a sharp exhale escaping through her nose.
"Seriously?" Langdon says, his voice dripping with frustration. "An eighty-nine-year-old with end-stage everything, and she's a full code?"
"LUCAS off," Maddie says, her hand already moving to the power switch.
The sound of a flatline fills the room. “Still V-fib,” Langdon says.
"LUCAS on," Maddie says, flipping the switch back. The machine resumes its work immediately. "One more round of epi, one more shock, and then we call it?"
She directs the question to Langdon, pointedly ignoring Robby hanging by the opposite side of the table. Langdon nods.
Robby exits the room for a moment without comment, and Maddie watches him go from the corner of her eye, tracking his movement even as her hands draw up the epinephrine.
She delivers the woman another round of epi, pressing the plunger slowly, watching the medication disappear into the IV line, and then moves to the defibrillator, her fingers moving across the controls with practiced ease. "Charging to two hundred," she announces, the machine's high-pitched whine filling the room as it powers up. Langdon grabs the paddles. Robby walks back in.
"Charging, and—" Langdon has the paddles positioned, ready to deliver the shock, when Dana suddenly appears in the doorway at a near-run.
"Stop. Call it," she says, slightly out of breath, one hand raised. "Nursing home just faxed us a DNR."
Langdon scoffs, “Are you kidding me?”
Maddie groans, her head dropping forward briefly in frustration before she moves to power down the equipment. "Power off the defibrillator and the LUCAS," she says, her hands already moving to flip switches.
“Complete waste of time and money,” Langdon spits angrily, “Who the hell works at that place?”
Maddie gives Langdon a confused look, her brow furrowing as she strips off her gloves. What' the hell’s his problem? He doesn’t usually act like this.
She makes eye contact with Robby before she could stop herself. He shares the same look.
"A nurse taking care of sixty patients who couldn't find the form," Robby says firmly, his voice cutting through Langdon's anger calmly, raising his eyebrows at the younger doctor in clear warning. Check yourself.
“She called 911 so she could take care of the others,” Dana says, equally unimpressed.
Maddie sneaks a glance at Langdon, who still seems annoyed, especially after getting chewed out. Something's going on with him. This isn't about the DNR.
"Okay, let's move her to the viewing room and notify the family," Robby says. Dana nods, pulling out her phone.
Langdon goes to leave the room, moving toward the doorway, but Robby steps in front of him and slams his hand across the doorframe with enough force to make a dull thud, physically blocking his exit.
Langdon stops short, startled, looking up at Robby with something like challenge in his eyes before it fades into resignation.
"One of the things we do here," Robby says, his voice measured, "is to take a moment of silence when we lose a patient, to respect their humanity. And also to remember that this was somebody's child, or sibling, or parent, or friend."
He directs it to Whitaker, who’s still clutching his finger, nodding.
Maddie closes her eyes, taking a deep breath that fills her lungs completely before releasing it slowly. The silence in the room is heavy, respectful, broken only by the ambient sounds of the ED beyond the walls…and sudden music.
Maddie's eyes snap open, her head jerking up in shock. Whitaker is fishing frantically in his pocket, his face turning red, trying to silence his phone even as the music continues blaring. He hisses in pain when the movement jostles his injured finger. Maddie snorts, immediately slapping a hand to her mouth.
“I am so sorry,” Whitaker says, looking everywhere but at anyone’s eyes. Maddie sees Dana trying to hold in a laugh, and they make eye contact, sending them both into fits of giggles.
“Maybe leave it on vibrate while you’re working,” Robby says, amused but exasperated.
Everyone exits the room, leaving Maddie and Whitaker behind. Robby casts a look at Maddie as he leaves, but she ignores it, turning to Whitaker.
“So…you like funky music?” she teases, causing Whitaker to go bright red.
“Fuck, I’m so sorry,” he stammers, fiddling with his phone in his hands, “I really didn’t mean-”
“Relax, I’m just messing with you,” Maddie interrupts him, “Cheered everyone up though, so there’s that,” she says with a smile.
She nods to the patient, “Get her to the viewing room.” She begins to exit the room, then looks back at Whitaker, “And make sure to get someone to fix your finger, ‘kay? I’ll check back on you later,” she smiles, walking out of the room.
She walks out, walking up to Dana and Robby, who stand observing Javadi.
"How old's that kid?" she hears Dana ask as she approaches.
"Probably around twenty," Maddie responds at exactly the same moment Robby says, "Don't know."
The two share an awkward look, and Dana looks between the two of them, before speaking, “She some sort of savant, like our Maddie here?” Maddie smiles at Dana, who gives her a pat on the shoulder.
Robby begins moving towards Javadi, “I don’t know. Maybe,” he says, voice tense. The two watch Robby walk away, Javadi in tow.
Dana turns toward Maddie the second Robby is out of earshot, her expression shifting from casual to serious. "So, what happened?"
Maddie sighs—of course she noticed—and tries to walk away, but Dana follows her, "Nothing happened."
"Obviously something happened," Dana continued, "The both of you look like someone shit in your cereal this morning."
"Mm, wonderful imagery, Dana," Maddie retorts.
Dana reaches out and grabs Maddie by the arm gently but firmly, stopping her in her tracks. "I'm being serious, kid. What happened?"
Maddie faces Dana fully, shakeing her head, her shoulders sagging slightly. "We just had a disagreement, that's it."
She walks over to her desk, needing to do something with her hands, and begins shuffling things around aimlessly.
“A disagreement?” Dana questions, eyebrows raised, hand on her hip.
Maddie nods, avoiding Dana’s gaze.
"Can you… work it out?" Dana says slowly, carefully, trying to catch Maddie's gaze, but Maddie keeps her eyes determinedly fixed on her desk.
"Sure, yeah. Probably," Maddie says shortly, frustration bleeding through despite her best efforts to contain it. "I'm gonna go check in with Langdon."
She walks away before Dana can press further, feeling the weight of Dana's concerned gaze following her down the hallway.
—
“Language mystery solved yet?” Maddie asks Langdon, leaning forward on the edge of his desk.
"No," Langdon sighs heavily, looking down at his monitor where he's presumably been cycling through different languages. Then he pivots abruptly, his chair swiveling to face her more fully. "Hey, what's your take on dogs?"
Maddie gives him a baffled look, “My take on…dogs? In what context?”
“For kids,” he clarifies.
“Don’t think I’ve ever seen a kid say no to a puppy,” Maddie supplied, “Man’s best friend, you know?”
“Well, you don’t have a dog,” Langdon points out.
“Don’t have a best friend,” Maddie responds, “Closest thing to one is my baby brother.”
And even that’s been rocky lately.
“So, what am I, chopped liver?” Langdon says, half-teasing.
Maddie rolls her eyes affectionately, “You are definitely my best annoyance,” she says, “Big difference.”
"You know you love me," Langdon retorts, a smirk playing at his lips.
Maddie shakes her head playfully, but she's smiling too. Then the smile fades slightly as she remembers his earlier outburst, the unusual anger over the DNR situation. She looks at him more carefully, noting the tension still lingering in his shoulders, the way his fingers tap restlessly against his desk. "Everything okay?" she says, trying for casual, "You were acting a little… strange before. With the nursing home patient."
Langdon turns towards her, a weird look on his face. His mouth opens to respond, but before any words can form, a voice interrupts from behind Maddie.
“I have a lethargic four-year-old,” a voice from behind Maddie sounds. She turns around to see Mel coming up to Langdon’s desk. Their eyes meet, and Maddie gives her a smile. Mel returns it immediately, her face brightening. “No PMH, no antecedent illness, no fever or vomiting. Parents just couldn’t wake him up this morning.” Mel continues.
“What room?” Langdon asks, already standing up from his chair, their conversation clearly tabled.
“Oh, uh, south fifteen,” Mel says, pointing behind her, “There’s no nuchal rigidity, no skin lesions, no focal neuro. He looks well fed and cared for.”
Langdon nods, pulling some gloves on as Mel does the same. He turns towards Maddie, “You wanna come with?” Maddie nods, pulling on her gloves, following the two.
"DKA from new-onset diabetes?" Maddie questions as they walk, her mind already running through different diagnoses.
Mel shakes her head, “No, BG 85. CBC, BMP, UA, and UDS ordered.”
Maddie nods her head as Langdon opens the door to the room.
Langdon smiles at the parents, “Hi, I’m Dr. Langdon, this is Dr. Pierce, we’re just gonna take a look at your son.” The parents nod, shuffling to make room for the three of them.
"Tyler, can you wake up for me, buddy?" Langdon asks gently, leaning over the bed, one hand on the boy's small shoulder, giving it a light shake. The kid doesn't respond, not even a flutter of eyelids, just that same unnatural stillness.
Maddie looks up from examining the kid's extremities—checking for bruising, needle marks, anything that might indicate injury—and addresses the parents directly. "He's not usually this sleepy?"
The mom shakes her head emphatically, her voice tight with worry. "No, never. And he barely flinched for the blood test.”
“He wakes up at 90 miles an hour and doesn’t stop till he passes out at night,” the dad supplies.
Maddie nods as Mel whips around in concern, “He passes out?”
Maddie quickly shakes her head, catching Mel's alarmed expression. "No, I think they just mean that he goes all day and then just gets really tired at night. Like normal kid tired, not medically passing out." She looks at Mel reassuringly, trying to ease the panic she can see building.
Mel mouths an exaggerated 'oh' and nods, embarrassment coloring her cheeks pink as she looks back down at the young boy.
“Any chance he could have ingested something?” Langdon asks the parents, “Any pills, vitamins, any prescriptions that may have been left around?”
The mom shakes her head firmly, “No, that’s all kept locked in the medicine cabinet. The whole house is childproof.”
“Any alcohol? Anything left out?” Maddie questions.
The dad shakes his head, “No.”
“What about pets?” Mel asks.
The father shakes his head again, “No.”
“So he’s usually, like, quite active?” Mel asks.
“Very,” the mother responds.
“Um, any injuries lately?” Mel asks.
“No.”
"Hasn't bumped his head recently?" Mel asks, as Langdon and Maddie continue their physical examination. Maddie palpates the boy's abdomen, soft, non-tender, no masses, while Langdon listens to heart and lung sounds.
“Not that I’m aware of, but he does love roughhousing with Drew,” the mom responds, pointing to the father.
"But he never gets hurt," the dad says quickly, defensively.
“Oxygen level is normal. Good pulse and blood pressure. No signs of infection.” Maddie says to Langdon, who nods.
“We’re gonna start with blood and urine tests, check for any metabolic abnormalities,” Langdon says to Mel.
The three of them give reassuring smiles to the parents and take their leave, Mel leaving to grab the supplies for the tests.
Langdon heads back to his desk without Maddie getting to continue their conversation from earlier. Damn it. He’s avoiding me.
She sighs, but spots Whitaker sitting at a desk with Santos, his finger out. She heads over to them.
“No anesthesia, or…” she hears Whitaker say nervously.
“I’ll stop before I hit the nail bed. I hope,” Santos says with a grin, tending to his finger.
"Hey, you two," Maddie says, approaching them with a warm smile, deliberately interrupting before Santos can traumatize Whitaker further. "Oh, good, you're getting that taken care of." She gestures to Whitaker's finger, which looks angry and swollen, the nail bed dark with trapped blood.
"Blood's under pressure," Santos explains, her tone shifting slightly more professional with Maddie watching. "Just gotta drain it. Quick procedure, doesn’t hurt."
Maddie nods her approval. "Go ahead." She looks at Whitaker, noting how his eyes keep drifting toward the patient board on the wall behind them, "Eyes down here, Whitaker. Watch and learn what Santos is doing. Might come in handy.”
Whitaker drags his gaze back down obediently, his face scrunching slightly in anticipation of pain. "Sorry, I'm just seeing who's next. Trying to stay on top of the board."
“You’re supposed to take them in the order they arrive,” Santos says, slightly condescendingly.
"Yeah, I know how it works," Whitaker responds, matching her tone with surprising backbone, a flash of irritation crossing his usually anxious features. Woah. Got some fire in him afterall.
“Okay, okay, no need to argue about it,” Maddie says calmly, “Just pay attention.” Whitaker nods again, his cheeks flushing slightly pink—whether from embarrassment or from Maddie's attention, she's not entirely sure. There's something in the way he straightens his posture when she addresses him directly, something almost eager-to-please that reminds her of a puppy trying desperately to impress.
God, he’s kinda adorable in a pathetic sorta way.
Wait, no. No, no, no. No, Maddie. He’s a student. You should not be thinking about him like this!
…I mean, technically, he’s older than you.
Santos finishes the job with practiced efficiency, using the heated needle to puncture through the nail and release the trapped blood. Dark red fluid wells up immediately, and she wipes it away with gauze. "Wow, pain's gone. Thank you," Whitaker says, genuine relief flooding his voice as he takes back his hand, flexing the finger experimentally. Maddie snaps out of her thoughts to look at Whitaker’s finger, nodding at Santos in approval.
Santos nods, looking at her monitor, “All right. How about you take a 20-year-old cough in eight? Should be easy. Probably viral.”
"I don't need an easy one," Whitaker says, and there's a note of defensiveness in his voice, embarrassment coloring his features. He looks at Maddie through the corner of his eye, then quickly looks back down.
He’s embarrassed. He cares what I think of him.
"Suit yourself, Huckleberry," Santos says with a shrug, standing and stretching. "I'm gonna take the splitting headache in six. Maybe I'll catch a subarachnoid hemorrhage or something cool." She shoots a playful salute toward Maddie, who returns it with a slight smile, and then walks off toward the patient rooms.
Maddie turns back to Whitaker, one eyebrow raised in amusement. "Huckleberry?"
Whitaker sighs, “She says it’s a term of endearment. I think it’s bordering on harassment.”
Maddie snorts, “Don’t think she means anything by it. But, I get it, not a big fan of sunshine either.” She studies him more carefully, noting the slight midwestern twang in his voice that he tries to suppress, “Where’re you from?”
“Uh, Broken Bow, Nebraska,” he answers, his midwestern accent emerging as he says the name.
Maddie gives him an amused look, “Where the hell is that?”
“About three and a half hours west of Omaha,” Whitaker replies, slightly defensive.
Maddie nods, her lips pursed, trying to hold in a laugh, “What do you, um, do there?”
Whitaker blushes a light pink, “My parents have a farm, so….”
Realization dawns on Maddie’s face, “Oh, that explains ‘Huckleberry’. You’re a farm boy.”
“Ye-Yeah, I guess,” Whitaker stammers, looking down at his finger again.
"Hey, nothing to be ashamed of," Maddie says gently, nudging his leg with her own under the desk. "Just a lot of us here grew up either in Pittsburgh or in other cities. We don't really get a lot of people from Omaha, Nebraska."
“Broken Bow,” Whitaker corrects quietly.
"Right, sorry. Broken Bow," Maddie corrects herself, smiling sheepishly. She stands up, reaching out to pat his shoulder, her hand lingering for just a second longer than strictly necessary. "Take it in stride, Huckleberry. Take it in stride."
Maddie begins walking away, heading to triage, feeling Whitaker’s on her. Cute little farm boy. What am I going to do with you?
She spots McKay near the triage desk, talking to Kiara, the hospital’s social worker.
"Mom's got a bad burn," Maddie hears McKay saying as she approaches, keeping her voice low. "Needs wound checks and hand therapy. And I got a sneaking suspicion she may be unhoused."
Maddie walks up to the two of them, "Need some help, Cassie?"
McKay's face lights up when she sees her, genuine warmth in her expression. "Sure, hon. I'm wrapping up with this patient for now, then I'm headed to chairs to pick up some new arrivals."
Maddie nods. McKay has been something close to a mother figure since Maddie started her residency. The two clicked easily, and Maddie frequently found herself gravitating towards the older woman.
Kiara smiles at both of them, "I'll talk to her. We can offer some resources.”
"Thank you, I appreciate it," McKay says sincerely. Then her attention shifts, her eyes lighting up as she spots someone approaching. "Ah, you're back!"
Maddie turns to see Javadi approaching the three of them, looking significantly better than she had earlier. Javadi gives a small smile, “Dr. Robby suggested I might be of assistance.”
“Well, the best things comes in threes right?” McKay jokes, Maddie smiles. “Uh, Victoria Javadi, this is Kiara Alfaro. She’s the department social worker, which pretty much makes her an angel.”
Kiara chuckles, "Welcome."
“Thanks,” Victoria says, slightly awkwardly.
“Thank you,” McKay says to Kiara, as she turns to leave.
“Nice seeing you, Kiara,” Maddie says, giving her a warm smile.
The trio begin walking towards the waiting room. “So, what rotation is this for you?” McKay asks Victoria.
“Um, third. I’ve done OB-GYN and pedes.” She replies.
“Any favorites?” Maddie asks.
“Not really,” Victoria shakes her head.
“What are you leaning towards?” Maddie asks.
“I’m not really sure yet.”
“Okay, well, you have time. Uh, can I actually ask you a personal question?” McKay says, turning to face her.
Victoria takes a deep breath, her shoulders squaring, and Maddie recognizes the defensive posture immediately: someone preparing to justify their right to be here, "I'm twenty, and I've earned the right to be here." I so get it, girl.
"Oh. Yeah, I don't... I don't doubt that for a minute," McKay says quickly, genuine surprise in her voice. She gestures toward Maddie. "Maddie here also started at twenty. Though she was a resident then, not a student."
Victoria’s eyes widened, “You—you did?”
Maddie nodded, a small smile on her lips, “Yup. Don’t worry, eventually everyone stops asking those kind of questions. They still underestimate you, though, sorry, girl.” Victoria cracks a smile.
McKay clears her throat, drawing Victoria’s attention back to her, “I…I was actually wondering if Dr. Eileen Shamsi from surgery is a friend or relative of yours. I saw you talking to her in the hall and I thought…”
Javadi’s demeanor changes, annoyance flashing across her face, “Yeah, she’s my mother.”
Both McKay’s and Maddie’s eyes widen, as they share a look. “Oh. Oh, wow. Oh, that's cool.” McKay says.
“And for the record, my... my father also works here. He's an endocrinologist.” Victoria adds.
"Oh, so like a family business," Maddie jokes, laughing, trying to lighten the serious atmosphere, but she stops when she sees Victoria's face, the way her expression closes off completely. "Sorry. Sorry, that was a bad joke. I'm sure that comes with a lot of pressure.”
“And as for the age thing, I'm a 42-year-old R2, so I have my own haters, trust me.” McKay says, walking the trio out the front doors, into the waiting room, “Okay. Um, sometimes when it gets busy, we’ll help the nurses bring back patients.”
Javadi nods, eyes scanning the packed waiting room.
"Okay, um, next to come back is Fred Saeta. Knee pain after a fall," McKay tells them, checking her tablet. "Fred Sa—!" she begins to call out, but is immediately interrupted by a man who appears in front of her face, invading her personal space.
“Hey, Doc. Hi. Hi. Doug Driscoll. Any chance someone could see me now? I’ve been here for, like, two hours.”
“Unfortunately, Mr. Driscoll, there’s a lot of patients still ahead of you, some of whom are severely ill,” Maddie says gently, “You can take a seat, and you’ll be called when we’re ready for you.”
Doug gets a little angrier, “Well, I got chest pains that woke me up in the middle of the night!”
“Chest pain,” Victoria says.
“Yeah,” Doug responds, confused.
“No, it’s not plural. It’s just chest pain, not chest pains.” She corrects. Jesus, Javadi, read the room.
Maddie gives her side-eye, silently telling her to cut it out. Antagonizing patients is never a good idea…
“Yeah, and if I have more than one, it’s chest pains! Are you even a real doctor?” Doug’s voice rises as he steps closer to Javadi.
“She’s a student doctor,” Maddie says, quickly tugging Javadi back behind her.
"Yeah, well, keep her the hell away from me," Doug says angrily, his finger jabbing toward Victoria accusingly. "I just need to see someone, okay? Not her. A real doctor. Isn't chest pain an emergency? I don't…"
“It looks here like you got an EKG five minutes after arrival, so it's not a heart attack,” McKay says, checking her list, trying to defuse the situation.
“Yeah, but I'm supposed to get a chest X-ray and blood tests.” He insists.
“Ah, and you are next in line for the lab tech, okay? So listen for your name. Excuse me. Fred…”
McKay stops, noticing an older woman vomiting into a bowl, standing next to a taller boy. “Uh, actually could you get me a wheelchair, please?” McKay says to Javadi, who nods and heads to grab one.
McKay signals Maddie to the woman, both of them making their way over. “Hi. I’m Dr. McKay, this is Dr. Pierce,” McKay says to the woman, “What’s going on?”
The woman can't respond—she's still actively retching, her face grey and sweaty, her whole body trembling.
The taller boy next to her responds, “I, uh, found her on the floor in the bathroom. She can’t stop puking.”
Maddie nods, “What’s her name?” she asks.
“Theresa. She’s my mom.” the boy responds.
Maddie nods as she and McKay guide the woman over to the wheelchair that Javadi brought. McKay grabs the handles, and they rush her into a room.
—
“Four Zofrans on board,” Donnie says, as Maddie nods, smiling appreciatively.
“That should stop the nausea,” Maddie says to Theresa. ”David, have you had any vomiting?” Maddie asks the woman’s son, who’s fully absorbed in his phone.
“No,” he says flatly, not looking up.
“Anyone else sick at home?”
"No, it's just us," Theresa responds weakly from the bed, her voice hoarse from vomiting. "My husband passed away a few years ago, from COVID."
McKay and Maddie frown, “I’m so sorry,” McKay says.
Maddie's eyes drift back to David, studying him carefully—waiting for some reaction, some acknowledgment of his father's death being mentioned. But he doesn't look up from his phone. Doesn't show any emotion at all beyond mild irritation at still being here. Strange.
“Potassium, 3.1,” Donnie says.
“Is that bad?” Theresa asks when McKay makes a slight grimace at the number.
“It can cause heart problems. But we're gonna correct it, okay? Ten in the bag, twenty PO. Javadi, any questions?” McKay asks.
Javadi takes a moment to think before turning her attention to David. "Uh, David, have you two traveled out of the country recently?”
“We never go anywhere,” David says, looking bored, “Is she gonna have to stay here?” he nods towards his mother.
“If the rest of the tests are good, and she responds to treatment, she can go home,” Maddie responds with a tentative smile, but catches McKay's look out of the corner of her eye, a you’re seeing this too, right?
David nods, rolling his eyes slightly, looking back down at his phone.
“Uh, Javadi, could you stay here with Theresa and David please? McKay and I will be right back,” Maddie says, keeping her voice casual.
They step out into the hallway, the door closing behind them with a soft click. The moment they're out of earshot, Maddie turns to McKay.
"So, you caught that weird vibe, right?" Maddie asks, keeping her voice low, glancing back through the window into the room where David is still glued to his phone.
“Uh huh. I’m gonna ask Robby if we could get his opinion on this. He’s pretty good at figuring these things out,” McKay says. Maddie's eyes widen slightly, and she immediately starts backtracking. Nope. Not happening. Too early for another “talk”.
"Um, I actually just remembered I gotta check on another patient!" Maddie calls back over her shoulder, practically speedwalking away. "Keep me updated!"
McKay stands there looking confused, her head tilting as she watches Maddie retreat. "Uh... okay?" she says, bewildered by the sudden exit.
Maddie power-walks through the ED, weaving between nurses and equipment carts, putting as much distance as possible between herself and wherever Robby might be. Mature, Pierce. Real mature. You're twenty-two years old and you're literally running away.
She reaches Langdon's desk at the exact same moment as Mel does—both of them nearly colliding, pulling up short with matching startled expressions.
"Uh, excuse me, Dr. Langdon, Maddie," Mel starts, slightly breathless, her tablet clutched against her chest. "Almost all of our labs are back on sleeping boy Tyler. All 100% normal. White count normal, metabolic panel perfect, urinalysis clean. What are we missing?"
Langdon takes the tablet and scans the results. He leads the two women back to Tyler’s room.
“Is he waking up?” he asks, pulling gloves on, as Maddie does the same.
“No, he’s—he’s still fast asleep,” the father says.
"Most of the lab results are in, and they look great," Mel says, attempting to sound encouraging, a small smile on her face. "No abnormal blood count, no electrolyte abnormalities, no signs of diabetes, no kidney disease, no liver dysfunction, so..."
Langdon moves to the bedside, his hands gentle as he performs another exam, trying to see if there’s anything he missed. Maddie does the same, hands moving closer to his face.
“Good. So—So, what’s wrong with him?” the mother presses.
“We’re still trying to figure that out,” Langdon says.
“Did he, uh, have a playdate yesterday, by chance?” Mel asks the parents.
“No, he had preschool, but he was fine when I picked him up,” the mom says.
“Any kids in his class ill?” Langdon asks.
“No, my phone tree would have lit up if someone else was sick.”
Maddie leans in closer to the boy. She gently opens his mouth, angling his face toward the overhead light to see better, and spots a small green speck lodged between his teeth. Her eyes narrow as she focuses on it. What is that?
She grabs a small Q-Tip from the supply tray beside the bed and carefully dabs at the substance, extracting a tiny amount. "Did he eat anything this morning?" she asks.
“No. Why?” the mother responds, shifting forward in her chair.
“It looks like some sort of gelatin,” Maddie says, bringing the Q-Tip out of his mouth, observing the substance on it, “Any chance he could have gotten into some bath beads or laundry pods?”
The mother shakes her head, “No, there’s no such thing in our house.”
“What about gummies?” Maddie asks.
“No, we’re very strict about candy,” the mom says turning to her husband, who looks very alarmed, “Right?”
“Oh, shit. Danny.” the father says, running his hands down his face.
“What about Danny?” the mother questions angrily, her body going rigid.
“Your brother, he…he gave me some gummies he got in Cleveland. They were in my coat pocket.”
“Are you fucking serious?” the mother asks, enraged.
“Pot gummies?” Mel asks for clarification, looking between the parents.
"Yes," the father says miserably, turning to his wife with pleading eyes. "I'm so sorry. I didn't think—I forgot they were in my pocket, and he must have found them when I hung my coat up, and—"
"Let me call the lab," Langdon interrupts, already pulling out his phone. "Maybe the tox screen is back." He steps toward the corner of the room, phone to his ear. "Hey, this is Dr. Langdon from the ED. Can I fast-track a lab on a pediatric patient, last name Jones, first name Tyler? Tox screen. It's urgent."
“Get the fuck out! I mean it!” the mom screams, shoving her husband back, her face contorted with rage.
Langdon quickly steps between them, “Why don't we step outside, and maybe you can help me figure out how much he may have taken.” He guides the father toward the door with one hand on his shoulder, the door closing behind them, leaving Maddie and Mel alone with the mother.
Maddie clears her throat, "Um, once we know how much your son may have taken and the labs confirm it, we'll be able to treat him appropriately." The mother nods slightly, mechanically, her head dropping into her hands, shoulders beginning to shake with silent sobs. "I'm, uh, sorry. This is... it's going to be okay. Kids metabolize THC differently than adults; he'll wake up. It just takes time."
Maddie reaches out and grabs Mel’s hound, rushing her of the room, closing the door behind them.
Once they’re out, Maddie takes a deep breath, turning to face Mel. “When you’re in a tense family situation like that, it’s always best if you try to get out as soon as possible, after trying to diffuse any physical altercations. Don’t wanna be trapped in a room if things escalate further.” Mel nods, toying with the end of her braid.
Maddie continues, “If you can’t diffuse it yourself and it gets violent, then just call security, and they’ll do it for you. Don’t try to be a hero. We’re nerds, not boxers.”
Mel smiles at that, “Uh, that was a good catch back there,” Mel says, with genuine admiration, “I definitely would’ve missed it.”
Maddie smiles, “Thanks. And, no worries, that’s why you’re still learning, right? I am too. And, if you need another set of eyes on a patient, you can always ask someone else for a consult.” Maddie smiles, patting the side of Mel’s shoulder when she spots McKay, “Uh, if you’ll excuse me, I just have to check on something.” Mel nods, moving to speak to Langdon.
Maddie walks up to McKay, “So, any updates?”
McKay grimaces, nodding, “Yeah. Kid made an 'elimination list' of a bunch of girls at his school. Mom made herself sick to get him here for some help.”
Maddie gapes at McKay, “No kidding. Javadi’s not still in there alone with him, is she?”
McKay shakes her head, “No, Robby’s getting Kiara to talk to him, they’re right over there.” McKay points to where Robby is sitting and talking to David. Maddie nods, watching them.
Suddenly, David stands up abruptly, his chair scraping loudly against the floor. His face is flushed with anger, his jaw set. Without warning, he bolts—pushing past Kiara, dashing for the exit. Robby stands up, rushing after him.
"Oh, shit," Maddie says, her body already moving before her brain fully processes what's happening. McKay quickly calls for security.
"I'll be back," Maddie calls over her shoulder, already jogging after them, her ponytail swinging.
David runs through the ED doors into the waiting room—patients looking up in surprise as he barrels through—and heads straight for the stairwell, taking the steps two at a time. Robby is right behind him, his longer legs eating up the distance, and Maddie follows, her shorter stature making it harder for her to keep up. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
“David! Stop!” Robby yells, but the teenager keeps running. He reaches the doors before either of them could catch up, running out into the street.
"Fuck!" Robby curses loudly, his hand coming up to rub his neck in frustration, the tendons standing out. He turns back around, heading toward the stairs. Maddie follows, looking back a moment, then walks in with Robby. Robby suddenly pauses, stopping in the middle of the waiting room, his eyes going glassy. His breathing becomes heavier, his eyes flicking around the room.
"Robby?" Maddie says, coming up in front of him quickly, positioning herself in his line of sight. She keeps her voice calm, even, trying not to startle him. "Robby, hey, look at me."
Nothing. No response. His pupils are dilated, his face pale, sweat beading on his forehead despite the cool temperature.
“Robby!”
~~~~~~~~~
i hope everyone enjoyed!! sorry for the long wait, this chapter was hella long!! i've already started writing chapter two, so it should be out earlier than this one!! thanks for reading!! <33
summary: Andrew has survived his whole life by wanting nothing. Until Craig introduces one of his friends, and suddenly, Andrew wants everything and more.
word count: 20.7k (yeah kinda lost my mind there)
c.w: age gap implied but not explicit; short suicidal ideation; crying; mentions of blood; light physical injuries; angst to fluff; smut - piv sex, oral sex; praising kink; breeding kink if you squint
a/n: sooooo...took me two weeks. had a breakdown. bon appetit! (and thank you to my wife for proofreading it) I really hope you'll like reading it like i enjoyed writing it.
❤︎ Thank you so much for reading!
Andrew Cody has never been able to sleep properly.
Nights spent pacing the garden of Smurf’s house, bare feet on the cold ground, counting his steps to keep his mind occupied. It never did. He tried to outrun the memories of his actions, to drown his pain at the bottom of the pool. But on those nights, his torment wore the faces of his ghosts.
First there was Julia, then Cath, quickly followed by Baz. And Smurf. Always Smurf. A cycle of misery that makes his ribcage feel as though it might collapse under the violent pounding of his heart.
Some days, seated at a table with his family, Andrew had felt he could scream until his throat gave out, and no one would have heard. He imagined falling into the pool, slipping under the surface, water closing over his head and staying there, lungs burning just long enough for the noise to finally fucking stop, no one coming to pull him out because nobody would have noticed he disappeared.
There were moments when the thought settled heavy in his bones: he would not survive another day in his family, he didn’t want to. He kept straining toward a bond that no longer reached his end…if it ever did.
Over the years, Andrew had grown accustomed to his role. Weird Pope, Creepy Pope, the family’s guard dog: asking for nothing, obeying to the beatings, the killings and never, never, mentioning the ghosts hunting the corner of his eyes each night.
He remembered Smurf’s voice, years ago. “Pop him a few pills and he’ll follow your commands, baby.” She said it to Baz like it was nothing, like he was nothing. This was before prison, before Andrew felt deep in his bones that the other half of his soul left this merciless Earth without him.
Sometimes he let himself think about Julia, since no one else did. He hoped that at least one of them had finally found peace.
Then, you happened.
And Andrew can’t make sense of it, no matter how much he turns it over in his head, how a girl like you ends up being friends with Craig and therefore, near the Cody brothers: you are sweet, kind, nothing but soft edges, and innocent. Almost like the world has spared you the knowledge of what men like him are capable of.
Whenever you are in the house, his gaze follows you from room to room. He tells himself that it’s vigilance and habit that pushes him to act like that. Except he doesn’t need to memorize the way you tuck your hair behind your ear, or how he can recognize the distinct sound of your footsteps in a heartbeat.
He learns and catalogues each of your reactions: the faint frown of your nose at the smell of a particular brand of coffee (gone from the house and replaced before sunset), the soft curl of your lips whenever you are kindly refusing his offer to make you a sandwich.
(He wouldn’t be bothered if you took a bite of his.)
To see you is a special kind of hell and an indescribable heaven, like pressing on a bruise just to make sure it still hurts.
Lately, you shift the air of the house by simply existing in it. Your laugh, in the rooms where Smurf had once lived, seems to almost cleanse the walls of her memory. And Andrew knows. He knows that’s why Craig is friends with you. Because each day, the sun seems to finally be able to reach the house, even his own room.
It frightens him.
His body instinctively adjusts around your presence, his mind reassessing new rules (the glasses on the bottom shelf so you can have access to them, checking how many drinks you have at Deran’s bar). He memorizes your schedule, notes which books you are bringing with you in your bag, times how long it takes you to get home, parks far enough that you can’t notice his truck but close enough that he can reach you if something goes wrong.
All his life, Andrew had survived by wanting nothing. By hollowing himself out until the obedience Smurf wanted from him fitted neatly inside his ribs, because wanting had always been a liability, a weakness someone could press a knife into.
But now…now that life seems finally good and breathable, that he has the skatepark and his siblings and an almost regular life (if one exists for men like him) without Smurf’s claws on his throat, Andrew finds himself cornered by a simple, terrifying truth: he wants you.
He swallows it. Buries it deep inside, trying to drown it with numbness and even more repetitive actions when you are near: chopping, tidying the house, scrubbing counters that are already clean, fixing hinges that doesn’t squeak… Anything to keep his hands busy so they don’t reach for you.
No, Andrew Cody has never been able to sleep properly.
──────────
You remember telling yourself that the house felt wrong before you ever understood why.
Craig had asked you to come meet his brothers and from his tone alone, you knew it was a big deal. That something was at stake.
You showed up at four sharp, even if he hadn’t given you a specific time (something you would soon realize was typical of Craig), a paper bag pressed to your chest, palms already sweaty. You stood outside for a full minute before knocking, taking a few deep breaths, and stepping over the threshold with a smile as he wrapped you in a hug with his tall frame before dragging you straight into the kitchen.
That’s when you saw him.
Broad shoulders, dark curls on a face held tight, back straight and hands braced on his thighs, his posture so still you almost thought he was a mannequin.
“My brother Pope,” Craig said. “Don’t mind him, he almost doesn’t bite.”
His gaze was already on you, unblinking, steady in a quiet unnerving way, like he was committing every detail to memory, a look so intense it coaxed words out of you before you could stop them.
“H-Hi,” you stuttered, giving your name as you tried to stay composed. You extended your hand toward him, and he stared at it for a moment. The pause stretched long enough for doubt to creep up your spine (maybe he didn’t shake hands? maybe you had already broken some invisible rule?).
You swallowed, blood rising to your cheeks, drawing your hand back to clutch the paper bag as you tried not to stammer on your words. “I brought pastries. I didn’t know what you all would like so…I kind of…guessed,” you hated how small your voice sounded.
He stayed silent, brows faintly furrowed, as if he was processing what you had just said. Then he nodded. “Thank you.”
His tone was quiet, almost a hum, pulled from the depth of his chest, the sound settling low in your stomach, warm and heavy, and your first thought (unwelcome and strange) was how that vibration would feel beneath your palm.
Craig sighed with desperation at the conversation with a quiet “Stop being weird, bro!” while his other younger brother, unbothered, simply ignored the awkwardness, nodded as an introduction and handed beers around.
It was a welcome distraction, the cold liquid sliding down your throat, and buying you time to think on what to say next, but the youngest, Deran, beat you to it, asking you about your job and how good a surfer you were.
“You fuckin’ with me? You live in Oceanside and can’t stand on a board?” he laughed and couldn’t stop the slight condescending tone from his voice. “No worry, me or mister El Craigo here will introduce you to it. You’ll only swallow, like…a gallon of water before you get it.”
“Oh, um…I don’t think…” you tried to say, though it was mostly ignored.
Pope hadn’t looked away once, hand gripping tightly enough on the beer that you could see his knuckles whitening. There was something careful about the way he held himself: still, contained.
Your eyes met his again and you smiled tentatively.
“Um…Pope,” you started, uncertain, the name tasting strange on your tongue. “Can I ask you…”
“Andrew.” He interrupted, the tone firm enough to stop you mid-breath.
You suddenly became aware of your heartbeat, your chest lifting as it rattled against your ribs. Your gaze dropped at the intensity. Had you done something wrong? You suddenly felt foolish for the pastries, for the outstretched hand, for trying so hard, and an absurd urge to apologize rose in your throat, even if you didn’t know what for.
When you looked up, he was already halfway out of the kitchen.
You never finished your question.
Later that night, when you slipped into your bed, the sheets cold but familiar in their welcoming loneliness, you turned from one side to the other, eyes pinched shut without any release to exhaustion, realizing that you couldn’t remember what you had meant to ask.
Only that you wanted to hear his voice, just one more time.
──────────
The house is too loud. It always is when there are people over.
It reminds him of being a kid, hiding with Julia, hands intertwined, avoiding the drunk and high grown-ups. Whispering that everything would be alright. That no one would find them. Not even Smu-
(Bad thought. One. Two. Three. Four. He counts the dents on the kitchen counter.)
The volume of the music is pushed too high for his comfort, a constant buzz under the conversations in the house and near the pool while Andrew stands in the kitchen, hands deep in soapy water, scrubbing a glass that is already clean.
He finished the dishes ten minutes ago, but he is still washing, still drying, rearranging things that don’t need rearranging because it gives him somewhere to put his hands, to put his eyes. Because the alternative is the living room. And you.
(You, in that white dress. He has the stupid thought that you look like an angel and immediately hates himself for it. One. Two. Three. Four. He counts the droplets dripping from his fingertips.)
He tells himself that he is staying in the kitchen because it lets him see everything in the house, because parties mean unlocked doors, strangers who could wander into rooms they shouldn’t be in. And there are the habits he can’t shake off: watching the exits, the unfamiliar faces, counting heads (Deran, Craig, you), noting who is drinking too much, who is getting loud, who might break something.
He dries the same plate twice in a row before setting it down on the kitchen counter and looking up without meaning to.
You are by the couch, perched on the armrest while Craig, bare chest and shameless about it, tells you the story about the time he smuggled a burrito full of drugs across the Mexico border, story he knew you heard a dozen times these past three months. But still, you are laughing, head tipped back, hair falling down your spine (he wonders what they would feel like underneath his fingertips), one hand wrapped around a bottle you haven’t drunk from in a while, like it has more to do with keeping your hands busy while you are listening.
Andrew noticed it the first week he met you.
But the moment your lips wrap around the drink, he looks away and goes back to washing clean and dried plates, hands in the ice water, soap stinging the small cut on his knuckle.
(Good. Something sharp. Something real. Better than counting for now.)
“I bought you a new pair of gloves.”
Your voice is closer than he expected and his head snaps towards you before he can stop it. You are standing at the edge of the counter, smiling, so close that he can smell your shampoo despite the soap and the lingering smell of weed (it’s so clean, so soft, he wants to drown himself in it).
“Why?” He asks, his nostrils flaring at his own bluntness.
You shrug, small. “I know Craig threw your pair away yesterday. And, um… I know you like wearing them when you clean.”
“Why?” his voice repeats, breaking at the word.
Of course, you ignore his question, and he can’t help but spiral (why did you do that? do you realize how much the gesture is affecting him? no one ever cared about his gloves. One. Two. Three. Four. He counts the freckles on your nose.).
“I got the good ones,” you add, beaming. “So the soap doesn’t mess up your hands.”
While your eyes drop to his hands, his are still enraptured on your face, studying every single feature (you really do look like an angel. and you act like one too. maybe you are his salvation. stop, he needs to fucking stop but he no longer knows what to count.).
Andrew swallows what feels like an anchor in his throat because you look like you worry about him (you have done that for a while now, which still baffles him). Nobody worries about him: they worry about what he might do, not whether he is hurt.
“’m fine.” He mutters, not convincingly enough, judging by the look on your face.
You are still looking at his bruised hands and your fingers twitch on the counter like you had the sudden urge to reach for him, like you might take his hand to look at it.
(He has the overwhelming need to know what you would do with his hands in yours. Hold them? Kiss them better? One. Two. Three- would you let his hands run along your hair? He knows what it’s like to touch you when you need help, but he feels that this would be very different.)
“They are under the sink,” you say above the music and Andrew can’t do anything else but stare, not trusting his own voice.
You linger for a moment at the counter and Andrew wants to ask you to stay (in the kitchen, in his life, doesn’t matter), but Craig shouts your name from the living room and suddenly he has some homicidal thoughts. You glance over your shoulder, then back at Andrew, and you look…reluctant.
“I’ll…”
“Yeah.”
You don’t move. Neither does he.
“Thanks.” He finally says, his gaze still tracking every shift of your expressions, trying to burn your smile in his retina, hoping one blink would not be enough to erase it.
“Of course, Andrew.”
Andrew. For you, he is Andrew and that’s all that matters because you are the only one calling him by this name and you make it sound like it belongs to you ever since you first said it by the pool.
With one last little smile, you walk away and his eyes follow you until he knows you have reached Craig but even then, he doesn’t look away, afraid you might disappear, just like every good thing always did.
And Andrew learned, a long time ago, that if you wanted something to stay alive and safe, you watched it. Guarded it. Didn’t blink.
Andrew didn’t blink.
──────────
You stepped outside because the house had started to feel too small, suffocating all at once, Craig and Deran’s voices stacking over each other in the open kitchen, arguing about a job - a part of the Cody brothers’ lives you knew existed but mostly chose not to look at too closely.
You told yourself you only needed a second of quiet, just enough space to breathe properly again after a long day at work full of aggravating customers, meager tips and a coffee spilt by a coworker on your bare legs.
The noise softened once the door closed, letting you draw in a deep breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding.
“Fucking hell.” You muttered, exhausted by the shouting.
You hadn’t noticed him at first, too busy staring at the pool and ignoring your inner voice telling you to jump straight in the pool fully clothed, a thought that you were soon pulled out of when you heard a sound that didn’t belong to the wind or the trees.
That’s when you saw him, seated at the edge of a lounge chair, head bowed, a skateboard turned upside down across his thighs, one hand spinning a wheel while the other oiled it with slow, precise movements.
“Not a fan of the shouting matches?” you asked, trying not to startle him.
He glanced up, shook his head before going back to the board. “No.”
“So…not keen on loud noises either?”
“No.”
For a moment, you simply watched him, struck by how different he looked when he was doing something he seemed to…enjoy. Less folded into himself, the usual tightness of his posture easing (was it because of the board? the sound of the pool? the absence of his brothers? whatever it is, the view looked precious enough for you to want to capture it).
You lowered yourself onto the warm concrete next to him, your back resting against the lounge chair, knees pulled to your chest, neither of you speaking for a while.
That’s when you noticed his hands: knuckles swollen and red, the skin split near the thumb, a faint line of blood reopening every time the skin stretched.
“They look like they hurt. Y-Your hands, I mean.”
He shrugged without looking at you. “They’re fine.”
Your eyes drifted from them to his profile: from his hazel eyes fully focused on the board to the tight set of his mouth and you caught yourself distracted by his lips for a second too long before forcing your eyes back to the floor, warmth creeping up your neck (don’t think about that, don’t think about that).
“Andrew?”
The wheel immediately stopped spinning. Not gradually, just…stopped.
The entire yard suddenly became too quiet as his face snapped towards you, something unreadable flickering across his face and vanishing just as quickly, and you felt the realization settle in slowly that you had finally said his name after almost a month of avoiding it.
“Do you think I could learn how to skateboard? I…” the words got stuck between your throat and your lips while you searched for the courage to finish your sentence without tripping over yourself. “I mean…I wanted to know if you could help me. Learn it, I mean. If you wanted to. You don’t have to, I just…” (fuck. why? why were you so weird?)
Your fingers picked at the hem of your skirt and pulled on a thread to busy your hands, and from the corner of your vision you caught his brief smile, and the warmth that spread was so shamefully immediate that you bit your tongue until you tasted metal just to keep from blurting out something along the lines of ‘i really, really, fucking love your smile, please do it again so my day goes from moderately shitty to embarrassingly close to perfection.’
“Give me your phone.” he said, and you didn’t hesitate, fishing it out from your pocket, and placing it in his palm.
“There’s no password on your phone.”
“Yeah…I know.”
