xoxoloverb

killing time | 23

[bluetimeombre]

Ladybug !

synopsis hi fell in love with your portrayal of dr. robby is it okay for me to request for dr. robby’s attending! wife and the early signs of pregnancy before she decided to take a test? (like falling asleep while doing charts or over a casual conversation hehe) request!

warningsTW vomit, usual hospital-ness. language, smutish, pregnancy and baby talk stuff

authornote this was a request that I loved writing so much but nobody needs to know the work that went into publishing it, that stays between me and @expreissionism who requested, thanks so much again!

Robby left exam room four and- like always- he found you first. 

He smiled. The kind that took over his whole face, that crinkled his eyes and caused his cheeks to hurt. The sort people didn't see often in the deep hells of the Pitt unless he was looking at you. Or talking about you. Or thinking about you. Basically, if he smiled like that it was you.

But his smile faded quick when he took note of you. 

“Hey?”

You jerked up, looking at him. 

Robby leant over the counter, sliding on his glasses and looked closer. 

He was too close to you to be studying you like a patient, but just close enough for his wife. 

“You eat anything today?” he asked. 

You squinted at him. “We literally got breakfast this morning.”

“Okay, okay.”

There were darkening circles under your eyes and your lips were chapped which was his first sign something was wrong: you treated moisturising your lips like some do religion. Other than that your body was slumped over a computer. You were far more active than this. 

“You sleep okay last night?” he asked.

You smirked. “Well no, not really, someone kept me up.”

Robby smirked right back, leaning back just enough to give you space. “Are you complaining?”

“No.”

Flashbacks of last night came to mind in searing heat. The sweat of your bodies, the grip he held on your hand as he fucked you into the mattress like he did most nights. 

They said your libido goes down the older you get but Robby was going through another one. His box of blue pills sat abandoned in his bedside draw- thank god. 

Robby nodded once. “Good.”

“But that saying,” you continued, swivelling in your chair to face him. Still, he didn't move. He could smell the shampoo you'd bathed yourself in this morning and his mouth salivated like a dog with his favourite treat. “Four rounds?”

Robby took a quick sweep of the area, making sure nobody was missing him and his wife as they flirted shamelessly. “You asked for it.”

You frowned. “Did I?”

“Hey!” called Dana. “Mr and Mrs Adams, we could use your help here!”

You playfully rolled your eyes and Robby backed away slowly, hands up in surrender. He watched Dana turn to at least give them a second to finish up their flirting before digging into his pocket. 

“Here- for your lips.”

A small, practically un-used tube of chap-stick fell from the palm of his hand to yours. He carried it for you, always. If you'd asked you'd know he carried an extra pack of nuts and hand cream too. 

He'd been doing so secretly since your first dates years ago. 

Of course the supplies were different but the sentiment the same.

You blushed, a bright smile coming to your face. “You are so adorable.”

Robby shook off the word like it was splash of cold water. “Yeah, don't let onto anyone, okay? Got a cold exterior to keep up.”

“Oh- of course.”

He could have stood there and watched you all day but he already felt Dana's gaze, un-wavering. He squeezed your shoulders and pressed a kiss on your forehead before slipping away with a quiet promise to himself that he'd get his hands on you later.

“You don't look so well, you know,” said Dana once the coast was clear of Robby. 

“Don't you start,” you said. “I've had enough of this the last couple days from Robby.”

“Oh yeah, you got something?” Dana's hand was gentle on your back. If you weren't careful she'd push you onto a bed, have you in a gown with a chart written up herself. She'd mother you; smother you in her care even if she wasn't a doctor. Even if you were the attending around the place. 

You shook your head and flashed her a un-convincing smile. 

You were sure it was a bug, or burn out.

You'd caught burn out like some do colds or flus. As the second attending it was your job- with Robby's- to make sure everyone was taught, that patients were satisfied (you found you were doing that part for your husband as well) and you were saving as many lives as you could. 

The careful art of delegation and avoidance was lost on you. You threw yourself into traumas like you were still a med student with something to prove.

“Okay, if you say so,” said Dana with a purse of her lips. 

“I do say so.”

“If you need anything.”

“Am I married to you or Robinavitch?” you teased, tugging on gloves and readying yourself for a room of hustle. 

Dana chuckled, backing away slowly to her station. “You should be so lucky, Robinavitch.”

Using the weight of your back you pushed into trauma two. 

“Okay, kids- what have we got?”

“Fetal heart rate one-two-eight.”

Whitaker was at your side in an instant, handing you the chart. “Woman in her late twenties, came in complaining of cramping and migraines, twenty-nine weeks along.”

“BP is one-seventy, over one-nineteen.”

The woman was on her side, a whole score of nurses and doctors around her. It was always double the team for pregnant ladies. When there were two patients to care for in a package of one.

“Six grams of magnesium going in.”

You floated around the room, Whitaker following you like some guard dog. You took in everything going on, reading stats and taking in numbers everyone gave to you. “Okay, ma'am, I'm Doctor Robinavitch, everyone calls me Robin. It seems you have a medical condition called preeclamsia.”

The woman's eyes were teary and dark as they looked up to you in fear. “Wh-what?”

“Preeclampsia. Now that we know what it is we can help you.”

“But it was- it was just a headache,” she cried, hand cradling her stomach on instinct. “Is my baby going to be okay?”

“We are doing everything to make sure you and the baby do just fine,” you assured her, speaking a language you'd become fluent in. Diagnosis and comfort. Sometimes, when the job got tough, you wondered if you even really believed the words you were saying. They just floated from your tongue typically. 

“The thing is with your condition we have to take you up to OB and deliver this baby,” you told her. 

“OB's been paged,” Santos informed you. 

“But it's too early,” the woman sobbed, clutching at her rounded stomach like she could keep the baby there. 

“I know but the baby's pulse is strong which is good,” you told her. “And if we want to keep the ball rolling in the right direction we have to got to get to it now, okay?”

“Doctor Robin,” said Whitaker. “Labs are back in.”

“Read them to me.” You were still holding the lady's hand over her stomach, trying to comfort her. 

“Hemoglobin seven-point-five, platelets forty. LFT's are... woah-”

“Don't hold out on us Huckleberry, what's going on?” asked Santos. 

“They're high- real high-”

“Which can mean?” you ask out to the room, remembering the hundreds of times Gloria reminded you off your status as a 'teaching hospital,'. 

“HELLP syndrome,” said Denis. 

“Point to you.”

Under your hand the patient began to tremble. A quick glance at the monitor showed her blood pressure rising. Panic, most likely, something else it could have been entirely. 

“Hey, boy or a girl?” you asked, watching her eyes flicker. “Do you know what you're having?”

She blinked slow. “Boy.”

“Any name ideas?”

Her mouth had opened to say something but instead of a name vomit spewed, rolling down the gurney and splashing your scrubs- the one time you didn't put on a gown. 

“Oh shit- she's seizing!”

Everyone and you reacted quickly in holding her, trying to calm her shakes. 

It had never happened before, you'd never had so many senses tuning it an once but the smell of her breakfast wafted up to your nose. An un-familiar roll in your stomach curdled and you pursed your lips shut, turning away and burying your nose into the still fresh part of your scrubs. 

“Fifteen litres on by mask!” Whitaker yelled. “Intubation?”

He was looking to you. 

You shook your head, unable to speak with half your focus going on calming the insides of your stomach.

“With all the seizing we can't get a read on the baby's status,” said Santos. 

Fuck- you'd have to say something. You couldn't leave a fresh doctor and student into clampsia blind. “Ultrasound,” you breathed out, still unable to face where the sick started to soak into your scrubs. “Check on baby!” 