“It’s dangerous.” His thumb hovered over the screen, nose flaring. “Anyone could get into it. Your photos. Your messages. Your address. Everything is in there.”
You barely heard the end of it, too focused on the pull in your chest as his words kept coming, just for you.
“I haven’t thought about that.” You murmured, feeling foolish while he muttered to himself something that definitely sounded like ‘I did.’
He tapped his number in before going through the settings while you were still struck by his intensity and that he was doing this for you without being asked.
“Six digits. Not birthdates and not something simple like six zeros.” He handed your phone back, his fingers lingering for a second too long before pulling away. “Put one.”
This time you knew it was an order and you didn’t hesitate a second as you followed it, typing something in, suddenly hyperaware of how close he was standing, your shoulder almost brushing his calf, your pulse loud in your ears and a slow, humiliating heat pooling low in your stomach that you refused to think about at the moment.
“Good.” He said after you saved the password. “Text me your work hours.”
“So, it’s a yes? Really?”
He grunted and whether the dusting of crimson over his freckles was real or something you imagined, you couldn’t tell, you were too busy feeling as light as a leaf.
“Yes. And…”
His words were cut off by the screen door banging open, leaning back abruptly just as Craig made his way toward you both with a grin that meant whatever the fight with Deran had been about, he had won.
“Deran agrees for Friday night. And you,” he tapped your forehead. “didn’t hear shit.”
“I don’t even know what you’re talking about.”
“That’s my girl. Now get your ass in the pool.”
Craig was already running to the pool before you could respond, clothes coming off mid-step.
“I can’t believe this man has a kid. Has you brother always been a shameless nudist?”
“Unfortunately…yes.”
You snorted before murmuring. “Thanks, by the way. For the password thing. And for agreeing to teach me. I promise I’ll only be like…average terrible.”
“You’ll be fine,” he shrugged. Then, quieter, “I’ll make sure.”
His gaze dipped briefly to your mouth when he said it, before snapping back up, and something in your stomach turned warm and gooey, a reckless part of you hoping he might add something else. Or step closer again. But he didn’t, just nodded once, before muttering. “Go.”
“Okay, I’ll leave you to your board, Andrew.”
You made it halfway to the pool before you glanced back. He was still watching, not even pretending not to, looking like a leopard ready to jump. Like if you slipped, he would already be moving.
And lying awake that night, window cracked open and the ocean humming somewhere in the dark, you muffled his name into your pillow, trying to quiet yourself, imagining his hands instead of yours. Andrew, Andrew, Andrew.
──────────
Andrew is used to ending his nights alone because wanting people to stay never goes well for him.
So, when the party finally ends at four in the morning, he does what he knows best: throwing the bottles into the trash, making sure no one is passed out in the backyard or asleep in one of the bedrooms and…cleaning.
First the diving board, even if Craig is still making out on one of the lounge chairs with a girl whose name Andrew can’t remember and doesn’t try to (he knows best). Next, the counter, twice in a row for good measure. Then the sink, while Deran claps a hand on his shoulder with a “Don’t stay up too late, okay?” before heading out.
(One. Two. Three. Four. Wash. Rinse. Repeat. He counts the second you spend in the bathroom.)
He stands in the kitchen for a moment before realizing it might look strange and make you uncomfortable. That’s the last thing he wants.
He rushes back to his room (he wouldn’t exactly call it ‘sprinting’. sprinting would mean he is trying to avoid you. which he is not. not at all.).
He doesn’t bother turning on the light when he decides to lie on top of the covers, fully dressed, staring at the ceiling because he knows that sleep won’t come. It never does.
(One. Two. Three. Four. He counts the cracks.)
Every time he closes his eyes, something crawls up from beneath his ribs and he is once again plagued by his ghost: Julia’s voice, Cath’s smile, Baz’s forgiveness. Smurf’s words cutting straight through him.
He thinks about the pool and how easy it would be to let the water close over his head. How all the voices would finally be silent forever, his own included.
(Bad thoughts. One. Two. Three. Four. He recites the number of cameras in the bank for the incoming job.)
He forces himself to think of something else.
Of you, earlier, laughing at Craig’s story (and the immediate, unwelcome ache in his chest as he wonders if there’s something between the two of you, if this will end the way things always seem to, if you’ll be another Cath: close to him before preferring his brother).
Then he thinks about the way he made you laugh on your first skateboard lesson, all because he wanted to make you feel safe and seen, how the simple feel of your waist had nearly made him press his forehead to your shoulder and beg for you to stay and keep looking at him like that.
He thinks about that night when you called him for help, and how he didn’t hesitate for even a second when reaching for his keys, truck already running before you even finished explaining because the simple thought of you alone somewhere in the dark, waiting and frightened, had felt like acid running through his veins, the kind of fear that made him beg to the sky “Not here, not her, not again. I won’t fail her”.
He presses his palms against his eyes until he sees bursts of purple light.
(Breathe. One. Tw-)
A faint knock against the door makes him freeze.
Nobody knocks in this house, his brothers just…barge in.
He is already on his feet before he realizes it, his hand finding the handle before he opens to find you there.
Barefoot, hair loose and messy, the mascara smudged at the corners of your eyes and the dress wrinkled. Earlier, Andrew thought you looked like an ethereal angel, something untouchable and holy.
But now…now you just look human, real and warm, which is worse because real things like you can stay as well as leave.
“Hey.” You murmur, leaning against the doorframe.
He grips the handle tightly to steady himself.
“Something wrong?”
“I was supposed to sleep on the couch,” you begin, talking with your hands the way you always do when you try to explain a situation, “but signor El Craigo has decided that it’s now his new make out spot with Sam and I really don’t need that image burned into my brain. And of course, I thought about taking his room in retaliation, but I don’t trust his conception of hygiene,”
That makes him huff.
“So…” you add, rubbing your arm, almost shy which doesn’t make sense in his mind because you haven’t been shy with him in a long time with the skatepark lessons or with the ‘hallway accident’ you both had together, “Can I stay here tonight?”
You don’t say ‘with you’ nor ‘in your bed’, but Andrew understands and he is pretty sure his brain short circuits for a second or two.
You didn’t text Deran or try to Uber home. You just came to him. Because you trusted him.
“Yes.” He replies too fast, stepping back from the door.
“You sure?”
He nods to avoid confessing that he would give you the bed. The room. The house. The air in his lungs.
You slip past him into the room, sitting on the edge of the bed before looking back at him and asking gently, “You’re not sleeping, right?”.
“No. Not…not really.”
“Yeah, figured.”
You lie down beneath the covers first, curling onto the side of the bed closest to the wall, leaving him space.
“Don’t think about staying on top of the covers, Andrew.”
The warning in your tone almost makes him laugh so he complies, lying down beside you, fully clothed and aware of every inch separating the two of you.
He stares at the ceiling again.
(One. Two. Three. Four. He counts your breathing.)
The mattress shifts while you slowly roll onto your back before turning fully toward him, your shoulder brushing his arm.
“Sorry,” you mumble sleepily. “’m cold.”
“It’s fine.” He says it like the ghost of your breathing over his collarbone didn’t just set every of his nerves on fire, like he was not terrified to shift even an inch.
After a few minutes, you drift closer in your sleep, chasing warmth without thinking, your knee pressing against his thigh, your hand sliding across the sheets until your fingers come to rest on the fabric of his shirt, right over his heartbeat and for a moment he genuinely forgets how to breathe.
Your palm is so warm, and he is painfully aware that you can probably feel how hard his heart is pounding.
Nobody has ever touched him like this, like he is something safe and out of everything that has happened to him: the underground fights, the prison, the jobs…none of that ever made him feel this defenseless.
His eyes suddenly burn because he wants to turn so much to see your peaceful face, tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, pull you closer to know just once in his life what it’s like to hold something good without destroying it, to press his face into your hair and breathe until the ghosts quiet down, but he doesn’t.
He stays exactly as he is, lying in the dark, eyes wide open, staring at nothing.
(One. Two. Three. Four. He counts your breaths again. Then the seconds between them. He thinks about the fact that you’re here and the miracle of it.)
Sleep doesn’t come, but for the first time in years, the night doesn’t feel empty.
Because you’re here. Warm. Alive. Trusting him.
So, Andrew stays awake until morning, guarding the only good thing that ever chose him.
──────────
You were so, so late.
You had told Andrew on the phone that you would be at his skatepark at 5:15 sharp after work, and it was now 5:42 and you were sprinting the half mile that separated the coffee shop from there, bag smacking against your hip, your lungs burning, already sweaty before you even reached the entrance, trying to slow your breathing with a few useless deep inhales, hands braced on your knees, pretending that you were not seconds away from passing out.
(First lesson and you were already late and a disaster. Great. Very impressive.)
You straightened, wiped your forehead, and stepped inside, scanning the park before finding Andrew, board tucked under one arm, sleeves riding up his biceps, curls messy from the wind and sweat and you were now positively sure that you had some drool at the corner of your mouth (the universe had decided to sabotage you and that was fucking unfair.)
You watched the tiny smile he had as a girl showed him her board, proud and beaming at him like he had personally hung the sun in the sky (no, you didn’t need to think about him being good with kids. you didn’t need to picture him with kids, him gentle, him…stop. shut up.).
The second his head lifted and locked eyes with you, you were pretty much done for. It was ridiculous, really, how one look from him could short-circuit every coherent thought in your brain, how your feet just…moved, carrying you toward him instinctively, dropping your bag by the fence without breaking your stride as he met you halfway.
His gaze dragged over you once: your face, your hair, your chest.
“You ran here?”
“Yes. And I’m sweating…a lot. Please don’t judge me.”
He took a few seconds, a storm passing through his eyes before he added.
“You’re late.”
“I know,” you rushed, your hands quickly moving and your words tumbling over each other like they always did when you got flustered around him. “but a guy ordered for his whole ‘cheaper by the dozen’ family like three minutes before we closed. I’m probably sure he sensed my despair and fed on it.”
A small huff escaped him. “You didn’t have to run.”
You shrugged, eyes to the ground. “Didn’t want you to think I bailed on you.”
You felt it, his head tilting down just enough to catch your gaze again, stubborn about it.
“I wouldn’t. Now you ready?”
“Born ready.” You lied through your teeth.
“You look terrified.”
“I can do both, you know,” you shot back quickly. “I am large, I contain multitudes.”
There was the tiniest twitch at the corner of his mouth. “Okay, Whitman.”
“Y-You know Whitman?”
A pause.
“I mean…not that I don’t believe you or think you can’t read poetry or anything…that’s actually super hot, so good job!” you gave him a thumbs-up, aware you had just lost every ounce of dignity you had ever possessed. “It’s just that last week Craig asked me if ‘Pride and Peace’ was a good book to impress a girl, so…my bar was very low.”
Andrew stared at you for a moment. “Pride and Peace.”
“Yeah.”
“That’s not…”
“I know, I know. But don’t worry, I did a good deed for society and told him not to mention any book ever. You and Deran are safe from now on. You’re welcome.”
And there it was again: that quiet amusement on his lips, the roll of his eyes like he couldn’t help himself, making you feel the stupid and dangerous need to continue to jest (keep talking, say anything, make him do it again).
He shook his head once. “C’mon Whitman. Let’s see what you got.”
You trailed after him without thinking and the first few attempts were…humiliating to say the least: your balance was nonexistent, your feet refused to cooperate, your arms stood uselessly at your sides, and you had absolutely no idea where you were supposed to look while Andrew hovered nearby like he was ready to intervene at any moment.
“I look stupid!” you complained.
“You’re fine.”
“I’m not fine! This is deeply humiliating. I can barely stay upright and there are twelve-year-olds doing tricks behind me! Tricks, Andrew!”
“You’re doing good.”
“I almost died.”
“You didn’t.”
“Socially, I assure you I did.”
Your heart did a stupid little skip when a tiny, amused sound escaped him.
(You could bottle that sound and live off it. You were now pretty sure you would commit crimes for it.)
“Makes sense you’re friends with Craig,” he muttered. “Dramatic.”
You gasped, unable to contain your grin. “Excuse you mister Cody, but I am layered! I am complex!”
He looked unimpressed and repeated “Dramatic.”
You opened your mouth to argue before your foot slipped, the board shooting forward, and for one horrible second you thought that worse than falling off in front of children was falling off in front of the guy you had a crush on.
But you never got to know the feeling before his hands were suddenly there, at your waist, catching you fast and steadying you while you became acutely aware of every nerve under his palms, of his thumbs grazing your hipbones, of his breath brushing your cheek as heat pooled between your legs.
He moved behind your back, still holding your waist before murmuring “Don’t lean and bend your knees.”
(You were starting to suspect he was fucking with you on purpose.)
But still, he adjusted you gently, palms rotating your hips and guiding your stance before kneeling to help place your legs on the board and you couldn’t stop yourself from blurting:
“I haven’t shaved my legs. Sorry.”
“Me neither.” He huffed, his breath warm on your calf and the faintest hint of amusement threading through his voice.
(Was that…a joke? Was he joking? Since when was he doing that? You liked that. You wanted that.)
Andrew pushed himself back on his feet, stepping away just enough for you to feel the sudden absence of his body, leaving you oddly cold, like you had stepped out of the sunlight.
“Try again.”
You nodded, realizing that his joke had somehow shaken the worst of your nerves away, before pushing off, your knees bent like he had shown you, your weight centered and the board rolled.
“Oh my God, I’m doing it! Andrew, I’m really doing it!” you exclaimed happily.
“You are.”
You risked a glance over your shoulder, and he was watching you with his usual careful intensity, hands half-raised and prepared to catch you, like protecting you was the only thing on his list right now.
So (naturally), you did the dumbest thing possible and tested him. Just a little bit. Just to know.
You leaned and let your weight tip forward just enough to know if…
His hands immediately caught you, his hands on your ribs, scanning up and down if you had been hurt, “You okay?”
You swallowed, realizing that you had never doubted a second he would be there. And that settled something warm and terrifying in your chest.
It was not a silly crush, not your friend’s brother that you thought was hot and interesting, no. It was falling. Headfirst, no parachute.
And judging by the way his hands hadn’t moved from your waist yet, you weren’t entirely sure he wasn’t falling a little too.
──────────
You are screaming and he is too late.
He is always too late.
Your voice breaks into something small and terrified, the kind of sound that doesn’t even feel human anymore, and he is running but his legs don’t cooperate, move in slow-motion, the floor stretching longer and longer beneath him and the house smells like chlorine, metal and something sour he recognizes too fast.
You’re in the pool, face down and the water is red. And you are so, so still. He tries to move, to drag you out, but he can’t.
You turn toward him, eyes open and your mouth spilling blood.
“You were supposed to be there, Andrew. Why weren’t you there?”
He jerks awake, his whole body snapping upright while air refuses to enter his lungs, a pain in his ribcage so intense he thinks it might split him open from the inside out.
He doesn’t understand why at first: why his pillow feels cold and damp to the touch, why his throat burns, until he drags a shaky hand across his face and touches something wet, the realization feeling nauseating.
He has been crying in his sleep for God knows how long.
He presses his palms hard into his eyes like maybe the pain will help him, like maybe if he suffers enough the images will disappear. That you won’t be floating face down in the pool, covered in blood, your blood, your voice joining all the others, the same disappointed tone he’s memorized over the years with his ghosts.
(One. Two. Three. Four. He tries to count but it doesn’t work.)
The house is quiet for once, too quiet, and Andrew has this awful, crawling sensation lodged under his sternum, something cold and irrational that he can’t help but spiral into.
(What if…No.)
He is already moving, because lying back down would mean closing his eyes again and he can’t, he fucking can’t risk seeing you like that again, can’t hear the sound of your voice pleading and begging for him to save you when you are already gone, can’t add you to the long list of ghosts that wait for him every night.
Halfway down the hall, he gets as quiet as he can manage, moving through the house like he is on a job, because it feels the same: this sick, urgent need to verify something, to be sure that you are here, that you are safe.
The living room is glowing faintly blue before he even steps in, the light spilling on the floor and he hears it: a narrator speaking about sharks and the distant sound of recorded waves.
You always pick sea life documentaries when you stay over.
He doesn’t know when you figured out he liked them.
He stops at the threshold and sees you: curled on the couch, hidden beneath a blanket and alive.
(Your chest rises. Then falls. Rises. Falls. You’re not floating. You’re not gone.)
His lungs finally unlock and he breathes sharply, the sound loud enough that you look up immediately, like you sensed him there, like you are now tuned to him in a way he doesn’t understand, and your expression softens the second you see his face.
“Hey,” you say, voice thick with sleep. “Everything okay?”
He nods automatically but knows that he can’t bullshit you.
“You don’t look okay.”
“I’m fine,” he manages, but the words come out wrecked and dragged through his throat.
Your eyes examine him slowly and it clicks behind them. “Nightmare?”
(Oh, he hates this word. Hates how small it makes him feel. Hates how childish it sounds. Hates how accurate it is.)
His jaw locks so hard it aches and he can’t force out anything more than a stiff, miserable nod, his nails digging crescent moons in his palms as he braces himself for questions, for having to justify why he is standing there at three in the morning, shaking over a bad dream. But you don’t push.
You just scrub a hand over your tired face before moving your legs and lifting the blanket, creating space beside you.
“Come here.” You mumble, looking at him, patient.
He crosses the room slowly, the couch dipping under his weight as he lowers himself beside you, hyperaware of every inch of distance, of your arm brushing his, of the warmth bleeding through the thin fabric of your shirt, of how close your knee is to his thigh and how easy it would be to accidentally touch.
Your hand bumps his and even if he should pull away, he doesn’t. The contact is small, just skin against skin but for Andrew, it’s the closest to heaven he’s ever been.
Your fingers linger, uncertain, like you’re giving him time to decide, like he is allowed to decide. His thumb moves before he can stop it, brushing lightly over your knuckles, slowly, reverently, like he needs to make sure you are solid and not a trick of his mind. You feel warmer than him.
(Alive warm. Not water cold. Not bloody and floating. Not like in the pool.)
The memory hits so hard it hurts.
He jerks his hand back abruptly, his breathing going wrong again, shame creeping hot and fast because for a moment he wanted something and asked for it, letting the walls go down.
But you don’t comment, don’t tease and don’t pull away in response to his neediness and instead, you shift closer and you help settling the blanket over both of you, your arm following, tugging him in gently, like there has never been a version of this world where he wasn’t permitted to be here.
He stiffens when your hand finds the back of his neck and he wants to reassure you that it’s not because he wants it to stop but because he wants it too much, and he doesn’t deserve it. But your fingers brush his scalp, and suddenly he is nothing but starving for it, leaning toward it instinctively.
You guide him down gently, so gently and he can’t win this fight tonight, his ear pressing against your chest.
The documentary keeps whispering about tides and sharks, but he barely hears it now because all he can focus on is the rhythm under his cheek and the way your fingers keep caressing his curls in slow strokes like you were calming a frightened wild animal.
He wants to move. To slide his arm around your waist. To press his face into your shirt and breathe you. To hold you tight enough so nothing could ever take you away.
But he stays still, terrified of ruining it and breaking something with the weight of his want.
Your fingers drift lower to cradle the back of his head while your other arm tightens around him and pull him fully into you, closing the remaining space between your two bodies. His relief is immediate and overwhelming, pulling a whimper out of him, emptying him of his thoughts.
His chest caves inward on a shaky exhale, his hand finally moving hesitantly until it rests lightly on your waist, barely touching and giving you room to pull away if you want to, but you don’t. You tuck him closer, your chin brushing his hair.
“I’ve got you. You’re okay, Andrew, I promise. I’m here.”
The words land deep and it takes him a moment to realize he is sobbing in your arms, the tears soaking your shirt while he presses his forehead closer to your chest, just to confirm that the heartbeat under him is real.
(One. Two. Three. Four. He counts your heart now.)
“Shh…It’s going to be okay, Andrew.”
The storm in his head – the ghosts, the pool, your voice – slowly quiets for the first time all night, dissolving under the simple, undeniable fact that you are here and breathing under his cheek, speaking to him, comforting him.
And somewhere, between one beat and the next, his body finally gives up the fight, his sobs stop, exhaustion dragging him under gently this time, no drowning, no screaming, just the steady rhythm of you and your quiet voice drifting above him.
“I’m not leaving Andrew.”
He knows that for tonight at least, no nightmare will come at him.
You promised.
──────────
“Fuck, Fuck, Fuck.”
Craig was the worst and you were absolutely going to kill him. Not even metaphorically, but in the sense where you would pick up the nearest heavy object and aim for his head the next time you saw him, if only you were able to find him right now instead of wandering through a house you didn’t know that smelled aggressively of weed and alcohol.
Deran and Andrew would forgive you, you were sure of it, if you murdered their brother under these circumstances. Hell, they might even help you bury the body. Because you could have had a regular evening at home, watching for the hundredth time Shawshank Redemption but no, you had to be alone in a stranger’s kitchen, trying not to panic.
The party had shifted, you felt it about twenty minutes ago.
It had stopped being loud fun and started being loud wrong when little bags started to be passed around, people disappearing in rooms and coming back with pupils blown wide and white powder on their nostrils.
You had looked for Craig. Texted him. Called. Nothing.
You had found someone who vaguely resembled one of the friends he introduced you to earlier, and when you asked if they had seen him, they laughed and replied something about “upstairs with Renn so it might take a while, Sweetheart,” and you stood there for a second, scared. Really scared.
Because you didn’t know anyone there, not really. And you were now surrounded by idiots who were snorting cocaine.
(Okay. Calm down. Breathe. Don’t cry. It doesn’t help your situation at all.)
A guy you didn’t recognize slid a drink toward you with a grin that lingered too long, and the fact that your very first thought was ‘I wonder if he put something in that’ made your decision for you: you were leaving. Immediately. Whatever Craig was doing upstairs with Renn was officially no longer your problem.
The night air hit your face, making you regret for the lack of jacket.
You stood on a sidewalk for a moment, trying to calculate the distance back to your apartment. You were too far, with no car and a phone at nine percent.
“Craig is dead. He is fucking dead. I will kill him myself,” you muttered under your breath as you started walking anyway, heels dangling in your hand, bare feet against the cold concrete, just to put some distance between you and the house.
But the further you got, the louder your heartbeat became, pounding in your ears, the fear crawling up your spine.
Still, you kept walking, arms wrapped tightly around yourself, repeating ‘You’ll be fine,’ over and over to your brain.
(You were not fine. You were alone. In the middle of the night. Walking barefoot down a street you didn’t know. Why were you like this? Why didn’t you just stay? Why didn’t you drag Craig out by his stupid hair to drive you back home?)
You didn’t want to try to call Craig again and waste your last percentage of battery on someone who would not answer.
And before you could talk yourself out of it, before you could rationalize or be embarrassed…your thumb was already pressing Andrew’s name.
(If you called him, he would come. He wouldn’t hesitate. You knew it.)
The phone only rang once before he picked up.
“Yes?”
That was all it took for you: the sound of his steady and low voice to make something inside your chest collapse, the fragile composure you had been clinging to dissolving instantly as you let out a shaky exhale, thanking all the Gods above for Andrew Cody’s existence.
“Andrew,” you said, your voice betraying you immediately with a crack right through the middle of his name. “I-I’m sorry. It’s late, I know. I just…”
“What happened.”
You swallowed, trying to force the tears to back down. “I’m at this party and…and Craig left. I mean…he is upstairs with Renn doing I don’t know what and he won’t answer me. I left the house because it got weird there and I’m trying to walk home but I think that was a stupid idea and I just…”
(You hated how your voice wobbled. How small it sounded. You should have bought pepper spray.)
“I’m so scared.”
In the background, you could hear keys jangling, a door closing and his truck starting.
“Where are you?”
No ‘why’, no ‘what were you thinking’. Just that.
You gave him the street name and the closest intersection you could see, wiping your face with the back of your hand and trying to steady your breathing so you didn’t sound like you were seconds away from a breakdown.
“I’ll be there in five.”
You let out a weak, disbelieving laugh. “It’s at least ten.”
“Five.”
The line went dead before you could argue, the call cutting off abruptly as your screen went black. Dead battery.
You stared at your reflection for half a second on the dark screen, heart hammering while you counted the seconds in your head, hoping that somehow it would summon him faster.
It took less than three hundred for you to see headlights cut around the corner of the street faster than the required speed limit, relief crashing into you. He didn’t even fully stop before the driver’s door was already swinging open, crossing the distance to you in three long strides, eyes sweeping over you from head to toe then past you to the houses.
“You okay?”
You nodded too quickly and he stared at you, jaw locked so hard you could see the muscles twitching. He looked furious.
“Get in,” he said, opening the passenger door, one hand braced on the roof as he helped you climb up into the seat, taking your shoes to put them in the back seat.
You stayed silent, not wanting to know to whom his anger was directed at. It was only once you were down the street that he finally spoke again, eyes flicking between the road and you.
“Did anyone hurt you?”
You blinked at him. “No.”
“Touch you?”
“No.”
“Follow you?”
You shook your head, watching his knuckles tightening around the steering wheel.
“Say anything to you?”
“Just…offered me stuff,” you admitted quietly, wrapping your arms around yourself again. “But I said no. I would never do that. You know I would not.”
You weren’t sure why you felt the need to add that, why you wanted him to understand that you hadn’t been reckless. That hanging out with Craig didn’t mean being like him. That you wouldn’t caught yourself in drugs. You knew better.
The streetlight caught the side of his face and for a split second you saw something raw there before it slipped behind his mask of control. The silence continued to stretch, heavy.
“Are you angry at me?”
The truck slowed to a stop at a red light, allowing him to turn his head toward you fully, eyes dark and intense in a way that made your whole body pulse in response, not from fear but from the weight of being seen.
“I’m not angry at you,” he said, holding your gaze. “I’m angry you were there alone. Angry that my stupid brother left you. Angry that I wasn’t there sooner. But not at you.”
The light shifted to green, but he didn’t move right away. His eyes remained locked on yours, unblinking, making sure you understood the distinction.
“You call me,” he added quietly. “The second you have a problem, you always call me. Okay?”
You nodded, fingers twisting in the fabric of your dress. “I didn’t want to bother you.”
“You don’t.”
And there was something in the way he said it, like he was wounded at the idea you thought you might ever be an inconvenience to him, that made you blush.
The truck finally rolled forward, but the air between you felt different, heavier in a way that you’ll only be to shake off with a cold shower.
You watched the way his shoulders remained tense all the way to your home and understood then that he had come because he had been frightened, that the thought of you alone in the dark had unsettled something in him, and that he had needed to fix it.
And the scariest part was that something warm and traitorous inside your chest responded to that.
You liked that he had been scared.
You liked that he came in less than three hundred seconds.
That he didn’t even hesitate when you admitted you were frightened, he simply moved.
And you liked the way he refused to let you walk barefoot to your apartment, carrying you, as if the idea of your skin touching the cold pavement was something he would not allow.
He didn’t put you down immediately. No, he held you all the way from his truck to your doorway, one arm firm beneath your legs and the other steady at your back, your shoes dangling loosely from his fingers, your body tucked close enough to feel his breathing through his shirt, making you aware of how easily you fit there.
When he finally set you down at your threshold, his hands lingered at your waist a second longer than necessary.
“You’ll be good?” he asked quietly, handing you your shoes, your fingers brushing his in the exchange.
You nodded, incapable of trusting your own voice, because if you opened your mouth, you were fairly certain that something reckless would fall out, something dangerously close to ‘stay’ and you were overwhelmed enough by the urge to step over, to reach for him and press your forehead against his chest just to see if his heart was still beating as fast as yours.
He was still staring at you, something unspoken passing like electricity.
“Good night,” he whispered, the softness of it almost undoing you.
“Good night, Andrew.”
You closed your door slowly, pressing your back against it, listening to his boots on the pavement, realizing that he hadn’t moved until he heard the lock click.
Only then did he walk back to his truck.
You would maybe not murder Craig after all.
──────────
Andrew spends the entire day watching for the moment you are going to change your mind and run from him.
And you don’t act differently when you wake up: you drink coffee while humming along to the songs on the radio, trying to coax a laugh out of him, but he keeps waiting for it anyway: the flicker in your eyes that says you’ve seen too much of him now, that holding him while he sobbed was enough to scare you off for good.
He replays the night while you are in the shower. How he cried in your arms. How your fingers combed through his curls. How you held him pressed against your chest. How he let himself need you.
He wonders if he should apologize, or explain, or at least even just…acknowledge that you saw him at his weakest and that he was thankful it was you.
Instead, he washes the dishes twice in a row to calm his brain, avoiding looking directly at your body when you step back into the kitchen in your coffee shop uniform, hair damp.
(One. Two. Three. Four. He counts the dents on his mug.)
You ask him if he is still taking you to the skatepark after your shift, and he wants to say no. The word sits right there on his tongue, ready to spill, because the park means proximity and proximity means touch and desire which always ends with something being taken away from him.
But you smile at him in such an open and easy way, and if it was something you really wanted to do, far be it from him to deny you after last night when you held him like he was something that could be saved, that was worth saving.
So, he nods and the way your whole face lights up makes him think, not for the first time, that he would probably give you anything you asked for.
That is the part of himself that scares him.
And now that he is finally at the skatepark with you on this late afternoon, he knows that he should be tracking your stance and foot placement the way he always does, but today he notices different things about you instead: how you are not pulling away from him, not avoiding him, how you stand close when you talk, lean into his space without hesitation.
And somehow that unsettles him more than distance would have. Because, if you are not afraid of him, if you are not stepping back after seeing what he is like during his worst nights, then what does that mean?
You sway on the board.
He sees it, but his brain is still half-caught in the memory of your heartbeat under his ear, still waiting for the recoil that doesn’t come and by the time his body reacts, you’re already too far from his reach.
You hit the concrete hands first, palms slamming down on instinct before your knees follow, the skin scraping on the ground with a sound that makes his stomach drop. The impact steals the air from your lungs and for a fraction of a second you manage to hold yourself up before your face strikes the ground with a sickening thud.
Andrew is already moving before you even understand what happened, the board rolling behind you while he drops to his knees so fast, he doesn’t register the sting tearing through his own skin, doesn’t feel the way his jeans split at the knee or how his knuckles scratch raw when he catches himself, because none of it matters to him. He is scanning, assessing and cataloguing the damage, forcing his mind to clear before he dares to touch you.
Your palms and knees are damaged through the torn denim, but it’s the blood beginning to run from your eyebrow that makes him feel abruptly cold. It gathers at the edge of your lashes and runs along the curve of your nose, bright red against your skin, and for a second, the world tilts.
(Blood. So much blood. He knows blood. Knows how to stop it. How to clean it. How to stitch it close. Pope is good with blood.)
The thought lands with cold precision, and even if he hates the name, even if it sounds wrong in his own head, he can’t afford to hate the part of himself that steps forward first right now - efficient Pope, steady Pope, the one who does not panic.
“I’ve got you,” he says, and his voice is low, measured, trying to reassure you the way you reassured him last night while he broke apart against your chest, even though his heart is hammering through his ribs.
Your eyes flutter, dazed, before you try to sit up, but he is already there, placing one hand at the back of your neck and the other on your shoulder to help you.
“It’s okay sweetheart, I’ve got you. You’re gonna be okay,” he murmurs, and there is something almost pleading behind his words that has less to do with your eyebrow and more to do with the memory of the pool and your voice accusing him of being too late.
He swipes his thumb gently beneath the cut to assess its depth, his other hand moving to brace your jaw so you don’t move, and when fresh blood coats the pad of his finger, he feels the familiar switch inside him flips into place.
(His breathing slows. His hands stop shaking. This he understands. This he can control.)
“It’s not deep,” he says after his inspection, even though he knows you’ll need stitches. “You still with me?”
Your hand lifts and finds his wrist, fingers curling around it, and the contact sends something through him that is not adrenaline and not fear but softer that frightens him more because it makes him aware of how much he needs you to be okay.
“I’m fine,” you whisper, though your voice is small.
He shakes his head once, tearing a strip from the hem of his shirt. “Let’s get you home so I can clean this properly, okay? Keep pressure there,” he instructs, guiding your hand back to your eyebrow and pressing it into place.
You nod, and that’s enough for him.
He slides one arm behind your back, his broad palm spanning the length of your shoulder blades, the other slipping beneath your knees to lift you, ignoring the sting of his knees and the sticky blood drying across his knuckles because none of it is important compared to the steady rhythm of your breath brushing his collarbone.
He carries you toward the truck, opening the door and lowering you carefully into the passenger seat, one hand coming up to your jaw, his thumb resting lightly on your cheekbone to make sure your eyes focus on him.
“Stay with me,” he says softly.
Your lips twitch despite the pain. “Bossy.”
He goes to buckle your seatbelt, adjusting the strap and closing the door gently before circling the truck, wiping his bloody hand against his jeans.
While driving back to your apartment, his eyes keep darting to you every few seconds.
“Talk to me,” he says after a moment.
“About what?”
“Anything.”
You take a moment before starting to talk about your day at the coffee shop, just mindless little moments. He doesn’t interrupt, he listens and nods at the right moments. You are grounding him on purpose, he realizes, dragging his thoughts back to something ordinary, something alive.
(You are not in the pool. You are breathing. You are not telling him he failed you. He counts your breaths.)
Inside your place, he works methodically, like he always does when someone comes back from a job hurt and bleeding – controlled, shutting everything else out. He lays out all your medical supplies on your desk with a precise spacing: first gauze then antiseptic, needle, sewing thread…The order is important. Order means control.
You sit on the edge of your bed, looking at him and continuing the pressure of the piece of his shirt against your eyebrow.
“Alright,” he says quietly, stepping between your knees so he can reach your face properly. “Hold still.”
He cleans your palms first, his concentration absolute because his entire world has narrowed down to the square inch of skin beneath his fingers.
“I should have caught you.”
“It’s not your fault, Andrew. Don’t punish yourself for it, okay? I’m fine, I promise I’m fine.”
He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t trust himself to.
Instead, he goes silent and returns to the work in front of him, bandaging thoroughly your hands before taking off your pants and doing the same with your knees, making sure everything stays in place.
Finally, he allows himself to look fully at your face again, examining the cut on your eyebrow and tilting your chin upward with two fingers, feeling your breath ghosting on his lips in the small space between you.
“You’re going to need stitches,” he murmurs.
You study him for a second. “You’re very serious about this.”
“Yes.”
“I’m not dying, Andrew.”
“I know.”
“You look at me like I am.”
His jaw tightens and for a moment, he almost says it. Almost tells you that in his head, he’s already seen that version of you, floating and gone, but he swallows it back.
“Hold still,” he says instead.
He cleans the wound carefully by dabbing away the dried blood, and when you flinch, his free hand comes up automatically to steady the side of your head, thumb resting near your temple, not commenting on the way you lean into that touch.
The first puncture makes you inhale sharply.
“Breathe,” he says low, “Just breathe slow for me.”
You obey, focusing on him rather than the pull of the thread, your eyes locking on his face. He works carefully, tying each stitch with precision, trying not to falter at your gaze and even less at the reckless, intrusive thought about pressing his mouth to your brow to undo the wound.
When he finishes, he doesn’t move right away. He studies the line of the sutures, checks for tension, checks for bleeding or anything he might have missed before studying you.
“You’re okay,” he says, trying to convince himself.
You give him a small, tired smile. “I told you. I’m tougher than I look,” you say before your gaze drops, narrowing as you notice what he has been deliberately ignoring. “Andrew.”
“What?”
“You’re bleeding.”
He shrugs, dismissive, trying to pull his hand back so you can’t look too closely. “It’s nothing.”
“No, it’s not nothing,” you murmur, reaching for him before he can retreat, your fingers tracing carefully over his knuckles, making him go still. “You can’t patch me up and ignore yourself.”
He swallows, and before he can argue, you’re already reaching for the antiseptic with your bandaged hand, fumbling slightly. He catches the bottle before you drop it, his other hand covering your instinctively.
“You shouldn’t…”
“None of that,” you interrupt, and there is a flicker of stubbornness there that makes his mouth twitch despite himself.
You tug his hand toward you, and this time he lets you clean the scrape on his hands. He doesn’t look at the wound. He looks at you.
At the crease between your brows as you concentrate. At the way your lips press together. At the way you treat his injuries as if they matter. No one ever does.
Your fingers tie the bandage clumsily but securely, and when you finish, you don’t let go right away. Your thumb lingers, stroking slowly over the back of his hand. He is not sure how to breathe. The room feels so much smaller now. Quieter?
You lift your eyes up to him and whisper. “Can you stay? Just for a bit. So…we can check on each other.”
He could tell you it’s starting to get late and he was supposed to meet Deran and Craig for their next job.
He could tell you he’ll call you tonight to see how you feel.
But there is nothing in him that wants to leave this room.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I can stay.”
He helps you shift properly onto the bed, careful of your knees. When you lie back against the pillows, you reach for him, fingers curling into the front of his shirt.
It takes him a second of hesitation before lying down beside you, stiff at first, but you roll toward him, your bandaged hands pressing against his chest as you settle close, your head finding the space beneath his chin.
He exhales through his nose before lifting his arms and resting them around you.
After a few minutes of silence, when he thinks you might already be drifting, you murmur. “I like it when you called me sweetheart.”
He presses his mouth lightly into your hair.
“Go to sleep now.”
You nod, your body going slack after a few minutes while he stays wide awake, his hands moving slowly along your spine.
“You scared me,” he whispers into the quiet, once he is sure you’re gone.
His fingers move to brush lightly just above the stitches of your brow.
“I can’t lose you,” he breathes, pressing his forehead gently against yours.
(He counts your breathing. One. Two. Three. Four. Not because he is afraid. But because he simply likes knowing the rhythm.)
When sleep finally comes at him, he knows there won’t be any nightmare.
Because you’re there.
──────────
You did not mean to end up alone with Deran.
In fact, if you were being completely honest with yourself, you had carefully avoided being alone with him since you met, not because he had been hostile to you, but because he seemed to have this unnerving habit of seeing through people and you were not a fan of subjecting yourself to that.
Craig had dragged you to the bar “just for a bit,” (which in Craig language meant ‘indefinitely’) before promptly disappearing with a girl, leaving you at the counter, nursing a soda because you had work in the morning.
Deran was wiping down the bar in front of you.
“El Craigo has already left?” he asked without looking up.
“’Flee’ would be a better word to describe what happened.”
“And so now you’re just…” he gestured vaguely toward you with the cloth, “…miserably contemplating on drowning yourself in your drink?”
“It’s a soda.”
“You know what? That’s so much sadder.”
You exhaled, dragging a hand over your face before saying, “Can I ask you something without you telling Craig?”
That caught his attention immediately, making him glance up.
“Depends how embarrassing it is.”
“It’s not embarrassing,” you protested automatically, then faltered. “Fine. It’s…a little embarrassing.”
“A little?”
“A lot,” you admitted.
He huffed once, almost amused, tossing the cloth over his shoulder. “Fine. What?”
You took a breath, suddenly aware of how absurd this was and how you were feeling like you were sixteen instead of twenty-nine. “It’s…” you cleared your throat. “It’s about Andrew.”
(Fuck. This was so deeply humiliating. But Craig was not an option. He would weaponize the information and never let you live it down.)
Deran blinked once before leaning his forearms on the counter, a smirk spreading on his lips. “Oh, I see.”
You groaned immediately. “Oh, please, can you not react like that? You’re making this worse.”
“I haven’t reacted! I’m just…not quite surprised about this discussion. Come on.” he waved a hand. “What’s your question?”
“It’s just…” you stopped. “I don’t know how to tell if he…”
(Oh my God. You had faced worst things than this. You could finish a sentence.)
Deran tilted his face slightly, with a shit-eating grin that you absolutely hated. “If he…what?”
“If he likes me,” you blurted out in one breath.
The silence fell for exactly two seconds before he let out a short, incredulous laugh.
“You’re fucking with me. Right?”
Your face burned instantly. “Okay, great. Never mind, I’m just gonna dig my gra-”
“Easy tiger. Don’t get your panties in a twist. He’s obsessed with you.”
You stopped, your stomach flipping violently.
“That’s not true.”
“It is deeply true,” Deran replied flatly. “He reorganized the shelves in the kitchen.”
You blinked. “Well…I thought he just liked order.”
“Oh yeah, he does. Trust me, he fucking does. But…not that much.”
You opened your mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
“Surely that doesn’t mean…”
“He drove across town at three in the morning to get you out of a party,” Deran continued, counting off on his fingers now. “He cancels family meetings to go to the skatepark with you. He did his ‘scary stare’ to me the last time I drank in your mug.”
Heat crept up your cheeks as you stammered, throat dry. “B-But he doesn’t…He doesn’t say anything.”
Deran snorted. “Yeah, that’s Andrew.”
“It’s just...sometimes I don’t even know what he’s thinking.”
“Neither do we,” he deadpanned. “Welcome to the family.”
You exhaled, frustration spilling over. “So, what am I supposed to do now?”
Deran considered you for a moment. “Just…let him try to go at his own pace here. He is not good at the whole…relationship thing.” he said, his voice stripped of its usual sarcasm before adding. “And for the record, the way you look at him? Not subtle. Like, at all.”
You nearly choked on your own spit. “I am subtle!”
“I mean, yes,” he conceded dryly. “You are subtle…for Andrew and Craig. So don’t be proud about it. That’s the lowest level of subtility possible.”
“I hate you, Deran.”
“Yeah?” he replied with an amused smile. “Well, get in line.”
There was a pause before he said quietly. “You’re good for him. Just…don’t screw it up. You’re in the tribe now. Which means I have to tell you this…”
You straightened slightly.
“…if you’re not sure about this, about yourself, you go now. Not in a few months. Not after he lets himself think this might be real. You don’t get to backpedal if it gets complicated. He wouldn’t recover from it.”
You shook your head immediately. “I swear, I won’t hurt him. He’s…he’s-”
You stopped, because the word felt too large to say aloud. But Deran looked at you intensely enough for you to finish.
“He’s important. To me. I don’t want to fix him, because I don’t think he’s broken. I like him the way he is. I...I think I wouldn’t recover from losing him too.”
Deran held your gaze for a long moment. “Alright.”
You tilted your head. “Alright?”
“Alright,” he repeated. “You pass.”
“Was-Was it an interview? Are you serious?”
“Yep. And congrats, you got the job.”
You rolled your eyes, but your chest felt lighter than it had in quite some time while Deran smiled, a real full grin, almost boyish, making it easier to see the younger brother under his usual cryptic attitude.
“I forgot what it was like,” he said after a beat.
“What?” you asked.
“Having a sister you can annoy.”
“That’s…extremely sweet of you.”
“Don’t ruin it,” he warned, pointing the towel at you. “I will absolutely deny this conversation ever happened if you mention it to my brothers.”
You laughed despite yourself, shaking your head.
Then, he leaned forward and whispered to you. “And if you hurt him, I’m stealing your car and slashing your tires.”
“O-Okay.”
He had a little smile before straightening up. “Welcome into the family.”
──────────
He has not told you.
No one has told you about the job.
Craig said it wasn’t necessary, that you would make a big deal out of it. Deran said it was cleaner that way, the less people know, the less risk and Andrew didn’t argue, telling himself it was better if you didn’t know the details, better if you didn’t have to sit there, waiting for them to come back and spiraling about what could be happening to them.
He told himself that ignorance would keep you safe.
The screen door slams and your voice, sharper than he has ever heard it is rising against Craig, who’s following you in the backyard like a kicked puppy.
Andrew doesn’t turn immediately from his spot, staring at the water of the pool. He closes his eyes, preparing himself for the loud noises.
(One. Two. Three. Four. He counts the tiles of the pool.)
“You asked me to babysit Nick,” you’re saying, your voice shaking like you are about to start crying, “and you made it sound like it was for a date or something stupid! You didn’t say it was because you were going to fucking rob a jewelry store!”
“Jesus, lower your voice.”
“Lower my voice? How about you shut your mouth you liar!”
It isn’t only outrage in your voice, Andrew feels it. It’s fear. A raw, unfiltered fear for them. For him. And he doesn’t know what to do with that because no one has ever been afraid of losing him. When he went to prison years ago, his family moved on, sold his place and went on with their lives. For them, it was an inconvenience, for him, it was three years in Folsom.
Andrew turns then.
You’re standing a few feet from Craig, hands still bandaged, the thin line of stitches above your eyebrow visible, pointing a finger at Craig angrily while he tries to stay calm, running a hand through his hair.
“It’s not a big deal.”
“You’re breaking into a jewelry store, Craig. That’s not exactly Disneyland.”
“We’ve done jobs for years,” he snaps. “We’re good at it.”
Andrew watches the way your shoulders rise and fall too fast with your breath, the way your fingers flex like you’re resisting the urge to grab something and throw it at Craig.
“You know what happens if you get caught, right? You know what that would do to Nick?”
Craig’s jaw tightens. “We don’t get caught.”
You let out a bitter sound that is half a laugh, half a sob.
“Repeat this in the eyes of your brother, I fucking dare you. That’s not how life works, and you know it. You can get caught.”
Andrew feels the words hit him in the chest and rip something out of him. He doesn’t know when you learn about it. Doesn’t know who told you or the extent of your knowledge about those three years of fights and isolation.