If Santos and Whitaker thought it was strange they said nothing, following you orders and relaying what they found. 

“Doctor Robin- do we intubate?”

Another set of hands came up to help steady her and you could back away. 

Even your shoes hadn't been spared the mercy of the vomit. 

“Not yet, push keppra, four grams.”

Grabbing clothes cutters you quickly sliced at your scrub top, thankful you were wearing something long sleeved and covering more of you then a simple vest. 

With the top in shreds you could finally breath but your stomach didn't get the memo.

“Pulse Ox eighty-eight!”

Groaning, you pulled the tray out for intubation, handing it to Santos. 

She glanced at you. “Hey, you look a bit-”

“- don't say sick or I'll throw up on you,” you warned, following her around like she was your new human shield. You wondered if she'd be flattered or pissed if you admitted she was. “Push probofal.”

“Pushing.”

Eventually the seizing stopped with everything you pushed to get her stable and you moved quick. It was like putting everything else on aeroplane mode, shutting off your own systems to get hers stable.

“Intubate, get an EEG to check her brain levels. She's paralysed now but her brain could still be seizing.”

You slipped in sick, grabbing yourself on the nearest doctor and thanking them. You stayed for the intubation only then knew you couldn't hack it anymore. 

You fled the room, bumping into Samira on your way out. 

Dana jolted up. “Hey, what're you-”

“-get Robby in trauma one.”

You found the nearest bathroom, locked it and threw up everything. You hugged the toilet like it was your anchor, your body curling into the movements. Time escaped you, it could have been minutes it could have been hours but finally you fell back and flushed, wiping away everything. 

You were young, you weren't as old as your husband. You'd had less experience in traumas all together, however you were a good doctor, capable enough to be a fellow attending. 

Several substances had been chucked over you in your time. Blood, vomit, piss- some you didn't even know the name off. 

Why had today been any different?

Clearing yourself up: re-tying your hair, washing out your mouth and applying Chapstick, cleaning your shoes and wiping tears from under your eyes, you blamed it on the bagels you'd had that morning. 

It was the only logical explanation.

Leaving the bathroom you felt momentary guilt and fleeing but spotted Robby already taking your place in the trauma. 

“Hey, hun,” Dana was at your side quick, gentle and peering at you closely. “What was that about? You doin alright?”

“Yeah,” you hummed. 

“You throw up? You sick?”

“No, I-” you thought of every other time you'd lied to Dana and how it never went well. “Yes but it's probably just food poisoning. Don't tell Robby.”

If Robby knew you were sick- after already having been worried this morning- you'd be driven home in twenty minutes flat. 

“Robby always finds out,” said Dana. 

You ignored her and pushed open the door to the lounge. She didn't follow and you were left with spare seconds to yourself. 

Your hands shook slightly as you fetched a glass to fill with water. To cool yourself down you ran your hands under, splashing the back of your neck with some. You gargled water and spit it back, ready to drain the glass and wet your sudden parched mouth when Langdon appeared in the door. 

“Hey, I've got a head lac I need you to take a look at.”

Because you were an attending. Because of the kind of person you are you put down the glass and followed him.

“She just ran out?”

There was the all too familiar buzz of the sanitiser dispenser as Robby helped himself to a generous blob before rubbing it into his hands. A beat behind, Denis did the same, following in his footsteps- literally. 

“Er-yeah,” he said, working fast to absorb every bit of hand sanitiser. “She ordered the EEG and bolted.”

Robby nodded, taking it all in clinically. “You said she looked pale?”

“Yeah but, she had just been thrown up on.” 

Being thrown up on wasn't a pleasant experience but he hadn't known you to run from bodily fluids. 

“Where is she now?” Robby asked, as if Denis was the soul person to look out for you. Well, Robby trusted Denis, a gift he didn't bestow on many so he did expect Denis to keep an eye on you at all times. 

“She went to the bathroom but I don't know now.”

Robby checked the bathrooms, finding you void of those spaces. He checked the lounge where nothing but a deserted glass of water sat.

He was almost panicking when he saw the back of you and Frank in a room. 

He paused. 

You were sat next to a young girl, holding her hand. Although he couldn't hear you he imagined the softness of your voice as it always became when dealing with a pedes case. You'd always joked that if the ED wasn't so in need of two attendings at a time you'd have left his ass for pedes upstairs at once. 

Robby didn't think so. For one, you'd miss his face, for the second thing- you liked bouncing from one emergency to another, switching off and relying only on your skills. 

You hadn't been bouncing around as quick as usual the last couple days. He realised it only in that moment.

Frank was standing with his arms folded over his chest, pitching in every now and then and also getting the girl to smile. 

He didn't want to go in, break the concentration and trust you'd formed with the small child. He'd find you later. 

Whatever was going on, the two of you clearly had it handled. 

Your dreams came to you in fades. 

There was first an annoyingly weird dream about a animal circus finding it's home in the Pitt. They said work followed you home, but it even followed you into dreams which seemed just un-fair. Then there was a stork on an elephants back. How would an elephant even get in to the place?

They turned to some much more enjoyable memories that had your body warming un-consciously. 

Robby's weight pressed down into yours on the couch in your living room. You'd begged him to put everything on you, to not hold himself up and with-hold his moans. 

And because you'd asked, he did. 

Robby wasn't a light guy and you liked him like that. The weight of him crushing you, his spit swapped with yours, sweat of his body being shared and the fingerprints you could feel at your hips. 

“Oh fuck sweetheart, oh fuck!” he'd groaned out loud. 

You felt parts of him deep in you you didn't know you could feel and still you wanted more. Your locked your ankles around his backside, keeping him into you in short and sweet thrusts. 

“Oh, you like that? Jesus Christ,” he grunted into your neck, unable to hold himself up even if he wanted to. “So greedy. Fuckin' so greedy!”

“Please, Robby, please!”

Steady hands were sudden at your shoulders and a body pressed up to yours, decidedly unlike how one did in the dream. 

“Go home,” said Robby. 

You picked yourself up from where you'd dozed off, your head in your arms folded over on the counter. In front of you, the computer was blank. “Hm?”

Robby's eyes bored into yours. “Go home, you're sick.”

“It's only twelve. I'm not sick- I'm fine,” you said, waving off his hand as it came up to test your temperature in the very medical practise of hand on forehead. 

Robby shook his head. “You were dozing this morning, you're asleep now, you threw up-”

“Dana, I told her not to say anything!” You cursed under your breath. 

“Not Dana, Whitaker,” said Robby, looking at you with brows draw in, somewhere between anger (or as angry as he could get at you) and concern. “Did you tell Dana not to tell me?”

“Because you worry.” You used your secret trick of overwhelming affection to try to starve off Robby. Your hands were clammy as they held his cheeks, fingertips grazing over his beard just how he liked. He was kneeling at your side, melting into your touch. “I'm fine.”

For extra measures you pressed a kiss to his forehead and walked away. 

There was a split second of head spinning blur. The sort that had you reaching out to balance yourself. It lasted maybe two seconds but enough to worry you. 

If you hadn't taken such care in tending to Robby's own distraction he'd have clocked it and dragged you home himself. 

You maybe weren't so fine. It wasn't every day you felt as tired as you did now, and however good the night before had been Robby had given you more. Plenty. You'd surpassed twenty-fours working in the ED with no sleep so nothing could phase you. 

But being phased you were. 

The lack of sleep.... the throwing up... maybe you were coming down with something. 

You'd thrown up last week too, so it couldn't be food poisoning like you were trying to convince yourself it was. 

Robby hurried after you, the jingle of his keys and ID card and such jangling. “I'm keeping my eyes on you.”

“Sexy.”

In trauma one the two of you worked together with a score of doctors and nurses. Mrs Albany- the pregnant lady with clampsia- demanded attention. Perhaps it was a waste of two attendings working on the same patient. 

The emergency c-section you had to perform made the one patient two and as Robby worked to keep the mother alive you worked on the child, stimulating the baby boy till he breathed, wiping off the fluids and bloods and sighing when he cried out. 

Under the gown and mask you could see Robby's own dimples at you as you both saved lives. 

But the tang of iron from the uterus and child filled your nostrils and upset you close enough to tears. You were glad Esme had cleaned up the sick from early and equally as glad you had the chance to throw up your breakfast so you couldn't do it again. 

“Holy shit!” Santos celebrated, yanking off her gown and gloves next to you as you did the same, “That was crazy!”

The baby was pushed by you, heading up to the NICU, the mother following, a pulse low but steady, heading up to the OR.

You ducked away from Robby as he followed the pair out. You took Santos with you, a pushing hand on her back. “Yeah, it was- listen I've got a patient that needs blood results quick, you think if I get it you can rush it up to labs, on an ASAP basis.”

Santos frowned. You knew what she was thinking before she even had to say it. It was a boring job, her skills were better off etc. 

“Please?” you asked. 

It took a roll of her eyes but she agreed to. 

Five minutes later you had a vial of your own blood handed to her. 

An hour later Santos found you, Ipad in hand. 

“Hey, got the results for your patient,” she said. “Where are they? What room? I couldn't see them on the board?”

Dana would have had something to say about taking your own blood and getting it to labs without telling anyone. Robby too. As attending you should have been chastising yourself but there was no time for that. No need, either. 

Doctors made the worst sort of patients, especially when they felt they didn't need to be one. 

“Er, she left, discharged herself,” you lied quickly, trying to get a gage on the results that were cradled in your arm.

“Bummer. I wanted to give her good news. Or bad.”

“What?”

“She's pregnant.”

You stopped in you tracks. 

It took Trinity at least four more paces before she realised you had. 

The blood works showed just that. High HCG levels, you red blood cell count was high. Along with the nausea, vomiting, dizzy spells it made sense. 

You were pregnant. 

Inside the stomach that had been churning all day sat a life fully depending on you to take care of it. Suddenly none of your med school training mattered. Nothing you'd ever down before mattered. Looking after patients was one thing. You didn't have to go home with them, check they drank enough or ate enough, didn't have to check in with their boss they were taking it easy. 

You struggled to look after yourself. 

Throw a baby in the mix and you were doomed. 

Chuck in Robby and you were-

Robby. 

Jesus Fuck. You'd never spoken about kids. You'd only been married a year and were still in what some considered the 'honeymoon' phase.

“Everything okay?” asked Santos. “Did I miss something in the results?”

You cleared your throat. “No. No, that all... looks good. I'm just gonna take a small break. Quick one. Thanks.” 

“Hey, Robby!” Denis called as he walked out from the ambulance bay. “Congratulations!” 

“Thanks, Whitaker.”

It took Robby seconds to pause and think. What was he being congratulated for? The fact he went outside for some air? It wasn't impressive. Was it the quick life saving procedures they'd made on mother and son that sent them both upstairs alive? That was over an hour ago and Denis had been in the room. 

Robby back tracked to Whitaker. “What am I being congratulated on, exactly?” he asked. 

Whitaker looked at him like he was crazy. “The good news.”

Good news? The last good news he had was marrying you a year ago, and Whitaker had been at the damn wedding crying more than his own grandmother. 

Robby shook his head. 

“The good news, you'll be a great dad.”

Robby chocked on his breath, leaning on the counter. “Wh-what?” he chuckled in a breath. 

“You're pregnant? I mean, not you, obviously, I-I know how it works. But you're having a baby, that's-that's what they say and I just wanted to say well done. Or not well done! No, that came out wrong, jus-”

Robby had let him stumble on his words as he tried to figure out what he was saying. The baby? What baby? “Denis, what are you talking about?”

He looked around quickly for you but couldn't see you. 

“Oh my god, you didn't know, you didn't know did you?” Whitaker's face paled, his entire body sinking. “Santos told me, she told me not to tell anyone but I-I figured I could tell you! I guessed- oh god, did I just tell you your wife is pregnant?”

His wife...

Pregnant...

And Robby was finding out from Huckleberry!

Robby took a step around the counter and Denis stumbled back into his chair. “Are you telling me she's...”

Whitaker nodded when the words failed him. 

Robby thought back to the sickness you thought he'd missed last week, the way you fell asleep at the computer earlier and the general exhaustion. He tried to think back to what night could have been 'the one' but somewhere along the line you'd both stopped being careful. Condoms were abandoned in draws and your pack of contraceptive pills were still full.

“Doctor- Doctor Robby? Do you need to sit down?” Denis asked. 

Robby waved him off and gave himself one minute to compose himself. He knew panic, it was an old friend he'd lost contact with over the years, yet it returned to him then. 

“Where is she now?” he asked. 

“Oh, I don't- I don't-”

“Huckleberry!” he tried not to expose his fondness of the nickname Santos had given him but it slipped out in the most desperate of times. 

Denis gulped, knowing this. “Exam room three.”

Robby nodded and made a be-line, Casey was asking him a question as he passed but he held up a hand, ignoring her. 

Santos stepped out the room, closing the door and stopping when Robby almost collided with her. “You can't go in there.”

Robby inhaled a deep breath. It was one thing having Whitaker be the one to tell him you were pregnant. It was another to have Santos blocking him from seeing you. “Doctor Santos if you don't let me through you will miss every trauma that comes through those doors.”

Luckily, he knew how to work Santos. 

Her arms budged over her chest. “For how long?”

Whatever you had promised her to keep him out must have been just as grand a prize. “Till I see fit now let me in.”

It was like a western stand off for longer than Robby would have liked. Every second he spent out of your room was longer you were spending alone. 

Eventually, Trinity sighed and gave up. “Okay, fine, whatever, but she promised me first dibs at a REBOA for doing this. I expect that to still stand.”

Robby pushed through the room and snapped back the curtains finding you at the edge of a bed, the wand of an ultrasound hidden under your top and the grey scale picture of a baby on the monitor. 

To your credit you didn't flinch or move as he stood there.

“Lets be real this is not the worst thing you've caught me doing.”

In five minutes Robby had wiped down your stomach of the gel, had helped pull your top down and sat with you on the edge of the patient bed, the curtain back to being pulled over and hiding the two of you from traumas and agitated patients and doctors alike. 

“How long have you known?” asked Robby. 

There was no anger, no mean undertones. It was frightening rather blank, the way he spoke. You'd always prided yourself on knowing how to tell when he was in a good mood or bad from the smallest of tics he had. 

He'd trained them out of himself apparently. 

Yet- he'd given you his hand and you'd pulled it into your lap, holding it and trailing your own fingers over his. 

“The time's now-” you peeked over him at the clock over the door. “- about an hour and thirteen minutes.”

He shook his head, scoffing out a smile that pronounced his wrinkles. “Why didn't you come to me?”

You sighed, shrugging your shoulders. “I thought I was just sick, you know? So I thought I'd get some bloods and see.”

“Did you do the bloods yourself?”

You looked at him and that was telling enough. With the hand that wasn't with yours he rubbed at his temple in aggravation. So far there'd been little to no talk about the baby growing in your stomach but more concern about how you'd gone to finding out. 

“You should've got me,” he said. 

“Well if I thought I was pregnant I probably would have.” You tried to joke but it fell flat. 

“Probably?” he repeated quietly. 

Silence went by with only the ticking of the clock as company. 

You held onto his hand, readying yourself for the question yet to be asked. “Are you mad at me?”