If you know – truly know - why aren’t you running away? Why are you still here?
(He doesn’t understand. He can’t understand. It’s too much. It’s too little. One. Two. Three. Four. He counts the cracks on the floor.)
“We’re not idiots, just trust us, okay?” Craig argues, rolling his eyes.
“You left me alone at a party in a house full of people doing coke,” you fire back, your finger jabbing hard against his chest. “You are the exact definition of an idiot, Craig.”
Craig winces. “We don’t have to do this right now, okay? I already told you I was sorry about it. Pope, back me up.”
Both of you turn toward him at once, the weight of the fight landing on his shoulders. He doesn’t move immediately. Doesn’t speak either. Andrew has never been good at splitting himself in two, at giving his opinion. He was raised to follow orders.
Craig gestures toward you. “She’s acting like we’re amateurs.”
You slap his arm, wincing, forgetting for a moment about your bandage. “Fuck.”
Andrew walks up to you, checking your hand while you keep repeating him. “I’m okay, Andrew. I promise.”
He lifts his eyes to yours, angling his head to catch them, and when your gaze finally locks with his, he holds it, stubborn and unblinking. Your eyes shine brighter tonight than they usually do, so he doesn’t give himself permission to look away.
(You’re about to cry. It’s his fault. It must be his fault. He should have been better. But the voices are too loud. He doesn’t like when it’s too loud. One. Two. Three. Four. He remembers your breaths when you sleep.)
“I just…I thought you all trusted me,” you say, your voice breaking halfway through, fighting back tears of frustration.
Craig’s shoulders drop while Andrew’s thumb strokes over the back of your hand, grounding himself.
“We do,” Craig says, less combative now. “That’s why I asked you to watch Nick.”
“That’s not making me feel like you trust me. It’s making me feel like I’m a convenience.”
The word hangs there, making Andrew feel like he failed something. He has never wanted you to feel like this. He wanted you to be protected.
His gaze doesn’t waver as he keeps your hand in his, stroking over the bandage.
Craig looks between the two of you, seeing the hand, the closeness and mutters, “Jesus, bro, this is the worst time,” under his breath.
“Okay,” he exhales finally, turning fully toward you. “I fucked up. Massively. About the party. About not telling you. About…probably a million other things. I didn’t mean for you to feel unsafe.”
You don’t look convinced.
“Trust me,” Craig adds quickly, throwing Andrew a sideways glance, “I got my ass kicked enough by Pope to regret this party for the rest of my life.”
Your lips twitch a little, trying to keep it contain.
“Now, if you could hand me back my brother, I would be very grateful because we have a job to do, and you have a kid to entertain,” Craig says, rolling his eyes and retreating inside the house.
Andrew doesn’t let go of your hand, refusing to blink and terrified of losing a moment of you. He has the irrational feeling that if he does, something will waver on your face, the moment when you realize what this life looks like and he won’t be able to see his failure in time.
“We’ve planned it,” he murmurs finally.
You hold his gaze. “And if something goes wrong?”
He doesn’t answer right away because he knows the answer to this, and he is certain you don’t want to hear it.
(If something goes wrong, he goes down first. He makes sure Deran and Craig are safe. He doesn’t come home because he won’t ever go back to prison. He prefers to die trying to escape than go back in a cell. One. Two. Three. Four. He counts your eyelashes.)
You are still waiting, searching his face.
“Then I handle it,” he says quietly.
You shake your head, your jaw working as if you’re trying to physically hold yourself together. “Promise me to come back safe.”
His hand lifts before he can stop himself to settle against the side of your face, his thumb resting just beneath your eye, making you go very still, waiting for what he will do next.
His thumb caresses your cheekbone once, just enough to fill his mind with the memory of your skin.
“I won’t let anything happen to me,” he whispers, and he doesn’t know if it’s meant as a vow or a lie he’s trying to force into becoming true. “I promise,” and before he allows himself to overthink it, he presses a careful kiss to your forehead, his lips brushing just above the line of stitches.
He can hear you catch your breath and it makes him pull back, his lips tingling at the contact. He knows it now: if he stays longer, if he lets himself feel the warmth of you, he might not leave at all.
He memorizes the sight of you like this: looking like losing him would break you and it does something unfamiliar to his chest. No one has ever been scared at the thought of him disappearing. No one has ever demanded that he come back.
He turns quickly, putting distance between the two of you before he changes his mind, the promise he made echoing in his head.
He hears it when Deran cuts the alarms. Promise me to come back safe. When he cuts through the back entrance. Promise me. And when Craig tries to improvise. Promise. He is not one to do reckless things but tonight, he is particularly unyielding each time the job almost goes sideways.
He knows you are in the house with Nick, probably pacing the kitchen and waiting to see the outcome of his word. So, when he finally reaches the main display room, he is quick to reach for the highest value pieces that will be cut down and reshaped. No traces or evidence will be left, they have done this long enough to know how to make everything disappear completely.
Andrew’s hand hovers for half a second over a particular velvet cushion before picking up the thin gold chain, a small heart-shaped pendant set in the center. It’s delicate and quiet, reminding him how it feels to bask in your light. He turns it between his fingers once, twice, imagining it resting just below the hollow of your throat, his thumb brushing over it absentmindedly while you are both sitting on the couch and watching a documentary.
He slips it securely into the inner pocket of his jacket, pressing it flat against his chest for a brief second before stepping back into motion and leaving with his brothers without any alarms or police sirens cutting through the night.
And when they get at the warehouse to stash the duffel bags, Andrew doesn’t stay like he usually would to make sure about getting his fair cut of the job. He nods once, quiet, ignoring their snickers and comments about him being ‘down bad’ all the way to his truck.
The house is dim when he enters, a soft glow coming from Craig’s bedroom and before he sees you, he hears your voice. It’s so soft.
“And baby whale swam all the way across the ocean to find mama whale,” you murmur.
He quietly walks up to the threshold to see you sitting on the bed with Nick lying, his eyes dropping with sleep, his thumb in his mouth and clutching to his monkey plushie. You slowly close the illustrated book before pressing a kiss onto the his hair and something expands in Andrew’s.
(You would be good at this. At building something steady. He can picture you pregnant, swelling with a child. His curls and your smile on a being that would never know the kind of hurt he had to go through.)
You stand up from the bed and see him, the relief crossing your face so achingly tender it nearly knocks the breath from his lungs.
“Andrew.”
He nods once, trying to convey his feelings, “I came back.”
You smile, closing the bedroom door behind you and stepping close to him, scanning for injuries the way he did for you at the skatepark. He lifts his hands, showing you his palms.
“I’m fine. I promised you I would.”
Your shoulders drop in a way that tells him you’ve been holding yourself rigid for hours, managing a barely audible, “Thank God.”
His lips tilt upward before reaching into his jacket’s pocket, “Turn around,” before adding a quiet, “Please.”
“Bossy,” you reply, amused, before turning your back to him.
He closes the one last step between you, pulling out the necklace from his pocket, careful not to let his hands shake as he lifts your hair to expose the back on your neck. He fastens the chain, the clasp clicking softly into place and for a second he doesn’t step away, the pad of his thumb grazing at the nape of your neck.
“Andrew,” you whisper, turning back toward him, your fingers lifting to trace it. “It’s…It’s beautiful. Thank you.”
He keeps staring at the pendant who rests exactly where he imagined it would be, then at your mouth before quickly going back to your eyes. You are close enough that he can feel your breath on his face, the world narrowing to the space between you.
He wants to close the distance, to press his mouth to yours.
Instead, he rests his forehead gently against yours, grounding himself with your scent, refusing to close his eyes.
“You should sleep,” he murmurs.
You smile softly and suddenly, Andrew wonders how he can extract a memory and preserve it forever in resin.
Because this moment feels like the dawn of his existence.
──────────
When Andrew was seven years old, the house was already too loud.
Somewhere down the hall a door slammed hard enough to be heard from the bedroom he shared with Julia, who was sitting on the floor with a deck of cards spread between them while he lined them into exact rows instead of playing War.
He liked the rows and the symmetry of it. It calmed him each time the edges were precisely following the pattern of the carpet. With this, he didn’t need to count.
In the backyard, someone shouted about money, making the twins flinch in fear. Julia reached for his hand, and they sat like that for a long time: her fingers curled tightly around his, his eyes fixed on the the cards. (Hearts. Diamonds. Clubs. Spades. Everything will be all right.)
Smurf emerged in the doorway with her bright smile, eight months pregnant with their little brother, tilting her head, “My baby is a strange one,” she whispers to his new stepfather, “But useful.”
Andrew heard it. He didn’t know what strange meant exactly, but he knew it was something you said when you didn’t want to say wrong.
At school, boys kept snatching his skateboard, tossing it across the asphalt because he rode the same loop over and over during recess, memorizing how many pushes it took to reach the fence.
(Fourteen. Fourteen every time. An even number. He liked them. That’s why he always counted till four.)
The first time a boy shoved him and called him a freak, Andrew didn’t respond. Just took back the board and kept doing his loops. The second time, when the board got kicked away and Julia was not there to held his hand, Andrew swung without warning. He couldn’t remember deciding to, just the sound of the impact and how the noise inside him went blissfully silent.
After that, teachers called him difficult, the kids stopped approaching him and Smurf congratulated him with a kiss on his mouth.
At night, when Julia was asleep beside him, Andrew kept staring at the ceiling, wondering something he couldn’t say out loud to his mother or his sister: would anyone ever see that he was trying? Trying to keep himself together so he didn’t explode? Trying to be good? Trying to stop the noises in his head?
-
When you were seven years old, the house smelled like warm cookies.
You were sitting on the couch, your small arms cradling your cousin, afraid to drop her. You didn’t know how to act with a baby. Your parents had sat you down a few months ago at the kitchen table and told you that you were their little miracle, that Santa sometimes forgot things and that maybe it would always just be the three of you – which sounded a little sad until your father had squeezed your hand and told you that three was already perfect.
But it was alright, because now, you had your cousin’s fingers clutching onto your hair, “She’s holding me!” you squealed, delighted and in awe because here, in this house, you were allowed to be amazed and to grow at your own pace.
The day you scraped your knee on the sidewalk, trying to teach yourself how to roller skate, you cried for less than a minute before your mother knelt in front of you, cleaning the wound and kissing the sting away. “You’re gonna be okay,” she said, and you believed her.
At school, you had a best friend who whispered to you how babies were made, and that made you giggle all day, the teacher shaking his head and calling you incorrigible, even though you had no idea what that meant and decided it must be something wonderful if it made you laugh that hard.
And the day you asked what you could be when you grew up, no one laughed. “You can be anything my little monkey,” your father had told you, and you thought about it for the whole day. Because anything was a lot for your brain: a teacher, a vet, a marine biologist. You always circled back to the same answer: something to help people.
And at night, as you looked at your glow-in-the-dark stars on your ceiling, you wondered about other things: would someone look at you the way your father looked at your mother when she was singing in the kitchen, with that love that said I am home?
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Deran’s bar is louder than usual tonight, crowded by sports fans watching a game between Los Angeles and Atlanta. Craig has tried to tell him why it was so important to win at least five times since their arrival, but Andrew’s attention remains elsewhere entirely, watching you from across the room the way he has been watching you for four months now: trying to read something in your posture or in the tilt of your head that could give him an answer.
Because the truth is…he doesn’t know what you are after last night and if what happened in the hallway, or every night you’ve spent wrapped together, mean the same thing to you that they mean to him. He wants to ask, to spill the question out before it eats him alive: what are we?
Andrew hates not knowing. On a job, he knows every camera, every blind spot, every possible way things can go wrong but with you, there’s no map. And he hates that he can’t predict your next move.
You are standing at the bar, ordering a drink, your back half-turned to him and wearing a dress that shouldn’t be allowed to exist in public. It makes his pants grow tighter and has him readjusting on the stool, trying to pretend he isn’t affected while his brother sits three feet away and would never let him live it down if he knew.
And he knows he shouldn’t be staring, but you keep touching absentmindedly the necklace, your fingers tracing the pendant as it moves with your breathing, and before he can stop himself, he’s counting it.
(One. Two. Three. Four.)
You had said thank you last night in a way that felt like you meant something more, had let him secure the necklace around your neck and had met his eyes when you called it beautiful as if you were promising you would always wear it.
Always.
(Oh, how he doesn’t trust that word. Doesn’t trust anything that implies staying. He knows better. He should know better.)
And yet, there you are, wearing it for everyone to see, which does nothing to steady his accelerated pulse, and leaning across the counter to collect your cocktail from Deran. The movement doesn’t reveal much more of your skin, but it still sets ablaze Andrew’s brain, his lips going dry as he tries to resist the urge to walk up to you and beg for you to tell him that he isn’t the only one picturing rings, and a cradle in a quiet house and your head on his chest until he is old and grey.
“You’re not being subtle, you know that?” Craig says, cutting through the haze of his thoughts.
“Don’t start.”
Craig raises his hands innocently. “Jesus, relax.” He immediately reaches for the bowl of peanuts on the table, and Andrew feels his jaw tighten at the thought of how many unwashed hands have touched that bowl already. “Seriously, what’s wrong with you tonight?”
What’s wrong is that he just stole diamonds worth more than all of the jobs he did last year and it doesn’t compete to the way you look with the chain resting against your collarbone.
What’s wrong is that he would give back every dollar from last night if it meant waking up beside you for the next fifty years.
What’s wrong is that he is one second away from walking across that bar and lowering himself at your feet for your hands to baptize him clean, as if loving you were the only absolution worth asking for because whatever heaven exists for a man like him begins and ends with you.
And what’s wrong right now is that a man slides into the empty space beside you, leaning too close and touching your arm to get your attention. You turn toward him politely, your lips curving into the small smile you once called your ‘customer smile’. You had explained it to his brothers and him: that you always kept the worst-case scenario in the back of your mind and that a smile felt safer than a hard no since it could mean the difference between walking away or not.
(Andrew doesn’t know the names or the faces of those who made you feel like that but he wants to find them. He wants to press them on the ground and feel their pulse panic under his thumbs. He wants them to understand what fear tastes like when it turns metallic into the mouth. He wants the air stolen from their lungs the way it must have been stolen from yours when you felt scared. He no longer wants to count. He wants to hurt. To see this man’s blood on the bar.)
Andrew starts walking towards you before he even formulates the thought, shoulders squared, already calculating how much force it would require to grab the stranger by the collar and steer him outside of the bar.
His vision narrows as he sees the stranger laughing, his hand lifting to linger near your elbow as if he was testing whether he can push for more and that makes Andrew’s vision blur at the edges. He is three steps away. Two.
Your eyes find his instantly, and something shifts in your expression. Your hand leaves the cocktail and you smile at him. It’s not the customer smile. No, it’s the real one that unravels him each time.
“Hey, honey,” you say brightly as your arm wraps around his neck and you press a kiss to his cheek, your hand traveling down his side before sliding into the back pocket of his pants, settling against him.
Andrew is almost sure he died at some point on the way there because he is pressed against you and now, he is no longer Andrew or Pope. For a brief moment, he gets to just be honey, and the word makes him happier than any name ever has.
The stranger glances between you. “Oh. I didn’t realize…”
“My boyfriend,” you cut him off with a smile, looking up at Andrew’s face.
His eyes were already on yours, searching for the smallest flicker of fear. Because if the man has dared put some in them, Andrew would dig an unmarked grave without blinking. When he finds none, his hand comes to your waist, his thumb strolling along your hip as he dips his head and presses his mouth above the faint line of stitches on your forehead.
“Hey, sweetheart,” he murmurs, low enough that the word belongs only to you.
He feels your breath hitch against his skin before turning to the man and saying lightly. “No worries, he always gets a little intense about men crowding me,” you tilt your head, thoughtful. “Not sure if it’s the boxing or the prison time. But don’t mind him…he almost doesn’t bite.”
The stranger’s smile falters just enough to satisfy something dark in Andrew’s chest. “Oh, um…yeah. Sorry man, I didn’t know she was taken.”
Andrew doesn’t raise his voice or move, he just stands there with your hand in his pocket, letting the silence stretch until it feels suffocating. “She is.”
“Right. I’ll go back to…the match.”
Andrew doesn’t blink and keeps track of the man’s back until he is laughing again at his friends’ table like nothing happened and only then does he let his focus shift back to you. You, who’s still close and warm, holding onto him like you have no intention of letting go.
His hand remains at your waist as he turns toward you, the movement bringing your faces close enough that your noses almost brush and your breaths mix between you. He lowers his head slightly, almost enough to kiss you.
“You okay?” he murmurs while his thumb keeps its slow movement on your hip.
You nod, your mouth curving up in that smile he loves. The real one. The one that you have at the skatepark each time you manage to stay upright a little longer than the day before: proud, bright and stubbornly pleased of yourself. And he can’t help but think about those lips and the way they said ‘honey’.
(He wants to hear it again. Wants to hear it softly. Wants to hear it moaned in the dark and against his mouth. He wants to kiss them every day for the rest of his life. To learn them. To know how they would part as he pounds into you. Stop. He has to stop.)
He blinks twice, grounding himself in the feel of your waist.
“Andrew. I’m good, I promise,” you murmur, sliding your hand out of his pocket and lace your fingers with his instead, interlocking them. “Let’s get out of here, please. It’s too loud.”
He doesn’t say it out loud, but relief settles at your suggestion. The bar feels too loud, too crowded and the idea of how many unwashed hands like Craig’s have been over the counters keeps coming back at him. So, when you tug gently at his hand and turn toward the door, he follows without hesitation, grateful that you were the one saying it.
The door swings shut behind you and the noise from the bar dulls instantly, reduced to a muted thud. The air is cooler than inside, smelling like the salt of the ocean mixed with your shampoo and he doesn’t understand how he gets to still have your hand in his and your thumb moving across his knuckles.
It’s only when you stop beside the truck and turn toward him that his eyes drop to the thin gold chain resting around your neck. His free hand lifts carefully to brush the chain first, following it down until the pad of his thumb rests over the pendant itself, flattening it against your skin.
“Still got it on,” he murmurs, tracing the outline of the pendant.
(He imagines doing this, years from now. In the kitchen. In bed. In the shower. Adjusting it before you leave the house. Brushing it aside before he kisses the curve of your throat. Seeing it against your skin when you are carrying his child.)
“Looks better on you than it did in the store,” he adds.
Your fingers slide slowly between his, guiding his hand so it settles flat over your heartbeat. He can feel it beating loud and fast under his palm, matching his own.
You tilt your face enough to find his eyes back. “Thank you for what happened in there, Andrew. You were good.”
His eyes slip shut for half a second because he doesn’t trust himself to survive the way you are looking at him, smiling at him with such warmth he shivers of pleasure.
(Good. You think he is good. If that’s what you want, he can be good. He can kneel. He can find how to rebuild himself from the bones if it means you keep calling him good.)
“You shouldn’t say things like that,” he says under his breath.
“Why?”
“Because I’d do anything if you asked.”
Your fingers start to caress the back of his hand. “Anything?”
He nods, his gaze unwaveringly focused on your eyes. “If you told me to walk away from the jobs, I would.”
Your hand pauses against his.
“Andrew…” you murmur, but there’s no panic in it, no immediate rejection. “You know why I wanted to reject him, right?”
He doesn’t answer, too scared of startling the moment with another word.
“You know why I’d reject any other guy in that bar and why I wanted him to know?”
“Know what?”
“That I’m not available.”
“You’re not?” he asks, as his mind races.
“I don’t know,” you say softly. “Are you?”
The question hangs there, in the small space between your bodies, his mind fumbling with a thousand overlapping questions.
(Are you with him? Calling him yours? Defining what this was? Finally answering the question that has been rattling his brain for weeks?)
“Are you available Andrew?” you repeat gently, your hand lifting up to cup his face.
He exhales slowly, trying not to whimper at the contact, shaking his head.
You lean closer, your nose brushing his and your voice dropping lower. “No?”
“No.”
Your thumb traces patterns along his cheekbone and it takes him a few moments to realize that you were mapping his freckles. “How long?” you whisper.
He feels too weak to reply, overwhelmed by the tenderness of your touch. If his heart had not been already yours, he would lay it at your feet right there, so long as you promise to treat him with this gentleness and care for the rest of his life.
“Before the party? When I called you to help me?” he nods. “Before our night on the couch?” another nod. “Before our first skateboard le-?”
“When we met. And you brought pastries,” he replies, on the verge of a sob, shameful to confess that he keeps thinking about you on top of him, under him, any way you want it as long as he could disappear into your light and be drown whole by your grace to wipe out every horror he has ever seen or done for the sake of others.
“Andrew. Honey. Please, look at me.”
He keeps his gaze darted to the ground, like looking anywhere but you might prevent him from saying anything more revealing about the depth of his feelings, before his eyes close on their own instinctively, only realizing a heartbeat later that it’s because your lips found his.
And for the first time in Andrew’s life, that deep pit of misery in his heart goes completely silent, frozen for a flash before kissing you back.
Your lips are warm and a little reckless, tasting like mint and something entirely yours that he knows he will crave for the rest of his life. Your fingers thread into his curls, pulling a groan he can’t control out of him. He moves closer without thinking, his hand sliding along your waist until your back meets the metal of the truck door.
The second he registers the force of it, he pulls back just enough to search your face, to scan for any sign that he has gone too far, but the pause barely lasts a breath before your fingers tighten in his hair, guiding him back down as your body arched into his, slipping his tongue past your parted lips.
You are an oasis and he is nothing but a thirsty man wandering in the dark who gets to finally know what it’s like to drink every drop of it. You taste dizzy and intoxicating and he knows that he has been feeding on scraps of affection all his life and now…now he understands what it means to be full.
He is about to tell you how much sweeter you taste than in his fantasies before you bite down on his lower lip, drawing another sound of his throat.
You tilt your head, your arms wrapping fully around his neck as his drop to your hips, steady and sure, to raise you higher against the door, a gasp spilling out of you that he swallows eagerly and your dress hiking up as your legs wrap around him, denying any space between your bodies.
He feels you pull away for air by an inch or two, making him whine at the loss of contact, but he quickly recovers as he sees the flushed smile on your kiss-swollen lips. “Show off.”
“Yeah?” he asks while one of his arms tightens under you, anchoring your body to the door while the other frees itself to trail up your body and adding a smug, “Yeah,” skimming your inner thigh and marveling at how many sounds he can coax out of you, wondering how much more he’d pull if he could trace his thumb along your heat. But instead, he cups again your cheek, tracing slowly the bow of your lips.
“Dimples,” you murmur.
“What?”
“Dimples, Andrew,” you repeat, delighted, like you’ve just discovered something rare. “I didn’t know you had them.”
(Oh. Of course. You can see them because he is smiling. For real. A real one. Not the tight, guarded version. Not the twitchy one. A full unguarded smile. When was the last time he did that?)
“I do,” he says, trying and failing to smooth it away. “So do you.”
Your eyebrows lift. “I do not.”
“You do,” he insists quietly, shifting his hold slightly to keep his arm secure around you, his thumb pressing gently at the corner of your mouth. “Right there…”
Inside the bar, the crowd erupts in a wave of shouting, making you glance at the door before erupting in laughter, eyes wide.
“Oh, fuck,” you whisper, incapable of stopping your giggles. “I forgot.”
Andrew exhales through his nose, trying to calm the blood pumping hard all the way down his length. He knows that you’ve been feeling him against you the whole time, your hips still rubbing together, and for once in his life, he doesn’t want to excuse himself or feel ashamed of his desires, of how much he wants. He has spent too many nights thinking about how you’d taste, how you’d moan. Too many cold showers to try get rid of his hard-on whenever he was picturing you.
“Maybe…” you murmur against his mouth, pecking soft kisses along his jaw. “Maybe we should relocate.”
He looks at you, at the way your lips are still swollen and glistening from kissing, at your panting and the tremors of your legs.
He nods, lowering you carefully back onto your feet, his hands still trailing along your sides to still have some ways of being connected to you before reaching for the door handle of the passenger seat and helping you in.
He feels, walking around to the driver’s side, that he is still smiling. Dimples and all.
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“Maybe…” you sigh, struggling to keep your composure and pressing kisses along the freckles dusting his jaw. “Maybe we should relocate.”
The intensity of his eyes on you, trailing along your body and taking in your rampant arousal, feels like he is on the verge of taking you against the door. You are pretty sure that if he’d ask you for permission, you’d grant it promptly. You want him. You want to know how long it would take for his unwavering hazel eyes to become pleading wet just by your lips telling how good he is to you.
But he just nods, jaw tight before lowering you carefully back onto your feet, making you bite down a protest at the loss of contact, like even the air feels like too much distance, until you feel his fingertips dragging over your waist.
He opens the door for you and not so long ago, you would have described his current behavior as controlled and cold, but now that you know him…you recognize a man who’s trying to contain himself, like a wild animal finally freed.
(Devour. You want him to devour you. To ruin you. Four months of trying – miserably – to have a date with him and it took only a gross man and a ‘honey’ to get him to kiss you like that and tell you he would quit everything? Fuck. Focus.)
He starts the engine, snapping you out of your thoughts, before pulling out of the parking lot, still smiling. You stare at his profile: the line of his jaw that has now faint traces of your lipstick, the way his tongue briefly drags across his lower lips like he can still taste you and his hand on the gear shift that slowly drifts to your thigh.
Your breath stutters the moment his palm settles just above your knee, the pads of his fingers tracing patterns over it while he keeps his eyes on the road. That definitely doesn’t help your craving for more.
(How much can be a fine for having sex in a car anyway? Andrew has money. Plenty from what you understand so…that would just be a drop in a bucket, right?)
You slide your fingers over his, intertwining them on your lap and stilling his slow, absent movements. He glances at you immediately, probably to understand why you stopped him. But the look you give him is enough to answer his question.
His eyes trail your face a fraction too long before looking back to the road, purposefully, the streetlights passing by a little faster.
“We’ll be there in five,” he declares without looking at you.
“Andrew, it’s at least ten minutes away,” you say, with a barely contained smile.
“Five.”
“I’m timing you, you know,” you smirked, pointing at the car clock.
The truck moves through an intersection just as the light turns yellow - once, then again at the next block – while Andrew doesn’t do so much as blink.
“See?” he says, the hint of a smug smile on his face when the car finally parks home.
You check the dashboard clock. Four minutes.
You shake your head, laughing as you both unbuckle your seatbelts. “Show off.”
Of course, you should know better now, he is not a man to stop there. So, when he opens the door for you before you even reach for the handle, and offers his hand, you should see it coming.
He helps you down carefully and for half a breath you think that maybe this time he’s not going to do it. No, you definitely should know better cause the moment your feet hit the ground, his arm slides behind your knees, sweeping you off while the other moves behind your back.
A breathless gasp escapes your mouth. “Andrew!”
(God you are so fucking gone for him. Is this what it would feel like? Crossing a threshold with him as a young bride? Completely besotted in a white dress? No. Not would. Will.)
He shuts the door with his hip, adjusting you against his chest as your arms loop around his neck automatically, your body relishing his touch as the thought slips out before you can stop it: “I feel like your bride right now.”
His steps slow on his way to the door, just enough for you to notice and wonder if you should just tell him to brush off your stupid words. That you are just drunk (you barely had the time to drink a sip of your cocktail earlier) and tired (you just spent two nights in a row sleeping like a baby in his arms).
The garage light flickers as he reaches the front door. “You are.”
He carries you inside like he’s done it in a million other lifetimes while you are still gaping, mouth wide open at his words. You shake your head a bit wobbly before moving your hand from the nape of his neck to the place on his cheek where you know a dimple is hiding.
“Careful,” you murmur, smiling softly. “Keep talking like that and I might start looking for a dress rea-”
Your words are being cut off by his mouth, kissing you like he is trying to drown in the sensation, tilting his head to fit you better, to take more of you, and you can’t stop the moan passing your lips. It feels like stepping into the fire and realizing you don’t ever want to be pulled out.
Your feet carefully find back the ground as his hands slide along your backbone, fingers spreading between your shoulder blades. His lips part yours with the same confidence he has when he catches you at the skatepark. You feel him everywhere and you still want more.
(Is it ever going to stop? This feeling? This whole tremor that dances under your skin every time he touches you? Every time he kisses you like he means forever?)
He pulls away just enough, heavy breath mingling with yours, hazel eyes half-lidded in pleasure and his nose brushing yours softly with your foreheads pressed together, “We can just kiss. If that’s what you want. I don’t need more. Just you,” he murmured in a broken voice.
The words settle deep in your chest, heavy and large as if they have roots. It makes you want to answer him with your mouth, to kiss him until his doubts leave his bones entirely. You bring your fingers to the bow of his lips and he kisses them gently, one after the other, the softness of it making you tremble.
“Andrew,” you say quietly, smiling despite your racing pulse. “Take me to bed.”
He regards you for a long moment, his eyes moving slowly over your face as though he is searching for hesitation and when he finds none, a smile begins at the corner of his mouth, enough to carve that rare, gorgeous dimple into his cheek. “Bossy,” he smirks before lifting you back by the waist so your legs can wrap up around his waist, walking around the house guided only by his memory since his lips are too busy coaxing moans out of you.
You are almost blacking out from the lack of oxygen when the kiss suddenly breaks. In the soft lighting of his bedroom, you distinguish most of his expression: lustful and bewildered that this is finally happening.
“I want to taste you. Please,” he breaths and you nod, not trusting yourself to reply.
The look that passes through his hazel eyes is hazy, fingers finding the hem of your dress and carefully pulling it up.
“Don’t want to mess it,” he says, folding it neatly on his chair. “You look pretty in that.”
You sit on the edge of the bed, trying not to feel too self-conscious about being only in your underwear, braless as he kneels down to the floor, still fully clothed and face a few inches lower than yours, prying your legs apart.
“Andrew,”
He doesn’t respond, pressing his lips to the inner corner of your thigh and moving further up between your legs.
“You don’t have to Andrew.”
He only lifts his gaze up to yours, unwavering as he continues his kisses, “You don’t want it?”
“I…I’m not saying that. I just…I don’t want you to feel obligated to it. I know it’s not…what men like the most,” you gasp, your hand finding his curls and twisting them around your fingers, making him grunt.
“It’s what I want to do the most, right now,” he says with a sinful gaze. “Can I?”
“Yes. Okay. Sure,” you choke, closing your eyes and lying down as he continues his torturous path, his hands slowly tugging the last piece between him and your pussy.
You don’t think you have ever been this wet with a man. Or a woman. Or anyone at all. Normally, you feel a bit uncomfortable with men going down on you cause they never seem to know what they are doing or are too impatient of having ‘real sex’ to let you finish. But here with Andrew, you are nothing but pleasure, his lips fiddling with you like you are an instrument that he is tuning to his own harmony.
You gasp as his tongue finally probes your folds stopping just underneath your clit, earning from him a low whimper.
“You taste delicious,” he goes, coming up for air by an inch. “Just like how I dreamt,” he adds, making you feel close to delirious.
He lowers his face again, tongue working its way up your pussy again, finally reaching for your clit and rolling over it, making you shudder and writhe on the bed, incapable of keeping your moans down and your hands running through his scalp.
“Andrew, please. Just like that. It’s perfect,” you praise him, feeling how it makes him pick up the pace.
Your last straw is the sight of his face between your legs, eyes burning with nothing but want, his hands used to stealing and hurting now holding onto your legs to keep them open and making you come with a hoarse cry. If there’s a heaven on Earth, you know now that it must only exist in this man. In his hands, his chest, his mouth, his eyes. He is nothing but your sanctuary, your promised land and your altar.
When your orgasm subsides, you feel Andrew crawling over you and pressing his lips against you, making you taste yourself on his mouth as you slip your tongue in it. The small noise of pleasure from the back of his throat is the most delicious sound you’ve ever heard.
“You,” you breathe against him, your lips brushing his, pupils probably wide. “I want you. Like right now. So please…take off those clothes. I love them. Really. But take them off.”
His lips twitches again to the side, “Anything.” as he starts to undress, folding them before going above you, his hard cock pressing against your heat.
His eyes keep searching your face, looking for an ounce of backtrack in your eyes before slowly entering you. That’s when you realize how grateful you are for the previous climax because in any other situation, you would have probably wince at his thickness. Thankfully, he seems to catch on with it - probably due to his gaze not leaving your face and refusing to blink – and takes his time to be fully inside you.
For a couple of minutes, the two of you don’t move, give you the time to marvel at how good he feels inside of you. You know now that you’ll have other days and nights to ask him to stay like this for hours, just to be one.
Andrew presses his forehead against yours, lips brushing yours as he whispers. “I love you.”
The word hums through your body. Love. Love. Love. Andrew loves someone and it’s you. From your scalp to your toes, you can feel it resonating through you. Love. Love. Love.
“I love you, Andrew. My Andrew,” you murmur happily, moving a drenched curl from his forehead. “So good to me.”
His face ends up in your neck, trying to cover his reaction to your words. “You really think I’m good?”
“Of course you are. Look at me, honey,” you say, holding onto his chin to bring back his face close to yours as your legs wrap around his waist. “You are good. You are kind. You keep making me feel safe. And…I’m so lucky to have you,” you add, rolling your hips and making him shiver.
You drink in the sight of him: his sweaty hair sticking to his head, curls messy from where your fingers had run through, the freckles dusting his chest and the traces of old wounds that you’ll ask about one day. But the most important of all is the way he is looking at you – as if he loves you. Because he does. He said it. I love you. I love you. I love you.
You keep whispering sweet nothings into his ear, just to see the flush spreading on his cheeks, his ears, his chest and encouraging his thrusts to go harder, deeper. Soon enough, you are quivering around him, your nails digging in his skin as you bite on his lower lip in retaliation for making you wait so long for this moment.
He lets out a desperate moan. “I won’t…last long. ‘m sorry. You feel so…”
“It’s okay,” you encourage him. “I want you to come.”
He slams his cock one more time and goes. “Wh-Where?”
“In me,” you beg, and you know you have hit the right nerve from the way his whole body trembles.
“Really?” he breathes.
“Please.”
The sight of his body, eyes fighting to not shut tight from the pleasure, mouth pursuing yours, mixed with how good he is making you feel, is too much. Your back arches as you reach your second climax tonight, quickly followed by Andrew, clinging to you as his warm load fills you up. Both of you are gasping for one another, time almost freezing as your eyes are sharing the same thought. I love you. I love you. I love you.
After a couple of minutes, Andrew slips out of you and lays most of his body against your side, putting his head above your breasts, on your heartbeat, intertwining your hands together.
Summary: After a hard day pushes Tommy past his limits, a frightening accident at home sends both of you to the ER. As Tommy is treated and the shock settles, Jack stays, steady, protective, and unmistakably part of the small family taking shape between the three of you.
WC: 10K
Tags: Sensory Overload, Hurt/Comfort, Protective Jack Abbot, Emergency Room, Tommy Trusts Jack, Found Family, Developing Family Dynamic, Family Feels, Angst/Comfort, Self Harm Sensory Overload, Dr. Mel King Support
Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4
Tommy was already having a hard time before you even saw him.
You knew it the second the therapist opened the door.
There was no screaming. No overturned furniture. No frantic explanation waiting in the hall. Just that careful, measured look adults got when they were trying not to make a bad moment worse by naming it too soon.
“Hey,” she said gently, stepping aside. “He had a rough afternoon.”
Of course he did.
Not because therapy had gone badly. Not because anyone had failed him. Just because some days it didn’t take much. A transition at the wrong moment. A hallway that got too loud. One more demand than his nervous system had room for.
Tommy stood near the sensory corner by the bookshelf, not playing, not looking at anything, just holding himself rigid. His tablet hung against his chest. One hand gripped it so hard his knuckles had gone pale.
“Hi, baby,” you said softly.
He didn’t look at you.
That alone didn’t mean much. But the rest of it did, the tight jaw, the fast breathing, the clipped rhythm of one sneaker against the carpet.
The therapist lowered her voice. “He had trouble with transitions today and creating longer sentences. We shortened table work, gave him more movement breaks, and that helped for a while, but another group got loud in the hall and I think that tipped him over. He’s been stuck since.”
You nodded, eyes still on Tommy. “Okay.”
“He didn’t want his shoes back on. Didn’t want his backpack touched. We stopped pushing once it was clear it was making him worse.”
“Okay.”
You crossed the room slowly, careful with your steps, careful with your space.
“Tommy,” you said quietly. “Mama’s here.”
His fingers moved along the edge of the tablet but didn’t press anything.
You crouched a few feet away instead of reaching for him.
“We’re going home,” you said. “But first shoes on, then car.”
At the word shoes, his shoulders climbed higher.
The therapist reached for his backpack by the cubbies and Tommy made a sound low in his throat, immediate and strained. His hand slapped the front of the tablet hard enough to make the screen chirp.
“It’s okay,” you said quickly. “Leave it.”
She set the backpack down at once. “Sorry.”
“No, you’re okay.”
You turned back to Tommy and kept your voice even. Familiar.
“Tommy we’re just going home.”
His foot kept tapping.
Usually by now he would’ve at least pressed a button. Home. Mom. All done. Something to show you he was still reachable through the static.
Today he stayed locked in place. You knew this version of him. Not the explosion yet. The brittle edge before it. You rested your hands loosely in your lap so he could see you weren’t going to touch him without warning.
“Tommy,” you said. “Can you put on your shoes with me?”
Nothing.
“That’s okay. We can wait one minute.”
The therapist eased back toward the door. “I can step out if that helps.”
“Maybe just give us a second.”
“Of course.”
The door clicked softly behind her.
The room quieted, though not completely. The vent hummed. A phone rang somewhere down the hall. A child laughed too loud and was quickly shushed.
Tommy flinched anyway.
Your heart sank.
“Okay,” you murmured. “I know.”
You waited him out for a few breaths, then tried again.
“Shoes, then car. Then home.”
His fingers finally pressed the screen.
“Home.”
Relief loosened something in your chest.
“Yes,” you said. “Home.”
Again.
“Home.”
“Yeah, baby. Home.”
A third time, harder.
“Home.”
You kept your own breathing slow on purpose. “We’re going home.”
He looked at you then, just for a second. His eyes were wet. Not crying, but overloaded and frayed all the way through.
“I know,” you whispered.
He pressed another button.
“No.”
Then again.
“No.”
Your stomach dropped.
Not no home. No shoes. No car. No more demands.
“That’s okay,” you said quickly. “I hear you.”
He made that sound in his throat again and tugged at the collar of his shirt, once, then harder.
You shifted carefully forward. “Tommy. We have to leave. Let’s put your shoes on.”
The second the words were out, you regretted them.
‘Have to’ was too hard. Too fixed.
He hit the button again so hard the tablet voice clipped.
“No.”
“Okay,” you said immediately. “Okay. Different plan.”
You held up one shoe where he could see it without bringing it too close.
“One shoe.”
His whole body tightened.
You set it down.
“Okay. Not yet.”
The door opened a crack and the therapist leaned in. “Do you want me to bring the car around? Sometimes that helps.”
“No, that’s okay. I think if we can just get him moving—”
You stopped.
Tommy had dropped into a crouch all at once, hands clamped over his headphones, tablet bumping awkwardly against his knees.
The therapist’s face softened. “Do you want help?”
You looked at Tommy and knew, with that awful clean certainty, that you were out of time.
“Yeah,” you said quietly. “I think we need to go now.”
You moved slowly, narrating everything.
“I’m going to help with shoes.”
He whined, high and strained, but didn’t kick when you touched his ankle. That somehow made it worse. He was too overloaded even to organize a protest.
“One shoe,” you murmured.
Then the other.
“All done. Good job.”
The therapist brought the backpack over more carefully this time and you swung it over your own shoulder instead of trying to put it on him.
One less thing touching him.
When you guided Tommy up, he stood, but only because gravity made it easier than staying folded.
His tablet spoke before he was fully upright.
“Home.”
“Yes,” you said again, softer than you felt. “Home.”
You thanked the therapist, though you barely heard her answer. By the time you got Tommy down the hall, every fluorescent light seemed too bright. Every sound found him.
A door shut behind you and his shoulders jumped. He stumbled at the front desk because he was moving too fast and not fast enough at the same time. By the time you got him outside, his breathing had gone thin and ragged.
The late afternoon air was warm and damp, heavy with the stillness that came before weather turned.
Tommy stopped beside the car.
Frozen.
“Hey,” you said gently, keeping yourself between him and the rest of the lot. “Just the car. Then home.”
He hit the button.
“Home.”
“I know.”
Again.
“Home.”
You unlocked the car fast, pulse climbing now, because you could see it happening. The narrowing. The point where reason stopped helping.
“In and buckle,” you said. “Then we go.”
Tommy made a rough sound and turned away from the open door.
His breathing was wrong. Too fast. Too shallow.
“Tommy.”
He slapped the side of the car once.
Not hard. But enough.
“Hey,” you said, still gentle but firmer. “No hitting.”
His hand curled into a fist.
And there it was.
That awful drop in your stomach.
This wasn’t over. This was just the part where it started moving faster.
You stepped in with both hands open. “I’m helping.”
He twisted away, shoulders up around his ears, fingers striking the tablet again.
“Home.”
“I know. We’re going home.”
A cart rattled nearby. A car door slammed three rows over. Tommy flinched so hard his whole body jerked.
That decided it.
You got one arm around his upper back and angled him toward the seat.
“In the car,” you murmured. “Then home.”
He resisted just enough to make it hard. Not a fight yet. Just stiff and twisting and halfway trying to fold himself out of your hands.
“It’s okay. I’ve got you.”
Somehow you got him into the back seat. That was the easy part. The second the door shut behind him, the air changed. You rounded to the driver’s side and got in just in time to hear the first kick hit the back of the passenger seat.
You turned immediately. “Tommy.”
He was half sideways in the seat, chest heaving, one hand still on the tablet, the other pressed to the window. The seatbelt hung untouched beside him.
“Buckle first,” you said. “Then we go.”
His head snapped toward you, eyes wide and flooded.
“Home.”
Then again.
“Home.”
“Yes,” you said. “Yes. We’re going home.”
You reached back carefully for the buckle.
The second your hand crossed into his space, he recoiled and hit the tablet again.
“No.”
“Okay,” you said quickly, pulling back. “Okay. No hands. I hear you.”
‘Think.’
If you pushed the buckle, he might fight harder. If you sat here too long, the car would become another trap. If you drove without it—
‘No.’
You climbed out and opened the back door on his side instead, lowering yourself enough not to loom.
“Tommy,” you said, trying to anchor him with your voice. “One click. Then we go home.”
He still didn’t look at you, but he didn’t bolt either.
You took the opening.
His hand smacked the seat, then his own thigh, then the edge of the tablet. Everything sharp. Searching.
You moved fast enough to matter. One hand braced at his hip, the other dragging the belt across before he could twist away.
The click was absurdly loud.
Tommy cried out.
“I know,” you said immediately. “I know, I know. Done. All done. Going home.”
You shut the door, got back into the driver’s seat, and started the car.
For one blessed second, there was quiet.
Then he kicked the seat again.
Harder.
The tablet blurted in frantic rhythm from the back.
“Home.”
“No.”
“Home.”
You tightened your hands on the wheel.
“We’re almost there.”
Not true. Ten minutes, maybe. More if you caught the red lights.
Today it felt endless.
The kicking turned chaotic. His shoe hit the side of the seat, then the door. Plastic rattled. The tablet overlapped itself beneath his hand.
“Tommy. Safe body.”
Usually that helped.
Today it barely touched him.
In the mirror you saw him hit the side of his head once with the heel of his hand.
Your stomach dropped.
“Tommy no hitting.”
He did it again.
You turned onto the main road, shoulders locked. Traffic felt impossibly slow. The red light ahead looked personal.
His breathing was loud now. Wet. Wrong. He hit his leg. The window. The seat.
The tablet voice cut in and out around it.
“Home.”
“Home.”
“Home.”
“I know,” you said on autopilot. “I know.”
The light stayed red.
A pickup rolled to a stop beside you, bass thumping faintly through the windows. Tommy folded in on himself with a sound that tore straight through you, one hand over his headphones, the other slamming blindly for the home button.
You could feel panic rising in your own throat. You forced your next breath all the way down.
“We’re okay,” you said, though only half of that was true. “We’re going home.”
The light changed.
By the third mile, the first drops of rain had started, fat warm splats against the windshield. The wipers dragged once. Tommy whined at the sound.
‘Of course.’
Everything was wrong. The car. The belt. The noise. The pressure of leaving one hard place only to still be inside the hard thing.
You knew all of that. Knowing did not make it easier.
He started yanking at the seatbelt. Not unclipping it, just pulling hard enough to make it lock and jerk.
“Tommy, leave it.”
He cried out again, sharper this time, and yanked harder.
You took the side streets home. Longer maybe, but fewer lights. Fewer stops. Less time boxed in.
The neighborhood blurred by in wet gray and dark green. Wind moved through the trees in restless shivers. Somewhere far off, thunder muttered.
Then came the change that scared you most.
Silence.
Not peace. Not calm. The kind of silence that meant he’d gone farther in.