Robby shook his head but didn't look at you.

“Annnnd are you mad at...” you couldn't say baby yet. Didn't know if giving the clump of cells in your stomach a name would scare him off. 

With the hand in your lap his fingers entwined with yours and clutched tight. 

“I know we never talked about kids and this wasn't planned in the slightest,” you said even if you knew Robby had stopped pulling out months ago, favouring the way you felt when your walls swallowed him up. “You can be angry.”

“You keep asking if I'm angry, do you want me to be?” he asked, finally a touch of emotion in his voice as it rose an octave. “Are you mad?”

That was the question. It wasn't planned, but it wasn't unwanted. You couldn't say that seeing the way mothers caressed their stomachs when they came in with spotting or concerns didn't have you thinking of your own child one day. That talking to that little girl with the head lac earlier with Frank didn't cause a pang of longing in your heart. 

You'd never tried to pretend you didn't want everything with Robby. Even if you've never discussed what everything was to each other. 

“When I was in med school I thought I'd have it all worked out long before now,” said Robby. “Marriage and kids. Maybe on my second marriage by now.”

You dug your elbow into his ribs, rewarded with a quick, breathless laugh. 

His eyes creased as his face scrunched up. “Didn't work out. Guess I... gave up thinking it could.”

“Then you met me, right?”

Robby looked at you. His eyes were like glass as he looked you over, his lips titled, cheeks red under his beard. He looked- if you didn't mind saying so- like a man mesmerised. He nodded. 

“I thought you didn't want kids,” you said. 

“Do you?” he asked, eyes boring into yours. 

“Do you?” you threw back to him. 

He squeezed your hand and gave you a look. 

“I think I do,” you admitted, quietly, as if you could take it back if it displeased him. “I don't know if I'll be good at it. I hardly have time to look after myself, let alone a baby. And I don't want to be one of those people that gives up work for kids cause I love my job but... I think I could love a kid, too.”

Robby nodded along with what you were saying, a smile brightening everything you thought looked dark in him.

“Do you want kids?” you asked. 

“Oh, kids?” he teased. “You're so sure its twins already?”

You rolled your eyes as he nudged his shoulder with yours, rocking the both of your bodies. 

“I want everything with you, I said so much in my vows, didn't I? You thought I was lying, Doctor Robin?”

You couldn't help but smile at the nickname he gave you and was proud to call you. After all, calling out for two Robinavitch's in an emergency proved difficult quickly. “I don't believe your vows included, I want to fuck you so hard and deep you get pregnant within the first year of marriage.' ”

“Dirty mouth, cussing like that,” said Robby, his eyes drifting down your lips as he bit down on his own. “Have to sort that out before the baby gets here.”

“Lucky we have eight months to train it out of me.”

Robby's nose had just brushed yours before he was pulling back, studying you again. His gaze drifted to your stomach, wondering if the manifestation of your nights had started to show. “You're a month along, already?”

You clocked your head side to side. “Give or take a week or two.”

“Eight months it is.”

Robby kissed you, licking into your mouth and breathing you in with deep breaths. His large hands held your cheeks and kept you in, all but drowning you in lips and touch and love. He tilted his head aside, kissing you deeper. 

At once the doors banged open and arguing voices drifted in. 

Robby pulled back with his head lowered in disappointment while you licked the taste of him off your lips. “I swear to god, these kids-” he grumbled as Denis and Trinity stumbled in. 

“Seems like you got the dad thing down already,” you said, hand rubbing up and down in his back. 

The intruders had a hoard of things in arms. Denis was carrying a large bear in hand that almost drowned him as he struggled to hold him. The bear was holding a blue heart sewen into its paws while Trinity was struggling in pulling the pink balloons in. 

It seemed they'd already made bets on what baby they wanted you to have.

“We er, wanted to get you these,” said Denis. “Sorry for ruining the surprise.”

“I'm not sorry, I didn't do anything,” said Santos with a scoff. 

“You told me,” pointed out Whitaker. 

“Yeah and I told you not to tell anyone, fuckleberry then you tell the dad!”

“I thought he knew!”

“I told you in confidence!”

“You were laughing while you were telling me! That wasn't every confident!”

“Oh my god, it's a figure of speech!”

You laughed at the two of them, hiding your face in Robby's scrubs as he leant his head back toward you. 

“You think they'd notice if we started trying for baby number two now?”

[ofstarsandvibranium]

Now here’s Robby x short!reader

“Well, well. It’s a dead man walking!” You quip as Robby heads toward the hub.

He snorts and shakes his head at you, “Isn’t a little too early for your shit talk, Smalls?”

“Never too early, Gigantor,” you reply back with a smirk.

He hums and leans down, pressing a kiss to your lips, “Morning.”

“Morning. If you can’t tell, I’m a little delirious.”

Robby chuckles, “You don’t say?”

“I can’t wait to be back on day shift and sleep like a regular person!”

“Hey! I thought you liked being a Nightcrawler,” Jack says as he circles around the hub.

You shrug, “You guys are built different.”

Both Robby and Jack both chuckle. Robby then asks Jack, “You treatin’ my girl okay, Abbot?”

“She’s a trooper…when she’s not being an annoying little shit.”

“…I’m not afraid to steal your prosthetic and beat you with it, Abbot.”

Jack chuckles, “So much fire in such a tiny body.”

You go to launch at Jack and Robby holds you back, “Alright, honey. Ease up. We’re gonna do hand offs and then you can go home. There’s food waiting for you when you get there.”

“Yay!” You hug your partner and then go finish up checking on your patients.

Both Robby and Jack’s eyes follow you. They shake their heads in disbelief.

“She’s like a gremlin.”

“Careful, if you get water on her, she might multiply,” Jack murmurs, clapping a hand on Robby’s shoulder and guiding him to the South wing.

[mysatnin]

𝐇𝐎𝐍𝐄𝐘’𝐒 𝐍𝐀𝐕𝐀𝐆𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 & 𝐑𝐄𝐂𝐒. 𐙚⋆°🦢.⋆ᥫ᭡

𝐌𝐘 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓. 𐙚⋆°🦢.⋆ᥫ᭡ — writing, works to be added soon.

𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐎𝐅 𝐌𝐘 𝐅𝐀𝐕𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐄 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐒. 𐙚⋆°🦢.⋆ᥫ᭡ — please give them all the love and support. — part 2

Dark Wedding Series, @hotdocsandcowboys

Unpunishable, @inbred-eater

Craig’s Friend, @girthgrudgefear

Apartment Seventeen, @deathreverse

Karma Series, @alvfr

How To Disappear, @lovebugism

Shared Custody, @cinnxmxngxrl

Daddy’s Favourite, @bluetimeombre

Missed Cues, @blinded-by-the-lightz

Sunshine & Midnight Rain, @dearwalker

Pope’s Girl, @evancelinewrites

Sweet Nothing, @padmespetal

Necessary Arrangement, @tumbleweedstillhaspanic

House Tour, @filmetcs

Daddy Yours, @rr-after-dark

Untouched, @thykingdoncome

Sugar Series, @mytearsricochetm

How To Disappear, @lovebugism

All For Something, @theetherealbloom

Companionship, @asxgard

Special Privileges, @cinnxmxngxrl

Bet On It, @bluetimeombre

Savior Complex, @lovebugism

Hold Still, @geminiwritten

Softer, Harder, In Between, @ceriseangels

Casual, @lovebugism

Bambi Series, @miasvelvetvoid

Irresistible, @callme-holly

Could Be Me, @geminiwritten

Mafia Wife, @melis-writes

Human Resources, @rr-after-dark

Summer Time, @taknbythewind

Helping Hand, @rynwrites4fun

The Ache Of Obsession, @pearlessance

Loaded Gun, @bullet-prooflove

Young Series, @myboipracticallyimagines

Sweet Creature, @p1ttlings

Off The Record, @bittersweet-daydreams29

Ex’s & Oh’s @cinnxmxngxrl

Dinner At The Shelby’s, @sansaorgana

Mrs. Danforth, @rr-after-dark

Nightshift Nurse, @sleepingbeautiiies

You Have No Idea, @geminiwritten

Seven Week Itch, @lovebugism

Whipped Series, @rr-after-dark

Eye Of The Hurricane, @romantic-insomniac

Sweet Girl, @groovyangelkisses

No Other Heart, @padmespetal

Pearls Before Swine, @sun-snatcher

Show Me How, @cicadasexfest

[apfelkernchen]

I rarely say things I don’t mean

Dr. Jack Abbot x (female) reader | Dr. Jack Abbot x you

Summary: Jack would rather treat a mass casualty event than make one particular phone call. Unfortunately he kind of has to.