You checked the mirror too quickly and caught only pieces, hunched shoulders, face turned to the window, one hand twisted in the tablet strap.
Then his fist hit the glass.
Once.
Your heart slammed against your ribs.
“Tommy, no.”
He hit it again.
You were less than two minutes from home.
Every instinct in you fractured in different directions at once, pull over, keep driving, talk more, talk less, do something, don’t make it worse.
Instead you held the wheel in a grip so tight it hurt and aimed for the driveway like it was the only safe place left on earth.
“Almost there,” you said, voice thin. “Almost home.”
The rain came down harder, drumming the roof.
You pulled into the parking lot too fast, braked, and threw the car into park. Before you could turn fully around, he was already fighting the belt. Hard.
“Tomm—”
He made a sound that cut you off entirely, high and terrified, and every instinct in you moved at once.
You killed the engine, yanked your door open, and ran for the back seat as the storm finally broke over the house in a sheet of rain. By the time you got the door open, Tommy was halfway out of his seat and nowhere near coming back.
And you knew, really knew, in that cold sinking way below thought—
Home had not fixed this. It had only moved the explosion to your front door. Which at this point was safer than the car.
Rain soaked both of you by the time you got him out of the car. Not violent rain. Just steady and cold and relentless. It darkened the parking lot, slicked the steps, dotted Tommy’s hair and lashes before you got the front door open.
He hated it anyway.
The second the air hit him, he made a sharp sound and twisted hard against the seat.
“I’m helping,” you said, already reaching in.
You got the buckle loose and caught him before he could throw himself sideways into the doorframe. He shoved against you immediately, all panic and momentum, but you got an arm around his middle and hauled him upright.
“Inside.”
Rain dotted his hair and lashes before you even cleared the car. His sneakers hit the wet pavement and slipped just enough to make him cry out and grab at your arm.
The apartment steps were only a few yards away, but in that moment they felt endless, slick concrete, dark railing, the rain turning everything unsteady under Tommy’s feet.
He twisted hard against you, trying to turn back toward the open lot.
“No,” you said softly, guiding him forward. “Up. We’re going inside.”
The first step nearly undid both of you.
Tommy balked, half folding down, his free hand slapping hard against the metal railing with a hollow clang that made him flinch all over again. You tightened your grip and dragged him upright before he could collapse completely.
“I know,” you whispered. “I know, baby.”
You got him up the stairs one messy step at a time, his weight jerking against you, his sneakers scraping wet concrete, your own balance going shaky every time he stumbled.
By the time you reached the landing, both of you were breathing hard.
Your keys slipped in your wet fingers once. Then again.
Tommy made a broken, desperate sound and twisted harder beside you.
“Hold on,” you said, fighting the lock.
The key finally turned.
The door swung open.
Tommy lunged across the threshold like home was the only solid thing left in the world.
“Tommy.”
Too late.
He bolted in, sneakers slipping on the rug before he caught himself on the wall. The tablet strap came off over his head in one rough motion and landed by the couch. His backpack followed, thrown hard enough to hit the kitchen counter and fall sideways.
Usually home helped. Usually the minute the door shut, something in him loosened.
Today it didn’t.
Tommy was pacing before you’d even kicked off your shoes.
Across the living room. Turn. Back again. Turn. Fast and clipped and frantic. His hands jumped from the sides of his head to his shirt to the wall like his body couldn’t decide where to put itself.
You moved after him immediately.
“Tommy. Safe hands.”
He didn’t look at you.
The room was dim with late afternoon storm light. Rain blurred the front window. The refrigerator hummed. Your own breathing sounded too fast.
Tommy knocked the lamp beside the couch with the back of his arm. It rocked once, then tipped to the carpet.
You flinched.
“It’s okay.”
That was for both of you.
You shut off the kitchen light to lower the room, then came back.
“Tommy. Come here.”
Nothing.
He hit the side of his head once with the heel of his hand.
Your stomach dropped.
“No.”
He did it again.
Harder.
You moved toward him immediately, hands out but cautious, the way you always had to be when he was this far gone, close enough to intervene, far enough not to trap him.
He jerked away from you with a rough, broken sound, shoulders up around his ears, chest heaving. Rain and tears had soaked into his hair, plastering it against his forehead. His whole body looked wound tight, like a spring pulled too far back.
You grabbed the couch blanket, thinking weight, pressure, interruption, anything familiar enough to break the spiral.
“Okay, okay,” you said quickly. “Here, baby—”
But he was already moving.
Not toward you.
Toward the window.
Your heart lurched.
“Tommy—”
He slapped the wall beside it once. The crack of skin against drywall echoed through the room.
You dropped the blanket and stepped forward fast.
“Stop.”
He did it again.
Harder this time, the impact loud enough to make you flinch.
You reached for his arm.
“Tommy, look at—”
He ripped away from your hand like you weighed nothing.
You stumbled half a step, catching yourself on the back of the couch.
He wasn’t looking at you. His eyes were wide and unfocused, fixed somewhere deep inside the panic instead of the room.
“Tommy,” you tried again, keeping your voice low even as your pulse climbed. “Stop. Stop.”
For half a second, it almost worked.
His body hesitated.
Then something snapped inside the moment.
He slammed his palm against the wall again and made a raw sound in his throat.
You lunged forward and caught the back of his shirt. For a split second you had him. Then he twisted hard. He somehow made himself bigger and stronger than you remembered in that moment, and the damp fabric tore loose from your grip.
“Tommy, stop!”
His arm drew back.
You saw it before it happened, the angle of his shoulder, the force behind it, the thin pane of glass inches from his fist.
“No—”
You threw yourself toward him.
But he was faster.
His fist drove straight into the lower pane.
The window exploded outward.
The sound was violent, glass shattering across the room in a spray of jagged shards. Pieces bounced off the sill, the floor, Tommy’s sleeve.
Tommy screamed.
For half a heartbeat you couldn’t move.
Then everything in you snapped back online.
“Don’t move!”
Tommy was staring at his hand.
Blood welled instantly across the heel of his palm and along two fingers, bright and slick. Tiny shards glittered in the skin. More clung to his shirt and sleeve.
“Oh God—”
He stepped back.
Right toward the glass scattered across the floor.
“Stop!”
You grabbed the blanket and flung it across the worst of the shards, barely aiming, just trying to cover enough before he cut himself worse.
Then you reached him. But even injured, even panicking, Tommy was still big. You caught his wrist and he tore it away instantly, strength fueled by pure adrenaline.
Blood streaked hot across your fingers. Your heart slammed against your ribs. Because he didn’t understand. He didn’t understand the floor was full of glass now. That his hand was already cut open. That one more blind movement could make this so much worse.
Tommy looked from the blood to the broken window to you, breathing in sharp, ragged bursts. And for one awful second you realized, he might bolt. And if he ran now, into that room full of glass, you might not catch him in time.
“Tommy. Safe body.”
He twisted and tried to bolt for the hallway.
You caught him around the middle just before he broke free. And instantly understood how bad this had gotten.
He fought you hard.
Not angry. Not deliberate. Just blind, desperate force from a body that had completely outrun thought. He was thirteen, all height and panic and adrenaline now, and when he threw his weight against you it nearly tore him right back out of your arms.
His injured hand jerked wildly between you, blood slicking over his fingers, glass still glittering across his sleeve, his chest, the bend of his elbow. Every movement made your heart lurch. If he got loose now, he could fall in the shards. Rub glass deeper into his palm. Hit the wall. Hit himself. You didn’t even know which danger to stop first.
So you held on.
You locked both arms around him and tried to drag him back against you, bracing your weight under his center the way you would if he were about to run into traffic.
“Stop—Tommy, stop—”
He screamed.
Not words. Just raw sound.
Then he bucked so hard it nearly took both of you to the floor.
Your heel slipped on the edge of the blanket. Your shoulder slammed into the wall. For one sick second your grip loosened and panic ripped straight through you, because if he got out of your arms now, you might not get him back before something worse happened.
You tightened your hold again.
And that was when his head snapped backwards.
Fast.
Violent.
Blind.
The crack of his head gainst your face went through you like a gunshot.
White pain burst across your vision.
You gasped and nearly lost him.
Warm blood rushed over your mouth almost immediately, thick and hot, spilling down over your lips, your chin, the front of your shirt.
Your nose.
‘Oh God.’
But Tommy was still fighting.
Still bleeding.
Still covered in glass.
You swallowed hard against the copper flooding the back of your throat and locked your arms tighter before he could wrench free.
“It’s okay,” you said, though the words came ruined now, wet with blood. “It’s okay, baby—”
Blood dripped from your chin onto his shoulder.
The second he saw it, everything changed.
He twisted in your arms to look at you, really look at you, and made a horrible sound you would hear later in the quiet and never forget.
Fear.
Not rage.
Not frustration.
Fear.
His body surged harder in your grip, panicked now by your face, by the blood, by the fact that something had happened to you too. His hurt hand tried to curl inward against his chest. His other arm shoved blindly at your side. He was trying to get away from the danger and had no way to understand he was carrying it with him.
‘Hospital.’
The thought landed clean and brutal.
Not in five minutes.
Not once he calmed down.
Not after you got him cleaned up.
Now.
You shifted and forced him backward, away from the broken window, away from the blanket-covered glass, guiding more by strength than cooperation. He stumbled with you, still crying, still fighting, his shoes slipping against the floor as he tried to twist out of your hold.
“Stay with me,” you heard yourself say, though you weren’t even sure he could.
You got him into the kitchen in a staggered half-drag, half-catch, your own blood hitting the floor in bright drops as you moved.
By the time you braced him against the cabinets, one arm pinning him there just enough to stop him from hurting himself worse, your body shaking with effort, blood was dripping from your face onto the tile between your feet.
He was still trying to pull away.
Not with any plan. Not even with direction. Just raw panic, every muscle in his body firing at once, his injured hand tucked tight against his chest while his other arm shoved blindly at your side.
“Tommy—”
Your voice broke on his name.
He made another awful sound and twisted harder, sneaker skidding against the kitchen tile. For one horrible second you thought he was going to go down and take both of you with him.
You slammed your hip against the cabinet edge to brace yourself and tightened your hold.
“It’s okay. It’s okay.”
Blood was still pouring from your nose. You could feel it running warm over your lips, dripping off your chin, hitting the floor in fast bright drops. The smell of it mixed with rain and broken glass and panic until the whole room felt sharp at the edges.
Tommy saw it again. Saw your face. Saw the blood. Saw that something had happened to you too. And panicked harder.
A wrecked, terrified sound tore out of him as he shoved at you with the heel of his free hand, not trying to hurt you, just trying to get out of the moment, out of the fear, out of his own skin.
“I know,” you said, even though your own voice was shaking so badly it barely sounded like you. “I know, baby. I know.”
He was too big for this now. That thought hit with brutal clarity. Not too big to hold. Not yet. But too big for you to pretend this was manageable for one more minute on adrenaline and luck. Too much strength. Too much fear. Too much blood. One bad slip and he could be back in the glass or down on the floor or tearing his hand open worse before you could stop him.
Your phone.
You fumbled one-handed for your back pocket and missed it the first time because your fingers were slick.
Tommy jerked hard against your arm again.
“Tommy, stop—”
The second attempt got the phone out. You nearly dropped it anyway.
The screen lit your blood all over the glass.
Jack’s name swam for half a second before you hit it.
He answered on the second ring.
“Hey.”
Then he heard your breathing.
Everything in his tone changed.
“What happened?”
“Jack—” Your voice broke immediately. “Tommy broke the window. There’s glass in his hand.”
Tommy cried out against your shoulder and jerked again, trying to twist free.
“And he hit me,” you got out. “My nose is bleeding. I think it’s broken. I don’t—I can’t—I’m scared Jack.”
Jack went still for half a beat. Not frozen. Processing.
Then—
“Okay. Listen to me.”
You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to keep Tommy upright, trying to keep your knees from giving.
“Is he breathing okay?”
“Yes.”
“Is the blood pouring out of his hand or steady?”
You looked. Everything blurred for a second.
“Steady. There’s a lot, but it’s not spraying.”
“Okay. Don’t take the glass out.”
“Okay.”
“Do you have a towel nearby?”
You looked blindly toward the counter. “Yeah.”
“Get the cleanest one you can reach. Wrap his hand loosely. Just enough to contain it. Don’t press on anything sticking out.”
“Jack, I don’t know if I can get him back in the car.”
“You can,” he said immediately. Not soft. Certain. “You do not need perfect right now. You need moving. Wrap his hand and get here.”
Tommy bucked against you again, panicked by your bloody face and his own pain.
“Jack—”
“I’m here,” he said, and the words hit low in your chest. “Stay with me. Is he wearing shoes?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Leave them on. Forget everything else.”
Your vision blurred.
“My nose won’t stop bleeding.”
“You dizzy?”
You took inventory because he asked like it mattered.
“No. Just everything hurts.”
“Okay. If that changes, you pull over and call 911. Otherwise you come straight to me.”
Something in you almost gave way.
“Okay.”
“Speaker phone if you need both hands. Go wrap his hand.”
You wedged the phone on the counter and reached one-handed for the dish towel hanging off the oven handle.
Tommy fought the second he saw you move.
“I know, baby. Mama’s helping.”
Blood still ran warm over your mouth. You wiped at it with your wrist and only made more of a mess.
Jack didn’t tell you what to say. He didn’t try to coach you through soothing Tommy. He just stayed on the line, steady and listening.
That almost undid you more than anything.
“Tommy,” you said. “Look at me.”
He didn’t. He was too far gone for that. But he stilled for half a second at your voice.
You used it.
You caught his wrist as gently and firmly as you could and wrapped the towel around the worst of it. Loose. Quick. Enough to keep blood from running freely and glass from scraping everything.
Tommy screamed and tried to yank away.
“It’s wrapped,” you told Jack.
“Good. Now get him to the car.”
“He’s not going to want to.”
“I know. Do it the safest way you can. He has to stay secure for the drive.”
The storm hit harder then, rain drumming against the windows.
Tommy flinched so hard he slammed back against the cabinets. You shut your eyes for one beat. Then opened them.
“Okay.”
You got him out of the kitchen. Past the glittering edge of broken glass. Across the living room where the lamp still lay on its side. To the front door. Down the stairs. Across the open parking lot. Tommy cried the whole way.
What happened next broke into pieces in your memory.
Tommy stumbling on the wet concrete. Nearly losing your grip. His wrapped hand jerking wildly between you. Your blood dripping onto his shoulder. The car handle slick under your palm.
“Back seat,” you said, voice wrecked. “Come on—”
He planted his feet and screamed.
You bent, got both arms around him, and lifted.
It was awkward and desperate and sent pain bursting hot behind your eyes. His shoulder clipped your face on the way up and fresh agony shot through your nose.
“Jack,” you gasped.
“I’m here.”
You got Tommy half-carried, half-folded into the back seat while he twisted and sobbed and tried to shove himself back out. His knee drove into your hip against the doorframe and for one ugly second your legs nearly gave.
“I can’t get him to stay in—”
“Get him secured however you can,” Jack said. “He has to stay in the car.”
You could hear movement on his end now. Doors. Voices. Hospital noise.
Tommy kicked once, hard enough to hit the passenger seat.
You reached across him, caught the belt, dragged it over him while he writhed under it. Your shoulder wrenched painfully, but you didn’t stop.
The buckle clicked.
Tommy howled.
“It’s on,” you said.
“Good. Front seat. Drive.”
You slammed the door before Tommy could throw himself against it and rounded the car on shaking legs. Rain soaked through your shirt. Your nose was still bleeding, slower now but enough to smear red across the steering wheel when you grabbed it.
The engine turned over.
Tommy screamed from the back seat.
“Talk to me,” Jack said.
“I’m driving.”
“Good. Keep talking.”
The world outside had gone gray and smeared and wet. Your face throbbed with your pulse. Every breath tasted like blood.
Tommy cried in ragged bursts behind you.
“He’s still crying.”
“That’s okay,” Jack said. “Just keep driving.”
You took the next turn too fast, corrected, kept going. Your shoulder ached. Your hip was already blooming hot where he’d driven you into the doorframe.
Behind you, Tommy hit the back of the seat once. Then again. Then a harder thump against the window with the side of his wrapped hand.
A broken sound left your throat.
“Jack—”
“Don’t turn around,” he said gently. “How far out?”
“Eight minutes.”
“Okay.”
“He’s hitting the window.”
“It’s okay.”
“He’s going to make it worse.”
“It’s okay.”
The repetition nearly undid you. Not because it fixed anything. Because he wasn’t arguing with your panic. He was standing inside it with you.
The light ahead turned yellow. You made it through just before red.
Tommy’s crying changed, less sharp now, more hoarse, like his body was exhausting itself.
“I should’ve done something different,” you whispered.
“No.” Jack’s answer came fast and hard. “Not right now. Just get here.”
You swallowed and kept driving.
The hospital came into view a minute later in a blur of sodium lights and wet concrete. Relief hit so hard it almost made you dizzy.
“I see it.”
“Pull to the ambulance entrance.”
Your breath caught. “What?”
“It’ll be easier. I’m there.”
And he was.
You saw him before you fully stopped the car. Dark scrubs under a jacket he hadn’t finished zipping, hair damp at the temples like he’d been moving fast. A nurse beside him. Another doctor with a stretcher. Security back far enough not to crowd.
You barely got the car into park before Jack was there, wrenching your door open. He took one look at your face and went still. Not frozen. Controlled in that way that was somehow worse.
“Jesus.”
Then he crouched just enough to get into your line of sight.
“Are you dizzy?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
His gaze stayed on you one beat longer, checking whether your answer and your face belonged to the same reality.
Then he nodded once.
“Stay there.”
He shut your door and moved for the back seat.
You ignored him almost immediately and shoved your own door open, catching yourself hard against the frame when your hip lit up.
“Hey—”
“I’m coming.”
He saw your face and didn’t waste time arguing.
Tommy was wedged into the far corner of the back seat like he was trying to disappear into it. His breathing came in short, ragged pulls that barely seemed to reach his lungs. The towel around his hand was soaked through in dark, ugly patches. Blood streaked his sleeve, his shirt, the seat beneath him. Without his tablet strapped to his chest, his free hand kept moving restlessly, grabbing at the seatbelt, then the door, then his own shirt, like his body was searching blindly for a way out of pain it couldn’t explain.
Jack opened the back door slowly. Not all at once. Just enough not to spook him worse.
Then he bent, careful to stay low, careful not to crowd.
“Hey, buddy.”
Tommy made a distressed sound and shoved himself harder into the corner, shoulders up around his ears, face turned away like maybe if he made himself small enough none of this would be real.
Jack’s voice stayed low.
“Yeah,” he said softly. “I know.”
The stretcher rolled closer behind him.
The second Tommy saw it, panic tore through him all over again.
He thrashed so hard the whole car shook. His feet slammed against the seat. His free hand hit the window once, then the door, then clawed uselessly at the belt across his chest. He made a raw, breaking sound that went through you like a blade.
Jack looked over his shoulder.
“Tablet?”
“At home,” you said. “I forgot it.”
Jack’s jaw tightened once.
“It’s okay.”
Then he looked back at Tommy.
“You’re hurt,” he said simply. “We want to help.”
Tommy cried harder.
Not just crying now, terrified, wrecked, confused in a way that made him look younger and bigger at the same time. Too old to be carried like a child. Too scared to understand why everyone was closing in on him anyway.
Jack didn’t try to soothe him with things that weren’t true. He looked once at the nurse, once at security, and made the call.
“We’re going to move him.”
The shift in bodies was instant. And Tommy knew. Maybe not what they were doing. Maybe not why. But he knew they were coming for him.
His whole body recoiled. He kicked hard against the doorframe and made a sound so full of panic it barely sounded human, just fear stripped raw and thrown into the rain.
“No—”
You moved before you could stop yourself, trying to get closer, trying to reach him before strangers’ hands did.
Jack caught your arm.
Not roughly. Just enough to keep you from stepping into the middle of it.
“Stay up here,” he said quietly. “Let us get him out.”
You were shaking now. “You’re scaring him.”
His hand tightened once around your arm.
“I know. I’m sorry, but we have to do this.”
Then, to the team—
“Go.”
It happened fast after that.
Too fast.
One second Tommy was still curled into the far side of the seat, and the next there were hands on him, careful hands, trained hands, necessary hands, but hands all the same. One person controlled his shoulders before he could slam himself into the door. Another caught his legs when he started kicking harder. The nurse protected the injured hand, holding it away from the frame so it wouldn’t strike metal on the way out.
Tommy screamed.
Pure terror.
Pure pain.
No words.
No device.
No way to ask what was happening or beg for it to stop.
Just that sound.
You would hear it later. In the quiet. In your sleep.
He fought them with all the blind, desperate strength he had left, twisting hard enough that for one awful second it looked like they might lose hold of him. His free hand clawed at the seatbelt. At the air. At the sleeve of the nurse nearest him. His face was wet, lashes clumped together, mouth open around these broken, breathless cries that had nowhere to go and no shape except fear.
It was heartbreaking in the ugliest way. Because he wasn’t being difficult. He wasn’t even resisting on purpose.
He was scared. He was hurt. And to him, it probably felt like being dragged out of the only place that was holding him together at all.
The second they had him clear out of the car, you moved to the head of the stretcher.
“I’m here,” you said instantly, voice wrecked. “I’m right here, baby. I’m right here.”
Tommy twisted hard against the mattress the second they laid him down, like the stretcher was another trap he hadn’t chosen. His free hand clawed at the sheet. His legs kicked against the rail. His wrapped hand jerked instinctively toward his chest before the nurse caught it and shielded it again.
Rain soaked through your shirt. Blood still slowly slid over your mouth. Your shoulder screamed every time you leaned in.
None of it mattered.
“I know,” you whispered, one shaking hand going straight to his hair. “Mama’s here. Mama’s here.”
His eyes found you for half a second.
And that nearly undid you more than the screaming had.
Because there it was, confusion, pain, terror, all of it crowded together behind his eyes. No understanding. No control. Just the awful need for something familiar in the middle of too much.
The team started rolling.
You stayed with them.
Tommy kept twisting, weaker now but no less frightened, making those raw, shredded sounds every time the stretcher bumped or the doors opened or another face leaned too close. His body kept trying to curl in on itself around the hurt. Around the fear. Around the hand that still bled through the towel.
Jack looked back once as the automatic doors opened and took in the blood still on your face, the way your shoulder sat wrong, the limp you hadn’t been able to hide.
“Chair,” he said to the nurse behind him.
“No.”
It came out immediate and ragged.
Jack looked at you.
“You’re hurt.”
But you kept walking anyway, right at Tommy’s head, one hand in his hair, while they pushed him into the bright white corridor beyond.
The ER swallowed you whole at once, voices, wheels, fluorescent light, antiseptic layered over rain and blood and something metallic.
Tommy’s cries cut through all of it.
That was the only sound that mattered.
The treatment room doors opened and the stretcher locked into place. Staff moved fast, but not chaotically. A nurse went for gloves. Another started opening supplies. The same female doctor in black scrubs stepped in at Tommy’s injured side, already pulling on gloves as she took in the soaked towel wrapped around his hand.
You were already at his head.
“I’m here,” you said again, one shaking hand buried in his wet hair. “I’m here, baby. I’m not leaving.”
The towel came away.
And there it was.
Glass.
Tiny glittering shards embedded across the heel of his palm and along two fingers. A deeper, uglier cut opened across the base of the hand where the pane had broken jagged.
Your stomach turned.
Tommy cried out and tried to yank his arm back immediately.
The doctor looked up once, quick and focused.
“I’m Dr. King,” she said, not wasting time on anything softer than that.
Then, to the team around her—
“I need a better hold on the forearm. Don’t let him torque at the wrist.”
Jack moved in then, not across the room, not detached from it, but right there beside you and Tommy’s head, one hand bracing lightly at your back while he looked over the bed toward Mel and the nurses.
“Easy,” he said, voice low but carrying. “He’s sensory sensitive and nonverbal.”
Mel nodded once like she had already clocked that.
“We need someone on his shoulders,” one of the nurses said.
“I’ve got him,” Jack answered immediately.
Then, quieter, to you—
“Stay with him. Let her manage the rest.”
Tommy twisted again, panic flashing hard across his face as another nurse moved to stabilize his upper arms and a tech caught his legs before he could kick into the rail.
It was not violent.
It was worse than that.
Gentle. Controlled. Necessary.
Mel kept her voice calm as she repositioned at Tommy’s hand.
“We’re just holding you so you don’t get hurt.”
Tommy made another terrified sound and bucked against the mattress anyway, free hand clawing at the sheet, injured one trying to curl back toward his chest.
“No—wait—”
You reached instinctively toward the bed.
Jack caught your forearm before you could lean into the procedure site.
“Stay up here,” he said, low and steady. “Stay with him.”
Your eyes flew to his. “They’re hurting him.”
His face changed. Not because he disagreed. Because he didn’t.
“They’re trying not to,” he said quietly. “But if we leave the glass in, it hurts him even more.”
That broke something cleanly in you.
Tommy cried out again, body straining hard against the hands holding him still, and your whole body folded toward him on instinct.
You got your hand back into his hair.
“Mama’s here,” you whispered, openly crying now. “I know. I know, baby. I know.”
A shard hit the metal tray with a tiny, awful tick. You flinched so hard fresh pain shot through your nose. Jack’s hand spread more firmly against your back, steadying you when your knees threatened to stop working.
Across the bed, Mel worked quickly but carefully, forceps flashing once under the light.
“Watch the wrist,” Jack said. “Don’t let him drive against the glass.”
“Okay,” Mel said, focused, not looking up. “I’ve got it.”
Tommy made another sound, raw, frightened, exhausted already, and tried to yank his arm free again.
Jack leaned in just enough that Tommy could see him without adding one more face too close.
Then he twisted again as Mel went in for another shard.
You made a broken sound of your own.
“Jack, I can’t—I can’t—.”
“It’s okay. He’s okay,” he said immediately. “Just stay with his face.”
That nearly undid you.
Because that, you could do.
So you kept your eyes on Tommy instead, on the panic in his eyes, on the tears caught in his lashes, on the way his mouth kept opening around sounds he couldn’t shape into words.
“I’m here,” you kept saying. “I’m right here. You’re not by yourself.”
Another shard hit the tray.
Then another.
Your stomach rolled.
“This is my fault,” you whispered.
“No.”
“I should’ve—”
“No.”
This time Jack said it sharply enough that you looked at him.
“This is not your fault,” he said, each word clean and deliberate. “Do not do that to yourself right now.”
Tommy thrashed again, stronger than the room wanted him to be, big teenage body surging on pure fear. The tech at his legs had to tighten his hold to keep him from slamming into the rail. The nurse at his shoulders adjusted again, careful but firm.
Mel glanced up once from Tommy’s hand, assessing the whole picture in a second.
“Dr. Abbot he’s not going to tolerate irrigation like this. He’ll hurt himself if we continue like this.”
Your stomach dropped all over again.
“What does that mean?”
Jack looked at Tommy first, then back at you.
“It means we need to give him something to help calm him down enough to do this safely.”
You knew what he meant before he said more, and still your chest tightened. His hand slid briefly from your back to the side of your neck, warm and grounding.
“Okay. Okay do what you need to do,” you told them.
Mel pulled back just enough to speak to the nurse beside her.
“I want medication on board before we irrigate. He’s too overloaded and he’s going to tear this wider if we keep pushing.”
A dose was named. Another nurse moved immediately.
Jack nodded once.
“Get it ready. Fast.”
Then he looked back at you.
“You stay right here,” he said quietly. “Keep talking to him. Let him hear you.”
You nodded, because there was no other choice and kept your hand in Tommy’s hair while the room moved around him. You looked back at Tommy, blotchy-faced, hair damp, chest heaving, trapped inside fear he couldn’t explain.
“He’s going to think we’re doing this to hurt him.”
Jack’s hand shifted higher against your back.
“I know. So you stay right here and keep talking to him.”
The nurse returned with the medication. The room shifted around the bed again and Tommy’s whole body tightened with fresh panic.
You bent over him at once, fingers shaking in his hair.
“I’m here,” you whispered. “I’m here, baby. I know you’re scared. Mama’s right here.”
The medication went in.
Not magic. Not instant.
Tommy still cried. Still fought for a few terrible seconds. You kept talking anyway.
“I know.”
“I know, baby.”
“You’re okay.”
“I’m not leaving.”
Slowly, so slowly it almost hurt more, some of the fight started to drain out of him.
His crying thinned first. Then the violent jerking in his shoulders eased. His free hand unclenched from the sheet.
The nurse at his hand let out a quiet breath. “Okay. That’s better.”
The room shifted with it.
Not calm.
Not okay.
Just less impossible.
You pressed a shaking kiss to Tommy’s damp hairline.
“I know, sweetheart,” you whispered.
Jack stayed beside you, one hand still steady at your back while the team worked. Even with your face throbbing and your shoulder screaming and your whole body shaking from adrenaline and crash, you stayed exactly where you’d been all along.
At Tommy’s side.
By the time Mel finished helping with Tommy’s hand, you were still standing exactly there, blood drying across your mouth, shoulder held stiff, fingers still in Tommy’s hair. But the adrenaline was wearing off now, and your body was starting to collect the bill for all of it.
Your nose throbbed with a deep, ugly pulse that reached behind your eyes. Every breath through your mouth tasted like blood. The swelling had crept higher across your face, hot and tight, and each time you shifted too quickly the room gave a slow, sickening tilt that made your stomach turn. You were dizzy. Shaky. Fighting the pressure building in your head and the nausea curling low in your throat.
You knew your nose was broken. You knew it had been broken long enough now that the pain was settling in for real. But your hand stayed in Tommy’s hair anyway, because he was still here, still hurt, and your body did not get to matter first.
Mel glanced up from Tommy’s bandaged hand, her eyes flicking briefly across the room before settling on you. She took in the dried blood around your mouth, the swelling already forming across the bridge of your nose, the way you were standing a little too still beside the bed.
Her expression shifted.
She looked toward Jack.
“Dr. Abbot,” she said quietly, “is it okay if I take a look at Mom while they finish here?”
Jack followed her line of sight automatically. His gaze landed on your face. For half a second he didn’t react, because until that exact moment his attention had been locked completely on Tommy.
Then he actually saw you.
The blood.
The swelling.
The way you were blinking a little too slowly.
His jaw tightened immediately.
“Please,” he said.
Mel nodded once and stepped carefully to your side, deliberate about not crowding the small space you’d anchored beside Tommy.
Then she stepped carefully to your unoccupied side, deliberate about not disturbing the small space you had anchored beside Tommy.
“Hi,” she said gently.
You looked up, blinking like you’d almost forgotten other people were in the room.
“Hi.”
“I’m Dr. Melissa King. Mel’s fine.”
She glanced briefly at your face, then back to your eyes.
“Can I take a look at your nose?”
You shifted just enough to take it with your free hand, pressing it under your nose while your other hand stayed tangled in Tommy’s hair.
He made a small unhappy sound.
Immediately, you bent closer.
“I know, baby. Mama’s here.”
Mel watched for half a second. Then she checked under your eye, the bridge of your nose, the dried blood at your mouth.
“Any double vision?”
“No.”
“Nausea?”
You hesitated.
“A little.”
Mel’s eyes flicked back to yours. “Dizzy?”
You gave the smallest nod. “Yeah. A little.”
“Did you black out?”
“No.”
“Headache?”
You let out a shaky breath. “Yeah.”
“Okay,” Mel said, gentler now. “Okay.”
Across the bed, the nurse finished securing Tommy’s bandage. The white gauze looked too big around his hand. Too bright.
Your throat tightened.
Mel glanced at the way you were holding your left arm.
“And your shoulder?”
“It’s fine.”
Jack answered from behind you before you could say anything else.
“She wrenched it getting him into the car.”
Mel nodded like that made immediate sense. She touched two fingers lightly to the top of your shoulder. Pain flashed hot and sharp down your arm.
You sucked in a breath.
Mel pulled back at once. “Right. So not fine.”
That should not have been funny.
It almost was.
Tommy shifted weakly under your hand and your attention snapped right back to him.
“I’m here,” you murmured. “I’m right here.”
Mel adjusted the gauze when your grip slipped.
“Are you okay?” she asked softly. “I know what you went through was really traumatic.”
And that did it.
“No,” you said immediately, voice cracking. “No, I’m not okay.”
The words came too fast after that.
“I knew he was escalating and I thought I could get him home and calm him down and I should’ve done something different. I should’ve gotten him out sooner. He could’ve cut deeper. He could’ve ruined his hand. I’m his mom. I’m supposed to know how to stop it before it gets there—”
Jack’s hand tightened at the middle of your back.
“Hey,” he said quietly. “Take a breath.”
You shook your head. “No, because it’s true.”
“It isn’t.”
“I knew he was getting worse,” you rushed on, tears spilling now. “And I still couldn’t pull it back and then I got him home and it still didn’t help and he broke the window and he was bleeding and I should’ve been able to keep him safe—”
“Hey.” Jack’s voice came firmer. “Stop.”
You turned toward him, wrecked and furious and ashamed all at once. “How am I supposed to stop? I failed. I’m supposed to protect my son and I failed.”
For one second, Jack looked like he had too many answers and none he trusted.
Mel spoke first.
“You didn’t fail.”
You blinked at her.
She looked almost surprised by her own bluntness, then rubbed the back of her neck awkwardly.
“My younger sister’s autistic,” she said. “Becca.”
The name landed softly.
“When she got overloaded, my mom used to do this after. Rewind the whole thing. Try to find the exact second she could’ve prevented all of it.”
You stared at her through tears.
Mel gave a small shrug. “Sometimes there wasn’t one.”
Your mouth trembled. “I knew he was getting there.”
Mel nodded once. “I believe you.”
You blinked. “What?”
“I mean, you know him. Better than anyone here.”
Your throat worked uselessly.
“I wasn’t there before,” she said plainly. “So I’m not going to pretend I know exactly what happened in your house. But I can tell from right now that you know his patterns. The way you’re touching him, the way you keep your voice the same, the fact that he’s still orienting to you even now—that’s not failure.”
Your eyes burned.
“He still got hurt.”
“Yeah,” she said gently. “He did.”
No fake contradiction.
No platitudes.
And somehow that made it easier to hear the rest.
“But when kids get that overloaded,” she continued carefully, “sometimes knowing it’s coming and stopping it are not the same thing.”
A wet laugh escaped you before you could stop it.
Mel nodded. “It would be more convenient if it were linear, but it’s not.”
You looked back at Tommy.
“My sister used to go from upset to unreachable really fast,” she said. “And when that happened, the goal stopped being perfect regulation and became harm reduction. Because sometimes you can’t stop it. Sometime no matter what you do they’re going to get hurt.”
She gestured lightly between you and Tommy.
“You did nothing wrong. You got him out. You got him here. You stayed with him. You got help while you were bleeding.”
Jack’s hand shifted a little higher between your shoulders.
Mel’s expression softened.
“That is not what bad parenting looks like.”
Something in your face must have changed, because hers did too. A little gentler. A little more careful.
“For what it’s worth,” she added, “I think you’re a really good mother.”
Your chin trembled.
You bowed your head over Tommy and pressed a shaking kiss into his hairline because it was easier than looking at either of them.
“I know, baby,” you whispered, even though some of the words were for yourself now too.
Tommy made a weak sound and shifted into your hand.
Not much.
Just enough.
It undid you anyway.
Mel glanced away for half a beat, giving you room without pretending not to see it. Then she reached for fresh gauze.
“Your nose is still bleeding,” she said, apologetically practical.
You laughed once through tears. “Of course it is.”
“Yeah,” Mel said. “Sorry.”
She swapped the gauze for a clean piece and secured it more firmly.
“I’d like imaging on the nose,” she said. “Just to confirm if it’s fracture or broken and make sure there’s nothing else going on.”
You shook your head immediately. “I’m not leaving him alone.”
Mel blinked once at the firmness of it, then glanced toward Jack.
“Well,” she said thoughtfully, “I’m pretty sure Dr. Abbot wouldn’t mind staying with him until you’re back.”
Jack didn’t hesitate.
“Not even a little.”
You looked between them, torn. Your hand tightened again in Tommy’s hair.
Jack saw it immediately.
“Hey,” he said quietly. “You go get the imaging.”
Your eyes searched his face. “Your shift—”
“I’ve got coverage.”
You hesitated.
Jack reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, already unlocking it.
“Robby’s in the building,” he said calmly. “If he’s tied up, I’ll call Al-Hashimi to come in for a bit.”
Your mouth opened slightly. “Jack, you don’t have to—”
He shook his head once, simple and certain.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
Then he slipped the phone back into his pocket and looked at you again, his voice softening just a little.
“Right now,” he said, “you and Tommy are my priority.”
For a second the room felt very quiet around that.
Mel cleared her throat gently beside you.
“Radiology’s two doors down,” she said. “We’ll be quick.”
Jack’s hand rested steady against the middle of your back.
“I’ve got him,” he said again.
You looked between them, torn. Your hand tightened again in Tommy’s hair.
Mel seemed to notice the conflict crossing your face.
“It would be quick,” she added. “I promise.”
Tommy shifted weakly under your hand, breathing still uneven.
Then Mel said, almost like she’d just remembered something important, “You mentioned earlier he has an AAC device at home?”
You nodded slowly. “Yeah.”
“Okay. We should get one down here for him.”
Your eyebrows lifted.
“We have hospital tablets,” she explained. “Not personalized like his, but enough for basic communication once he’s more awake. Might help him tell us what he needs.”
Relief tightened your chest.
“That would help.”
“Yeah,” Mel said. “I thought so.”
She glanced toward the door. “So. AAC for him, quick imaging for you, and Dr. Abbot stays here.”
Jack’s hand rested steady against your back.
“I’ve got him.”
You hesitated.
Just for a second.
Then nodded.
Tommy made another small tired sound and turned into your hand. You bent at once, brushing your fingers through his hair and pressing one more kiss to his forehead.
“I’ll be right back,” you whispered. “I’m not leaving. I’m just going and coming right back.”
His lashes fluttered, heavy and slow.
Jack stepped closer to the bed then, not crowding either of you, just close enough that Tommy would hear him too.
“I’ve got him,” he said again, quieter this time.
Maybe to Tommy.
Maybe to you.
Probably both.
Mel waited beside you, careful and patient in that slightly awkward way of hers, clearly trying not to rush you while also wanting your face imaged before you keeled over.
When you finally straightened, your shoulder protested sharply enough to make you flinch.
Jack saw that too.
Of course he did.
His eyes flicked over your face one more time, the blood, the swelling, the exhaustion you were barely holding back, and something low and protective tightened in his expression.
“Go,” he said gently. “I’m right here.”
You looked at Tommy one last time.
Then nodded.
Because Mel had made it a plan.
Because Jack had made it safe.
Because Tommy was breathing easier now.
Because for the first time since the glass shattered, the room no longer felt like it was actively coming apart.
By the time Mel brought you back from imaging, the hallway had gone quieter. Not quiet. Hospitals never were. But compared to the last hour, everything felt muted.
Your nose was definitely broken.
Mel had confirmed that with the same apologetic practicality she used for everything else. Your shoulder, according to her, was badly strained rather than dislocated, which was somehow both a relief and insulting.
“Try not to use it,” she’d said.
You had only looked at her.
Mel had sighed. “Right. Sorry.”
She pushed open the treatment room door and stepped aside so you could walk in.
Jack looked up immediately.
He was sitting beside Tommy’s bed in the chair you should have been in, one forearm resting along the rail, a paper cup of water untouched in his hand. Even sitting, he still looked alert, like some part of him hadn’t fully come down from the last hour.
Tommy was awake. Not fully. Not comfortably. But awake enough that his eyes found you the second you stepped inside. Everything in you moved toward him before thought caught up.
“There you are,” Jack said quietly, already standing.
You went straight to the bedside.
Tommy looked wrecked. Hair damp against his forehead. Face blotchy from crying. Eyelids heavy with exhaustion and medication. His bandaged hand rested on top of the blanket, too still.
Your chest tightened.
“I’m here,” you whispered, your good hand immediately finding his hair. “I’m back, baby. I’m right here.”
Tommy kept looking at you. Slowly, clumsily, his good hand moved across the blanket.
Jack stepped back without a word, giving you room.
That was when you noticed the tablet on the rolling tray. Not Tommy’s. A hospital one. Bulkier. Simpler. Bright screen, oversized buttons.
Mel saw you looking. “We found one,” she said from the doorway. “Not set up like his, but enough for basic stuff.”
Your throat tightened. “Thank you.”
She gave a small shrug. “Yeah. Of course.”
Tommy’s fingers brushed the edge of the screen.
Missed.
Tried again.
You leaned in closer. “It’s okay. Take your time.”
His hand dragged once across the screen, then pressed.
The voice that came out was flat and electronic and nothing like home.
But the word was still—
“Mom.”
The breath caught in your chest hard enough to hurt.
You touched his cheek with trembling fingers. “I’m here.”
Tommy blinked at you slowly, then pressed another button.
“Home.”
The room seemed to still around it.
Of course that was what he wanted. After the blood and the glass and the fear and the lights, home.
Your eyes flooded.
“Soon, sweetheart,” you whispered. “Soon. I promise.”
Tommy’s gaze drifted from you to Jack. It lingered there, worn-out and searching.
Jack stepped a little closer, hand settling lightly on the rail.
“We’ll get you home,” he said.
Simple. Steady. No false cheer. No promises bigger than he could make.
Tommy looked at him a moment longer, then went back to the tablet.
He pressed one button.
Missed.
Pressed again.
“Home.”
Then another.
“Mom.”
Your mouth parted around a shaking breath.
And then, with slow clumsy effort, Tommy hit a third button.
“Jack.”
For half a second, nobody moved.
Then Jack blinked. Actually blinked. His hand tightened once on the rail.
“Hey, buddy,” he said, and his voice had gone rough at the edges. “Yeah. I’m here too.”
Something in the room gave way at that.
Mel, still hovering in the doorway, suddenly found the floor very interesting.
You looked between them, Tommy small and exhausted under the blanket, Jack standing there with his expression held together by discipline and not much else and something inside you shifted.
Just enough to see it.
The three of you.
Tommy’s good hand lifted from the tablet and reached weakly into the space between you and Jack.
You caught it first. Jack’s hand covered both of yours a second later. Tommy’s fingers twitched once beneath the weight of your hands, then settled.
It was such a small thing.
Three hands over a hospital blanket.
Fluorescent lights overhead.
No big words.
And still it felt like something so tender your heart almost didn’t know what to do with it.
For one aching second, you saw it from the outside:
Tommy reaching for both of you.
Jack answering without hesitation.
You right there in the middle of it.
Not failing.
Not broken.
Still here.
Together.
Jack moved first.
Quietly, without making it into anything.
He pulled the chair closer to Tommy’s bed until it touched the rail, then set the water within reach of your good hand.
“Sit,” he said.
You looked at him.
There was no edge in it. Just certainty. The kind that assumed he would carry whatever part you couldn’t right now. You sat because your body had run out of reasons not to. Pain flared through your shoulder and hip and you winced.
Jack noticed, of course.
“Easy,” he murmured.
Then he adjusted the blanket near Tommy’s feet, careful to keep the bandaged hand supported, and dragged a second chair over with his foot before sitting on Tommy’s other side like leaving had never been an option.
Tommy watched through half-lowered lashes. Then his good hand slipped from yours just long enough to bunch weakly in Jack’s sleeve. That did more damage than the tablet had.
Jack looked down at the small fist curled in his scrub top, then back at Tommy, and the expression on his face softened completely.
“Yeah,” he murmured. “I’m staying.”
Tommy’s fingers loosened but didn’t let go.
You laid your hand over his wrist, and suddenly all three of you were connected again. Tommy in the middle, you on one side, Jack on the other, held together in this quiet, makeshift chain across the bed.
From the doorway, Mel cleared her throat softly.
“I’ll put in the discharge note once plastics signs off,” she said. “And I made sure they’ll send hand-care instructions in plain language. The AAC can stay with him while he’s here.”
You looked back at her. “Thank you. Thank you for everything.”
Mel nodded once, then glanced at Tommy.
“For the record,” she said, “kids don’t reach for someone like that unless they feel safe.”
Her eyes came back to yours.
“You’re a good mom.”
Your throat tightened.
Then she slipped out, and the room softened after she was gone.
For a moment, neither you nor Jack spoke.
Tommy shifted weakly under the blanket, his fingers still curled in Jack’s sleeve like even half-asleep he wasn’t ready to let go.
Jack looked down at that small fist in his scrub top. Then he looked at you.
Your eyes met his, still raw from everything.
“She’s right,” he said quietly. “You’re an amazing mother.”
That was all. No speech. No trying to make it bigger than the truth. Just that. Your mouth trembled before you could stop it.
Jack’s hand moved from the rail to Tommy’s blanket, smoothing it once near his legs, careful of the bandaged hand, careful of all of it. Then he left his palm there for a moment, resting over the shape of him through the hospital sheet like anchoring himself to the fact that Tommy was still here.