A/N: I'm no longer updating the taglist because Tumblr has been glitching way too much lately. If you don't want to miss any updates, feel free to turn on notifications for my posts! <3

Link to "You stole my cart" master list (1)

Link to "You stole my cart" master list (2)

Previous chapter: Interlude: You'll be the death of me, woman

--- --- ---

Jack sat down next to you on the sofa, phone in hand, letting out a heavy sigh. You looked up, raising an eyebrow.

“Are you okay?” you asked, snuggling up against him.

He shrugged. “Yeah.” He went silent for a while. “I’m thinking.”

“About…?”

He looked down at his phone again. “I should tell Janine about our engagement.”

You blinked, surprised, sitting up. “You haven’t told her yet?”

“Well, no.” He hesitated. “We didn’t have much contact since her last visit.”

“Oh.”

You both went still. It was a while until you turned toward him again.

“Do you want her to know? Or do you feel the obligation to tell her?” you asked, choosing your words carefully.

He glanced at you. “That’s the problem” he said eventually. “I want her to know. It would be easier if I wouldn’t care about her at all.”

You nodded. “Then tell her. You don’t have to chat with her for hours. Just a quick phone call, huh?”

“Yeah.” He closed his eyes for a moment with another deep sigh. “Yeah, you’re right.”

“But you still don’t want to call her, right?”

He shook his head. “Fuck, no” he exhaled.

This statement obviously came from the bottom of his heart which made you laugh. “Wow.”

He shrugged. “I know.”

“I do get it” you replied. “It’s not like she’s the easiest person in the world. But still - just get it over with.”

He groaned. “Maybe tomorrow.”

You stared at him. “No, Dr. Abbot, today.”

Jack looked at you, his eyes narrowing. “Don’t use your Lizzie-voice on me.”

“Then don’t act like a toddler maybe” you shot back, a smile on your lips now.

He started pouting. “I’m not a toddler” he murmured.

“I know, you’re not. You’re a brilliant, handsome, confident emergency physician, who’s a little scared of his psycho sister.”

Jack started to laugh. “Stop insulting my family.”

You shrugged. “She started” you replied with a wink. Then you leaned over, kissing him on the cheek before standing up again. “You can do this, superman” you cooed with a wink. “I’m going to make us some ice cream - with whipped cream and sprinkles. As a reward.”

Jack let out a quiet chuckle. “Sounds good.”

You went into the kitchen. 

Jacks sat for a moment, then he unlocked his phone. He scrolled through the text messages and stopped at her name. His thumb hovered over the keyboard for a moment before he started typing.

Jack:

You up?

Janine:

Yes.

Jack:

Can I call you?

The reply came almost immediately.

Janine:

Yes.

Everything alright?

Jack stared at the message. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

You peeked from the kitchen. “What?”

“She answered.”

“That was the goal, darling” you replied with a soft smile.

Jack looked at you like you had personally betrayed him. “That’s rude.”

You let out a chuckle. “Just call her.”

You disappeared back into the kitchen again. 

He stared after you for a while, then he pressed the call button. The line clicked almost instantly.

“Jack?” Janine’s voice was alert.

He cleared his throat. “Hey.”

“Are you okay?” She sounded worried.

“Yeah.”

Another pause.

“Is Lizzie okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Jack” she said sternly. “What the hell is wrong?”

“Nothing is wrong” he said slowly. “Everybody’s fine.”

That was met with silence. “Um, okay. So you just called because you wanted to talk to me?”

“Um.” Jack rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah. I mean. Kind of.”

She sighed. “Jack.”

“Hm?”

“Just say it.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, come on, don’t try to blindside me. There’s something you want to tell me, right?”

“Yeah.” He stared at the floor, then took a deep breath. “You see, I, um… I proposed.”

“Oh.”

His stomach dropped instantly. 

There it was. 

He couldn’t believe how many feelings he felt just by hearing that tiny word. 

Disappointment. Worry. Hurt. Anger. 

“... and?” Janine asked eventually.

Jack blinked. “And?” he echoed, confused.

“Well, did she say yes?”

Jack blinked. “Yeah, of course she said yes.”

“Thank God.”

He was caught off guard and let out a short laugh. “What?”

Janine laughed softly. “Jack. I honestly thought for a moment you were calling me all dramatic because she’d said no. I was about to book a flight to come and see you.”

He laughed. Something in his chest loosened a little. “No need for a flight - she said yes. Very happily so.”

“That’s good to hear.” She paused for a moment. “Congratulations, Jack.”

Jack looked down at his free hand. 

For a moment he couldn’t think of anything to say because he had spent so long preparing for a fight that he hadn’t prepared for… this.

Then - “Thanks.”

Janine was quiet for a second.

“Are you happy?” Her voice was unusually soft.

Jack smiled. “Yeah.” Another pause. “Yeah. Very happy.”

“Good. And is your fiancee also happy?”

Butterflies fluttered loose in Jack’s stomach when he heard this word from her mouth. 

His smile widened. “Yes.”

“Good.” She took a deep breath. “Now tell me everything.”

Jack furrowed his brows. “You sure?”

“I rarely say things I don’t mean” she replied dryly.

Jack laughed again. “Yeah, okay, fair.” 

He leaned back against the sofa cushions and started talking.

Twenty minutes later they said goodbye. 

Before hanging up Janine hesitated for the briefest moment. “Thanks for telling me, Jack.”

He swallowed hard. “Yeah, sure.”

“You’re my baby brother and I want you to be happy” she said quietly. “I know we have our differences but I love you.”

The words caught him off guard. 

For a moment he just sat there before starting to smile. “I love you too, Didi.”

A quiet laugh came through the phone. “Go, be happy, okay? And give your fiancee my love. If she wants or not.”

Jack smiled despite himself. “I will.”

“Good. Well, goodnight, Jack.”

“Night.”

The line clicked dead.

Jack stared at the screen for a second, then he put the phone down and let out a long breath. The knot that had lived somewhere between his ribs all week had finally loosened.

A moment later footsteps approached from the kitchen. You appeared carrying two enormous bowls. 

Jack raised an eyebrow. “What the hell is that?!”

“Ice cream.”

“Yeah, I can see that. But it’s… enormous.”

You grinned. “That’s what she said” you replied, chuckling to yourself. “Vanilla and chocolate ice cream. Whipped cream. Strawberries. Sprinkles.”

You handed him one of the bowls, then you settled beside him on the sofa, tucking your legs over his lap without a second thought. Jack automatically rested a hand on your knee.

“How did it go?” you asked.

He looked down. “Good.”

“Good?”

“Yeah.”

“When you talk like that you make me feel like I’m reliving every moment. It’s captivating really” you said dryly.