For a while, nobody said much. Tommy’s fingers stayed curled in Jack’s sleeve. Your hand stayed in Tommy’s hair.
Jack sat on the other side of the bed, one arm along the rail, close enough to help, close enough to matter, angled toward both of you like that was the most natural place in the world for him to be.
Nothing was fixed.
Your nose still hurt. Tommy’s hand was still bandaged. There would be follow-up, discharge instructions, probably a long rough night ahead. But the sharpest edge had passed. The panic had burned down.
Tommy stirred and tapped one button on the borrowed screen with tired, clumsy fingers.
“Home.”
You smiled through fresh tears and bent to kiss his hair.
“Soon,” you whispered.
On the other side of the bed, Jack’s gaze stayed on Tommy for a moment before lifting to you.
“Soon,” he echoed.
Then Tommy’s fingers loosened from Jack’s sleeve just enough to reach, small and tired, into the space between you.
You caught his hand first. Jack’s hand covered both of yours a second later. Tommy’s fingers twitched once beneath the weight of your hands, then settled.
It was such a small thing.
Three hands over a hospital blanket.
Fluorescent lights overhead. Your face aching. Tommy half-drugged and worn out. Jack still in damp scrubs from running out into the rain.
And still it felt like something fragile and bright.
For one second, you looked up.
Jack was already looking at you.
Not the way he looked at patients. Not the way he looked at problems he needed to solve.
Something softer than that.
Something steadier.
His thumb shifted once against the back of your hand where it rested over Tommy’s.
Not moving it.
Just… staying there.
Your breath caught.
Tommy’s fingers curled weakly around both of yours like that was enough to hold the world together for now.
And with Tommy in the middle, and your hand beneath Jack’s, and Jack sitting there like leaving had never even been an option, the moment stopped feeling like something fragile you had to survive.
It felt like the beginning of something.
Something that looked a lot like the three of you going home together.
Summary: How Robby treats you vs. your attacker after an assault.
Tags/Notes: established robby x reader, she/her used for reader, hurt/comfort, protective robby
Content: the whole fic is the immediate aftermath of a sexual assault. this contains the process of a forensic sexual assault exam in detail. also canon typical depiction of injuries (reader bit the assailant’s dick almost off). assault is not "on screen" and only minor details are given.
A/N: uh oh catharsis fic
Word Count: 6.7k
There’s a protocol for these things.
As the senior attending, Dr. Robby is always supposed to treat the victims and perpetrators in suspected violent crimes. It’s his job to make sure evidence is meticulously collected, testimony isn’t muddled, and medical care is adequately administered to the victim – and the perpetrator, no matter what they’ve done. He delegates. He makes the decisions. He gives the orders. Even Shen and Abbot aren’t supposed to involve themselves first; the protocol is to get Robby.
So he’s annoyed when it’s Whitaker, not Dana or even an EMT, who carefully taps him on the shoulder as he wraps up discharging a kid with a shattered ankle. “Doctor? Do you have a second?”
He snaps off his gloves and heads toward the charge station for his next patient and Dennis follows close behind. “Lead with the question, Bambi, not permission to ask it. It’s all about speed here.”
“I just- Well- The thing is-”
“Spit it out; I don’t have all night.”
“Dr. Langdon is triaging a rape. The victim and the suspect.”
Robby whips around at that. He’s already storming across the floor’s chaos, Whitaker scrambling to keep up with his long strides. “Did he send you to get me? Is his pager broken?”
At the ambulance bay, there are two rigs next to each other, two bodies on gurneys being unloaded, and one team of doctors hovering on the right side. Robby knows that has to be the victim; young doctors get too nervous to touch perps.
Whitaker finishes tying Robby’s yellow trauma gown and stammers, “Actually, um, he said not to call you.”
Robby heads to the command position, where Langdon’s barking orders at the junior doctors. “Frank, why the hell are you-”
The world slows to a crawl.
Robby's eyes move between one ambulance to the other, collecting information, adrenaline flooding his veins, his ears whooshing in time to his heartbeat.
To his left, there’s a huge white guy in black, cuffed, blood all over one side of his head and spreading rapidly through the blanket thrown over his legs. He’s thrashing around, straining against the cuffs, screaming to the police officer reluctantly watching over him, “The bitch bit me! Fucking bit me! I wanna press charges!”
“It’ll all go in the report,” the officer tells him tightly. “Wait for the doctors to do their work.”
On his right, the obvious reason Langdon didn’t call him.
It’s you.
He can’t even process all your injuries because his vision has gone white with rage.
All he knows is that you’ve been assaulted.
You.
Not a faceless victim who needs his attention, his advocacy, his expertise.
You.
His best friend. His rock.
You’ve only been his girlfriend formally a year now, if that, but it’s been the two of you for years. Since the first day you brought your baby niece into the Pitt with nothing more than a fever, too nervous to stay at home when it was your first time watching her by yourself. He’d fallen for you hard and fast – your smile, your eyes, your heart. Everything soft in you that smooths out his rough edges. Coming home to you gives him a reason to come home at all. There’s an engagement ring hidden in his locker here at the hospital. You’re it for him.
It occurs to him, randomly, that you must’ve been on your way to bring him ‘lunch’ at the hospital when you were attacked. He’d glanced at your cute-emoji-filled text an hour ago but got too caught up in work to wonder why you were taking so long.
He doesn’t even realize he’s been talking, giving out orders based on instinct and training combined, until you’re wheeled off to a private room while the rapist is taken the other way.
Langdon touching his arm is the first thing that snaps him from his stupor. “Robby, man, I’m sorry, I didn’t think you’d want to-”
Robby shoves a finger into the center of Langdon’s chest to cut him off. “You don’t get to think anything, Frank. You follow the protocol. No matter what. No matter who.”
“Look, I’m sorry.”
Robby nods tightly. “I know you are. You won’t do it again. Now go with the suspect; treat anything that’s going to kill him in the next hour and nothing else. Make sure everyone knows he’s in custody and limit staff access. Keeping a clear chain of custody is king. Preserve injuries. No cleaning. Minimal painkillers. I’ll be over to talk with the cops and get a more detailed exam when I can. Got it?”
“Got it.”
Then Robby turns to Whitaker, who still looks like he’s going to shit his pants in the corner waiting for one of them to speak. Robby clasps his shoulder and says. “You did the right thing by finding me. I want you to go get Dana, tell her to go in with the vic. Make sure she doesn’t drink or eat anything and nobody touches any non-vital injuries. We need to preserve the evidence. Good?”
Whitaker nods rapidly. “I’m on it.”
Robby goes back out to the ambulance bay to collect a report on both of his patients, taking rapid notes and committing to memory. There are two EMTs; he doesn’t recognize either.
The male half of the duo starts: “The victim was accosted on a nearby walking trail. Perpetrator seemed to be intoxicated and aggressive. Looks like it was supposed to be a robbery, but her fighting back sent him into a rage, so it became a sexual assault.”
The woman says, “The details are a little fuzzy without the victim’s formal testimony, but the witness told us that he heard screaming and saw a significant ongoing struggle between a partially clothed man and woman, which led to him calling 911.” With a satisfied smirk, she informs him, “She fought back, doc. Hard.”
“Of course she did.” Robby shakes his head, trying to process all of it swimming around in his head. You’ve taken self defense courses and you’re fierce. It’s one of the things he loves about you. “What kind of injuries do they have?”
The man starts, “The perp has extensive scratching around the eyes and neck. At least three broken ribs. Abrasions full of gravel and debris.” He cringes and adds, “And, ah, she- Well, there’s one very distinctive injury.”
“What?” Robby looks between them both, trying to read between the lines. “What did she do?”
The female EMT rolls her eyes and steps in. “She bit it.”
Robby’s eyes widen. Despite the circumstances, he winces at the thought. “You mean…?”
“Yeah. She tried to bite it off.” The EMT clarifies, sounding almost proud, “His penis is almost entirely detached. It’s gnarly. That’s how she got him to stop.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“When she stops being loopy from the painkillers, you tell her I’ll buy her a beer any time. Absolutely badass.”
The man’s gone pale at the idea. “And disgusting.”
His partner insists, “What’s disgusting is what he was doing to her.” Then she gives Robby a pointed look, “The world would be a lot better off if his doctors decided his dick couldn’t be saved.”
Robby nods slowly. “Thanks for the report. Cops should be over to take a statement soon.”
You’re in a private room with an actual door within minutes of completing your imagine after arriving at PTMC. Dana, who you know pretty well by now, has been hovering, waiting for the cops to finish taking your statement before barging in. One of the officers – the woman, short and stout with dark hair and a proper no-nonsense expression – stays in the corner while Dana flips through your chart.
The first thing you say is, “I don’t want special treatment just because I’m Robby’s girlfriend. I’m sure there’s someone who needs a bed more than I do.”
She shrugs and says, “Tough luck. Attending gives the orders; we just follow them.” Then she gives you a sideways glance. “Sounds like the painkillers must be working pretty well if your first thought wasn’t ‘oh, god, my wrist has been shattered into a million pieces.’”
You look down at the arm, which has been stabilized in a temporary splint. It's huge. It's purple. It's wrecked. “Oh.”
She shakes her head in disbelief. “Yeah. You’ll need a hard cast once all the statements and paperwork are done.”
“What else is wrong with me?”
“Extensive bruising and abrasions. Sprained ankle. Probable mild concussion,” she lists off. “No internal bleeding. Imagining looks pretty good. But, because of the protocol here, we haven’t taken a more thorough physical exam.”
“Right. The protocol.”
Dana gives you a sad little smile. “Yeah, we have some things to talk about. Would you like to have a provider perform a forensic sexual assault exam as part of the investigation?”
“You mean a rape kit?”
“Colloquially, yes.” At your panicky hesitation, she adds, “You can wait to decide if you want to, but, the sooner the exam is completed, the more accurate and valuable the results will be.”
You nod slowly. “Okay. What does that look like?”
“It’s a long process. It’ll just be you and the provider. You’ll be asked a lot of questions, some things you’ve already gone over with the police and some new. Photographs will be taken of every mark left during the attack, then there will be swabs of anywhere you were touched. Your clothes and things will be bagged if you decide to; you can choose what gets returned. You’ll give consent at every single step. You can take as many breaks as you need and you can revoke consent at any time. Anything you provide is good evidence.”
Your mind reels. So far, you’ve been- Well, you guess it’s called ‘shock’ for a reason. Numb, flat. But a rape kit. That feels real. Very real. Tears stinging your eyes for the first time, you whisper, “I want Michael to do it.”
“Honey, I’m not sure that’s a good idea. I’m not saying he’s not qualified or anything, but sometimes having a man doing these exams can be retraumatizing.” Dana tells you softly, “I’m a SANE provider and so is Perlah; I promise one of us can-”
“Robby has the same training. I know he’s done them before. I won’t do it unless it’s him,” you say, firm this time, no room to be misinterpreted. “Nobody else is touching me like that. Taking those pictures. Nobody.”
“Okay,” she replies gently. “It’s your choice.” She sighs and stands. “I’ll get him. It’ll be a minute; he’s tending to something else.”
Your veins go cold. “Is he in with the attacker?”
“Last I saw, he was getting information from the EMTs.” Dana purses her lips and glances at the cop in the corner of the room, weighing how much she can share with you. She drops her voice and says, “Robby told his team to treat anything life threatening and then make the perpetrator wait. I think that man’s going to be alone and in pain for at least a few hours.”
You smirk and close your eyes contentedly. “That Dr. Robby can be a real asshole sometimes.”
Dana laughs hollowly. “Yes he can.”
There’s a knock on the door a few minutes later.
The cop opens it and Robby walks inside. Slow. Like he’s approaching a wounded animal.
His eyes are stormy and emotional, but his demeanor is strictly professional. Medical. This is Dr. Michael Robinavitch, a man you haven’t spent much time with since that first ER visit with your niece. He’s warm but still stiff as he says, “Dana says you’d like me to do your forensic exam.”
“Is that okay?”
“It’s my job,” he replies, clear and fast. “If that’s what you want, then I’ll do it.” He nods at the officer and says, “I’ve got it from here; thank you for your help.”
When you’re alone together, he stands by your bed. Not touching you. Not doing anything. Not sure. You’re struggling to read his expression, so you say, “If you’re not comfortable doing the exam, it’s okay. Dana can do it.”
“I’m a doctor; I’m completely capable of-”
“I meant because you’re my boyfriend.”
“I know.”
He rolls his shoulders and you see a flash of your Michael. Your handsome, kind, protective boyfriend. There’s a simmering anger to his tone that makes your heart flutter. He says, low and slow, “I want this done right; I’m doing it myself.”
“Okay.” You sigh heavily. “Thank you.”
“Anything for you. Anything you want.” Robby settles on his stool and opens up your chart. “I need to take a relevant medical history first to ensure clear evidence when we hand this off to the precinct. Is it alright if we start there?”
“Yeah, sure.”
Robby fills out some of your information – name, height, weight – by himself. He’s come to all of your doctor’s appointments since you started dating, making sure every medical provider treats you with the utmost care. When he gets to the questions provided by the state, he has to speak. “Are you currently using any form of birth control?”
“I have an IUD. Mirena.”
“Have you had any recent consensual sexual activity which may appear on DNA evidence?”
You give him a pointed look. “My boyfriend and I had sex a few hours ago before he went to work.”
“What type of sexual activity was that? Oral, vaginal-”
“Don’t remember, grandpa?”
“Watch it, kid.” He rolls his eyes and tries to suppress a smile at hearing you making a joke right now. It’s probably a trauma response to be funny under the circumstances, he knows, but it still helps the discomfort. “I need a verbal response to everything for the official record.”
You give him a teasing glance. “He went down on me until I got off twice and then he fucked me.”
“Was a condom used?”
“No. Never.” Your attempt at bedroom eyes is only slightly undercut by the split in your eyebrow. “He came inside of me, if that’s your next question. He always does.”
“Sounds like you spoil him.”
“I try to.”
He reaches out to touch your cheek and then thinks better of it, keeping his head on straight. Then his little smile fades. “We’re going to do the forensic narrative now, alright? It’ll be more specific than the statement you gave the police with regards to the physical evidence. You don’t have to answer anything you don’t want to and we can stop at any point.”
He has you explain what time you left your apartment (9:45PM, fifteen minutes before Robby’s lunch break), where you were when the guy grabbed you (a walking trail through Rossman Park, right as you went under the State Street Bridge), and the specifics of it. He listens carefully, takes notes carefully, reacts carefully. He’s Dr. Robby.
It’s when he transitions into clarifying questions, having gotten down all the details you give outright, that you start seeing Michael underneath. “Did he choke you, cover your mouth, or otherwise restrict your breathing?”
Your fingers go up to where you know there has to be a mean bruise around your throat. “He choked me with his hands when I wouldn’t give him my purse. Then his belt.”
Robby cracks his neck. His eyes follow your hands and you can see two minds: The desire to care for you and the desire to storm across the hospital to give the attacker a bruise just like yours. “Did you lose consciousness due to that at any point?”
“No. He wasn’t strong enough.”
Robby scratches something down. He tries to keep his tone neutral as he asks, “During the sexual assault, was there any ejaculation that made contact with your body?”
Your voice is hoarse as you tell him the truth: “Yes.”
Robby’s brown eyes are more like embers, ready to catch into flame at the right spark. “Where?”
“In my mouth.” With your eyes meeting his, you add without an ounce of regret, “That’s when I bit his dick. I was biding my time until he was vulnerable.”
“Smart,” he praises, unable to come up with anything else. He's trying to push down the image and to honor it at the same time; this is new territory for him as a boyfriend. “And did you bite, scratch, or hit him otherwise?”
“Yes,” you say, steely, confident. “Anywhere I could get to. There might be a chunk of his eyeball under my fingernails.”
Robby lets out a harsh chuckle. “That’s my girl.”
It feels good to blush under his praise. Normal. “I wanted to make sure they got the fucker.”
He assures you, “There’s no wrong way to handle what happened to you, but you did amazing. I’ve gotta imagine it was pretty easy for the cops to pick up the guy missing a fistful of hair with his face covered in scratches and blood all over his pants.”
Trying not to sound meek, you offer, “Thanks.”
Robby nods and then sighs. You both know what’s next, but he tells you anyway, “We’re going to do the photographs and the specimen collections now. I’ll ask before every new step, okay?”
“You don’t have to. I trust you.”
“Trusting me isn’t the point.” He reaches into the kit he brought in with him and takes out a large black DSLR camera and scale card. “The point is that you’re in charge. You decide everything.”
Of course, Robby stays true to his word. Every photo comes with a pause, a check to see if you need anything, and permission for the next one. He only uncovers the part of you that needs to be visualized, alerting you before he moves your clothes or needs you to adjust your position. There are a few moments – when he photographs your neck, namely – when you spot tears in his eyes as he bites his tongue.
After the photographs, he picks up the medical evidence box, then, and fills in your information in black sharpie across the top. From the moment he opens it up and lays out his tools, Robby’s so fucking careful as he goes through everything. There isn’t a moment where you doubt that you’re in complete control.
When he’s finished cataloguing every inch touched by your attacker, sealing away swabs in their own sterile containers, he gives you a soft gaze and asks, “Do you want to submit your clothing into evidence?”
“Yes, but- I- I can’t-” Trying not to let your voice break at the thought of being naked all of a sudden, you tell him, “I don’t want to wear a hospital gown.”
“You only have to wear it long enough for me to patch you up,” he replies quietly. Assuring. He really, really wishes he could take you in his arms and never let go right about now. “I’ll get you a change of clothes from my locker before you go home. Would that work?”
When you nod, he does, too. He takes out one of the dusky green hospital gowns and hands it over, stepping back right away like he’s worried his presence is going to spook you. “Take your time; I’ll knock when-”
“You don’t have to leave.” Then, with stinging eyes and burning lungs, you softly amend, “Don’t leave, Michael. Please.”
So he doesn’t. Standing stiffly in the corner, he drops his eyes. The thought of seeing you like this doesn’t just make him uncomfortable; it makes him sick. It has nothing to do with the lacerations on your arms, the gravel embedded in your knees, or the mud knotted up in your hair. It has everything to do with the fact that he’s going to have to cross the ED and take care of the man who gave you those marks.
Robby bags your clothes, labeling them thoroughly, and adds them to the rest of your evidence kit. Then he takes out one more swab, maneuvers it around his own mouth as a comparison sample, and locks it all up together. He places the tamper seal and says, “I have to give this to the officer outside the door right away to avoid any chain of custody questions and then we can finally get those injuries taken care of.”
Out of nowhere – from Robby’s perspective, at least, as he gets to work opening up a cleaning set and suture kit – you whisper, “I’ll understand if you don’t want me after this. Just so you know. I just- If you would stay with me tonight, that would be nice. But I- I get it. You don’t have to feel bad about it.”
Robby’s hands go still over the medical instruments. He looks at you with genuine confusion written all over his worry lines. “What?”
“We haven’t been together that long.” You stare straight at your bare feet. The pedicure that Robby paid for you to get last weekend. “I understand if you don’t want to deal with all of this.” Your voice drops even quieter, if that were possible. Robby has to strain to hear it among the background whir that is the emergency department. “You’re already acting like you can’t even look at me anymore.”
He almost laughs; the idea is so ridiculous to him that it might as well be a standup routine. Now that your exam is done, he reaches across and takes your hand gingerly in his. “I’m acting like this because I don’t want you to be scared of me, sweetheart.”
This time it’s your turn to laugh, even if it hurts your ribs. “Why would I ever be scared of you?”
Robby goes quiet for a minute. He starts cleaning every injury he can find; you’re covered in scrapes, so he’s spoiled for choice. Still pumped with painkillers, you can only feel the vague sensation of cold as he washes and dabs.
Finally, his voice comes out dark and gravelly, a far cry from the sensitive, sarcastic lover who can turn your mood around with a single sentence: “Because if that man were in the room with me right now, I’d kill him with my bare hands for doing this to you.” His eyes flick up to yours as he lays out the suture kit. “Figure that’s not the sort of thing you want to hear after being the victim of a violent crime.”
“Michael,” you breathe, reaching out to catch his hand before he can start working on the laceration above your ear. “Stop and look at me, would you?”
When he does, the tenderness in his eyes cracks something important open inside of you. Those eyes are forever. “I could never be scared of you. I could never stop wanting you.”
He kisses your hand, not caring about the fine layer of grime all over you. “Then you’re gonna have a hard time getting rid of me, baby.”
A tentative smile breaks your expression and Robby thanks whatever god might be out there for it. He starts on his suturing, making sure each one is placed perfectly to minimize scarring, and smiles, too. Then you give him a serious but almost teasing look, like you’re challenging him, and say, “Just promise me you won’t stay because you pity me. That would be way worse than if you left.”
“Pity you?” He scoffs and ties off the line of sutures, “You’re not going to catch me pitying anyone who did a DIY penile amputation with their teeth.”
You snicker and look at yourself in the handheld mirror Robby holds up. “Yeah, that was pretty badass, wasn’t it?”
He leans forward to examine his handiwork, judging himself for every less-than-perfect closure. “Sorry about the scar; plastics is on vacation.”
“Don’t be sorry. I’m pretty sure my boyfriend will think it’s cool.”
“It’s badass,” he teases. He leans forward and kisses your forehead. Then he says fuck it to professionalism and pulls you into a hug so warm and so desperate you can’t imagine anything more comforting. “I’m so fucking proud of you.”
You breathe in deep against his chest. For once, you don’t mind the distinct hospital smell you’re usually complaining about when he rolls into bed at the end of the day. The hug lingers. For a long time. You’re not letting go before he does and he can tell. He kisses the top of your head and then rests his chin on your hair. God, he’s so big and so strong and you feel so safe in his arms, even still.
“I love you, Michael.”
He presses soft kisses over your face, avoiding the scrapes and bruises. “I love you. So much.” After pulling back a little, reluctantly, he sighs and says, “I just have one more thing to wrap up before I can get you home.”
“You don’t have to leave early over-”
“Please, baby,” he whispers. His voice is suddenly small and sweet and soft. “Let me take care of you, okay? I need to.”
It’s not like you to easily accept help, but it very much is like Robby to insist on giving it. He self-soothes by caring for others. You blink back tears and nod once. “Okay.”
“I’ll be done within an hour or two. Ortho’s going to come in and do your wrist cast in a minute here.” There’s a quick knock at the door and he sighs. “That’ll be Dana; I asked her to stay with you until I’m finished. I’ll see you soon, sweetheart.”
You give his hand one more pulse with yours. “See you soon.”
Robby gives you a final look-over, satisfied with your bandages and pain level, and trades places with Dana, who steps in quietly with her arms full of things, announcing, “Care package delivery.”
“Hey, Dana. Take good care of my girl.”
“Always.” After she’s taken his place, Dana says, “Robby paged me his locker combo. I’ve got some goodies.”
She hands you a stack of Robby’s clothes, a toothbrush and toothpaste, a bottle of Gatorade, and trail mix. Before you can even ask, she turns around so you can hastily shrug on the baggy clothes. Robby must’ve been planning on hitting the gym in the morning after his shift before he came home; you’ve got a pair of his basketball shorts and a crew neck to shrug on. The shorts are more like capris on you and you can curl your fingers around the sweatshirt like mittens, but you’re a thousand times more comfortable.
After that, you go straight for the toiletries. Brushing your teeth in an exam room’s metal sink isn’t glamorous, but it’s better than the disgusting mix of bitterness and iron and salt you’ve been swishing around with nothing but spit for the last few hours. You brush three times in a row, scrubbing your tongue and lips and the roof of your mouth and gums, until you finally decide there’s nothing left to taste.
Once you’re pounding fistfuls of trail mix into your stomach, Dana informs you, “Robby decided to admit you for observation, which I’m pretty sure means he just wants to be the one to drive you home.”
“Don’t you dare let him leave early.”
“Like anyone could stop him from doing something when it comes to you.”
Langdon’s outside of the perp’s room, waiting for Dr. Robby as the man in question storms over. He stops his boss with a hand at the middle of his chest, eyes intense. “I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to go in there.”
Robby shuts him down outright: “Luckily I didn’t ask for your input. Go find a bowel to disimpact or something, alright?”
Then he’s pushing the door open. Nothing could possibly stop Robby from being the person to handle this.
“I’m Dr. Robinavitch.” He rattles off the necessary speech without thinking as he gloves up and prepares his tool kits: “Now that your forensic samples have been taken by the precinct, you should be aware of a couple things before we get started. Firstly, this conversation is privileged, but under Pennsylvania law, the court may require my testimony or your records if it deems them relevant to the case, so the Miranda rules still apply. Records are almost always requested.”
The guy grimaces out a ‘got it.’
“Secondly, the Emergency Medical Treatment & Labor Act protects you from bias during your treatment. You’re entitled to request a different doctor or hospital if you feel you’re receiving unfair or inadequate care.” He lowers his gaze to meet the perpetrator’s. “That being said, I’m the senior attending in the trauma department, so you’re not getting any better than me.”
He gives a self-satisfied smirk. “VIP treatment, huh?”
Robby grimaces. “That’s right.”
“Well, I’ve been here for fucking hours; can I get some more painkillers or something?”
“You’re currently at a dosage consistent with your injuries,” Robby informs him curtly. “No reason to overdo it.”
“Dude, seriously? My fucking dick is busted. I need more.”
“I’ve read the file.” Robby repeats, scratching ‘drug-seeking behavior and aggression’ into his notes as he resists losing control at the word ‘dude,’ “You’re at an appropriate dosage based on our protocol.”
Of course, there’s no need to inform him that it’s the absolute minimum dose that could possibly be considered ethical. Watching his constant wincing and squirming from the pain doesn’t exactly make Robby feel bad in this particular case, just like making him wait in agony didn’t either
“I’ll start with the laceration on your forehead.” Without waiting, Robby manipulates the tissue around, ostensibly examining it while using meaner hands than necessary. “Let’s get that closed up.”
The guy flinches away from his touch. “The other doctor said it probably wouldn’t need stitches, just glue or something.
“Head wounds bleed a lot at first; it can be hard to get proper visualization, especially for someone with less training.” Robby grabs gauze and antiseptic. Instead of dabbing gently, he practically scrubs, rough, until the guy grunts with tears stinging at his eyes. He keeps his voice flat and professional. “Because of the tissue thickness and movement in the area, I’d recommend staples over sutures.”
The guy tenses up as he sees Robby go for the white plastic staple gun. “Aren’t you gonna numb it or something?”
Robby tightens his jaw. “We can use a lidocaine injection or a topical cream.”
“A needle in my scalp?” The guy shivers at the idea; Robby hates him for it. The idea of a man like that wanting to avoid pain when he’s so willing to inflict it makes Robby rub the nape of his neck to try to work out the frustration in his muscles. “Let’s go with the cream.”
Robby spreads a scant amount of numbing around the forehead gash. As little as he can justify to himself. His mind races in a way it never has before when practicing medicine. He’s never crossed a line, never strayed from his oath, never ever debated it.
But he’s never had you.
And looking at this man – tall, broad, tattooed, all around handsome if not for the forehead injury – Robby’s imagining you. The fear you felt in your chest, in your gut, in your shaking thighs, as he forced you to your knees. The dissociation of him taking your mouth by force. The rage of your retaliation and escape.
The way you looked at Robby when you were scared he wouldn’t want you anymore because of him.
So he makes a choice. A split second decision so fast he’s only vaguely aware that he’s doing it. He stretches the skin. Staples. Pinches it. Staples. It’s battleground work, not ‘twenty years in a hospital’ work. The line he creates is jagged and mean.
Noticeable.
An identifying mark if someone needed to pull him out of a lineup or describe him to law enforcement. It’s the only way someone in Robby’s position can help keep people safe or get them justice in the future. It’s small, but it’s a gift for you.
Of course, the guy isn’t pleased when he catches a glimpse of himself in the silvered glass separating him from the hospital. “That’s crooked as fuck, doc.”
Putting the stapler away for disinfecting, Robby doesn’t even make eye contact as he replies, “Plastic surgeon’s on vacation. I’ll put you on a waitlist for a correction.” Robby stands, removes his gloves, and washes his hands before putting on another pair. Like he can’t create enough of a barrier between him and the perp. “Is it alright if I go ahead with the penile exam?”
Gruff and uncomfortable, the guy agrees to it. Robby gingerly lifts away the draping left by the nurse and assesses. No matter his emotions, the sight is enough to make any man wince. Under any other circumstances, this would’ve been a first-tier injury, getting pushed straight back to surgery to be taken care of to preserve the form and function. But the law requires Robby to provide sufficient medical care to suspects in crimes, not the kindest or most sympathetic.
And he’s having an awfully hard time mustering any kindness or sympathy for your attacker.
After a brief exam of the mottled and shredded member, he announces, “We’re not going to be able to save the majority of the tissue; I can already see infection and necrosis setting in.” Robby stands up and tosses his gloves in the trash. “I’m going to page for a surgical consult and recommend a partial penectomy.”
“Wait, what?” The guy stiffens up and winces as he tries to move toward Robby, stopped by the cuffs attaching him to the hospital furniture. “You- You want them to cut my dick off?”
Robby rolls his shoulders, meets the guy’s eyes, and says, perfectly professional, ice cold, “It’s the ideal treatment for your condition.”
You’ve been in the bath with Robby for almost an hour, the water lukewarm now and both of you well past pruned, the bag around your blue wrist cast foggy from the humidity, when you venture, “What if I never want to have sex again?”
He shrugs, wraps his arms closer around you, and rests his chin on your shoulder. The fact that the first thing you wanted after getting home was to be held by him steadied him. Reassured him. “Then we never have sex again.”
Blinking because he’s so serious, you offer up the only protest your brain can conjure, “But we want kids.”
“There’s always IVF. Surrogacy if you don’t want to carry; I’m sure your sister would. We could foster; love lots of kids and help families reunify.” He nibbles your earlobe and teases, his lightness as soothing as anything else, “We could always go for the good ole turkey baster method, too. Very romantic, I think.”
You sigh and turn around in the tub, water sloshing around both of your bodies. “You’re really not worried?”
“Right now,” he says, taking your hands in his, “I’m mainly worried about the two of us getting hypothermia or trench foot from this bath. But I’ll go through it for you if I have to.”
You roll your eyes, give him a splash, and slowly creak to your feet. You’re aching and exhausted, but you’re safe. You’re home. Robby pulls the stopper on the tub, stretches upward, and grabs a towel to wrap around you. He dries himself off and tugs on a pair of gray sweats as you do your skincare routine.
As he starts on his own bedtime skincare, a routine you’ve built for him since you’ve been together, he reminds you, “Don’t get anything on those stitches. Clean and dry.”
“Yes, doctor,” you chuckle. “Nice to have my own follow-up visits right here at home.”
You down your painkillers and prophylactics with the rest of your meds in a big gulp and then head to the closet. Once you’re in your comfiest pajamas (also known as Robby’s old tee), you make yourself cozy in bed and scroll through the TV. Robby climbs in next to you shortly after with whatever thick book he’s been reading lately.
He’s engrossed in the book right away, but you’re stewing silently. Nothing keeps your attention on the TV, you don’t want to check your phone because you know it’ll be full of way too many nosy notifications, and all you want is attention. You’re only able to resist a few minutes before you finally ask, “You meant that, didn’t you?”
Robby barely glances up from the page. “Hm?”
“The thing you said about never having sex again.”
“Of course I meant it.”
“Why?” Your cheeks are hot and pink as you press, “Why would you be okay with that? How?””
Robby dog-ears his page and sets the book aside. His big brown eyes are warm and kind and easy. He's got his glasses on now, and you've always thought that was particularly adorable. “Why are you torturing yourself over this, sweetheart?”
You try to sum up everything you’re feeling. Shame and fear and insecurity and ugliness alongside love and need and confusion. Ultimately, you end up with: “Because you deserve better than that.”
A real, actual laugh bursts from Robby’s throat. He gives you a goofy, shocked look. “Better than the love of my life? Better than my best friend? Better than the one person on the planet who makes me feel like the best version of myself every damn day?”
You try, “But sex is-”
“Look, baby,” he sighs, trying to put his serious doctor face on to reassure you however you need, “I’ve done enough research in this area to know that the vast majority of sexual assault survivors return to healthy sex lives with supportive partners eventually. Some people have hypersexuality as a response, some people have no drive ever again. Most people end up somewhere in the middle. It’s all fine with me.”
Huffing and blushing and overwhelmed, you reply, “But I want to have sex with you.”
“Well, damn, let me grab a protein bar; it’s been a long night, but I’m sure I can rally.”
You roll your eyes, then, and nestle into his chest. He raises his arm to draw you closer. “C’mon, Michael. I just…Tell me how you’re so calm about this.”
“Because I’ve got you.” He shrugs and runs his fingers through your damp hair. “We’ll go to therapy separately and together. It’ll take the time it takes. We’ll do the things you want and not do the things you don’t want. We’ll try new things and old things. It’ll be like we’re virgins again.”
You laugh, “That sounds terrible.”
He snickers as he leans against the headboard, maneuvering you so that you’re in his lap, resting against him. “I meant moreso the ‘fun of discovering each other’ part, not so much the ‘premature ejaculation and insufficient lubrication’ part.”
You kiss the side of his mouth and giggle, “Making you cum in your pants can still be fun.”
“You do have a devastatingly good track record of making that happen, you little minx.” His laugh tastes so good when you kiss it off his mouth. Earnest and pointed, he goes on, “Sex isn’t our relationship. It’s a part of our relationship – admittedly a favorite part – but it’s not who we are. Our relationship is you laughing at my terrible jokes. It’s me watching romantic comedies and pretending it’s only because you like them. It’s cooking dinner and washing dishes together even when we’ve both had hellacious days.” He wipes the sudden tears from your cheeks and kisses where they’ve fallen. “It’s us, baby. And being with you has never been complicated to me.”
Hugging him close, not caring that it makes your ribs hurt, all you can whimper out is, “Michael. Michael.”
He’s not finished, though. Not with making you feel loved. Never. “You being my wife is just easy for me, sweetheart. It’s always made sense to me, honestly more than anything else I’ve- What? Why are you looking at me like that?”
You get choked up trying to speak. The tears are flowing properly now and there’s no stopping them, but they feel different than any from earlier tonight. You kiss him with whispering lips. “You just called me your wife.”
“And you were talking about the two of us having kids a little while ago,” he reminds you softly as he grabs you a tissue from his bedside table. “It’s not exactly news that you’re my family, baby.”
The sun’s rising outside your bedroom window and it feels like that inside your chest, too. “Everything’s going to be okay, isn’t it?”
“Sometimes it will be,” he says as he tugs the covers up around you both, tiredness overtaking your features. You take his glasses off and set them on the table like you always do. “Sometimes it'll be terrible. But it'll always be us."
warnings : strong violence/gore, arranged marriage trope, reader pulls the hide & seek card, possibly ooc titus???
when your father first told you that you were going to get married, you were at a loss for words. being the youngest daughter, you were the last to wed and public image is very important to your family.
eventually, you decided to agree and when you found out you were going to marry titus danforth, you were confused. he was older than you and didn’t seem to be interested in marriage or starting a family.
you’d met a few times at dinner parties but never really spoke outside of them. you weren’t too trusting of his family, they looked like the type to hide secrets and his sister didn’t seem too keen on you marrying him.
on your wedding day, everybody was tense as if something was going to go wrong. you were getting ready for the ceremony and the nerves were finally hitting. you were going to be married in just under an hour. a wife.
your father walked you down the aisle and barely had any reaction. any other father would tear up whilst giving his daughter away but there was nothing.
your eyes met titus’s and he almost immediately looked away. he looked like he wanted to be anywhere else.
the ceremony went by quickly and it was midnight and time for the dinner, family and close friends only. you quietly ate your food, occasionally looking down at the ring on your finger. titus still hadn’t looked at you properly.
chester danforth, titus’s father handed a pack of cards to you. you gave a confused look, staring at the pack. “what’s this?” you ask, letting out a nervous laugh.
“pick a card.” chester sternly answered. you looked over at titus, who avoided your gaze.
you knew better than to not listen to the man, he wasn’t going to take no for an answer.
“okay.” you muttered, not looking at the cards as you took one out. “hide and seek? what, are we going to play?” you sarcastically said but nobody laughed.
“dad?” you watched as your father nodded. you slowly got up from the chair and headed to the door.
you made your way down the hallway and into the danforth office, crouching down behind the chair. you didn’t want to play the game so why not hide somewhere obvious? you’d be found quicker and the game would be over.
the sound of footsteps caught your attention. a figure steps into the room, it was one of the maids. you stayed quiet as she dusted the shelves against the wall.
then there was a click and blood was everywhere. the maid had been shot. you flinched, your breathing quickened as you stared at the lifeless woman on the floor.
“i thought it was her.” you heard a familiar voice whisper. your brother. you almost sobbed, quickly covering your mouth as you slowly crawled to the door behind you.
tears spilled down your cheeks, you were now in the kitchen. “she’s here!” another voice called out. ursula stepped foot in the room and raised her shotgun, shooting at you.
you crouched down, attempting to avoid the bullets. you grabbed a kitchen knife from the counter and looked for a quick exit.
another gunshot went off and you felt a sharp pain in your leg. you ignored it and started to run and soon enough, you were outside.
as you ran through the grass, you took off your heels. your wedding dress was now covered in blood and your leg was burning.
you hid behind a tree, sitting down before ripping your veil and wrapping it around the wound. you let out a cry at the pain.
a shadow stood in front of you, you raised the kitchen knife. it was titus. “get away from me.” you try to yell but your voice was hoarse.
he raised his arms. he was unarmed. you lowered the knife and went to wipe your tears but stopped when you saw that your hands were drenched in your blood.
he got down to your level and took a look at the wound. “i tried to get them to pick someone else.” he told you, finally making eye contact.
your voice cracked. “my own family is trying to kill me.” his heart hurt for you.
“you just have to survive until sunrise.” he said as if it would reassure you. you shook your head, “i can’t.” titus firmly spoke. “yes, you can.”
“here are some supplies that should stop it from infecting and some bandages.” titus started to get up but you grabbed his arm.
“where are you going?” you panicked, “please don’t leave me.” he almost agreed to stay with you but he knew he couldn’t. “i have to. they need to think i’m helping them find you.”
you let out a sniffle, “where will i go? i can’t stay here.” titus held your hand. “get to the barn. there’s an underground tunnel, nobody knows about it but me.”
you look down, feeling defeated and weak. “hey, look at me.” titus grabbed your shoulders, shaking you slightly. “get to the barn. i will come and find you once it’s safe.”
the barn wasn’t too far from the tree, you tried to walk as fast as you could but the pain in your leg made it difficult.
as you stood inside, you were met with theresa, an old family friend. she was holding an axe, ready to swing.
your hand clenched around the knife. she ran at you, attempting to strike you with the axe but missed, giving you the opportunity to put the knife in her neck.
her eyes widened as she gurgled blood before collapsing to the ground. you stood still, staring at what you had just done.
“sorry.” you mumbled as you pulled the knife back, the sound making your skin crawl. you had a feeling that the knife was going to be needed later on.
you started looking around for any sign of a hidden opening. you moved the hay around and eventually found a hatch, you lifted it and lowered yourself down.
it was cold and terrifyingly quiet, you could hear your own heartbeat racing. to pass the time, you cleaned and bandaged up your leg using the supplies titus gave you.
he’d put some snacks in the bag which you were incredibly grateful for. alongside was a note, you opened it and started to read.
you probably have a lot of questions about why this is happening. it’s been a tradition for a long time, when someone new enters the family, they have to play. just know i tried to get them to change their mind about you, i hoped they’d pick someone else. i’m sorry it was you but i’m not sorry for marrying you.
content warnings: 18+!!!! Gets quite smutty, fluffy, jack abbot invented YEARNING, age gap!!!, no use of Y/N
notes: i know this one sounds kinda depressing but i promise its fun and funny and flirty and it’s my favorite one ive ever written!! also debating on making an ao3 account - should i?
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷
Jack Abbot was unfortunately intimately familiar with the 5 Stages of Grief. Depression, Bargaining, Anger, Denial, Acceptance.
He grieved his leg at the ripe age of 31 - courtesy of an IED in the desert of Afghanistan.
He began grieving his late wife the following year at 32 - courtesy of an arrogant, misogynistic emergency medicine resident.
At 33, he grieved the life he thought he was going to have while he started a new one. No longer a husband, but a widow. No longer an army medic, but an Emergency Room attending at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center.
Sometimes when he would come back to the empty home he bought at 34, the ghosts of that life were louder than any silence he thought he could drown out with the police scanner.
Jack Abbot knew the 5 Stages of Grief like the back of his hand.
In hindsight, he didn’t know how he didn't realize the 5 stages in which he fell in love with her were quite similar. A mirror of his grief refracted through a lens of unconditional love.
depression
If someone would have asked Jack at the time, he wouldn't have admitted he was depressed. He truly didn't think he was.
He didn't need therapy to deal with his trauma. His wife passed away a decade ago. His leg, or lack thereof, the constant reminder of the time he gave up while he had her on this earth - was physically healed. As much as it was going to be anyways. So therefore he was mentally healed. As much as he thought he was going to ever be anyways.
He'd been running on autopilot. It carried him from but mostly to the emergency room at PTMC. It's what made him stop at the unfamiliar sight of Gloria in his ED. This is why he didn't work the day shift. He never wanted to deal with all of the bureaucratic administrative bullshit. The only business Jack Abbot was ever interested in was the one of saving lives. Gloria hadn't even opened her mouth and Jack already knew that Robby was going to owe him one.
"Dr Abbot! Wonderful timing. I have a residency interview waiting in Robby's office for you."
Now Robby really owed him one. "Doesn't Robby usually..." Jack scratched at the back of his neck, still confused as to why Gloria had involved herself, and now him, in a residency interview, "...facilitate those?"
Gloria gave a curt nod before glancing around them, as if checking to make sure they would not be overheard. She lowered her voice as she spoke, "Yes but I specifically scheduled this one when I knew you were covering. She is the best candidate we have ever had and probably ever will. I cannot risk Robby running her off."
Right. The Adamson of it all. There was a joke in there somewhere about Jack being considered the stable one in the ED. He guessed he must be. He had become fairly good at presenting an even keeled, calm front. He still had kind of felt like a mess in every other area of his life but the ED was the one place he was the furthest from one. It's where he solved the mess instead of becoming it.
She shoved a printed resume into Jack's hands before she was off. Back up to her ivory tower. He took a look as he strode over to Robby's office. Full ride to Stanford for both her undergraduate and medical degree.
For once, he agreed with Gloria. What the hell did this candidate want to do with PTMC?
He asked her as much as he sat across the desk from her, brow furrowed in genuine curiosity. Residency interviews usually went one of two ways. The candidate was either far too cocky or so nervous they barely got a complete sentence out.
She struck the balance. She was confident. More so than some of his residents who had been out on the floor. She wore a dark gray wool sweater and maxi skirt set. The monochrome was only cut by the deep maroon of her belt, tights, heels, and purse. Her long hair was slicked back into a simple pony tail and her makeup was minimal, if any.
It wasn't the typical look of a medical student on a residency interview. Still completely appropriate, but far less stuffy and much more self assured.
Jack wouldn't know good style if it had slapped him in the face but he did know what hers revealed to him about herself. It was the kind of style that someone who knew who they were had. Who had spent time getting to know what they liked. Whether it was what they were reading, listening to, watching, or doing. Her style wasn’t an afterthought but she carried it with a quiet confidence that let everyone know she was not overcompensating for anything either.
It was a demeanor and style that was derivative of having a life outside of medicine - which was quite uncommon for medical students and residents alike. It was completely foreign to Jack. It intrigued him. She intrigued him.
Her body language was relaxed but respectful. One leg crossed over the other as she leaned back into the wooden chair that was probably older than she was, hands clasped in her lap. Jack doubted her heart rate had reached over 65 the whole time she had been in there.
She took a beat to answer his question which also intrigued Jack. She was not rushing to answer just to fill space. She seemed to be comfortable with the time silence gave her to craft intentional responses. Why PTMC?
A ghost of a smile that looked like it might be haunted by one appeared on her face, "My family is here."
"That's it?"
"Do you want the practiced professional answer that every other interviewer has gotten or do you want the real one?"
Jack bit back a grin at her bluntness. Ignored the stirring in his stomach that made him feel special that she may share something about herself with him that she hadn't with anyone else. He tells himself to Get. A. Grip.
"I am sure the absolute best residencies in the country are foaming at the mouth to land you and you want to come here because of your family? Give me the real reason." He let his smirk slip through as he crossed his arms over his broad chest, "I'm a captive audience after all."
The airy laugh that he got out of her almost knocked him out of his seat. What was wrong with him? He had a feeling she didn't just hand out a laugh as ethereal as that one. That she was not the kind of woman who just giggled because it was the part of the conversation where she'd been socialized to appease the man speaking that he was funny. She seemed far too smart for that. For probably everyone in the building. For him, especially.
"I have already been away in California for eight years. I could have fifty years left with my dad and my brothers and my sister in laws and my nieces and nephews or they could be gone next week," she uncrossed and recrossed her legs before continuing. Didn't rush before speaking again, "I don't want to build an unguaranteed future alone and then have no one to share it with when I get there. I wanna spend time with them now."
Jack's adam's apple bobbed in his throat. His eyes burned as he fought to hold back tears. It must be some kind of cruel joke that right then his phantom limb pain wanted to shoot up through his thigh. Like a reminder of the time he spent wasting while he had his wife alive.
He had joined the army to become a doctor debt free. Then he had spent all of their marriage overseas, saving money for a life they never even got to spend together. He had borrowed time from the future that didn't even exist. And all he had to show for it was ironically - more money - monthly life insurance, disability, and veteran affairs checks. Oh and one and a half legs.
He blinked rapidly. He was not about to cry at work. Nevertheless while he was conducting a residency interview. He diverted the conversation away from himself, "You didn't mention your mom."
"She died. When I was a teenager, about ten years ago. After coming here actually," She coughed out a dry laugh that sounded like she dragged it up through her throat, kicking and screaming. Awfully different to the one Jack had floated out of her moments prior, "She was pregnant and they sent her away without so much as a full consultation. Just chalked her symptoms up to pregnancy and she died from an aortic dissection later that night."
Jack wanted to vomit at the almost exact recountance of how his wife had died. He was so focused on not emptying his breakfast onto Robby's desk that a tear slipped - the first in probably years.
"Oh, Dr Abbot. I didn't mean to make you emotional. I can go back to the professional answer any time you want." Another scoffed laugh, her eyes full of compassion but no tears, "Trust me - it's probably easier for both of us."
Jack really never talked about his late wife anymore. He liked to tell himself he was healed. He most definitely didn't talk about it at work. But he found himself wanting to then - with her, "No it's just - my late wife - she died the same way, about a decade ago. I was away on a stupid bachelor party trip and she didn't want to worry me so she didn't call me about it and then she, uh, never called again."
"Jesus - I am so sorry, Dr Abbot."
He noticed, appreciated, the way her head didn't tip and her eye contact didn't waver. She was not expressing her condolences out of pity or not understanding but of exactly the opposite. She knew exactly how he felt. He ignored the way his heart jumped out of his chest at the thought.
God, Robby really owes him one.
"Thank you - I am sorry about your mom. I am just impressed you still wanna work here. I could never work in the hospital that did that to my wife. The couple years after she passed - I could barely work here."
"Well, the other option was becoming one of those weirdos who swears off doctors and hospitals and science."
Jack tilted his chin at her in consideration, rubbed at the scruff there, and let out a sputtering laugh, "Are you sure that is the only other option?"
He pulled another light chuckle from her and he exhaled. Truly exhaled. For the first time in maybe ten years - like he had been underwater for so long he had forgotten what fresh air felt like.
"This is my way of letting her live on through me. To do something about what happened to her rather than using it as an excuse to sulk through life. I wanna see life as something that comes from me and not at me."
She picked at the lining of her purse that was perched in her lap. The first sign of potentially any nerves. The first time he realized that he was getting the true her. Not the front she must put up for interviews. It didn't seem much different - just a little more vulnerable.
Jack could talk. So much so he had a reputation for it in the ED. He was no stranger to being on the receiving end of a 'God do you ever shutup?' so he was a bit stunned that she had managed to shock him into silence.
He hugged his crossed arms closer to his chest as if that was even possible and just stared.
She cracked a smile, back to what was seemingly her calm and confident self, "Too esoteric for a residency interview?"
"Oh no. Not at all. I just..." Jack couldn't seem to find the right words to tell her that she had just reframed his entire outlook on his life and his grief in one sentence so he settled on, "...I uh never really thought of it that way."
"Me neither. But I have an excellent therapist."
"I will have you know, if you choose to do your residency here, I do not make it a habit of trauma dumping on my residents like I did on you today."
"I think I started that, Dr Abbot. But since I made you cry - does that mean I am in?"
That earned a genuine cackle out of Jack. A cackle. A kind of sound he wasn't even sure he was capable of making anymore but the bright, beaming smile she reciprocated made him want to do it for the rest of his life.
Maybe he owes Robby one.
Jack tried not to think about her as he got the old laptop down from his hallway closet later that night. He may never even see her again. He ignored the fact that that thought made him sick to his stomach.
Tried not to think about how Gloria had never ever personally been the residency candidate welcome committee until today while he googled 'Veteran, disabled, widower therapists near me'.
He tried not to think about how she looked the best anyone has ever looked in that emergency department as he murmured to himself, "God, that's a depressing search."
He tried not to think about how she had the most beautifully intriguing brain of anyone who had ever stepped foot into that hospital, potentially his entire life, as he booked his very first therapy appointment.
bargaining
"Remember when you told me you didn't make it a habit of trauma dumping on your residents?"
Jack didn't even have to look at her to know there was a huge smirk plastered on her face. She had been his resident for a little over a year. Although, it had taken much less time for the ribbing to start.
"Telling you about how Shen won't stop calling me 'Unc'," Jack had put air quotes around the Gen Z slang term as he continued, "is not trauma dumping."
"You seem pretty traumatized by it. You've only brought it up 85 times this shift."
"And to think - I was gonna ask you to a research breakfast after this." Jack nudged his shoulder gently with hers, tried his best to stave off the grin that played on his lips.
"And to think! You're going to anyway, old man." She nudged him right back, a little less gentle causing him to turn his shoulders and gaze towards her, feigning shock and offense.
That got the exact reaction he was fishing for - a big bright smile, loud laugh, and a second or so more of eye contact that he wouldn't have had a reason to justify otherwise.
What can he say? When it came to her - he was greedy.
"You two! I would prefer to get the hand off completed before you're both back on shift tonight. I swear you're like young and dumb medical students after shift sometimes." Dana chastised them but not without a hint of a smile.
Dana had known Jack for over ten years at this point. Seen him in a lot of different moods; but never as happy as this.
"Well, I'm young." She emphasized the 'I' with a smirk and pointed the finger that she had aimed at herself over at Jack, "He is just being dumb."
Jack barked a laugh. A sound that was no longer so foreign to him. No longer so foreign to everyone else in the ED.
He didn't miss the knowing glance Dana shot his way, a grin fighting to appear on both of their faces. He did his best to give Dana a look that said that he wasn't hopelessly infatuated with his resident. That he enjoyed spending time with each of his residents equally. He was not entirely sure he convinced Dana. He wasn't even good at convincing himself.
He could take her to breakfast if it was to help her with her research. It was most definitely not to see how many times he could pull a laugh from her. Bonus points if he got a nose scrunch or an accidental spit take of the orange juice that was already half way down her throat.
He could bring her a coffee every shift if it was to ensure his best resident was energized for her shift. It was not because of the way she looked up at him with her bright, big eyes through her lashes and said "Thank you, Dr Abbot!" like it was some sort of melody. If he started buying coffee for Dr Ellis and Dr Shen as well to make his affection less obvious - what was the difference?
He could let her do a pericardiocentesis way before anyone else her year probably should have if it was to improve her education. And because she truly was ready. He'd have bet his entire career that she was better at it than all of the surgical residents upstairs. Which meant it wasn't so totally obvious that he was staring at her in awe all of the time. Because when she was doing shit like that - everyone was. Being able to guide her hands through a procedure was just a bonus. Even if there were latex gloves between them.
He could bring extra food to shift, knowing she was going to eat half of it, if it was because he wanted to ensure his best resident was properly fueled and empowered to do her job to the best of her ability. He kept it to himself that he drove to a grocery store thirty minutes out of his way to get the specific kind of candy he knew she liked.
He could drive her home if it was to ensure his smartest resident got home safe. It was totally not because he got to spend more time with her. He definitely didn't take the long way to her apartment and he went exactly the speed limit because that was what was safe. Not because it meant extra time with her. No one else needed to know that he went at least fifteen over when she wasn't in his passenger seat.
No one also needed to know that he bought an aux cord just for her because he loved to hear what kinds of songs she liked. He definitely didn't have a playlist compiled of them all that he listened to at home now instead of his police scanner.
denial
She had been his resident for a bit over two years now and the ED was Q word tonight. No one had said it but the combined time they had all spent fucking around at the Hub proved it.
Shen was on his fifth tiktok trend of the night. He thought he was being inconspicuous in the amount of time he had been spending with Javadi but his new found interest in the social media app gave him away. Jack couldn't really say anything to his new junior attending about the dangers of falling for someone that you were the superior to without blowing up his own soft spot for a certain resident.
So Shen was on his fifth tiktok trend of the night and he had roped her in.
Jack thought he knew all of her secret talents by now but he watched from behind her, amused and hands tugging at his stethoscope looped behind his neck, as Shen played various Britney Spears songs to see how quickly she could guess them.
She hadn't needed more than 3 seconds for any of them.
Then they were busy for an hour or so. A couple drunk twenty somethings with some concussions and laceration repairs - nothing too crazy. And then they were back at central. The quiet was interrupted by a gasp from Dr Shen. Which was quickly followed by Dr Ellis looking over his shoulder at his phone and then both of them dying laughing.
"I don't even want to know." Jack threw his hands up in surrender.
"Oh, yes you do! You're going viral for being hot!" Shen exclaimed.
"I don't know what viral means if it’s not to do with an infection and I already know that I’m hot thank you very much." Jack didn't even glance up from his charting as he spoke.
“For being hot and being hopelessly in love.” Ellis clarified.
That got Jack's attention. He got up, snatched Shen's phone out of his hand as he muttered, “I am not hopelessly -" he didn't even want to give the accusation a real denial to validate it, "-let me see that.” He pressed play.
It was ironic that he had been telling himself he needed to start schooling his expressions when it came to her when the same dopey smile and enamored eyes he had going in the video were on his face as he watched the video.
He knew Shen and Ellis were monitoring his reaction closely but he couldn't help but let out a laugh at the part of the video where he had guessed the song 'Lucky' before she had.
She had whipped around in the spinning chair so fast - her hair had stuck to her glossed lips, "How the hell do you know that?!" she asked surprised, a wide smile taking over her face.
Jack shuffled around in his wide stance, large hands going from the ends of his stethoscope to clasped behind his back, his chin tilted up at her as he spoke with a drawl, "I let you play your music when I drive you home, don’t I?”
In the moment, Jack had missed what was caught on camera - the knowing smirk Dr Ellis had leveled at Dr Shen off camera as she said, “Oh, I’m sure you do.”
Jack's rebuttal hadn't even had a chance to leave his mouth before Shen and Ellis were reading the comments aloud, taking turns as they went.
"WHOOOO DAT IN THE BACK!?"
"Paging Doctor biceps in the back"
"Close enough. Welcome back Lexie grey and mark sloan"
"What in the greys anatomy"
"Do the two doctor sexys know that age gap august is upon us"
"If she doesn’t wanna bite on his biceps I will"
"Does that girl know she has 45mins to claim that man before I do"
"He does not play about her!"
"A man who YEARNS is a man who EARNS"
"Dr sexy is down bad for the other doctor sexy"
"Where is this emergency room at … for research purposes"
"I want Doctor sexy to look at me like that"
"Okay, I don’t look at her like anything!" Jack hissed low in a whisper, hoping to a god he did not believe in that she was still busy with the drunk college kids and was not hearing any of this.
"Well, you definitely don’t look at me like that." Shen laughed, sucking on his Dunkin straw even though nothing had been left in his cup for hours.
"I look at you all the same." Jack deadpanned. He sat back down at his computer. An attempt to get back to charting. But not before taking a sweep of the ED and making sure she was nowhere within earshot. Not that Shen and Ellis were making it easy with their hysterics.
"Bro - if you looked at me like that I would call HR. She's just into it."
“Into what?" She asked monotonically, not even looking up from her iPad as she approached the rest of the night shift crew at the hub.
“Nothing!” Jack barely got out, grumbling and exasperatedly running a hand through his silver curls as he got up from his computer and went to chairs.
He didn't miss the raise in her brows as she looked at Shen and Ellis, silently asking 'What the hell is up with him?'.
He couldn't tell you the last time he voluntarily went out to chairs but he was hoping his fair Irish skin would be finished betraying him with the pinkness in his cheeks, ears, and neck by the time he made his way back to central.
He knew it was only a matter of time before Shen and Ellis showed her the video and he did not want to be there when they did.
So he missed the flush in her cheeks, ears, and neck that had been identical to his.
And her slightly embarrassed, definitely exaggerated, "You guys stop - he is literally our boss."
"But you're not not into it?" Ellis had pushed. If anyone was getting it out of her, it was Ellis. They had been attached at the hip since their residency began.
"It doesn't matter if I'm into it. He is our boss! He is not into it."
"God, for someone so smart you are so stupid sometimes."
Jack had waved Shen off when Shen had come out to chairs to tell him about that interaction, practically vibrating with excitement. Or maybe that was the caffeine. Jack had parroted her, tried to make a joke of it all. Said something along the lines of, "I know you guys like to pretend otherwise but I am your boss."
But once Jack was home, black out shades drawn and snug in his bed, he couldn't wipe the huge, stupid grin off of his face.
anger
Jack was not an angry man. Never had been. Very few things on this earth made him genuinely angry - one of them being the annual hospital gala. Every year they were trotted out as show ponies to raise money that the ED would never even see. You can't save patients with empty compliments and an open bar.
He had managed to avoid it the past couple years - always worked instead. So when he saw he wasn't scheduled to work the night of this year's gala, he printed out the schedule and marched right over to Robby's workstation to rectify what was surely a mistake.
"Why am I not scheduled to work tomorrow? I didn't even check the schedule until now because I just assumed that my friend would do me a solid because he owes me one-"
"-Because you have to go to the gala, man." Robby interrupted Jack's rambling.
"What part of 'you owe me one' did you not understand?"
"Did you happen to see who else is not scheduled?"
Neither of them had to say anything for them both to know who's name Jack was scanning that piece of paper for.
Robby clapped him on the back, satisfied with a smile on his face as he walked away, "Go home and rest, Romeo. You got a big date tomorrow night - you’re welcome!"
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷
So again, Jack was not an angry man. Never had been. But he had decided to add a new line item to the short list of things that made his blood absolutely boil. The thing being every single young, conventionally attractive, rich, tall surgeon working in his hospital hitting on his resident at this stupid fucking gala.
They hadn't even made it to dinner yet and he was sure she'd been approached over ten times. Jack had to step away after the most recent one - under the guise of getting a drink.
Jack unfortunately was very familiar with this particular suitor of hers. She was well into her last year of her residency and it had not been an uncommon occurrence for Dr Harvard from cardio thoracic surgery to make any and every excuse to come down and consult when she was on shift.
Jack made a conscious effort to forget his name. Shen and Ellis loved to remind him of it.
They'd tease him about it. They'd say that there was a plus side to it all. They never had to wait long on a cardiac surgery consultation anymore. But selfishly, Jack would wait fucking years if it meant he was chatting her ear off instead of Mr Harvard.
Jack wasn't naive. She was practically glowing. She always was. She always looked beautiful. Before tonight, he basically only ever saw her with no makeup on, hair a mess, wearing hospital issued scrubs and he still thought she was the most gorgeous person alive.
But tonight. Tonight, Jack was surprised he did not end up as a patient in his ED the first moment he had laid eyes on her. Her hair was carefully curled, framing her perfect face that was painted with just the right amount of makeup. Her lashes were more prominent than usual, her cheeks more flushed and her lips a bit more pink and a lot more glossy.
And then her dress. That damn dress. It was vintage because of course it was. Of course, she found time to vintage shop on top of the grueling hours she put in at the ED. Even in her last year of residency, she had never lost sight of being her own person both in and outside of work.
The dress reminded Jack of something from the prohibition era - celebratory. He was trying not to be so obvious in his celebration of how the structured seams of the powder blue silk created a corset shape that wasn't too tight for a work function but definitely was tight enough to have his imagination wandering.
With delicate lace panels towards the bottom of her dress and the swooping off the shoulder neckline with draped cap sleeves - Jack was being a sap but she looked like she had stepped out of a romance movie. Or off of a runway.
It was the kind of dress that reminded him of when they first met. He loved getting glimpses of her like this. Of who she was outside of the ED.
She had said she found the dress at a second hand shop on consignment. After that he had spent most of their evening dreaming about what it would be like to hold her hand and watch her shop.
Get to see the process of how she selected what she liked. Get to bring her hand up to his lips and kiss it - knowing that he was one of those things that she liked. Maybe even loved. And of course, buy everything her gaze lingered on even when she insisted not to. Especially then.
So Jack was not naive. He knew she was absolutely, positively stunning. He knew even beyond that - she was kind and funny and fucking whip smart. Smarter than anyone he had ever met and in so many different ways. If he could move into her brain - he would. So he was not naive enough to think other men wouldn't flirt with her. They would be fools not to. He just wished he could be the reason they wouldn't.
He sipped his old fashioned and did his best to pretend like he was looking anywhere but at her and Mr Harvard. He can't imagine that he was very successful. A ding from his phone took him out of his misery.
From Shen: Yo - i know you hate that gala shit. Kinda bogus robby made you go. Thought you guys were friends. Anyway, can you come help? Ellis has got a hot date. Or so she says
Jack had never been more thankful to receive a weird text from Shen in his life. He replied with a quick 'On my way' before taking one last glance over at her.
He sighed at the sight of her digging through her purse for something. He couldn’t see her expression but he sure could see Mr Harvard's. Dude couldn’t wipe the grin off of his face. Jack wished he could do it for him.
Okay chill, he reminded himself. As much as he wanted to, he figured it would be rude to interrupt her to say goodbye. She probably didn’t want her old attending cock blocking her anyways.
Jack set his half finished drink on the bar counter along with a $20 tip and turned on his good heel. He had his hands on the cold metal of the event venue's door when he heard his favorite voice behind him.
"Where the hell do you think you're going?"
Jack turned to see her and the sight made him melt. Arms crossed over her chest, brow furrowed, and lips in a stern line that was slowly slipping into a pout.
"Shen and Ellis need a cover."
"And when were you planning on telling me?" Her hands moved to her hips. Jack's hands flexed at his sides. All he wanted to do was kiss the sass out of her. But he couldn't. She was still his resident. And probably not even interested in him.
"You seemed busy. We haven’t even eaten dinner yet." Jack's response earned an eye roll out of her.
Before he could even blink, her arm threaded under his own - grabbing his bicep, "I'm coming with you."
Who was Jack to argue with that?
"How'd you get out of your conversation with Mr Harvard?"
Another dramatic eye roll. He loved it. Then the prettiest little smile he had ever seen.
"Told him my mean, scary boss said we had to leave."
He couldn't decide his opinion regarding the short walk to his SUV in handicapped parking. One part of him was thankful. He wouldn't be shocked if he had burnt holes in his suit jacket from the way his skin had heated up under her feather light touch. The blush was sure to creep up into his cheeks any moment now.
On the other hand, he could walk for miles if it meant she was touching him the whole way. She stopped at his passenger car door and turned to look at him.
"Mean, scary boss huh?" was all Jack could get out while he was under her gaze. It sounded like he had dragged his words through gravel on their way out. But with the way her eyes still shone in the moonlight and the fact that they were solely trained on his own - he was lucky he managed to get any words out at all.
"The scariest." she winked. She fucking winked. Jack had never been more thankful that he had metal for a leg because if he didn't - his legs were sure to have wobbled out from beneath him right then.
His hands were stuffed into his slack pockets. He didn't trust himself for them to be anywhere else. Her hands had given him a moment of reprieve. No longer lightly squeezing his bicep. But now they trailed up his chest, stopping to pretend to fix his tie even though Jack knew it was perfect. Military habit. Didn't matter - she could do whatever the hell she wanted if it involved touching him.
His breath hitched at her touch. He hoped she didn't notice.
"He cleans up nice though - makes up for all the mean and scary."
"Did your mean, scary boss mention you look beautiful tonight." Jack kept his hands in his pockets but took an experimental step forward. Was this really happening? Was she really hitting on him?
It was almost as if she had heard his inner monologue. Wanted to make her intentions clear as she looped her arms around Jack's neck and absentmindedly threaded her fingers through the curls at the nape there.
Ever since she had started fiddling with his suit, her eyes had dropped to anywhere but his face. Typical Jack would have dipped his head, forced eye contact but Jack right now was just trying to stand up right.
Her gaze snapped to him and this time he hadn't even tried to hide the palpitation in his heart or his breathing, "No." was all she said. Barely a whisper but Jack heard her loud and clear.
His hands immediately fell to her hips. He filed away the way she seemed to sink into his grip. Exhaled a little. Like it was muscle memory from a past life.
Her fingers circled their way higher up onto his head, fully tugging on his curls and lightly scratching at his scalp. Jack had to bite back a groan as he squeezed at her hips and pressed her fully back onto his unopened car door.
"Jack." She murmured out low somewhere between a moan and an airy breath, head tilted back in pleasure at the pressure of his fingers on her hips. Jack was fucked now that he knew what his name sounded like falling off her lips without inhibition.
The expanse of her neck now available to him was like a siren song. The past four years had felt like a siren song and he couldn't help himself any longer. One of his hands found the back of her head, gently cradling it back up for her to look at him. His other hand rubbed at her jaw in sweeping strokes of his thumb.
Neither of them could rip their gaze from the others' lips - their panting chests just a mere centimeter apart. He was finally going to do it. He was finally going to kiss her.
Until he wasn't.
Until a loud bang of the door opening broke them apart. A slew of hospital administrators spilled out behind it looking for their next smoke break. Had Jack mentioned that he fucking hated the annual hospital gala?
They flew off each other at what would have been a rather impressive speed if it hadn't felt so agonizing. What was Jack thinking? That he could make out with his resident against his car like they were a horny teenage couple while all of the people in the building a few feet away from them could have her fired for it in a heartbeat? He had to be better. At least until her residency was over with.
He had to get it together - for the both of them it seemed like. Jack cleared his throat and ran a hand over his stubble to hide the smile threatening to take over his face at the realization that she had wanted to kiss him. The way she had said his name with so much...want. Need, even. Maybe this thing wasn't so one sided after all.
He got out of his own head just in time to stop her closing of the passenger door. He wrapped his hand around the top of the door, held it open and waited for her to look up at him after she had buckled up. But the buckle clicked and her gaze stayed trained on her lap.
"Hey." He whispered softly. They both knew the eye contact he was seeking. She slowly turned her head in his direction, gazing up at where he was standing in front of her.
"You look absolutely breathtaking. You always do."
She sucked in a breath and then there she was - big bright smile, shoulders no longer slumped, no more fiddling with her purse strings just to avoid the space between them. She was back to herself.
"Just for that I'll order pizza to the hospital." His favorite.
"Thank you." He probably should have shut the door by now. Should have probably already been on their way to the hospital. But he couldn't stop fucking staring at her. What's new?
"Don't thank me. I still have your card in my DoorDash account." She giggled and all Jack could get out was good before he shut her door.
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷
They ate their pizza in their gown and tux at the hub with Ellis and Shen.
Ellis raised the polaroid camera that Dana kept at the hub desk and signaled for them to get together for a photo. Jack hooked two fingers under her rolling stool and tugged her over into his side.
"Woah! Old man still has moves!"
Jack ignored Shen as he wrapped his arm over her collarbone from behind her, pulling her closer. Her head instinctively leaned toward his and her fingers delicately held his wrist as they smiled for Ellis's camera.
Jack didn't miss the look Ellis had given her. Maybe he was delusional or maybe she had gotten her best friend Ellis's advice on making a move on her attending at the gala and now Ellis was checking in on the results.
Jack also didn't miss the way her cheeks heated up and the subtle shake of her head at Ellis. As if to signal that they would talk about it later. Probably, when Jack was out of earshot.
Shen tried to get them to pose like they were going to prom. When they both refused citing unprofessionalism, Shen threw a bit of a hissy fit. Mumbling something along the lines of "Oh, now we are being professional!"
Ellis settled on writing ‘Gala Girlies' as the caption for their polaroid before taping it onto the hub counter with the rest of the pictures that had accumulated over the years. This one was definitely Jack's new favorite.
He knew exactly what Robby was going to say when he saw it tomorrow morning, “You owe me one, brother."
He was so fucked.
acceptance
Jack was bored. He never thought he'd say that but this hospital without her was straight up boring with a capital B. He worked here without her for ten years and now - the ten days of PTO she had taken before her first day as a junior attending - felt like the longest of his life. And he was only on day 6.
He wasn't even supposed to be there right now. He had come in after a Tactical EMS job gone bad. His buddy had already gone up to surgery. Before Jack could leave, Robby had roped Jack into joining him on the new day shift attending, Dr Al-Hashimi's, welcome tour.
He was waiting on a text from her. She was spending the day with her family and then she and Jack were supposed to go watch the fireworks together - alone. It was the Fourth of July after all. He had it all planned. He had practiced how he was going to profess his feelings to her in the mirror like a dork more times than he cared to admit. He had long accepted that he was in love with his resident. Now his colleague. He could work with that.
He checked his phone again. No luck. He ignored Robby's inquisitive glance. Jack had never been so interested in his phone like he had been today.
They stood at the hub as Robby droned on and on about day shift procedures that Jack was so thankful not to have to know too much about. Jack just admired the polaroids on the desk in front of them. He was still plotting a way to inconspicuously steal the one of him and her from the gala for his wallet but it had become a fan favorite in the past few months.
Dr Al-Hashimi directed her next question to Jack, pulling him out of his thoughts. She held up his second favorite polaroid with a raised brow, "Am I going to have the pleasure of meeting..." Dr Al-Hashimi squinted to read the writing below the picture, "...Abbot's Angels?"
Jack couldn't help but laugh. The photo had been taken over a year ago. Shen had begged him to take it. Handed the camera over to Jack as he maneuvered himself between the two girls. Both her and Ellis's backs to Shen. All three of them holding up finger guns to their lips with faux serious expressions.
As if her ears were ringing, Dr Ellis appeared behind Jack at the hub. Clapping him on the shoulder and extending a hand out to greet Dr Al-Hashimi, "Don't bring it up to him. He is going through withdrawals because his favorite is still out on PTO."
"Parker - I do not have favorites. You guys aren't even my residents anymore." Jack muttered in defense as he checked his phone again.
Dr Al-Hashimi clocked him, "Dr Abbot - I am good to go here and I am sure I will be seeing you. You should go. It's your day off and a holiday. I am sure you have plans."
"Yeah, what are your plans, Dr Abbot?" Ellis teased. She must have known her best friend's plans were with him for the night. Ellis was enjoying herself. Jack shot her a glare.
"I think his plans just showed up!" Robby clapped his hands together, sputtered out a laugh at the coincidence.
"Brother - I am not taking another case! I am leav-" Jack looked up from unscrewing his water bottle to follow Robby's gaze.
He spotted her mid sip and he genuinely choked on his water in a way he thought only happened in cartoons. He was ready to send Ellis out to chairs when she patted his back like she was burping a baby and suggested that there was a cooling room in North 5 if he needed it.
She was simply glowing. Wavy hair, bright eyes, sun kissed skin donning a short jean skirt and a white halter tank top that accentuated the tan lines over her collarbones left by her bikini.
"Well if it isn’t the prodigal princess of the pitt herself!" Robby goaded, grabbing a clip board and rounding the hub.
The man she was pushing in the wheelchair piped up at that, "You guys actually call her that? Seriously? I thought she was making that up. Please stop - her ego is big enough as it is."
"What do you got?" Robby asked. Jack was still staring. Who the fuck was this guy?
"Idiot male. 37 years old. Broke his ankle trying to relive his glory days coaching youth soccer practice," She was leaned over, pushing the wheelchair with all her might, "and could stand to lose a few pounds."
That pulls an almost relieved huff from Jack. Whoever this guy was - she must've not been that fond of him.
"Hey -" the man reached behind him and tugged on her hair "-my arms still work!"
Oh hell no, Jack thought. Ellis must have noticed he was about to step in and she stopped him before he could, "At ease, soldier. That is her brother."
"Well your brain clearly doesn't" she whacked him right upside the head.
Her brother imitated her, high pitched while she made a show of dramatically handing over his wheelchair to Robby so he could take him away for X-rays.
She thanked Robby as she made her way over to the hub, introducing herself to Dr Al-Hashimi and grabbing the bag of candy that Jack was offering out to her.
She looked him up and down and nodded her head at his camouflage pants, "Really? What is with the GI Jack get up? I thought you were gonna get a hobby.”
"And I thought you said you were gonna stop stealing my food."
"And I thought you said you were gonna stop buying t-shirts one size too small."
"From Walmart." Dr Ellis added.
"You guys, I told you - I do not shop at Walmart."
She giggled and gently nudged her shoulder into Ellis's, "Oh yeah Parker, how could we forget? He shops at Costco!"
"They send good coupons in the mail!" Jack defended himself
"Bro - you're a disabled, widowed veteran who makes more than half a million dollars a year. I think you can afford real clothes." Ellis deadpanned.
“Any other comments from the fashion police about my outfit?”
“Don’t threaten us with a good time.”
Jack cocked his head towards her, smirk widening. He couldn't hide how happy he was to see her. It had been a long couple of days, "And to think I was just starting to miss you."
"Just starting to!?" She raised her eyebrows in challenge, feigning offense while her eyes practically sparkling up at him. He could feel the weight of Ellis's knowing smile on them. He didn't care.
He was debating how obvious it would be for him to pull her into a hug until Dana beat him to it.
"Dr Al, you have just met one of our finest," Dana squeezed her harder, "Except you probably won't see her much because Abbot is always hogging her on nights."
She is released from Dana's grip just enough to clap a light hand on Jack's shoulder, giving him a squeeze, "He needs someone to keep him sharp in his old age."
Jack grimaced the second her hand had made contact with his shoulder and dread washed over her face. Dana fully released her now. Letting her turn all of her attention onto Jack.
“Jack…”
“I’m fine.” He avoided her probing stare and that was exactly how she knew he was not fine.
“Really?” She asked - not buying what he was selling.
“Yes!" She applied light pressure on his shoulder again and he wriggled out of her grasp with a sharp and hissed, "- ah!”
“The room right there is open. Go patch him up.” Dana pointed to the room across the hall. Shooing them in there before Jack had a chance to protest.
Jack sat on the bed as she shut the door and pulled the curtain. Her back was still turned to him as she said, "Take off your shirt."
"At least let me take you to dinner first." Jack tried to pull a laugh from her. It didn't go over well.
"Jack." She warned. Now turned toward him with her arms crossed, “What happened?”
“I was intubating in open fire and a bullet grazed my vest. I’m fine.” He shrugged as he pulled off his shirt. As if what he just said was a completely normal and frequent occurrence.
“You were shot!?” She hurried over to him, standing in between his legs as he sat on the bed.
“Shot…at."
She tilted her head at him in annoyance. Pausing her opening of the various utensils she was preparing to clean his wound.
“What?” He asked.
“Can’t you just take up tennis or golf or literally anything else? Like a normal person?”
“What fun would that be?” Jack insisted upon keeping it light. She shouldn't ever have to worry about him. That was his job.
She lathered some kind of ointment onto his open wound that was on the front of his chest, right above his collar bone. Jack was too distracted by how close they were to care and see what kind.
“There is nothing fun about me coming to work one day and finding out you’re dead because you wanted an adrenaline rush.”
“That isn’t gonna happen.”
“You don’t know that. You think you’re invincible and you’re not.”
“Is that an old joke?”
“Jack-“ her voice cracked and Jack was immediately on his feet, cupping her face in his hands.
“Woah, woah honey okay - I thought we were kidding. I’m fine.” He cooed, one hand stroked her cheek bone making sure not one tear fell while the other steadied her at her hip as she stood between his legs.
“Look at me." He tilted his chin down while he tilted hers up, holding her gaze with his own, "I’m fine. And I’m not going anywhere."
“I won’t survive you dying, Jack. I can't.” Her voice sounded wrecked as her chin wobbled. Jack felt horribly responsible. She wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him into a tight hug.
He wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her closer. Naturally, like they had been in this position a million times before. He murmured into the side of her hair, “Okay forget the SWAT thing. Although, you should’ve seen me earlier in my full uniform I looked pretty sick”
Jack huffed a sigh of relief as he felt her laugh vibrate through him. He pulled her back with his hands on her shoulders to get another good look at her, "There's my girl."
She wiped a sniffle with the back of her hand and lightly pushed him back down to a seat. His hands never left her. Just slid down her body until he rested them on the outsides of her upper thighs - a safe distance away from the hem of her jean skirt.
She worked in silence for a moment until Jack piped back up, “I’ll pick up tennis or golf like a normal person. I promise.”
“You don’t have to do that, Jack. I just want you to have a little more regard for your life okay? Can you please just do that for me?”
“I can’t think of anything I wouldn’t do for you.” Jack didn't even think that was an exaggeration.
“Except for wearing the correct size shirt.”
He teasingly pinched her leg and she swatted at his good shoulder, laughing. She was done helping him but they hadn't moved. Neither of them really wanted to.
“That’s for you too. Don’t think I don’t see you staring at my biceps.”
Her eyebrows rose in faux surprise as she dragged a hand down his freckled arm.
“Oh you wanna talk about staring? I must have picked that up from someone.”
“This is a teaching hospital”
“Could’ve mistaken it for a staring one.”
“Come on - you’re always performing medical miracles while looking like that. I can’t help it. Cut a guy some slack.” Jack's hands felt like they were on fire, practically kneading her thighs. God, she really had to wear this skirt today of all days.
“You’re a flirt, you know that?”
“Only with you.”
They had about a second to jump apart at the sound of a knock on the door before the curtain was pulled back to reveal Dr Al-Hashimi.
Jack rubbed at the back of his neck. Both him and her were looking anywhere but each other. Jack wasn't planning on getting excited but he was thankful he had placed his shirt over his lap to cover himself now that they were no longer alone.
Dr Al-Hashimi cleared her throat, obviously picking up on the fact that she had interrupted something, "Sorry to uh, interrupt. But my number, Dr Abbot. Like we discussed. For that date.”
Dr Al-Hashimi handed Jack a piece of paper and then turned to her, "You have a visitor from cardio thoracic surgery outside."
Jack groaned. Could Mr Harvard have any worse timing? She shot Jack a glare and stepped outside. Jack could see the shadow of Mr Harvard who he knew was down here pretending he'd have something to do with her brother's ankle surgery just to flirt.
He caught the end of her dismissing Mr Harvard's valiant attempt at being her knight in shining armor. Jack smiled to himself as he made his way back to the hub to catch up with her. He was explaining a procedure to Whitaker as he walked, "You're gonna have to start with your finger. And then slowly over a few minutes as the wetness gathers, go deeper. All the way to the back of the knuckle."
Whitaker nodded in understanding and was on his merry way. She turned right on Jack the second he was in her vicinity.
"What the hell is your problem?!"
"Problem?" Jack asked, genuinely perplexed.
Her voice pitched down, she whispered, "Why do you have to say everything so unnecessarily slutty? You wanna ask Whitaker out too!?"
Now that - Jack was not expecting. He quirked his eyebrow up in surprise. Also in confusion.
"Ask Whitaker out? What are you-"
He was cut off by a little girl screaming her name and running right into her arms, "Look! Look! Your work is on my new soccer jersey!"
The girl couldn't be older than five. Jack recognized the little girl as her niece from photos she had shown him. He noticed who must have been her sister in law a few feet away, talking to Robby presumably about discharge instructions for her brother as he awaited surgery that he would probably have next week once the swelling went down.
"What are you talking about? Lemme see that." She plucked the jersey from her niece and examined the PTMC logo on it.
Jack knew his cheeks were ruby red. He could see the gears in her head putting it all together as she stared at the small jersey with the ironed on PTMC ED patch. A couple weeks ago, she had told him offhandedly that her niece's soccer league was going to get cancelled since they had no sponsor. So Jack called up the park district and paid for it himself. Under the guise it was the PTMC ED. It was no big deal. If her niece was happy, she was happy.
She put her niece down next to her on the ground as her eyes looked up to Jack, softening, "We don't have the budget for this."
"I know. But I do."
She opened her mouth to say something but her niece cut her off, climbing into her dad's lap on his wheelchair as he, her sister in law, and Robby joined them at the hub, "Auntie, is this Dr Sexy?"
Jack's lips immediatley preened, quirking up into an amused smirk, Dr Ellis and Robby doubled over in laughter.
"No baby - this is Dr Abbot." She tried to recover, her eyes blown wide, mouth agape and her cheeks beet red. She couldn't even look at Jack.
"But you always call him Dr Sexy when you are talking to mommy. What does sexy mean?"
"OKAY-" she said loudly, still looking anywhere but at Jack. She turned her gaze on her brother as she clapped her hands together, "-it is time for you all to leave."
"Only if Dr Sexy walks us out." Her brother teased.
She groaned, putting her head in her hands as Jack wrapped an arm around her shoulder. She hid in the crook of his neck, "I am getting a new job."
"Oh no you're not."
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷
Jack met her at her car after he helped her family to theirs. “Dr Sexy, huh?”
“Shut up. I'm trying to be annoyed with you and you’re making it damn hard”
“Why are you annoyed with me?” Jack steadied himself with a wide stance, crossed his arms over his chest as she turned to look at him, leaning against her car door.
“Seriously?"
Jack just raised his eyebrows back at her in question.
She mirrored his stance, crossed arms over chest, "So you go on dates now?”
“What are you talking about? Is this about tonight? If you don't want to go anymore we don't have to-”
She imitated him and Dr Al-Hashimi from earlier, "Sorry to uh, interrupt. But my number, Dr Abbot. Like we discussed. For that date.” She emphasized the word.
Jack rubbed his hand over his face, stopping at his scruff and trying to mask the smirk that was threatening to take over his face, “Are you…jealous?”
She scoffed, trying to sound nonchalant but Jack knew her too well for that, “Me? Jealous? No, Jack I just think it’s wildly inappropriate. This is our workplace”
“Well that’s a damn shame because I didn’t ask Dr Al on a date. I’m setting her up on one. With my army buddy actually."
Her lips formed a barely there oh, "Well…now I just feel like a bitch."
Jack laughed and stepped closer, shaking his head in refute to her statement. He let his hands find purchase on her car, caging her in.
His voice came out far more groveled than expected, "But I’ve been wanting to ask you on a date for going on, oh I don’t know almost five years now, but if you thinks it’s so wildly inappropri-"
“I don’t!”
“You dont? But I thought-“
He earned himself an eyeroll and a stern, “Jack.”
“You just said-" He couldn't help the huge grin spreading across his face.
“I know what I said”
“So - let me get this straight - it’s only wildly inappropriate if it’s a date with anyone but you? Is that stated somewhere in the HR handbook or-”
"God, do you ever shutup?" And then her lips were on his.
His whole body felt like it was on fire. Her hands on each side of his face, his squeezing at her hips and pressing her up against the car. Just like that night at the gala. Except this time he actually got to kiss her. He was kissing her.
His head spun at the way her fingers circled around to the nape of his neck, tugging at his curls. He cradled her jaw in one strong hand and grabbed her waist with the other, hand pushing up the white tank she had on to make contact with her bare skin. They couldn't possible get any closer but it still didn't feel close enough.
Jack didn't want to ever stop the exploration of his hands along her body. He grabbed at the flesh on the outside of her upper thigh, hiking it up slightly around his hips. She ground herself down onto his bulge and the gasp she let out was heavenly. Jack took the chance to swipe his tongue into her mouth, as she ground down again, slower this time. Jack couldn't keep his moan from tumbling out.
He pulled back ever so slightly, their lips still practically touching as their chests heaved, "Baby, where are your keys?"
"My keys? That is what you care about right now?" She went to grind on him again but Jack's hands grabbed her hips, halting her.
"If you keep doing that I am going to come in my pants in the hospital parking garage and I would much rather come somewhere else in the comfort of my own home. I've been thinking about this for a long time. I want to take my time with you."
"How long?" She asked as she slipped her keys into Jack's front pocket.
"Inappropriatley long. Now get in the car so Dr Sexy can drive us home."
"I am never gonna live that down, am I?"
"Absolutely not."
"I hate you."
Jack grabbed her chin and peppered her face with kisses, ending with one on her lips as she giggled. Kissing her hard because he could do that now, "Somehow, I am not convinced."
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷
Jack's left hand flexed hard on her steering wheel. His right hand preoccupied with a steady grip on her upper thigh. Her left hand played with his curls as he drove.
"What are you thinking about?"
"How after the gala last year I went home and touched myself. Imagined my fingers were yours." Jack choked on nothing at her words.
"Jesus Christ - I am trying not to cause a mass casualty event, honey. Can you please just wait till we get home."
She groaned his name in frustration and squeezed his fingers between her thighs, trying to find friction anyway she could.
"You're that needy?"
"Yes, Jack."
"Show me then." His voice was gritty and low as he knocked her knees apart. He batted down the sun visor on her side, sliding the mirror cover up and aiming it perfectly to reflect her lap.
She whined at the loss of contact as both of his hands now gripped the steering wheel. Her eyes screwed shut and her chest lifted, breathing heavy. The way her hard nipples were peaking through her tank top was enough to make Jack scared he was going to crash the car.
"Show me how you touch yourself when you think about me. You think you can handle that for me, baby?"
His words seemed to hit her all at once. Demanding in the way it was when he was ordering people around the ED. The tone went straight to her core as she hiked her jean skirt up over her hips and slid her small lacy black thong down her legs. She stuffed it in one of the pockets of Jack's camo pants, lightly squeezing his bulge as she did. All Jack could murmur out was a hissed fuck as she angled her center to the mirror above her, giving him a perfect view of her absolutely soaked core.
"I asked you a question."
"Yes, yes I can handle it. I promise." She rushed her words out in one run on sentence, out of breath as her chest heaved.
"Good girl, baby. Show me how you touch yourself."
She nodded as she began to rub her clit, her voice shakey as she spoke, "I start like this and I think about everything you said to me that day. When you tell me good job after a prodecure or how you order everyone around or how-"
A tumbled moan falls from her lips, cutting herself off.
"Do you play with these pretty tits?" Jack reached over and gripped the nape of her neck, tugging at the string of her halter top and letting it fall. He pulled it down, her tits spilling out as he tweaked a nipple, kneading it after with his palm.
He thought she squeaked out a soft uh huh with a nod that trailed into a moan as her right hand slipped two fingers into her center. The sound was obscene as she pushed in and out, her head falling back and her chest pushing forward into Jack's hand.
"Jack!" She was getting louder now, the pace of her fingers moving quicker. The tone of her voice filled with unabashed need.
"What else, baby?"
All she could do was babble in response. Jack's hand fell from her nipples to her pussy, giving it a slap before grabbing her chin and forcing her to look at herself in the mirror, "Do you see how pretty your pussy is? What was that you said earlier? That I say everything so slutty? Look who's the slut now."
They both saw the way her pussy contracted around her two fingers at his words. The way her already dripping core somehow managed to get even more wet at the filth he was spilling.
"Oh you like when I am a little mean, don't you?"
She could barely nod, her chest hitting her chin as her breathing became more rapid the closer she inched towards her finish line.
"You wanna come for me?"
"Please." She panted. Jack smirked to himself as he grabbed her wrist, pulled her hand from her center before she could even think about finishing, and pressed her fingers into his mouth - licking them clean.
Her head lolled against the seat, she groaned his name. A mix of frustration and want as she dazedly stared at him.
"I've waited almost five years to taste you, honey. You can wait five more minutes till we are home, yeah?"
She huffed out an, "I hate you."
"Somehow, I am not convinced." He chuckled as he placed a soft kiss on the back of her hand.
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷
Jack held her hand gently as he tugged her into his house. She was practically bouncing on her heels behind him. "I'm gonna shower first and then-"
"Like hell you are." She snipped. Now she was pulling him. Through his foyer and straight to his couch where she perched herself on his lap, bracketing his hips with her thighs and grinding down on his bulge that was dying to spring out of his pants.
He pushed her skirt back up her hips and rubbed her upper thighs as she rocked her bare pussy down on him, her hands steadying herself on his neck as she leaned into press her mouth to his.
Jack's chest was heaving, "Baby, I'm all sweaty and gross from TEMS."
"I couldn't care less, Jack. You might be patient enough to wait five years but I sure as hell am not. Please touch me."
"Like this?" His fingers rubbed her clit, her head falling back in relief at him finally touching her where she needed him most.
"God, you were dripping all over your car and now you're soaking my couch? Who's got you so worked up?" She gasped as Jack entered two thick fingers in her, kissing up her neck as he did. Nipping at her jaw line as he pulled her tank top down so he could swirl his mouth around one of her sensitive nipples.
She pulled his shirt off over his head, flashing him a mischevious smirk before, "Dr Harvard from cardiac surgery."
Jack's fingers stopped immediatley. She whined and writhed in his lap at the loss of contact. Jack wrapped his other hand around her neck, squeezing slightly, "I thought you were gonna be good for me?"
"I will, I will. I am." She begged. Jack didn't know what he did in a past life to get her begging like this this in his lap but he was not going to look a gift horse in the mouth.