He laughed out loud, rubbing his neck. “Yeah, it really went well.”

You studied him for a while. 

“See?” You leaned forward, stealing a strawberry from his bowl. “Told you.”

Jack huffed out a laugh. “You did.”

Silence settled comfortably between you, while you started eating. Jack still stared at his bowl, his thoughts apparently a thousand miles away.

You nudged his shoulder gently. “Hey handsome. What are you thinking about?”

Jack looked up, blinking. “Nothing.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Lying is not one of your many talents, you know?”

He started to smile. “Yeah, I know.” He paused. “I was just thinking about how life is messy sometimes. And still… I wouldn’t trade it.”

You smiled. “It is. But, to be fair, your sister adds another layer of messiness to our life. You know that, right?”

Jack started laughing. “I know, I know.”

Then you pointed toward his bowl with the untouched ice cream. “And now start eating before your food gets warm.”

He saluted instantly with his free hand. “Yes, Ma’am.”

“Oh, wow” you replied, stuttering slightly, suddenly flustered and blushing. “That shouldn’t work on me.”

“No, it should not. But what did I say?” He looked at you. “Messy.”

--- --- ---

You wanna keep reading? - Next part is coming soon, I promise :)

--- --- ---

Tag list: @itjustpunkpizzabae, @theariesview @michasia24 @bye-bye-gremlings @tyghvbuijknmopkl @momdancingtomcr @alexxavicry @rainforestfrogss @starkgaryan @moistointments @rossy1080 @abzidabzy @weepingwhispersengineer @cherryybombsworld @woodxtock @letstryagaintomorrow @romanticpursuit @nicelittletriptotheforest @teenytinylilcrawdaddies @camie18 @thewillowarchive @fortjackson @eugene-emt-roe @nicksolemnlyswears @sarah-fuckyou @beepitybeepboop @amnatreal @goldfishenthusiast67 @karleyyyjaeee @starsmoonn @doesanyonereadthis @introvertedphilomath @noellealexisss @sweetwanderlust05 @eugene-emt-roe @lovehadlovelost @amacphet @asparklysoul @shinyskeletonsky @givemethemaknaes16 @artemis-the-ace @marvelsimps @anyasthoughts @amacphet @mukeovernetflix @doe-jenna @prettyflowerlily

[thatsthatbridepresso]

Monsters and Mountain Men

Rating: Read warnings below!

Warnings: really just tooth-rotting, sweet fluff. A small warning alluding to sex at the end and having another baby but other than that, it's soft.

Author's Note: This idea came to me very late and even though I am busy with a shit work schedule this week and college, I had to get this out of my head. I was also insired by the latest pics of Shawn 🤪 Anyway, I hope you all enjoy! For my besie @josephs-quinns

Between raising a daughter and working nights as an ER attending, Jack Abbot rarely had a moment to himself. Yet no matter how long the hours or how heavy the exhaustion settled into his bones, he always made time for his daughter and you. Somehow, he never stopped showing up. Today was no different. 

After twelve relentless hours at PTMC, Jack was running on little more than caffeine and stubborn determination. Yet as he stepped out of his truck and looked toward the warm glow of the house, a small smile tugged at his lips. He knew exactly what was waiting for him on the other side of that door. 

With a tired sigh, he slung his backpack over his shoulder and grabbed the stainless-steel tumbler that had carried him through the night. Empty now, it swung lightly from his hand as he climbed the front steps. With his free hand, he fished around in his pocket until his fingers found the familiar shape of his key. 

He eased the key into the lock and slipped through the front door as quietly as he could. Chances were you and his baby girl were still asleep, and he intended to keep it that way. The house was peaceful, and after the chaos of the emergency room, he found himself reluctant to disturb it.

He dragged a hand down his face, feeling the coarse stubble that had taken over his jaw over the last few days. Shaving had fallen somewhere near the bottom of his priority list.

Easing out of his tennis shoes, he left them by the door and carefully set his backpack beside them. The house was quiet, the kind of peaceful silence that only existed in the hours before the rest of the world woke up.

He crossed the hardwood floor on silent feet and slipped into the kitchen. Setting his tumbler in the sink, he winced at the faint metallic clink that broke the stillness, then paused to listen. When no movement followed, he continued on, relieved he hadn’t disturbed anyone. 

He decided a quick shower downstairs was in order before making his way upstairs. Then he’d crawl into bed beside you, burying himself in the familiar comfort of your arms and the scent of your shampoo before exhaustion finally claimed him. It had become a rountine neither of you ever spoke about, but one he looked forward to after every shift. 

In a few hours, you’d wake before he did. You always did. While he caught up on the sleep he’d sacrificed all night for strangers, you’d keep your daughter occupied downstairs, filling the house with breakfast, cartoons, and quiet laughter so Daddy could rest a little longer. 

As the hot water poured of him, Jack felt some of the day’s weight begin to slide from his shoulders. Twelve hours of chaos, fluroscent lights, and life-or-death decisions swirled down the drain along with the soap and sweat. 

By the time he shut off the water, the knot between his shoulder blades had loosened, if only a little.

He grabbed a towel and dried himself off, the familiar scent of fresh detergent clinging to the fabric. The corners of his mouth twitched upward.

You always made sure the towels smelled good. 

Dressed in a pair of sleep pants, he paused in front of the mirror and studied his reflection. Dark circles shadowed his eyes and several days worth of stubble covered his jaw,. 

“Jesus,” he muttered under his breath.

He looked exhausted.

Worse than exhausted, really. Worn down. Like the last few weeks had caught up to him all at once. 

It felt worse than when his daughter had first been born. At least back then, there’d been a reason for the sleepless nights. Tiny cries at three in the morning. Bottles. Diapers. The indescribable joy of holding his little girl against his chest. 

This?

This was just work. Endless, exhausting work. 

He decided—one again—that shaving could wait. Another day. Maybe two. At this rate, he might accidentally end up with a beard. 

The thought made him huff out a quiet laugh.

Leaving the bathroom behind, he made his way upstairs, careful to avoid the creaky spots he knew by heart. The house remained silent around him as he climbed the staircase and headed down the hall toward the master bedroom. 

The door was closed.

Of course it was.

You always slept with the door shut. Whether it was for privacy, comfort, or simply habit, he wasn’t entirely sure anymore. He’d stopped questioning it years ago. Now the sight of the closed door waiting for him at the end of a long shift felt oddly comforting—a small sign he was finally home. 

He took a deep breath as his hand settled on the doorknob. Turning it carefully, he eased the door open, mindful not to disturb the peaceful scene he was certain awaited him on the other side. 

As the door cracked open, you came into view.

You were curled up on your side of the bed, buried beneath the blankets, your hair spread across the pillow.

A smile immediately tugged at Jack’s lips.

Then his gaze shifted, and the smile grew.

Nestled beside of you was your four-year-old daughter, fast asleep and sprawled halfway across the mattress as if she owned it. One tiny hand rested against your shoulder, her favorite stuffed animal trapped beneath her arm.

Of course she’d ended up in your bed.

She must have wandered in sometime during the night after another bad dream or a sudden need for Mommy cuddles. 

The sight alone was enough to melt away what remained of the exhaustion clinging to him. After twelve hours spent dealing witht he worst moments of other people’s lives, this felt like stepping into a different world entirely. 

His world.

Jack quietly crossed to your side of the bed and leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of your head. His fingers slopped through your hair, brushing a few stray strands away from your face. 

“Hey, baby,” he murmured. 

You let out a sleepy hum, your eyes still closed.

“Mornin’,” you mumbled. 

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “You awake?”

“Barely.”

Your hand drifted up, finding his jaw. The moment your fingertips brushed the rough stubbe there, you paused.