"Atta girl." He cooed, adding a third finger and plunging back into her tight core, "I am gonna ask you again - what's got you so worked up?"
"You, Jack! Your voice and your arms and your curls and these stupid fucking pants."
"Oh my girl likes my uniform, yeah? Is that what had you so bratty today? Want me to fuck you in it?"
"Please." she huffed. Sweat beading at the top of her forehead as she began to rock her hips, riding his fingers.
"Come for me first."
"Yeah, thats it." Jack hissed, trying hard not to imagine what it would feel like to have his cock where his fingers were. That would surely lead to an early curtain call, "That's it. My good girl."
"Fuck, Jack" She let out a shakey laugh as she came down from her orgasm, riding it out on Jack's fingers as she threaded her fingers in his hair.
"The uniform really does it for you, huh?"
She kissed him hard, "You do it for me. The uniform is just a bonus."
Jack readjusted her in his lap, pushing her legs open further over the expanse of his thick thighs. She whined at the stretch, "Come here, baby. you're doing so good for me. Wanna take my time with you."
"You can take your time with me later. I need you to fuck me now."
"Yeah? That needy, huh?"
"Yes, Jack please." She murmured as she undid the belt on his camo pants.
"You're the boss." Jack winked. He may have been her boss at work. She may have liked him bossing her around in bed. But she was the boss in every other sense of the word.
"Funny."
"Glad you think so." Jack hissed as she wrapped her hand around his hard length, preening with pre cum at the tip. She pushed his pants and his boxers down in one go, his erection immediatley slapping up against his stomach.
Jack's head fell back onto the couch as he let out a moan, her fingers rubbing the precum from his tip down his shaft and back up again. She spit into her hand and repeated the same movement. Jack thought he might come right then and there.
"Wanna ride you, please. I'm clean and on birth control. Need to feel you."
Jack couldn’t even get words out. He was too busy trying not to come from a handjob like a horned up teenager, "Same. Mm clean, too" He managed to get out, eyes fluttering shut as another wave of pleasure wracked his body, "Fuck, baby."
She sunk down on him in an instant, relishing the stretch and sending them both into a fit of whimpered moans. Jack used one hand on her hip to guide her motions, the other rubbing up and down her back, eventually landing in her hair as he tugged her forward into a blistering kiss. Now that he knew what her lips felt like he was never gonna go long without kissing them.
"Fuck!" She rocked down hard on him again, "You feel fucking phenomenal. So tight, So. Perfect." He emphasized his praise with kisses, "Taking me so well. Like you were fucking made for me."
He took the hand from her hair and placed it on her clit, rubbing it as she started to rock quicker. He could tell she was close again. He was in danger of spilling over at any second, "You have no business being this good at this. Fuck, I'm not gonna last long baby. Fuck, look at you." Jack brought the hand from her hip up to her mouth, pushing his thumb into her mouth, moaning as she immediatley began to suck on it.
"All these years. Had a feeling you'd get off on praise. Knew you'd wanna be so good for me. Knew you'd be such a good slut just for me, yeah?"
"Yeah, please. Just for you, I promise." Jack didn't know how he had managed to keep himself from finishing with the way she was riding him. She steadied herself on his shoulders, brought herself all the way up and then slowly rocked herself back down, taking all of him and making sure he felt every fucking inch of her velvety walls.
"If you keep doing that I am not gonna last long." He managed to grunt out.
"Then don't. Come in me, please. Want you to fill me up."
Those words alone did it for Jack as he spilled his warm release into her, continuing to rub her clit. "Give me another one baby. I know you can do it. You can do anything. You're fucking brilliant. Your brilliant fucking brain. C'mon, I feel you clenching. Let go. Come on my cock, please."
She tugged hard on his hair, mixing her own release with his as she came. Panting into Jack's mouth as he whispered, "Good girl."
Jack cradled her cheek as she rode out her orgasm on his cock, whispering praise as she did. He swiped two fingers through the mix of their arousals and brought them to her mouth.
Jacks eyes watched, mesmerized, blown out with arousal as she sucked on his fingers, released them with a pop and then, "The second I saw you in that unfirom I wanted to drop to my knees in the middle of the hub and suck the soul out of you."
She wrapped her arms around his neck, laying her bare chest over his and nuzzling into his neck, peppering kisses there as he scratched her back. His laugh vibrated through her, "Jesus Christ - you can't say shit like that when I'm still inside of you."
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷
He eventually gently cleaned her up. Once she agreed to finally get off of him. He had to bribe her with kisses. He didn't mind one bit. He dragged her to the shower which lead to him having to clean her up again. Again, he didn't mind one bit.
He was at the stove now. Donning only a pair of gray sweatpants as he cooked dinner and watched her pad around his kitchen in only his tshirt and some basketball shorts with probably the dopiest smile of all time on his face.
She wrapped her arms around his waist, tucking herself into his side. He used his free hand to wrap his arm around her shoulders and tugged her closer, pressing kisses into her hair. She behaved for a moment until he felt a pair of soft lips pressing kisses across the side of his chest that was accessible to her.
He turned the burner down, dropped the spoon he had been using to stir the pasta on the counter and then grabbed her hips, trapping her against his kitchen island, "You're going to make me burn dinner."
She put her finger to her lips, pretended to think about what he had to say and then with a quick kiss to his lips she muttered against them, "Mmmm, don't care!"
He dug into his pocket, unlocked his phone and put it in her hands, "Put on music. It is already hooked up to the speaker system,"
He picked her up by her hips, causing the cutest squeal he had ever heard, and plopped her down onto his counter. He rubbed a gentle thumb against her cheek, the other against her hip as he stood between her legs, "You need to eat, baby."
She grumbled a fine. She knew when it came to taking care of her - Jack would not budge. She scrolled through his Spotify - she wanted to find something both of them would like but first she was gonna stalk what he already listened to. Of course her curiosity was gonna get the better of her.
A quiet gasp fell from her lips - causing Jack to look over from his spot in front of the stove, "What?"
She turned his phone screen to him, already spotting the flush creeping up on his chest. He recognized the playlist almost immediatley. Made up of all the songs she had played while he drove her home these past couple years - simply titled with her name. There was hundreds of songs on there.
"Did you make this? Do you listen to it?"
Jack figured now was as good a time as ever to lay out all his cards onto the table. Even if he was so embarrassed he couldn't even look up from the dinner he was cooking. He spoke fast, "Would you be entirely creeped out if I told you I replaced the police scanner with it?"
"Would you be entirely creeped out if I told you I am so beyond in love with you?"
Jack's head snapped up from the dinner. He'd never moved so quickly in his life. He was back to standing in between her legs, holding her face - just staring at her with a huge smile. The same expression was being mirrored back to him. It made his heart soar.
"You do? I mean, you are?"
She laughed, "Where have you been the past couple years?”
"Waiting for you to realize that I've been hopelessly in love with you."
"Are we the dumbest smart people alive?"
"Potentially. But doesn't matter. Nothing matters. Only you. Only us." He kissed her now. Slotted his lips over hers like the perfect final piece of a puzzle. His stomach fluttered at the sensation of her fingers finding their home in his curls. He couldn't believe that this was real. That she loved him. He already knew how much he loved her was very, very real.
"God, I love you." Kiss, "So much." Another kiss.
"Say it again." Jack whispered against her lips, smiling like a little kid.
"I love you, Jack."
He pulled back just a bit. Just enough to murmur how much he loved her and get a good look at her face, "Remember when you were so jealous earlier?" He teased.
"I was not-" She began to deny it but Jack leveled a look at her, "I hate you!" she giggled, swatting at his shoulder that was not bandaged up.
"Somehow, I am not convinced." He preened.
"Mmmm, good." She was kissing him again. He could do this forever. He will do this forever - if he has anything to say about it.
The ding of her phone was what made him pull away. But not by much. They both looked at the cause of the disruption, Jack planting kisses up and down her neck, jaw, and chest as she unlocked her phone.
From Robby: Doing scheduling. Can you pick up a shift next Tuesday night please? Shen needs off. You'll get to see your doctor sexy🤪
They both let out a cackle. Jack took her phone and took a selfie with his middle finger up. He sent it to Robby along with a message that read, 'Stop texting my girlfriend.'
"Girlfriend, huh?"
Jack rubbed up and down her thighs as he spoke, "Figured you might think I was insane if I said wife after just one day but trust me that is part of the plan."
"What else is in the plan?”
“Maybe a kid or two? Or four? Really as many or as little as you’ll give me. I’m just happy to be here.”
She chuckled, kissed him while lovingly stroking his face, “I like that plan.”
“Yeah?” He asked, brimming with hope.
She nodded as her phone went off again, a message from Robby flashing across the screen. Jack kissed each of her cheeks, her forehead, and then her lips before reading it out loud - sending them both into a fit of giggles.
Summary: When you find yourself in an abusive relationship, you never thought your attending Jack Abbot would become your protector and saving grace.
TW: talk of domestic violence , age gap relationship (reader is in late 20s & Jack is 49), flashback, ptsd, domestic violence, firearms, injuries, anxiety attack, medical inaccuracies, seizures. Not proofread.
Word Count: 4.9k
Authors Note: Sorry again for the lapse in writing. My family dealt with a lot of illness and I had a miscarriage. I took a step back a bit, and kinda lost all motivation to write. It’s been a really wild ride. Thanks for being patient with me.
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The sound woke you first— the kind of moment when you jolt awake, unsure why your heart is beating so rapidly. Was it thunder? A car horn? A dream? Whatever it was, the sound echoed slightly in your ears.
Your body was still momentarily as your eyes adjusted to the darkness of the room. The flashing of lights behind the curtain coming too frequently to be lightning. Poking your fingers between the slats, the bright sparks from the transformer across the street made you shield your eyes. Damn thing must have blown.
As you made your way back towards the bed, you heard it. Something muffled coming down the hallway, indistinct whispers— Jack no doubt. You called out to him, expecting to see the hall light flick on, for his voice to travel down to the bedroom, but you were met with silence. The whispers and chatter stopping almost immediately.
The hallway was long, photos and certificates plastering the walls.
“Jack?” You called out once more. The air felt tense, like you weren’t sure what was going to be around the corner. Like you were being watched. The hair on the back of your neck stood erect as you took another step forward, bare feet sticky against the floor, your pulse loud in your ears.
The force came from behind— something grabbing you from the darkness. Your body wrenched backwards, slamming into something sturdy before you were crushed by the weight of an arm across your throat. You barely had time to gasp before cold metal bit into the soft skin beneath your jaw.
A gun.
How had he found you? How had he escaped prison? How was Charlie here?
“Don’t,” he snarled, breath hot and uneven against your ear. “Don’t move. I swear to God—”
You froze.
This was worse.
This wasn’t Charlie.
This was Jack.
“J—Jack?” The pressure of his arm only tightened, cutting into your neck, you felt your vision blur, even in the darkness of the long hallway. He pressed the barrel harder, stealing your breath. “Please, stop!”
“Shut up.” He gritted through his teeth. You could feel his hands shaking violently. You whimpered, your vision tunneling as his grip only got harder. He was off balance, leaning against the wall; must’ve put his prosthetic on in a hurry you thought to yourself.
Your stomach dropped at his tone.
“Jack,” you said, barely above a whisper, his name trembling off your tongue—pleading. “You’re hurting me.”
The gun stayed exactly where it was. Ripping into your flesh. His chest heaved against your back. You could feel the tension in him, like he was about to explode.
The frames lining the hallway clattered as he threw you up against the wall, your shoulder hitting with a loud crack. The pain was sharp, radiating down your arm as he pressed his weight against yours, you tried your best not to scream. Your palms were sprawled out against the drywall, trying to hold onto something— anything.
“Spread your legs.” He ordered as the gun was back against your neck. All you could do was obey. You knew what happened when you didn’t. Your legs shook as they parted, his knee shoved between them “Wider!”
“Jack! Please” You cried again as he began to search you. “I’m not armed, Jack! This isn’t Iraq. You’re home!” But his hands still traveled. Up your sides, under your breasts, between your legs, searching for what wasn’t there. A gun. A knife. A suicide vest. A wire. You couldn’t breath as he violated you, his hands that were once gentle now depraved.
You weren’t sure how long you could keep standing. Your legs shook violently now, muscles screaming, vision blurring at the edges. Your throat burned where the gun rested. You wondered, for a moment, if it would hurt. If you’d even feel it. If you’d hear it.
“Please,” you sobbed once more. “I don’t have anything. I swear.”
Your knees buckled.
He caught you, hauling you upright. The sudden movement sent a spike of pain through your shoulder again. God please don't let it be broken.
“Stand the fuck up,” he ordered. “Stay up.”
“I’m gonna fall, Jack!”
He gripped you tighter. You could feel the grinding of your shoulder as he forced you to stand.
Light. You needed light. He needed to see. See your face. See the terror he was causing. Bring him back to his familiar. Your hand reached into the darkness, franticly searching for the light switch only by memory, but when you flipped it on, nothing. The blown transformer knocked out the power.
The click of the switch sent Jack into overdrive.
When you heard him scream and the click of his gun, that’s when you bolted. It was instinct, pure and frantic. Life or death. Your body taking over for you before any thought could register. You weren’t sure how you broke free. How you found strength. How you caught him off guard. Your feet slipped on the hardwood as you twist out of his grasp, losing your footing momentarily as you began your race down the hallway; grabbing the wall for leverage as your entire world tilted.
“Stop!” He roared behind you. “Stop or I’ll shoot!”
Jack’s weight crashed into you from behind like a freight train. The impact throwing you forward, punching all the air from your lungs. The gun slipped from his grasp, hitting the floor before you did. He’s on top of you in a flash, knees pinning your thighs in place. One arm presses across your chest in an attempt to subdue you, the other scrambling toward the gun.
You try and kick beneath his crushing weight. You try and call him back to you.
“No—Jack, don’t!” you scream, trying to push, to twist, anything to stop his crushing weight, but it was overwhelming. Every time you move, his body pressed heavier.
The barrel rose. Cold metal pressed against your forehead. You pleaded, nearly vomiting from fear and adrenaline. You’re going to die. The man who saved you from your worst nightmare now holds your entire life in his hands, and he’s about to take it.
It’s dark but you can see his eyes. The depravity. His pupils pinpoint. His jaw is tight, drool dripping down onto your face as he barks orders you can no longer hear or understand.
Then, the hallway is flooded with light. You hear the air conditioner click back on. The refrigerator start to hum.
For a split second, nothing changes. His weight is still crushing you into the floor. The gun is still there, pressed hard enough that you can feel the imprint left on your skin. His breathing is wild, broken, spitting out words you just can’t make sense of. Mumbling, spitting, and screaming.
You stared up at him, tears streaking sideways into your hair, your chest heaving as you fought for breath.
Then his eyes focus.
He’s no longer scanning you. Not assessing you. Not interrogating you.
His pupils are blown wide now. No longer the size of a pencil point, his breathing shudders in his chest.
“No—“ The sound tears out of him, raw.
The gun drops.
Clattering against the hardwood, skidding away as his hand jerks like he’s been burned.
He stares down at you.
Really looks.
Your face. Your tears. Your hands shaking violently, still trapped beneath his weight.
The familiar hallway. The light. The house.
Home.
You.
“No,” he whispers. “No, no, no—”
He scrambles backward off you so fast he nearly falls, landing hard on his hip, hands flying up in surrender. Tears are falling freely from his eyes as he stares at you in disbelief. You can’t stop shaking. Can’t stop gasping. Your shoulder burns. Your throat throbs. Your ears ring.
His face drains of color more and more at each passing second. He calls your name; crawls toward you once—and then freezes, terror flashing across his face as if he’s afraid to touch you again. He looks down at his hands that are shaking harder than ever before.
Then at the gun on the floor.
His hands come up to his head, fingers digging into his curls as he rocks slightly where he sits, breathing fast, too fast.
“I almost—” He chokes on the words. He just sits there on the floor, staring at you like he’s already lost you. He moves again, to your crumpled figure on the floor, where you’re shaking, sobbing, retching. “Oh fuck.”
You feel him, his presence, as he crawls closer to you. You don’t know how you find the strength, between your shaking legs, the ache in your shoulder, the fact you can’t breathe. You scramble backward on hands and heels, the floor slick beneath your palms.
“Don’t—don’t come closer. Please” you beg, the terror in your voice breaks him.
The gun lies on the floor, abandoned between you both. You push yourself upright, legs trembling so badly you almost collapse again.
Then you run.
The hallway feels too long, every step feeling like the bedroom door is floating further and further away from you. Your bare feet slap against the hardwood, your shoulder screaming with every movement, your vision tunneling as you fight not to black out.
“Please,” Jack calls after you, broken. “Please, just—”
You don’t stop.
You don’t look back.
You can’t.
You reach the bedroom and slam the door shut with everything you have. The sound cracks through the house like a gunshot, so much so that you jump. Your hands travel to your stomach, your chesting, waiting to feel the heat of the bullet, the warmth of the blood. But it doesn’t come.
You drag the dresser across the floor next, shoulder screaming as you push your body against the solid wood. You push the nightstand. Then a chair. Barricading yourself inside. Away from him. Not Charlie. Jack. You’ve thought of all the times you slept barricaded in the bathroom. Charlie hurling words and fists against the door. The feeling of his hands still around your throat as his fingerprints began to develop on your skin as if it were a Polaroid. But this wasn’t Charlie you were hiding from now. It was the man that spent that last year proving he could be trusted.
It all shattered in an instant.
You grab a scarf, tying a knot with your teeth to make a sling for your arm that now feels like dead weight. You curl onto your side, staring at the door like it might explode inward at any second. Your shoulder throbs. Your throat aches. Your body shakes so hard your teeth chatter.
“I know you’re scared,” he says, voice breaking the silence. “You should be. I’m sorry. Fuck— I’m so sorry.”
You try to cover your ears. Biting into a pillow to stifle your sobs and ragged breathing. You shut your eyes tight, trying to shut the world out. Shut him out. Go anywhere but here. You’re good at that, alway had been, you learned real fast it was the only thing that could save you. But you couldn’t leave, you’re still in Jack’s bedroom. He’s still on the other side of that door.
Time passes, although not sure how long. The old alarm clock blinking 01:45, the constant reminder of when the transformer knocked out the power and the world went dark. When your own life seemed to implode.
The sounds are muffled. It’s not one voice, it’s two. Every muscle in your body locked as you strained to listen. You heard the footsteps next. Heavy boots against the hardwood floor.
“I swear to you, Robby, I didn’t—” Jack cuts in.
“It’s okay,” a voice you recognize—calm, even, the same tone he uses in trauma bays. “You did the right thing by calling. I’ve got her. You stay where you are.”
Robby.
You sat up in an instant, clutching your arm as the soft knock scraped against the door.
“Hey,” he says gently. “It’s Robby.”
You felt your heartbeat slow for the first time in what felt like hours. But you still dare not make a sound. The silence stretched between you and the door.
“Jack’s in the living room. He’s sitting down. He’s not coming near you.” He spoke softer than you’d ever heard before. “I’m here to take you with me, are you hurt?”
A whimper escapes as you nod to yourself.
“Okay,” he murmurs. “I hear you. I’m here.”
You slide the chair away first. Then the nightstand. You try the dresser but it doesn’t budge. All your adrenaline now gone. You have no strength left. All the pain flooding deep to your bones. You brace your good shoulder against the wood and push again to no avail. Pain detonates through you so violently you’re knocked backwards, collapsing to your knees.
“I— I can’t. My sh—shoulder.” You clutch your arm as a wave of nausea rips through you.
“Gonna need you to unlock the door then,” Robby calls out “I’ll have to push the door open, can you do that for me?”
You don’t answer. Just turn the lock with a click and step back. The door opens just a hair, enough for the light from the hallway to cast a thin reflection against the carpet. You hear Robby grunt as he pushes his body against the door. Panic spiking in your chest as your barricade suddenly feels like a cage.
There’s another shove from the other side.
“Stand back for me, okay?” He instructs, as if you aren’t already pressed against the furthest wall.
He shoves again. Harder. The dresser catching on an uneven lip in the floor. A floorboard that had come loose ages ago, the one Jack meant to fix but never got around to.
One final shove, the dresser tips with a crash. The sudden noise makes you gasp, hands flying up instinctively to protect your head.
Robby steps in fast, shutting the door behind him with a soft click. He’s next to you in an instant, trying to help you up to your feet. You collapse into him without thinking, he catches you without even hesitating.
“I’ve got you,” You cling to his jacket, face buried into his shoulder, tears soaking his shirt. “Gonna check you out, it’s your shoulder?”
You nod, vision blurred by your tears as he assesses your injuries. He begins his interrogation:
How’d this happen?
Did you hit your head?
Can you move your fingers?
Any tingling or numbness?
“Looks like your shoulder is dislocated. Not gonna set it here without surgery on deck or pain meds.” He slowly helps you to your feet, letting you use his body as a crutch as you make your way back down the hallway. You freeze as your feet hit a loose floorboard with a loud creak, the one that woke you every morning when Jack brought you tea.
Robby anchored himself tighter to you a little tighter as you make your way to the front door. You catch a glimpse of Jack— sitting on the floor with his knees pulled tight to his chest, and his head buried in his hands. He looks so small, so destroyed, and your teeth begin to chatter at the sight of him.
Jack doesn’t look up.
Robby angles your body slightly towards the door, shielding you without making a show of it. But you noticed. The air is cold when you step onto the porch, the breeze extra icy on your tear stricken cheeks. Robby takes off his jacket and drapes it over your shoulders as he leads you to his car. It’s eerily quiet, no crickets, no vibration of nature. He buckles you in as you cradle your arm against your chest, breathing through the pain at even the slightest movements. You can’t stop crying no matter how hard you try, feeling exactly how you felt with Charlie. The nights you went across town to different EDs to seek care from someone other than your colleagues.
“Likely anterior shoulder dislocation.” Robby immediately switching into Doctor mode as he wheels you in the Pitt. “Guarding, visible deformity. Mechanism was blunt force from attack. No head strike. Pulse tachy at 125. We need x-ray. Consult Walsh for possible surgery and get me .5 mg of Propofol.”
“Attack?” Ellis helps you into Trauma 1, “What happened? Where’s Jack? Need me to call him?”
“Don’t,” he says sharply, not at you— at Ellis. His tone is sharp, your body catching a chill as Ellis looks between the two of you. “She doesn’t want him called. Mechanism was assault. That’s all you need right now.”
You start crying harder, if that was even possible. Robby’s hand coming down on your head, assuring you. Ellis’ expression shifts, the curiosity drains immediately, and understanding settles in.
“Oh.” she whispers in horror.
Your heart is still racing — 125 on the monitor, climbing when someone adjusts the bed and your shoulder spasms. White-hot pain. You gasp. Sweat that was collecting on your brow now falling down your face. Everything felt wet, despite the dry air of the hospital.
“Okay,” Robby says calmly, slipping fully into command mode. “We’re reducing now. Get the propofol on board.”
Nurses move around you like an oiled machine, one adjusting the leads on your chest, one whispering assuring in your ear, the other prepping your IV.
“You’re gonna start to feel warm and sleepy.” Robby explains as the medicine hits your bloodstream, as if you didn’t already know— but it was force of habit. “I’ll be right here.”
Suddenly your chest feels hot, the hard lights above you beginning to dim as you fight to keep your eyes open. You feel his hands on you, the pain still sharp but fleeting by the second. Your eyes squeeze shut as he positions his hand against your shoulder.
“One…two…” the pulling is excruciating despite the mild sedation, you try to scream but your throat is dry and scratchy. You try to kick but your legs are dead weight. You try to pull away but Robby’s hands are firm. You hear it, the nauseating pop, pain exploding through your entire body before vanishing into a dull consistent ache.
“There is it,” Ellis praises, “nice job, Cap.”
When you blinked back to reality, your arm was strapped tight against your chest, nestled in a sling. You had been moved to a private room now, not remembering much of anything. Your mouth feeling like it’s full of cotton, your tongue sticking to the roof of your mouth. Robby sitting in the corner, his glasses perched on the tip of his nose and he types furiously on his phone.
“Hey,” he whispers as his head jerks up from your slight movement. “Everything went great. X-ray shows no fractures. Waiting for Ortho to follow up before we discharge you. You’re gonna need to set up some PT.”
More therapy. More exercises. More appointments.
“I can’t do more appointments,” you murmur, eyes still closed. “PT. Follow-ups. I just— I can’t.”
You don’t mean physically.
You mean emotionally.
You look at the ceiling, trying to count the tiles before shutting your eyes as you still struggle to adjust to the harsh lights.
“Do you…” Robby treads lightly, “do you want us to notify the police or press charges?”
“No,” you whisper. “He didn’t mean to.”
Charlie didn’t “mean to” either — at least that’s what you told yourself as you spent mornings cleaning up shattered beer bottles and covering your bruises and his finger prints with concealer. So making the same excuse for Jack made your skin crawl and the bile rise in your throat. Robby sat up straighter as your heart rate began to tick up on the monitor.
“I know.” Robby put his hand on your knee. “But that doesn’t change what happened.”
You remember the moment the power came back. The flicker of recognition in Jack's eyes. The horror. The way the gun fell from his hand like it burned him. The way he looked at you like he’d just realized he’d lost something sacred.
“I love him.” It’s the first time the words have ever existed outside your chest. You never said it because you were afraid saying it would make it real. Permanent. As the words fell from your lips, your stomach twisted.
You loved the man who tied your shoes when your hands weren’t synching with your brain. You loved the man who traced your scars, memorizing them as if they were a painting. You loved the man who treated even the smallest of your accomplishments in your recovery like you had just climbed Mt Everest. You loved Jack Abbot with all your heart— and he almost killed you.
“I know.” Robby said once again.
“I saw his face,” you whimper, tears slowly trickling down your cheeks. “When he came back. He was so scared. Robby, he was destroyed.”
“He should be,” Robby says quietly. “He’s stopped going to therapy. Just been white knuckling it for the past few months.”
You know. You’ve known. Jack spending so much time focusing on your recovery that he neglected himself. This was all your fault. You caused Jack to slip. Maybe you brought everything upon yourself. Maybe you attracted these men who put their hands on you.
“I can’t go back there,” you admit. For your sake. For Jack’s.
“You’re allowed to love him and still draw a line.” Robby pulled the chair up next to your bed. His phone buzzing, Jack's name lighting up in bright bold letters across the screen. Your whole body goes rigid, your breath coming to a halt. “Probably wants an update on how you’re doing. Can I answer?”
You wanted to say no. Wanted to smash his phone against the linoleum, the only thing stopping you was the fear of moving your arm. But you wanted to hear the comforting crackle and raps of his voice. You wanted the familiar.
You nodded once.
“Hey, she’s okay.” Robby stood, rubbing his hand on the back of his neck. “Won’t need surgery, just some PT for a while.”
“How is she Robby?” You could hear Jack muggle through the phone.
“I just sai—“
“I mean how is she? How is she— fuck is she okay?”
Robby looked at you, small and helpless in the hospital bed, arm draped across your chest in a sling. The shallow breathing, the rise in your heart rate— 110, 120, 130. Robby watched as you fought to stay in control despite the defeat in your eyes. You fought. Always fought.
There was a hesitation in Robby’s voice, Jack speaking up again, more frantic.
“Are you with her? Tell me if she’s okay, Robby.”
“Yeah I am. She’s— she’s shaken, Jack.”
You pictured him in the same spot you last saw him, a crumpled mess on the floor, head buried into his hands.
“Christ, what do I even do, man? How do I fix this?”
“I don’t know if you can.” The words hit Jack with more force than the IED that took his leg. The thought of never seeing you again. Never holding you in his arms. Never listening to your laugh, or how you stutter when you get excited. Never again able to trace your scars as you rested your head in his lap when you had a migraine.
“I would never— fuck, I would never hurt her.” Jack's voice cracked.
“I know man, but you did.” Robby said matter of factly. No cruelty behind it, just the truth.
“You should have seen her face, Robby. When— God I almost.” Something in Jack broke, you hearing the sob through the phone. The monitor ticked up again, you could hear your pulse in your ears. “I’ll turn myself in, if that’s what she needs. If she wants to press charges, I won’t fight it.”
This isn’t Charlie.
Charlie would’ve blamed you.
Charlie would’ve said you provoked him.
Charlie would’ve told you to stop being dramatic.
Charlie would have pulled the trigger.
But Jack? Jack sounds like a man ready to dismantle his entire life if that’s what it takes to undo what he did.
“You don’t need to be a martyr, brother. You need treatment.”
“I already made some calls, told psych I’d agree to admission if they recommend it.”
“That’s the only way you even have a shot at fixing this.”
“I don’t want to fix it, I want to be safe for her.”
Your heart stutters.
Safe.
Not forgiven.
Not absolved.
But safe.
Robby looks at you again.
Your breathing is uneven, but you’re listening. Every word etched across your face, your eyes unable to hide the pain.
“Do you want to talk to him?” Robby asks gently, covering the receiver.
You nod.
Just once.
God, what were you doing?
Robby helps you to sit up, cradling your back not to disturb the ache in your shoulder. Your good hand trembles as you bring the phone to your ear. It’s quiet on the other end, the only thing you hear is the muffled echo of your breathing. You can’t speak. Your brain won’t let you.
“Hey.” His voice is soft, not the commanding and confident Jack Abbot you were used to. Certainly nothing like the man who towered over you hours ago. “You don’t have to say anything. I just— I just needed you to hear me say I’m sorry.”
“I know you are,” you whisper through an exhale; feeling like it was the first breath you’ve taken since Robby answered the phone.
“Are you in pain?”
“Yes.” The sound of your voice breaks him just as much as your honesty does. Hearing it from you, not Robby, about how badly you’re feeling; all done by his own hands.
“Listen, I already told Robby but I’ll do whatever you need. If you need space. If that’s never seeing me again. If that’s—”
“I love you,” you interrupt.
Jack goes quiet.
“I don’t deserve that right now,” he says after a beat. The words don’t come with self-pity, but with shame. And that shame was palpable, even through the phone.
“I know you don’t.”
“I keep replaying it, the look on your face.”
“I can see yours too,” something in your voice breaks as you try to bury a sob. “Your eyes Jack… You weren’t there, and then it was like a flip switched and suddenly you were. You looked at me like you had just watched the world end.”
“Because it felt like I had.”
The monitor began to blink and beep loudly next to you, your heartbeat so high it set off the alarms. Robby silenced it, watching you to see if he needed to jump in. He placed his hand on your thigh to settle your legs that you didn’t even realize were trembling.
“Breathe,” Robby mouths to you.
On the other end of the line, Jack hears the alarm.
“What was that? Are you okay? What’s happening?”
“I’m fine, it’s just the monitor.” Although you feel anything but. Your chest feeling as if it’s about to cave in at any moment. Unsure if you can trust yourself enough to move your shoulder. Your body and mind paralyzed.
“Your heart’s racing,” he says. Not a question.
“I’m scared, Jack.”
“You should be baby, I’ve given you every reason to be.”
You bite your cheek so hard you taste copper. You didn’t know what else to say, the silence between you two entirely too loud.
“I stopped doing the work. I skipped sessions. I told myself I was fine because I wasn’t waking up screaming anymore. I ignored the fact I was becoming more jumpy; more irritated; that I found myself dissociating at night with you laying next to me. I told myself I was okay. That’s on me. Not you.”
Your eyes sting. You hate how gentle he’s being. You hate that it makes you love him more. He’s making it almost as hard as Charlie ever did.
“I’m going back, full trauma program. Twice a week minimum, EMDR, inpatient if they suggest it. Med eval tomorrow. I already called.”
“I don’t know if I can ever trust you again.”
“I’m not asking you to trust me tomorrow, or the next day, or the day after that. I’m asking for the chance to earn it over time. Just a chance.”
“I don’t know, Jack.”
Jack shuts his eyes, feeling you slip further and further from his grasp. The vision of your terror burned into his memory. Just a chance.
But you spent your life giving chances where they didn’t belong, to people who didn’t deserve them. One too many chances landed you in hospital bed after hospital bed. In appointment after appointment. With heartbreak after heartbreak. Without a home or a place to call your own. Without a job. Without security.
You tried to blink away the flashing lights, shake away the tingling in your feet only for your legs to become stiff. Robby watched as your demeanor changed, the way your jaw started to lock, your eyes beginning to flutter. You dropped the phone as your head jerked back.
“Shit…” Jack heard Robby curse to himself, “I need some help in here! Seizure!”
All Jack could do was listen to the chaos on the other end.
“On her side!”
“1 mg of Ativan, IV push!”
“Someone keep time, watch the clock.”
He heard Robby barking orders, nurses and doctors. He heard you choking and gasping for breath, the shaking of the bed, and the monitor beeping rapidly as your heart rate and blood pressure rose rapidly.
Synopsis: Reader gets assaulted by an aggressive patient.
Warnings: Assault. age gap, reader is mid to late 20s, readers nickname is Starling girl, sunshine reader, shy reader, anxious reader, no use of y/n, slightly ooc character (readers family is mentioned), reader is imagined to be plus sized but not mentioned, eventual smut, smut, 18+, MDNI, angst, fighting, slow burn, co-workers to enemies, enemies to lovers, blood, gore, medical inaccuracies, pittfest, panic attacks, mentions of suicide, PTSD, grief, widower jack, mentions of past military trauma, robby x reader platonic, violence against medical staff, reader is described to be shorter than Jack, reader has hair past shoulders.
Masterlist
Her first night back on night shift felt strange in a way she had not quite expected. The Pitt looked exactly the same as it always did at the start of the night, loud and alive with the controlled chaos that never really stopped inside the emergency department. Monitors chimed from half a dozen rooms, stretchers rolled through the ambulance bay doors, and the waiting room board kept updating faster than anyone could clear it. Normally that rhythm settled her. The constant movement gave her something to focus on, something that kept her brain busy enough that she did not have to sit still with whatever she was feeling.
Tonight she leaned into it deliberately. The thought of having to see Jack filled her with dread. She was humiliated. She talked with everyone. Lena was complaining about the vending machine again near the medication room, and she laughed when he kicked the side of it in frustration. Kelly was restocking gauze in one of the trauma carts and she helped without being asked, handing her fresh packs while Bridget teased them both about reorganizing the same drawer three times. Shen wandered through with a cup of coffee and started telling a story about a resident who had once tried to place a central line backwards during his intern year, and she laughed openly along with the group clustered near the nurses' station.
From the outside, nothing about her looked different. She was smiling. Talking. Moving easily through the department the way she always had. But the moment Jack Abbot stepped anywhere near her, the change was immediate. It happened the first time about thirty minutes into the shift. She had been leaning against the counter while Shen finished the story, her head tipped back slightly as she laughed at the punchline. Jack stepped up to the board behind them to review the incoming patients and the sound cut off in her throat mid breath. She didn't even look at him. Instead she turned toward the computer beside her like she had suddenly remembered something urgent in a chart and began typing with quiet focus.
Shen noticed it immediately. So did Kelly. Neither of them said anything. Jack noticed too. He said nothing while he reviewed the board, but the silence behind him sat heavy in the air. A moment earlier she had been talking animatedly with the group, smiling and leaning casually against the counter. Now she stood with her shoulders squared toward the workstation, her voice completely gone from the conversation. When Jack finished scanning the board and walked down the hall toward triage, the conversation slowly picked up again behind him.
The second time happened during a trauma intake not long after. An ambulance had brought in a middle aged man who had laid down his motorcycle on the highway, and the room filled quickly with the practiced rhythm of a trauma team falling into place. She moved the way she always did during cases like this, focused and efficient, grabbing the pressure bag before anyone had to ask and handing Shen a saline flush when he reached for one. She called out vitals from the monitor while Kelly wheeled the ultrasound machine into position, and she adjusted the suction line at the head of the bed while Shen assessed the airway.
"BP's holding," she said, glancing at the monitor. "One ten over seventy."
"Good," Shen replied. "Let's keep fluids going."
She nodded and reached for the IV tubing. Then Jack stepped into the trauma bay. The shift was almost imperceptible. She didn't stop working. She simply moved to the opposite side of the stretcher and continued assisting from there without addressing him directly. When he asked for gauze she placed it on the tray beside the patient instead of handing it to him. When he requested suction she adjusted the tubing without looking up. Jack noticed the difference immediately.
He said nothing. After the patient stabilized and the room cleared, the distance remained. Later in the shift she sat near the medication room with Kelly and Bridget while they reset the crash cart drawers. Lena wandered over again and started complaining about the vending machine stealing another dollar, and she laughed when she kicked the side of it dramatically.
"You're going to break it," she told him, shaking her head.
"It deserves it," Lena muttered.
Jack walked past them on his way back from triage. The conversation stopped instantly. She lowered her eyes toward the drawer she had been organizing and quietly counted out the syringes in the tray, her voice disappearing from the group like someone had turned off a switch. Jack kept walking.
By midnight the pattern was impossible to ignore. She worked well with everyone else. She joked with Shen between cases, and stayed with a nervous elderly patient longer than she technically had time for because he looked scared to be alone. The warmth in her personality never disappeared. It simply vanished whenever Jack entered the room. When she spoke to him at all, her voice was quiet and strictly professional.
"Yes, Dr. Abbot."
"I updated the chart."
"Vitals are stable."
Nothing more. No eye contact longer than necessary. No casual conversation. No lingering in the trauma room after a case ended the way she used to. The absence of it sat like a weight in Jack's chest.
Shen leaned against the counter beside him while reviewing a chart on the workstation. After a moment he glanced across the nurses' station where she was laughing quietly with Kelly about something on a tablet.
"Did you piss her off or something?" Shen asked under his breath.
Jack didn't answer right away. Across the room she glanced up briefly and noticed him watching. The smile on her face faded almost immediately and she turned back toward Kelly like the moment had never happened. Shen followed the exchange and then looked back at Jack.
"She goes silent every time you walk in the room," he said.
Jack's jaw tightened slightly as he watched her across the station.
"I noticed."
Shen studied him for another second before asking the obvious question. "You going to fix that?"
Jack didn't respond. Across the department she continued talking with the others, her laughter returning easily as if the tension that existed between the two of them occupied a completely separate world from the rest of the floor. But the distance between them felt wider than the entire Pitt.
-
5 am
By the time the clock crept toward 5 in the morning, the Pitt had settled into that strange, exhausted rhythm that always came just before shift change. The overnight rush had slowed slightly, but the department was still full enough that no one was standing still. The waiting room board glowed red with names that had been sitting there longer than anyone liked, and the nurses' station hummed quietly with the tired focus of people finishing charts while keeping one eye on the next patient rolling through triage.
She had been on her feet for most of the night. The fatigue sat heavy in her shoulders, but she moved through the motions the way she always did, checking vitals, updating charts, and clearing one room before the next patient could be brought back. The last thing she needed was someone difficult at this hour, but the moment she saw the man sitting in room twelve she knew that was exactly what she had.
He was already irritated. The patient sat on the edge of the bed with his arms crossed over his chest, his foot bouncing impatiently against the tile floor. Mid forties, maybe. Thick build. Work boots still on his feet and a grease stained jacket draped across the chair beside him. The moment she stepped through the doorway his eyes snapped toward her with the kind of immediate hostility that made the back of her neck tighten instinctively. She kept her voice calm anyway.
"Good morning," she said gently as she stepped toward the computer on the wall. "I'm going to get your vitals and ask you a few questions while we wait for the doctor."
The man let out a sharp laugh that held no humor in it. "About damn time someone showed up."
She ignored the tone and reached for the blood pressure cuff. "Can you tell me what brought you in today?"
He leaned back slightly, watching her with open irritation. "I've been sitting in this room for two hours."
"Yes, sir," she said calmly. "I'm sorry about the wait. We've had a few trauma cases tonight."
"That's not my problem."
She wrapped the cuff around his arm, keeping her movements steady even as his voice rose. "I just need to check your blood pressure first."
"You nurses think you run the whole place," he muttered.
She didn't respond. The cuff inflated, squeezing his arm while she watched the monitor.
"Have you been having chest pain?" she asked.
"No."
"Shortness of breath?"
"No."
"What kind of pain are you having tonight?"
He scoffed. "My hand's busted."
She glanced down and saw the swelling around his knuckles now that he mentioned it. The skin was scraped across the back of his fingers, the kind of injury that usually came from hitting something harder than bone.
"Did you fall?"
He looked at her like the question annoyed him. "No."
She made a note in the chart. "Did you hit something?"
His expression darkened. "Why are you asking so many damn questions?"
"Because it helps us figure out how to treat the injury," she replied evenly.
The blood pressure reading finished and she reached for the pulse oximeter. "Can I see your hand?"
He shoved it toward her with a rough motion.
"You people are useless," he muttered under his breath. "Two hours and all you do is stand around asking stupid questions."
She gently rotated his wrist, checking for deformity while ignoring the comment. The knuckles were swollen badly, but nothing looked obviously displaced.
"I'm going to have the doctor come take a look and we'll probably get an X ray," she said calmly.
"That's it?" he snapped. "That's all you're doing?"
"We start with an exam."
"Unbelievable."
She straightened slightly, trying to move the conversation forward. "On a scale of one to ten-"
"I already told you what's wrong with it," he cut in loudly. "You women never listen."
The word women came out with a particular kind of disdain that made the room feel suddenly smaller. She kept her tone neutral.
"I am listening to your Sir."
"No you're not."
"I just need to finish the intake so the doctor has the information."
His voice rose another notch. "I've been sitting here while you idiots take your sweet time and now you want to play twenty questions."
Across the nurses' station Jack looked up from the computer. The raised voice carried easily down the hallway. He glanced toward the room where the yelling was coming from, his jaw tightening slightly when he realized which room it was. Inside room twelve the man had leaned forward on the bed now, clearly working himself into a louder rhythm.
"You think you're helping?" he continued. "You're wasting my time."
"I'm trying to help you," she said calmly.
"Well you're doing a terrible job."
Jack stood up. By the time he reached the doorway the man's voice was echoing down the hall.
"What kind of hospital lets nurses like this run around pretending they know what they're doing?"
Jack stepped into the room.
"Everything okay in here?" he asked calmly.
The man turned toward him immediately.
"Finally," he snapped. "Someone who actually knows what he's doing."
Jack's eyes flicked briefly toward her. She stood beside the bed with the chart tablet in her hand, her posture straight but her expression carefully neutral. Then he looked back at the patient.
"I could hear the yelling from the nurses' station," Jack said evenly. "What seems to be the problem?"
The man gestured toward her. "She's the problem."
Jack didn't react.
"She's been in here wasting my time asking stupid questions," the man continued. "I told her what's wrong with my hand and she just keeps asking questions when all I need is it wrapped and some fucking drugs to get out of here."
Jack folded his arms. "She's doing her job."
"Well she's doing it wrong."
Jack's voice sharpened slightly. "No."
The man blinked. "No?"
"No," Jack repeated calmly. "She's doing exactly what she's supposed to do."
The patient scoffed. "She doesn't listen."
Jack stepped closer to the bed. "She asked you appropriate intake questions so we can treat you correctly."
The man leaned back again, clearly annoyed. "She doesn't know what she's doing."
Jack's expression didn't change.
"I can step in and take over if necessary, but I can promise you it won't be pleasent." he said evenly. "But if you can't show her basic respect while she's trying to help you, then we're going to have a different conversation."
The man muttered something under his breath. Jack tilted his head slightly. "Speak up."
The patient rolled his eyes. "I said whatever."
Jack held his gaze for another second before turning slightly toward her. "You mind stepping out for a moment?"
She nodded quietly. "Okay."
They stepped into the hallway together. Jack glanced back toward the room before speaking.
"Are you okay?" He asks softly.
"He's just a dick, no big deal I'm used to it."
He nods knowing that the comment was well deserved, he'd take a million more just to have her look at him in the eyes.
"If he continues with that behavior, tell me immediately," he said quietly. "I'll handle it."
She nodded. "Okay."
He waited a second like he expected her to say more, but she didn't.
-
5:45 am
The digital clock at the nurses' station rolled over to 5:45 a.m. the pale glow of early morning beginning to filter through the ambulance bay windows at the far end of the department. Room twelve had been a problem for the better part of an hour. She had already charted the patient's vitals, documented the initial assessment, and sent off the blood samples earlier in the visit. The man had come in complaining of severe hand pain after "hitting something," though he had been vague about what that something was. When she first evaluated the injury, the swelling across the knuckles and abrasions along the back of his hand had made the cause fairly obvious. The mechanism of injury suggested a classic boxer's fracture, but they still needed imaging to confirm it.
The blood work had come back a few minutes earlier. His blood alcohol level was significantly elevated, high enough that it was clearly influencing both his coordination and his mood. She stepped back into the room with the chart tablet tucked against her hip, already preparing herself to manage the conversation carefully. The patient was no longer sitting on the bed. Instead, he paced the narrow space between the counter and the exam table, his boots scraping across the tile floor in uneven steps. His breathing was loud enough that she could hear it the moment she stepped through the doorway.