A sleepy frown crossed your face.

“Ow.”

Jack snorted. “Ow?”

You rubbed your thumb against his jaw again. “Your face is scratchy.” 

“I just got home.”

“Mhm.” Your voice was thick with sleep. “And still haven’t shaved in days.”

He laughed quietly. “Is that a complaint?”

“It’s an observation.”

Your eyes fluttered open just enough to look at him. “A very, sexy concerning observation.”

Jack shook his head. “It isn’t that bad.”

“It absolutely is.” You yawned. “You kissed me and I thought a cactus had attacked my forehead.” 

That earned a geniune laugh from him. 

His gaze drifted down to your daughter, curled uop between the two of you, her stuffed rabbit tucked tightly against her chest. 

“What happened here?”, he whispered.

You glanced down at her, your expression immediately softening. “Bad dream.”

His smile faded into concern. “Yeah?”

You nodded. “Came into our room around two in the morning crying about a monster in her closet.” You brushed a hand through your daughter’s messy hair. “I checked three times, but apparently sleeping with Mommy fixed everything.”

A sleepy chuckled escaped Jack. “Sounds serious.”

“Oh, extremely serious. The monster was apparently ‘this big’.” You held your fingers a few inches apart. “Terrifying stuff.”

He smiled, watching his daughter sleep peacefully now.  “My poor baby girl.” 

Careful not to wake her, Jack leaned over and pressed a gentle kiss on the top of her head. 

The moment his stubbel brushed her skin, your daughter scrunched up her face in her sleep and let out a displeased little whine. 

“She was okay after a few cuddles.” You glanced back up at him. “Though she did steal your side of the bed.”

Jack looked at the little girl sprawled diagonally across the mattress and huffed a laugh. Her tiny hand came up and rubbed the spot on her forehead before she burrowed deeper into the pillow, still fast asleep. 

You immediately bit down on your lip, fighting a laugh.

“Even she thinks it’s scratchy.” 

Jack groaned. “She’s four.”

“And yet she still agress with me.”

“I will shave soon,” Jack sighed, though a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“Mhm.”

“I will.”

“That’s what you said three days ago.”

Then your hand found his jaw again. “I do mean it, though.”

Jack looked back at you. “What?”

“The stubble.”

A sleepy smile curved your lips.

“It’s sexy.”

His chest warmed instantly. “Yeah?”

“Yeah, almost makes me want another one of these with you.”

You nodded towards your daughter. 

“Maybe we can arrange that. Later.”, he laughed before kissing you on the lips. 

“But seriously,” you began, breaking the kiss. “If it gets much longer, our daughter is gonna start introducing you as a mountain man.”

Jack laughed hard enough that he had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from waking her.

“Now come to bed, mountain man”, you whispered, lifting the comforter for him. “Before you fall asleep standing up.”

Jack carefully climbed beneath the blankets, trying not to disturb his daughter. The moment he settled in, she instinctively scooted toward him in her sleep, throwing a leg across his waist.

You snorted. “Looks like she missed you.”

Jack wrapped an arm around her tiny frame and smiled, careful to kiss her hair this time. “Missed her too.” 

There was nowhere else in the world he’d rather be. 

[pope-codys]

Okay has a bisexual women I really want to see reader is Bi and it’s the first day of Pride WOOOO and pretty much reader dosnt know on how her pride id going to look like bc she usally dose it alone. But she wakes up to a cake we’re it’s bi theme Jack is wearing a shirt saying “my girlfriend is bisexual (proud asf)” btw he dosnt understand what really asf means bc he asked trinity on how to make reader feel seen and happy and that she’s perfect (ykyk) I feel like you and run with this BUT UHH YEA

As a bi woman I love this prompt!

pairing: jack abbot x bisexual!reader

tags: fluff, humor, supportive bf jack abbot, supportive friend santo

authors note: bi and pan people i see you! you are valid even if your relationship looks traditionally heterosexual from the outside! even if you've only been with people of the opposite gender!

“Lena, Dr. Santos and I will be in the ambulance bay if you need us.” Jack announced as he approached the Hub with two cups of staff room coffee in his hands. Santos looked up from the chart she was finishing, staring at her attending with her lips parted in mild confusion. Jack met her eyes and gestured towards the ambulance bay with his head which got Santos to her feet.

Out in the bay it was dark and relatively quiet, there was no one out for a midnight smoke break or gasp of fresh, late May air. Jack handed Santos her coffee, which she accepted with a mix of gratitude and skepticism, her movements cautious as she waited for a reason behind this 1:1 meeting outside the ED.

Jack did his best to appear relaxed, making sure he wasn’t standing with his back too rigid or his shoulders too square. He had a pretty good working relationship with Santos, one full of respect and a kind of familiarity that was appropriate for an attending to have with a resident. Santo had been open with Jack about parts of her life and he felt talking to her about his dilemma wasn't completely out of left field.

“Sooo…” Santos promoted, watching Jack carefully.

“I’d like to ask you a question.” Jack started. “It’s a personal one and you’re welcome to not answer, but I need help.” Santos' eyebrows rose.

“You need my help?” She let the information sit for a second. “Okay Abbot, lay it on me.”

“My girlfriend is bisexual-”

“Woah!” Santos interrupted excitedly, her apprehension leaving completely as a smile burst across her lips. “Hell yeah Abbot.” Jack felt his own appreciation and nervousness about this conversation ease in his chest thanks to Santos' reaction.

“She’s bisexual and it’s our first Pride Month together.” Jack said, finishing his thought. Santos nodded as she took a sip of her coffee.

“And you need some guidance so you came to me, I’m flattered. What do you need help with?”

“She’s talked in the past about doing things for pride with her friends and about experiences she’s had as a bisexual woman, both good and bad, and I want to celebrate her but I’m not sure where to start.” The two fo you had been together almost a year and you were transparent with Jack about how you felt both seen and ignored in the Queer community and how it impacted you. Despite being supported by a great group of Queer friends, there were still moments when someone would insult your sexuality by quoting an outdated stereotype. You’d also confided in Jack how you’d seen other bi women get flack from people for dating a man and how hurtful it was to see.

Since you were dating Jack he was concerned that you’d be worried about what reactions you’d get this year if you brought your boyfriend to Pride. Jack wanted to make sure you knew that you had at least one person in your corner.

Santos nodded absentmindedly again at what Jack said, absorbing the information and thinking.

“Does she go to the parade?”

“She’s mentioned it before, yes.”

“Okay, that’s a good place to start but the parades aren’t for everyone because the crowds can be a lot, so you should have some other options.” Santos started to meander around the ambulance bay as she thought of more ideas.

“Does she go to bars and clubs during Pride?”

“Yes, she tells this story about singing ‘Man I Feel Like A Woman’ in a packed bar during Pride Month a few years ago. It’s a favourite moment of hers.”

“I love that for her. Do you like clubs?”

“No.” Jack stated with certainty. Maybe in his youth but not now.

“That might be for the best, bringing your straight boyfriend to Pride events can be a divisive topic. How about I send you some event calendars and you pick stuff that sounds like it’d be good for her?” Jack perked up, that idea landing perfectly.

“That’d be great.” Santos fished her cell phone out of her back pocket to pull up the information. Jack smiled to himself in satisfaction, relaxing more as he shoved his free hand into his pocket as Santos busied herself with the calendars. This was going far better than he’d thought it would. He knew in a worst case scenario Santos could have told him that his questions were too personal but she was more than happy to help him and by extension, you.

“Last order of business I’ll need your credit card.” Santos said without looking up from her phone. That comment made Jack pause.

“Why?” He asked, skeptical.