"Sir," she said gently, keeping her voice calm and professional the way she had been trained to do. "I need you to stay seated while we finish the evaluation."
He turned immediately, irritation already written across his face. "I've been sitting in here for an hour."
"It's been about forty five minutes," she said, keeping her tone neutral as she stepped toward the computer on the wall to update the chart. "We had multiple ambulance arrivals come in at the same time."
"That's not my problem."
"No," she said quietly. "But we're working through patients as quickly as possible."
He scoffed loudly and leaned against the counter. "What now?"
"I'm going to review your labs with you," she explained, glancing down at the chart while she spoke. "Your vitals were stable earlier, but your blood work did show an elevated blood alcohol level, which can sometimes make swelling worse in injuries like this."
The shift in his expression was immediate. "You tested me for alcohol?"
"Yes," she said calmly. "It's part of the routine labs we run when we're evaluating injuries and pain levels."
"I didn't agree to that."
"It's part of the standard intake panel," she explained gently. "It helps us make sure there aren't any complications or interactions with medications we might give you."
His jaw tightened. "You're saying I'm drunk."
"I'm saying the lab result shows alcohol in your system."
"That's bullshit."
She kept her posture relaxed, though she could smell the alcohol on his breath now that he had stepped closer.
"We're also ordering an X-ray of your hand," she continued, trying to redirect the conversation toward the actual treatment plan. "Based on the swelling and tenderness along the fifth metacarpal, Dr. Abbot wants to rule out a fracture."
"My hand's busted because I punched a wall," he snapped. "You don't need an X-ray to tell you that."
"That mechanism can definitely cause a fracture," she said. "Which is why we check, we can't properly treat you until we see whats going on."
His voice grew louder. "You people think you know everything, fuck this is such a waste of time."
"I'm explaining the next step in the exam, it'll be a quick process I can assure you."
"You're accusing me of being drunk and trying to get expensive tests done so you can get as much out of me as possible."
"I'm explaining the lab result."
He pushed himself off the counter and stepped toward her. "You got a real attitude."
She kept her voice even. "I apologize if it's coming off that way, I am in no way trying to upset you."
"You're talking down to me."
"No," she said gently. "I'm trying to explain the process."
He moved closer again, the space between them shrinking enough that she instinctively took a small step backward.
"Look," she said carefully, raising her hands slightly in a calming gesture that nurses were trained to use during escalating interactions. "I understand you're frustrated about the wait. That's completely fair. But raising your voice isn't going to move things faster."
His eyes narrowed. "You telling me to calm down?"
"I'm asking you to lower your voice."
"Don't tell me what to do."
His hand slammed down on the counter beside her. The noise echoed sharply in the small room. She felt the tension spike immediately.
"Sir," she said quietly, "if you can take a seat on the bed, I'll get the doctor in here to finish the exam."
"You're treating me like I'm a child!"
"I'm trying to help you."
The man's breathing had become heavier now, the agitation clearly feeding on itself.
"You women always do this."
She ignored the comment. "Let's focus on getting your hand taken care of."
She took another small step backward toward the doorway, intending to grab Jack from the nurses' station.
"Okay," she said calmly. "I'll get Dr. Abbot now, hang tight."
She had just turned slightly toward the hall when the man moved suddenly. The first blow came without warning. The impact struck the side of her face with enough force to send her staggering backward before her brain even had time to process what had happened. Pain exploded across her cheekbone as her head snapped sideways, the room tilting violently around her. Her shoulder collided with the counter.
The edge of the laminate surface caught the side of her skull as she fell, the sharp corner striking hard enough that a burst of white light flashed behind her eyes. For a moment everything went silent except for the ringing in her ears.
She tried to steady herself against the counter, one hand gripping the edge while the floor seemed to tilt beneath her feet. Warm blood poured from her nose immediately, dripping down across her lip and onto the front of her scrubs as she struggled to regain her balance.
"Sir-" she managed weakly.
The word barely left her mouth. His fist struck her again. The second impact landed squarely across her face, snapping her head back as pain detonated behind her eye. The world spun violently around her as the force of the blow sent her body crashing sideways against the counter again. Her vision blurred instantly. Her knees gave out beneath her. The last thing she saw before the darkness closed in was the bright fluorescent lights above her spinning out of focus as her body collapsed toward the floor.
Jack had worked in emergency medicine long enough that his brain categorized noise automatically. Monitors, metal trays, stretchers hitting doorframes, oxygen tanks rolling across tile. The Pitt had a language of sound that every doctor and nurse learned without realizing it. The crash from room twelve was not one of those sounds.
It was sharp and heavy, followed by a second dull impact that echoed down the hallway. Jack's head snapped up from the computer immediately. For half a second the department was still moving around him, the quiet exhaustion of six in the morning settling into everyone finishing charts before shift change. Then his brain finished processing what he had heard.
Something had hit the floor. He was already moving before anyone else reacted. The hallway blurred past him as he ran toward room twelve, the adrenaline hitting his chest so fast it felt like his heart skipped a beat. The patient stepped into the hallway at the same moment Jack reached the doorway.
The man looked agitated, breathing heavily, his injured hand hanging awkwardly at his side while he tried to move toward the exit. His eyes flicked toward Jack for a fraction of a second. Jack barely saw him. His attention had already shifted past the man into the room. And the world seemed to drop out from under him. She was on the floor. Her body lay crumpled beside the counter where she had fallen, blood streaked across the tile beneath her head in a dark smear that ran from the corner of the counter. Her nose was bleeding heavily, the red already soaking through the front of her scrubs and dripping onto the floor beside her.
One side of her face was swelling rapidly. Her eyes were closed. She was not moving. For a moment Jack could not breathe. The image slammed into his brain with the kind of clarity that burned itself into memory forever. The blood on the floor. The angle of her body. The unnatural stillness of someone who had just been hurt badly. It was the exact kind of scene that haunted trauma surgeons in their sleep. And this time it was her.
"Security," Jack roared down the hallway.
The patient tried to move past him. Jack grabbed the front of the man's shirt and shoved him hard enough that his back slammed into the wall beside the doorway.
"Do not move," Jack said, his voice low and dangerous.
The man started protesting immediately but two nurses had already grabbed the phone at the station. Security was running. Jack let go of him the moment he saw the officers rounding the corner. Then he turned back into the room. Up close the sight was worse. Blood had matted into the hair along the back of her head where she had struck the counter. The swelling across her cheekbone was already deepening beneath the skin, spreading quickly toward her eye. Jack dropped to his knees beside her so fast the movement sent the stool near the bed sliding across the floor.
"Hey," he said urgently, one hand already moving to stabilize her head. "Hey. Sweetheart can you hear me."
She did not respond. The quiet terrified him more than anything else. After hearing the commotion Shen ran into the room and froze for half a second when he saw the blood on the floor.
"Shen," Jack called sharply toward the hall without even looking up. "Get me the collar."
"Jesus what happened?"
"Collar," Jack repeated.
Shen moved immediately. Another nurse grabbed gauze from the counter and handed it to Jack. He pressed it gently beneath her nose to slow the bleeding, his other hand steady against the side of her head to keep her neck from moving. His fingers slid carefully through her hair to check the back of her skull. When they came away red his jaw tightened.
"BP cuff," Shen said quietly from the side of the bed.
A nurse passed it across. Jack barely registered the others moving around him. He could hear them but they felt far away, like the entire room had narrowed down to the girl lying motionless in front of him.
"Help me lift," he said quietly when Shen returned with the collar.
They secured her neck carefully before Jack slid one arm beneath her shoulders.
"Easy," he murmured.
Together they lifted her from the floor and placed her gently onto the exam bed. Jack adjusted the pillow beneath her head himself before anyone else could move. The pulse oximeter beeped softly as it connected to her finger. Her eyelids fluttered weakly. Jack leaned closer immediately.
"Hey," he said quietly, his voice dropping into something softer than anyone in the room had ever heard from him.
Her brow tightened slightly. Slowly her eyes opened. They were unfocused at first, drifting across the ceiling as her brain tried to catch up with what had happened.
"Jack," she whispered.
The sound of his name nearly broke him.
"Yeah," he said softly. "I'm here."
She tried to move. Pain hit her instantly and she gasped.
"My head."
"I know," he murmured.
Her hand lifted weakly toward her face before she realized how much it hurt.
"Easy," he said gently, steadying her shoulder. "Don't move yet."
Her eyes darted around the room as awareness returned. Several people were standing nearby. Monitors were beeping softly beside the bed. The overhead lights were painfully bright. Fear crept into her expression.
"What happened," she asked weakly.
Her breathing started to quicken. Jack saw the shift instantly. The room was suddenly too loud. Too many people. Too many eyes on her. He turned toward the others.
"Everyone give us a minute."
They hesitated. Jack's voice sharpened slightly.
"Please."
One by one they stepped back toward the door. Within seconds the room was quiet again. Jack turned back to her immediately, brushing a blood streaked strand of hair away from her face.
"You're safe," he said quietly.
Her eyes locked onto his. "Jack."
"I'm right here."
Her voice trembled. "I'm scared."
The words hit him harder than the blood on the floor had. He kept one hand steady against her shoulder.
"I know," he said gently. "Okay sweetheart. Just hold still for me. I'm going to make it better."
Outside the room the staff lingered in the hallway, speaking quietly among themselves. Because none of them had ever seen Jack Abbot look like that before. Not the guarded attending who kept everyone at arm's length. The man who would joke and laugh but never let it get deeper than that. The man inside that room looked terrified.
She blinked slowly, trying to orient herself. The fluorescent lights above her felt painfully bright and every small movement sent a wave of pressure through the side of her skull. Her nose was still bleeding slightly despite the gauze Jack had pressed beneath it, and the swelling along her cheekbone had begun to throb in slow, steady pulses. Her eyes found him again.
Jack was standing close beside the bed, one hand braced against the mattress near her shoulder while the other gently adjusted the gauze beneath her nose. His posture was tight, but the tension in his shoulders gave him away. She had never seen him like this. Jack Abbot was always composed. Even during the worst traumas he moved with quiet precision, calm and methodical while the rest of the room rushed around him. Right now he looked shaken. The realization made something inside her chest tighten.
"What happened?" she asked again softly.
Jack glanced down at her, his expression softening immediately when he saw the confusion in her eyes.
"You hit your head," he said quietly.
Her hand lifted instinctively toward the side of her face and she winced the moment her fingers brushed the swelling.
"Oh my god."
"I know," he murmured gently, guiding her hand back down to the blanket. "Don't touch it."
The memory began to come back slowly. The man stepping toward her. The smell of alcohol on his breath. The sudden movement she had not seen coming. Her throat tightened. Her breathing started to shake.
"I was trying to get out of the room to grab you, but he wouldn't let me," she whispered.
Jack's jaw tightened.
"You don't need to think about that right now, lets just focus on getting you taken care of."
Her eyes filled suddenly. The emotion came out of nowhere, a wave of delayed shock that hit her all at once now that the adrenaline had drained away. She had spent her entire career taking care of other people, stepping calmly into chaotic situations without hesitation. No one had ever hurt her like that before.
"I was just trying to help him." Her voice trembled.
Jack's hand moved automatically to her hand, his heart shattering at her weak small voice. The tears slipped out before she could stop them.
"I've never..." She swallowed hard. "I've never been hit before."
The admission made something twist painfully in Jack's chest. Her fear was written across her face now, her eyes glassy and overwhelmed as the reality of what had happened settled in.
"Hey," he said gently, leaning closer. "Look at me."
She did.
"You're safe," he said quietly. "He's gone."
Her breathing hitched again.
"It just... scared me."
Jack's voice softened even more. "I know."
She wiped weakly at her cheek with the back of her hand, embarrassed by the tears.
"You should just get Ellis," she said quietly. "I'm sure you'd rather be anywhere else than dealing with this."
Jack frowned slightly. "That's not true."
She looked up at him, still shaken.
"Just grab Ellis," she said again. "She can handle the rest."
Jack shook his head immediately.
"No."
Her brow furrowed slightly. "Jack-"
"I'm not leaving."
The firmness in his voice surprised her. He softened it a moment later when he saw the confusion on her face.
"I'm staying until I know you're okay."
She studied him quietly for a second. "Why?"
The question came out softly. Jack hesitated. "Because I..." he trails off. "I need to know you're okay for myself."
The answer was simple, but the way he said it made her chest tighten. Her head throbbed again and she squeezed her eyes shut briefly. Jack noticed immediately.
"Headache?"
"It's pounding."
"That's expected," he said calmly. "You took a hit and you lost consciousness."
Her eyes opened again. "I did?"
"For a minute."
That seemed to unsettle her even more. Jack reached for the light pen from the counter and checked her pupils again carefully.
"You're going to CT," he said.
She groaned softly.
"That wasn't a suggestion."
She sighed weakly. "My head hurts too much to move."
"I know," he said gently. "We're going take it slow."
He adjusted the pillow beneath her head and gave her a moment for the dizziness to settle before pressing the call button for transport. Her gaze stayed on him.
"You're really staying?"
"Yes."
"For the CT too?"
"Yes."
She blinked slowly, still trying to process the way he was hovering beside the bed like he refused to leave.
"You don't have to do all this."
Jack looked down at her.
"I know," he said quietly.
The words hung between them for a moment before he added softly,
"But I'm not leaving you."
-
Nearly an hour passed before they were finally able to leave radiology. The CT scan itself had only taken a few minutes. The hallway outside imaging had been crowded with stretchers waiting for scans, transport staff moving patients back and forth, and nurses juggling charts while trying to clear rooms before the day team fully took over. Through all of it, Jack had stayed exactly where he was.
He had not gone back to the Pitt. He had not handed her off to another physician. He stood beside her stretcher the entire time. The overhead lights in the radiology corridor were dimmer than the harsh fluorescents in the trauma bays, but even those felt painfully bright against the throbbing pressure building in her skull. Every small movement made the ache behind her eyes pulse harder, the concussion settling in with a dull heaviness that left her feeling disoriented and exhausted. Jack noticed every time she winced.
He kept one hand lightly resting against the rail of the stretcher while they waited for the scan results, his posture calm on the outside but tense in a way that made it clear he was still running on adrenaline.
"You doing okay?" he asked quietly after the technician rolled her back out into the hallway.
She blinked slowly up at him, trying to focus. "My head feels like someone dropped a brick on it."
"That's about right, as soon as we're done here I'm gonna get you some meds I promise." he said gently.
The radiologist's preliminary read came back quickly. No intracranial bleed. No skull fracture. Just a significant concussion and soft tissue trauma from the impact.
When they finally made their way back down, the Pitt had shifted into full morning chaos. Day shift nurses moved quickly between rooms, the waiting room had filled again, and the board had already turned over with a new list of patients.
Jack guided the stretcher toward a quiet hallway near the staff elevators where they could talk without the noise of the department swallowing the conversation. The last thing she wanted was to see everyone in this moment. She sat up slowly when he helped raise the head of the bed, wincing when the movement sent another wave of pressure through her temples. Jack held the chart in one hand, scanning the notes one last time before closing it.
"You have a concussion," he said.
She sighed softly. "I figured."
"No driving," he continued, his tone shifting into the calm authority of a physician giving discharge instructions. "No screens if you can avoid them. Hydrate, rest, If the headache gets worse or you start vomiting, you call me."
She nodded slowly. "Okay."
He studied her face for a moment, watching the way her eyes struggled to stay focused. "You shouldn't drive home."
She gave a small tired shrug. "It's fine. I can call an Uber."
Jack shook his head immediately. "No."
She blinked up at him. "Jack-"
"I'll take you."
"You don't have to do that."
"I know."
The answer came quickly and firmly.
"I can just get a ride," she insisted gently. "You've already done enough."
Jack was already unlocking the brakes on the stretcher. "I'm taking you."
There was something about the way he said it that made arguing feel pointless. She watched him for a moment before finally nodding.
"Okay."
Jack guided the stretcher toward the staff elevator, moving carefully so the motion would not jolt her head. The ride down to the parking level was quiet except for the low hum of the elevator motor and the distant sounds of the hospital waking up for the day.
When the doors opened, the cool air of the parking garage drifted in around them. Jack helped her sit up slowly at the edge of the stretcher before offering his hand.
"Easy," he said softly.
She took it. Her balance wavered the moment she stood and he immediately stepped closer, one hand steadying her at her elbow while she found her footing.
"Sorry," she murmured.
"Don't apologize."
They walked slowly through the garage, her steps careful and slightly uneven while the lingering dizziness from the concussion made the world feel just a little tilted. Jack's truck sat near the far row, a dark pickup that looked exactly like something he would drive. When they reached it, he moved ahead of her and opened the passenger door. She paused for a moment, looking up at the tall step with mild concern. Jack noticed immediately.
"Hold on."
He placed one hand lightly against her back and the other on the door frame while she carefully climbed up into the seat. Once she settled in, he gently helped guide her legs inside before closing the door. The simple gesture felt oddly intimate. She leaned back against the seat with a quiet sigh, the cool air from the vents brushing against her face.
"Thank you," she said softly.
He simply gave her a small nod, unable to exaplain to her in that moment why he needed this as much as she did. Jack walked around the front of the truck before climbing into the driver's seat. For a moment neither of them spoke. The engine started with a low rumble and he glanced over at her briefly to make sure she was settled.
She had leaned her head back against the seat, her eyes half closed as the exhaustion from the long night and the concussion finally began to pull her down. Jack adjusted the temperature slightly before pulling out of the parking spot.
"Try to keep your eyes closed," he said quietly. "It'll help with the headache."
She nodded faintly. The truck rolled out of the garage and into the early morning light. The city was just beginning to wake up. And for the first time since the assault, the tension in Jack's chest eased just a little now that she was safely sitting beside him. It didn't take long to pull up to her apartment building. They took the stairs as her elevator stopped working a month prior, and he helped her up every step, letting her rely on him to keep her steady. Her warm hand gripping his made his heart race faster than it should've.
The moment the door opened, a small gray cat appeared from the edge of the couch. The animal froze for a second when it noticed Jack standing behind her. Then it trotted forward and wrapped itself around her legs.
"Well hello to you too," she said softly, bending slightly to scratch behind its ears.
Jack watched the interaction quietly.
"This is Olive," she said.
The cat glanced up at him suspiciously. Jack crouched slightly and held out a hand. Olive sniffed his fingers cautiously before deciding he was acceptable enough to allow a brief head bump. Jack huffed a quiet laugh.
"She seems friendly."
"She thinks she runs the place," she replied.
She straightened slowly and gestured toward the couch. "You can come in, you don't have to stand by the door."
Jack stepped inside but stopped just a few feet from the door, clearly unsure how far he should go. The small apartment suddenly felt more personal than the hospital had ever been. He stayed near the entryway.
"Do you want any water?" she asked. "I don't have food here but I could order something if you're hungry."
Jack shook his head quickly. "No. No, stop."
She blinked in confusion.
"You just got assaulted and you're trying to host me," he said, his voice softening slightly. "Sit down."
The room was filled with color in a way that immediately made sense to him once he realized it belonged to her. A woven rug with warm reds and golds spread across the center of the floor. A small shelf near the window held a cluster of plants in mismatched ceramic pots, their leaves reaching toward the morning sunlight that filtered through the glass. Tiny glass sun catchers hung in the window and threw soft rainbows across the walls as the light shifted.
Books were everywhere. Stacked on the coffee table. Lined up in a small, overfilled bookcase beside the bed. A few piled on the floor next to the couch like she had been reading several at once and never quite put them back. A vase of fresh flowers sat on the kitchen counter, bright yellow and pink against the white tile backsplash.
Cat toys were scattered across the floor like tiny land mines. It was a little cluttered. A little messy. But it was warm and bright and unmistakably her. He could see her in every detail.
"Welcome to the place," she said quietly as she stepped inside ahead of him, leaning slightly against the wall to steady herself when the dizziness hit again. "It's not much, but it's all I can do right now."
Jack looked around the room again before answering.
"It's a nice place."
She scoffed softly. "You don't have to lie."
"I'm not, I like it, its very... you." He said it simply, like it was obvious.
"I'm not sure if that's a good thing."
"Its a very good thing." he assures her.
She glanced at him like she wasn't entirely convinced, but before she could say anything else the wave of dizziness returned and she swayed slightly on her feet. Jack reacted instantly. His hand came up to steady her before she could even finish losing her balance, fingers wrapping gently around her arm as he guided her toward the bed.
"Easy," he said quietly.
The physical boundary that had existed between them for months was gone now. He barely seemed aware of it anymore. His hands moved automatically when she wobbled, steadying her shoulders, guiding her carefully to the edge of the mattress. She sat down slowly with a soft exhale. Jack stayed right there. He crouched slightly in front of her, studying her face with the same focused intensity he had used in the exam room.
"You dizzy?"
"A little."
"That's expected."
He stood and moved around the small room with quiet efficiency, closing the curtains just enough to dim the bright morning light that was spilling through the window. Then he returned to the kitchenette and grabbed a clean towel from the counter, wrapping an ice pack from her freezer inside it before bringing it back to the bed.
"Here."
He handed it to her gently. She pressed it against her cheek with a small wince.
"Thank you."
Jack pulled the blankets back and helped guide her carefully onto the bed so she could lie down without jarring her head.
"There," he murmured softly once she settled.
She watched him for a moment.
"You need sleep too," she said quietly. "You have another shift tonight."
"I'm not leaving until I know you're okay."
His voice was calm but firm. She studied him for a second before giving up the argument.
"Okay."
The room was quiet for a moment. Olive jumped up onto the bed and curled near her legs like a tiny gray guardian. She looked up at him again, her eyes softer now despite the swelling forming along her cheekbone.
"Jack."
"Yeah."
"Thank you. For everything you did today."
He looked down at her for a long moment. "You don't need to thank me."
She shifted slightly under the blanket, exhaustion finally pulling at her. "Would you stay until I fall asleep?"
Jack didn't hesitate. "Of course."
He sat down carefully on the edge of the bed, his hands resting loosely on his knees while he watched her breathing slowly settle. The space between them was small enough that he could feel the warmth of her through the blanket. What he wanted to do was pull her closer.
He wanted to reach out and brush the hair away from her face again, to make sure the swelling hadn't gotten worse, to reassure himself that she was still here and safe. He couldn't. So he stayed exactly where he was, sitting quietly beside her while she drifted toward sleep. After a few minutes her voice came again, softer now.
"I'm glad it was you, Jack."
He looked down at her. A small smile touched his face despite everything that had happened that morning.
"Me too," he said quietly.
The apartment had gone quiet by the time he finally stood from the edge of the bed. The only sounds left in the room were the faint hum of the refrigerator in the kitchenette, the occasional soft jingle of Olive's collar when the cat shifted in her sleep, and the slow, even rhythm of her breathing beneath the blankets. Jack stayed where he was for a moment longer than he needed to, looking down at her in the dimmer light of the room. The ice pack had slipped slightly against her cheek, still wrapped in the dish towel he had found in her freezer, and one hand rested loosely over the blanket near her stomach. Even asleep, she looked exhausted. The swelling around her eye had worsened in the last half hour, the bruise along her cheekbone darkening into something ugly and deep, and there was still a faint trace of dried blood near her hairline despite how carefully he had cleaned her up at the hospital. The sight of it twisted something deep in his chest, because every time he looked at her now all he could see underneath the quiet of this room was the image of her on the floor in room twelve, blood on the tile, her body too still, her face already bruising while his entire world seemed to stop around him.
He turned away from the bed only because he knew if he kept standing there looking at her, he would never make himself leave. Her apartment felt softer now that she was asleep, and he found himself noticing details he had only half registered before. The place was small, yes, just one open studio with the bed tucked into the far corner and the kitchenette running along one wall, but it was unmistakably hers in a way that struck him all over again.
The colorful rug in the middle of the floor had been worn soft with use, books were stacked in little uneven towers on the coffee table and beside the couch, a vase of flowers brightened the counter near the sink, and the glass sun catchers hanging in the window scattered pale ribbons of morning light across the wall.
There were cat toys everywhere, tiny signs of life tucked into the corners of the room, and the whole place carried the same feeling she did, warm and bright and trying very hard to be gentle despite how much it had clearly survived. It felt lived in. Beautiful in that honest, unpolished way that made it feel more intimate than any large spotless apartment ever could. Standing there in the quiet, Jack thought that if someone had asked him to picture what it would look like inside her head, he might have imagined something very close to this.
He slipped a hand into the pocket of his jacket and felt the folded paper there immediately. He had carried it with him all the way from the hospital without really deciding he was going to do anything with it, but now that his fingers closed around it, the choice felt unavoidable. He pulled the paper free and unfolded it slowly, smoothing the creases with his palm as he looked down at the transfer request.
Robby's signature was already there near the bottom, dark ink settled in the line above the one Jack had left blank earlier. He could still hear his own voice in the trauma room when she had stood in front of him asking for this very thing, still see the hurt on her face when he refused to sign, still feel the shame of how badly he had handled it. For a long moment he simply stared at the form, jaw tight, chest heavy, his mind pulling between what he wanted and what he knew he had no right to force. Then he reached into the inner pocket of his jacket, pulled out his pen, and signed his name in a single steady motion. Jack Abbot. The ink looked strangely final when he lifted the pen away.
He refolded the paper carefully and carried it over to the small counter by the sink, placing it where she would see it the moment she woke up. His hand lingered there for a second against the edge of the counter, fingers resting beside the form as though some part of him still resisted letting it go. When he finally turned back toward the bed, she had not moved.
Olive was curled tighter now against her legs, one paw thrown over the blanket, and the room had taken on that fragile stillness that only came when someone had finally fallen into real sleep after pain and fear. Jack looked at her one last time, and a hundred things rose in his throat all at once, apologies, confessions, promises he had no right to make, but none of them made it out. He crossed the room quietly, moving with the kind of care he usually reserved for trauma patients and the dying, and let himself stop at the side of the bed for one brief moment. He did not touch her again.
He wanted to, more than he wanted almost anything. He wanted to brush the hair back from her face, to smooth the blanket over her shoulder, to make sure she knew even in her sleep that she was not alone. But he had already crossed enough lines for one day, and if he let himself touch her now he was not entirely sure he would be able to make himself walk away.
So he stepped back instead, turned toward the door, and let himself out of the apartment as quietly as he could. The hallway beyond was cooler and dimmer, the sudden emptiness of it almost jarring after the warmth of her space. He pulled the door gently closed behind him and stood there until he heard the lock click automatically into place. Only then did he move, walking slowly down the hall toward the stairs with his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jacket.
But even after he stepped outside into the pale morning light, even after the cool air hit his face and the city sounds began to rise around him, he could not shake the image that had burned itself into his mind. Every time he blinked he saw her the way he had first found her, crumpled on the floor, blood everywhere, not moving, and the horror of it followed him all the way down the block.
-
The apartment was quiet when she finally woke up. For a few seconds she didn't move, her mind still caught somewhere between sleep and the foggy heaviness that came with a concussion. The room was dim, the curtains still drawn the way Jack had left them, and the soft glow of afternoon light filtered through the edges of the fabric in warm streaks across the wall. Olive was curled against her hip, the cat lifting her head slightly the moment she felt movement. Then the headache hit.
A slow, crushing pressure bloomed behind her eyes and spread across the side of her skull where she had hit the counter. She groaned softly and pressed the heel of her hand against her temple before remembering the ice pack still resting near her pillow.
"Jesus," she murmured to the empty room.
Her throat felt dry. Her face ached. Every small shift made the room tilt just enough to remind her she definitely had a concussion. She blinked toward the bedside table and reached carefully for her phone. A message notification sat at the top of the screen. She opened it slowly, her vision still slightly unfocused.
Jack:
How are you feeling?
Despite the pounding in her head, the message made a small warmth settle in her chest. She typed back slowly.
Her:
My head is killing me.
The reply came almost immediately, like he had been watching the phone.
Jack:
That's expected. Did you take anything yet?
Her:
No.
A few seconds passed before the next message appeared.
Jack:
Take ibuprofen. Then go back to sleep.
She stared at the screen for a second before typing again.
Her:
I feel like I should probably get up.
Jack:
No.
Robby wants you home for the rest of the week.
Her eyebrows pulled together.
Her:
I can work.
Jack:
I know you could.
But that's absolutely not happening.
She huffed a quiet laugh despite herself.
Her:
You're going to be short.
Jack:
I don't care about that.
She stared at the screen for a moment, the firmness of the message making something soft twist in her chest again. Before she could respond, another text popped up.
Jack:
You should be expecting something delivered to your house in the next hour.
Her confusion immediately returned.
Her:
What?
Jack:
🙂
-
The knock at the door came a little sooner than she expected. She had been sitting on the edge of the couch with the ice pack balanced carefully against her cheek, trying to drink some water the way Jack told her to, when Olive's ears suddenly perked up and the cat trotted toward the door like a tiny gray alarm system.
"Hold on," she murmured to no one in particular, pushing herself carefully to her feet.
Her head throbbed immediately, the dull pressure behind her eyes reminding her she had absolutely no business moving around this much yet. She shuffled slowly toward the door anyway, one hand resting against the wall for balance as Olive circled impatiently around her legs. When she opened the door, she froze. There were grocery bags sitting neatly on the floor outside her apartment. A lot of them.
For a second she just stared down at them in confusion before bending slowly and lifting the first bag inside. Then the second. Then the third. By the time she finished carrying them into the kitchen, the small counter space was completely covered. Her fingers moved automatically as she peeked inside the nearest bag.
Prepared meals. Soup containers. Pasta dishes. Pre cooked chicken with vegetables in sealed trays that only needed to be reheated. Another bag held fruit, yogurt, electrolyte drinks, crackers, and bottled water. One bag was filled with pain medication, extra ice packs, gauze, and electrolyte powder. Her throat tightened instantly. She set the bag down slowly, her eyes burning as she looked over the counter full of food.
No one had ever done something like this for her before. Not like this. The tears came before she could stop them. She wiped at her face quickly and grabbed her phone, pressing Jack's name before she could overthink it. He answered almost immediately. His voice was low and steady, like he had been expecting the call.
"Are you okay?" he asked right away.
She swallowed. "You bought me a grocery store."
There was a quiet pause. Then his voice came back calm. "Did it get there already?"
"Yes." She looked down at the counter again, blinking hard. "Jack, I can't accept all of this."
"Yeah," he said gently. "You can."
"Jack-"
"You had no food in your place."
She rubbed at her eyes again. "I was going to go shopping."
"When?" he asked calmly.
She opened her mouth. Then closed it again. Jack continued before she could answer.
"You have a concussion," he said, his tone firm but not harsh. "You're not driving anywhere and you're definitely not standing in a grocery store trying to figure out what to cook."
Her voice softened. "It's too much."
"It's food."
"It's a lot of food."
"It's meals for the week," he corrected. "Things you don't have to cook."
She leaned back against the counter, overwhelmed by the quiet certainty in his voice.
"I'll pay you back."
"No."
"Jack."
"No," he repeated.
Her voice grew small. "I can't just let you do this."
There was a small pause before he spoke again, his voice softer now but still steady. "You're going to have to get used to someone taking care of you for once."
The words landed somewhere deep in her chest. She looked down at the counter again, her eyes filling despite her attempt to blink the tears away.
"I don't know how to do that."
"We'll figure it out," he said gently.
She smiled weakly through the tears. While she wiped her face with the sleeve of her hoodie, her eyes drifted across the counter again and finally noticed the folded piece of paper sitting near the sink. Her brow furrowed.
"Hold on a second."
She picked it up slowly and unfolded it. The moment she saw the signature at the bottom, she went completely still.
"Jack?"
"Yeah."
"You signed the transfer form?"
The silence on the other end of the line stretched for several seconds. Then he answered quietly.
"Yeah. I did."
She stared down at the paper in her hands.
"I should have done it the first time you asked."
Her fingers brushed lightly across the ink of his name.
"Thank you," she said softly.
Another small pause settled between them before he spoke again. "I've got to get ready for work."
"Okay."
"But if you need anything," he added, his voice firm again, "you call me."
"I will." She hesitated before speaking again. "And Jack?"
"Yeah."
"This really means a lot, you have no idea."
There was no hesitation in his answer. "Of course, sweetheart. Get some rest."
The word caught her completely off guard. Before she could respond, the line clicked and the call ended. She stood there in the middle of her tiny kitchen holding the phone in one hand and the signed transfer form in the other while tears rolled freely down her cheeks. Not because she was sad. Because for the first time in a very long time, someone had taken care of her.
genre. fluff. fake dating. hurt/comfort word count. 2.8k
summary. You let yourself get sucked in on a road trip to Dennis' family farm. you know nothing about his family but the more you learn the more you are relieved you went with him
warnings. car breaks down, implications of child abuse bad family dynamics: his brothers are bullies, abusive father, toxic masculinity: Dennis calls himself a sissy, thinks of himself as less of a man for crying, he has tattoos, fem!reader.
a/n. I loved writing this so much so it going to have to parts,,,,. ty jay for helping me out. based on this request.
When you saw Dennis that morning you swore your heart was going to beat out of your chest.
You've been living with Trinity and Dennis for a while now. You were used to all their quirks and.. bad habits. ahem,,, trinity... that's not the point. the point is he's going home and you're going with him.
It started when he told his parents when he was living with two roommates. Having religious parents they assumed he meant two men. so, naturally, when his mom was on face time and saw you, she assumed you were his girlfriend. "Dennis? who's that?" she narrows her eyes making out the form of a woman in the kitchen getting ready to make dinner. "Does my baby boy have a girlfriend?!" she was so excited... it would've broken her heart if he said no.
he called you over "hm?" you walked over seeing him mute the call "mymomthinksyouremygirlfriendpleaseplayalong— here she is!" you barely had time to register what he said before you were awkwardly waving to her. you introduced yourself and she asked a few questions. "where do you work?" "how old are you?" "How long have you been dating?" you told her everything she wanted to know. You worked with Dennis, you were 25, and you've only been dating for a few months.
Only one of those was a lie. and then she asked something you didn't have an answer for "so are you coming home with my denny?" you were a bit stunned, stuttering slightly, looking to him for help. "no mom she uh I don't think she can" she looked disappointed and it broke your heart a bit. "uhh I can check my schedule and let Dennis know" you smiled. It wasn't a sure answer but it was a possibility. And she liked that possibility. When he hung up he apologized profusely offering to tell his mom you can't go.
"Dennis, it's fine I felt bad she seemed excited that you had someone." Maybe it was wrong but you didn't mind it that much, you wouldn't mind a little vacation... even if you would be dealing with his brothers which you've heard about a lot. "You really don't have to go." he insisted, feeling guilty.
"If you want me to go, then I'll go." you told him. And maybe it was wrong of him to want you to go.
You called off the same days he did, and you packed your clothes for his small town of Broken Bow, Nebraska. "Is it like, super conservative? cause my summer stuff isn't great..." you called from the floor of your room. "It's uh..." he got up and went to your room "I'll just help you..." you showed him the clothes you were going to pack. He vetoed most of them. He ended up letting a few stay after seeing your little pout. "I know, I'm sorry, they are just weird." he said trying to be comforting. "I can say you're sick?" he offered... again. "Den, it's fine, I'm only joking."
Trinity kept teasing the two of you. "Pretending to date? really?" she asked "hey, not my idea" you told her. "I told you you didn't have to go!" Dennis reminded you, lugging your suitcase and duffle from your room. "Jesus, how long are you staying a month?" Trinity was shocked at how much you packed compared to Dennis' medium suitcase. "like 5 days?, what if I buy stuff? I also packed other things in case they were too showy." you said as if it was obvious.
Dennis huffed, "you should see how much underwear she packed..." There was a long pause "no— not like — I wasn't peeking!" he sighed in defeat "ill just take these to your car..." as soon as he's out of the apartment you and Trinity break out into loud laughter.
"Give him a hard time" Trinity gave you a hug "and don't let those freaky small town people talk down to you" she patted your back. you and trinity were from relatively big cities. She knew you wouldn't let them be mean to you. Dennis came back up for the last of the bags, and you, letting you bring the small cooler and snacks.
You finally got on the road letting him drive first. He wanted to drive, he wanted to prolong the reality aproaching as much as possible. As you drove he told you small things about his brothers, not things you'd have to remember, just things to prepare you. How they are loud, how they are bullies, how they are annoying, inconsiderate, assholes. You were surprised at just how angry he got over this.
"Dennis, it's fine let's just listen to music for a bit, we have 15 hours ahead of us..." you comforted him. He nodded, taking a deep breath.
As the two of you drove you'd showed him some of your favorite songs, he liked most of them, even ones he didn't like. He was nice about it. He showed you some of his, you loved them. Every time you'd get gas or stop for food you switched. You learned more about each other than you had in the last few months of living together.
You learned about his childhood. How his dad and brothers treated him, his mom was great... sometimes. How he studied theology in his undergrad. You loved listening to him. You two would talk about drama at ED. He told you about how Amy was doing. You warned him about how unprofessional it was... yet in the same breath, you offered to come with him so he could do yard work and take care of their farm while you helped with the baby.
After about 11 hours of driving he pulled off the highway, "okay lets— oh..." he smiled softly down at you, seeing your seat all the way back, laying on your side, sleeping soundly as Johnny Cash played softly on the radio. He can't help but stare longer than he should. You look so peaceful, so beautiful— he shakes his head and gently wakes you up from your nap, his hand resting on your side, where your waist and ribs meet. His hearth thumped at your soft mewl and the way your face scrunched as you sat up.
"huh? are we there?" you ask "no not yet, thought you might be hungry, we can get a motel and sleep for a bit okay?" His voice is soft. you nodded while getting out with him. You stretched yourself out groaning at the crack of your back.
You followed him into the dinner, a bit slumped. He laughed softly at your cute sleepy face. the two of you got burgers, fries, you asked to get a milkshake for the road and he teased you for your sweet tooth as he obliged.
He drove the two of you to a seedy motel. He ran in as you stayed in the car before coming back out with the keys and parking closer to the door before shutting it completely off. "Here you go, I'll bring your duffle up if you wanna shower or something" he offered. you nodded, taking a key and getting out to walk into the room.
He soon followed, setting your duffle bag and his book bag at the foot of the bed and plopped down on it. his arm falling over his eyes. you came out showered and in a towel changing in the restroom before coming back out to lay down. Both of you were too exhausted to care about sharing a bet.
When you woke up, he was sleeping on his back with his arm tucked under your head. you grinned softly, your eyes tracing the curve of his nose. the way the warm, golden rays of sun shined through the curtains, hitting his face so beautifully. As he wakes up you roll over pretending to be asleep. "mm hey... we got 5 more hours on the road" he said gently shaking you.
you roll over scrunching your face like you just woke up "hm?... oh okay..." you got up. He helped get everything back in the car, and he checked out of the motel before you guys left to get breakfast at another diner.
Breakfast was short n' sweet, nothing special. you'd steal a bite or two of his hash browns and he'd take a bit of your pancake. It was hot. You had on jean shorts and a tee shirt. He had on his faded, scuffed up blue jeans and a tee-shirt. You covered breakfast since he bought you lunch and dinner. his face looked sorrowful, more so than usual. You knew he wasn't looking forward to going back. Maybe that's why you wanted to go. So he'd have someone there to connect with.
Stupid, right? It's his home town, he had to have some friends?
He sat in the passenger seat, quiet, dejected. You'd been talking for a second before he cut you off with "sorry what?" you sighed, grabbing his hand. "Don't be so scared of going home, okay?"
"Easy for you to say, you don't know them" Dennis sassed. But he didn't pull his hand away from yours, instead he squeezed harder. "Well, you're right about that... what I do know is I got your back, and I'm a loud-mouthed city girl." I smiled at him "as rotten as they come."
He laughed softly "thanks..." he put the seat back, manspreading as much as the front seat allowed.
30 minutes later he was asleep, Ethel Cain playing softly, when the engine sputtered. You sat up, letting go of his hand to put both at 10 and 2. you swerved a bit before pulling your car over to the shoulder of the long stretch of empty road.
"Fuck!"
That woke him up, "huh? what happened, why are we stopped?” "I— I don't know! There was an engine light and something sputtered!" you blurted out anxiously. "Alright, it's alright." Dennis attempted to calm you down but this was your worst nightmare. Stranded, on an empty rural road, in the blaring heat. "Easy for you to say!" you yelled, realizing the irony.
The two of you got out of the car to assess the situation."I'm gonna die, I don't wanna die Dennis" he just laughed "what are you laughing for!? We could die out here! Have you ever watched Texas Chainsaw Massacre???" his hands wrapped around your biceps. "We aren't going to die. Okay? I'm going to fix this." you give him a confused look as he goes to your trunk to find your emergency kit.
He's walking back to set it down in the grass that's already irritating your calves. "Besides..." he paused taking of the teeshirt he had on so he was just in a wife-beater. "their care didn't break down, they stopped on their own." he smiled.
You gave him the craziest look. amazed at his placid demeanor. "what are you doing??" you asked him, as he popped the hood to your car. "Relax, I know what I'm doing.”
you stepped back after previously hovering. looking him up and down as he worked.he a rag in the back pocket of his faded blue jeans, and he wiped whatever oil that got on his hands on his wifebeater. His jeans sagged a bit, letting his boxers peak out. you stared at the way he bent over the engine making sure everything was okay.
Dennis got dirtier by the second and you teetered on your feet in the grass getting bit by mosquitoes. "What's wrong with it?" you asked. "uhh looks like your fuel pressure is off... quick fix should get us back but we can get it fixed when we get to a Broken Bow." he said putting it back after wiping it with his rag.
He put the kit back in the trunk and leaned on the open window of the passenger door "start 'er up." he told you. you bite your bottom lip turning your key, the engine running as good as new.
"See? told ya' I know what I'm doin'" Dennis beamed getting back in the car, filling it with the faint smell of motor oil. "thanks" you smiled at him. Dennis offered his hand again, "no way, you have motor oil all over your hands."
he gave a little pout and wiped his hands on his shirt, again, offering it to you, again. You smiled at his attempt, taking his hand in yours.
Just an hour before getting to the Whitaker family' s farm you stopped for gas, and to give him a breather. you got out filling the tank back up. you weren't really looking forward to your road trip ending or meeting his family, but you were happy you got to be with him.
You looked down to see him sulking, reaching your hand into the window and ruffling his hair, "hey, your turn to drive."
Dennis slowly got out of the car, keeping his head down "alright alright..." Then you saw it. A little tear trickling down his face. "hey, hey what's wrong?" you asked, brows pinched together. you were holding his face to get a better look at him.
It's not like he wanted to cry, it was just one tear. Then you asked him what's wrong and opened the flood gates. He didn't even really know why he was crying. He was a man, he shouldn’t be crying over going home after years of not seeing them. but all He could do was shake his head, lip quivering as he struggled to catch your gaze.
he pulled away, taking a few steps away from you. He turned to face you for a moment "I just... Fuck! I don't want to go back to that shit hole fuck..." he gasped. "my— my brothers? are fucking assholes! and my dad hes— hes worse!" he choked on his tears. holding his face "and momma? — oh god... she —" he looked down crying into his hands.
"s'okay den.. you don't have to tell me, not at all" you pulled him into a hug, your face drawn with worry at his distraught state. your hand pushing his head into your shoulder. His whole body stiffened. He didn't want to get you dirty but you didn’t care. you squeezed tighter and he finally hugged your waist crying into your shoulder
"m'such a fuckin' sissy..." he cried. "no you're not Dennis..." you felt his arms get tighter. you pulled away enough to look at his face "you're like the strongest guy I know, you got this I know you do."
Your hands rubbed his back to the nape of his neck till he matched his breathing to yours as you stood at the gas pump. He pulled away when he felt a little better, his hands a bit tight on your waist. You smiled, brows still pinched in worry, as you wiped the tears away "you got this."
you pulled him closer to kiss the tear stains on his cheeks. and he hugged you again, your shirt riding up from his hands pulling you closer. He kissed your temple and messily along the side of your face mumbling thank you's and I’m sorry's.
"It's okay, it's okay, are you feeling better? do you still want to go?" you asked Dennis, rubbing his side. He nodded "yeah... yes" he nodded. He was so embarrassed about crying in front of you that he wanted to be strong. like he had to prove himself. "you don't have to den..." "yes I do"
you kissed him as if it would snap him out of this delusion. you had no ill-intent. but you knew he'd become hyper aware. "Dennis. You have nothing to prove by going to that farm." his eyes locked on yours. nodding his head "I want to see my momma..." you sighed and nodded "okay..."
He got in the driver seat and you got in the passenger seat. You looked at him as he started the car, studying his face, and he pulled out of the gas station.
your head rested on his shoulder, looking down at the tattoo on his forearm. You brought your index finger up to trace over it, feeling his body relax from your touch.
An hour or so, maybe less, had passed and he turned on a dirt road. you pulled his hand to your lap letting him squeeze your hand as you got closer and closer to the farm. Your free hand reached over rubbing soothing circles on his chest.
He stopped the car after pulling it off to the grass. "Kiss me again," he asked. you obliged, softly pressing your lips to him as he lazily kissed back, letting you cloud his senses. You only stopped, hearing a screen door open.