“I’m buying you some tops to wear to these events.” Santos glanced up, her eyes the only thing moving to look at Jack and see his apprehensive face. “Trust me, she’ll love it.”

A few weeks later, you were awoken on June 1st by a gentle kiss to your cheek. You groaned as you were pulled from your slumber by the continued press of your boyfriend’s lips to your face, his stubble scratching slightly against your skin. You opened one eye to look at him and he smiled at you in that handsome way he did that had you smiling right back every time. You rolled over onto your back as you woke up fully, your smile staying on your lips as you gazed at Jack illuminated by the yellow glow of the morning sun. He stared lovingly down at you and couldn’t help but lean over to give you a kiss on the lips.

As he pulled back you realized he was still in his black scrubs, clearly having just gotten home from his shift. You pushed up onto your elbows and checked the clock - 7:20am.

“I have something for you in the kitchen, c’mon.” Jack said, beckoning you to follow him out of the bedroom. He didn’t wait for you and you whined a little, tossing your head back as you threw the covers off yourself and climbed out of your comfortable bed. You yawned as you exited the bedroom, covering your mouth as you rounded the corner into your kitchen before you stopped short.

Jack stood proudly at the tiny kitchen island with a vibrantly coloured rainbow cake on the counter. You stepped forward shocked to see the top of the cake read ‘Happy Pride’ in delicate cursive icing. You looked up at Jack, finally noticing that he took off his scrub top to reveal the one he was wearing underneath that read ‘I’m not queer but my girlfriend is’ which had you laughing. Jacks smile grew at your reaction.

“Did I get it right?” He asked sheepishly. You moved forward and took Jacks face in your hands, your eyes shining with unshed tears of joy.

“It’s perfect.” You pulled him towards you and kissed him fiercely, pouring all your love into the touch of your lips to his. Jack slid his hands over your hips and across your back, holding you close.

“That’s not even the best part.” Jack said as he pulled away from you and picked up the knife on the counter to cut the cake.

“I get cake for breakfast?” You asked playfully. Jack gave you a conspiratorial smile over his shoulder as the knife slid easily through the cake a second time so Jack could remove the piece he cut. He slid it out as delicately as possible and flopped it down on an awaiting plate next to the cake. You gasped when you saw what was inside and began to jump up and down with joy.

“It’s the bi flag!” You screamed with excitement, grabbing Jacks bicep to steady yourself as you jumped. The cake was two layers - pink on top and blue in the bottom - with a hefty portion of purple icing in between them.

“Jack that’s so cool! Thank you!” You launched yourself at your boyfriend, throwing your arms around his neck to hug him close. Jack chuckled as he wrapped his arms around you, his heart happy that you were happy.

“I love you so much.” Your words were muffled against Jacks shoulder but he could hear the heavy emotion in your voice. Jack tightened his hold on you and pressed a kiss to your shoulder.

“I love you too baby, I can’t wait to celebrate you all month long.” That got you to laugh and the concern in Jacks chest eased. You’d never been loved like this, so loudly and openly. The thoughtfulness of this gesture and Jacks commitment to celebrating you made your heart grow with more love for him. Being seen like this, being loved like this, meant more to you than Jack could ever understand.

dividers by @ cursed-carmine

taglist:

@littleesilvia @distantsighs @4rtem4r @aryacoulson @sweeethearts @fveapplestall @tjohn63 @stellaforstar666 @caterpillarskimono @avengersbabe13 @littlezee80 @marvelcasey05 @thedamnqueenofhell @lover-girlxx @sleepylunarwolf @xoxabs88xox @frankierowillneverdie @secretmoonphantom @catmomstyles3 @delilafin @gaultiano @larkspurinthepitt @woodxtock @flyinglama @doe-jenna @fairygardensss @fertilise-me @eddiemunsonguitar @allicesun @garcington @catnip987 @artsymaddie @999ares9996 @Omg-mymelaninisbeautiful @18lkpeters @marsupialnoises @the-queen-of-fools @girljusttrying97 @rookieclair @moominlovie @oosarasotaoo @sxenjill @kabloswlrd @rae4725 @haylorspice-blog @axen-gers @witchywidow97 @waywardwifey @pequnopastel @avgdestitute @missharper33 @caterppillar @titus-danforth @acn87 @dragonsondragons @sprayablerats @neversleepingever @mynameisbaby9 @starlitflora @outpostsworld

[parcetamoldaisy]

Dr Jack Abbot- NSFW Alphabet

This piece is definitely inspired by my new piece about Dr Jack Abbot x shy!resident OC/ reader. I have serious brain rot from this man!!!

Warnings-NSFW (only interact if 18+- or you will be blocked)

A – Aftercare

Gentle but firm. Jack’s a grown man who knows that sex is vulnerability, especially with someone inexperienced. He always holds her after, often massaging her thighs or tracing her back. If she’s overwhelmed, he’ll help her breathe through it.

“You still with me, baby? Breathe. I got you.”

Soft showers. Warm compresses. Water with ice. Kisses to the forehead. Holding her hand while she trembles post-orgasm. The whole package.

B – Body Part

He has a thing for her thighs. Whether she’s sitting in his lap, straddling him, or just lying beside him—he lives for the way she squirms when his fingers trail there. He also has a near-worshipful obsession with her mouth: what it says, what it does, how she kisses when she lets go.

On himself? His back. He likes the pain of her scratching when he’s deep—something raw and feral about it.

C – Cum

Messy. Deep. Intentional. Jack’s a little territorial without being possessive. He likes cumming in her—seeing it drip out of her, watching her reaction to it.

He’ll say things like:

“Look at that. You took it all. Such a good girl for me.”

When she gets curious about giving head, he’ll warn her first—but if she insists, he’ll grip her hair and whisper filth while she gags on him.

D – Dirty Talk

This man is filthy. Raspy, slow voice in your ear filthy. He paces it though—sometimes soft praise, other times utter depravity:

• “That’s it. Let me hear those pretty sounds.”

• “No one’s ever touched you like this, have they? You were just waiting for me.”

• “You’ll come when I tell you to. Not a second before.”

• “Mmm… look how wet you are. Bet you didn’t know your body could want like this.”

E – Experience

Plenty. And it shows. But he’s never smug. His past is heavy—he hasn’t really let go in a long time. With her, it’s a slow unlearning. But he knows exactly what to do to get her legs shaking, her body begging.

She’s his fresh start, and he treats her with both reverence and ruin.

F – Favorite Position

• Missionary, but with her legs over his shoulders. Deep, eye contact, intense.

• From behind on his lap. Her back to his chest, one hand on her throat, the other teasing her clit.

• Eating her out with her thighs over his shoulders. His favorite fucking meal.

He likes control, but once she gets bold and rides him—he becomes unhinged.

G – Goofy

Rarely, but when it happens, it melts her. Like when she’s trying to be sexy but trips on her own pants, or gets flustered. He chuckles, helps her up, kisses her knuckles and murmurs, “You kill me, kid.”

Then ruins her 30 seconds later.

H – Hair

Salt-and-pepper down there. Trimmed. Neat. Masculine.

He thinks her hair (downstairs or otherwise) is perfect as it is—won’t let her apologize for anything. If she ever wants to do something fancy (like shaving completely), he’ll still kiss every inch. But he’ll always mutter, “Didn’t need to change a thing.”

I – Intimacy

High. He holds eye contact. Kisses her deeply mid-thrust. Cradles her face when she’s close. Calls her “sweetheart” and “baby” and “love” when he’s buried inside her.

Even when it’s rough, it’s connected. They’re always feeling something.

J – Jack Off

Used to be a regular thing—late nights, grief, stress. Now? Only when she’s not around. Or when he’s thinking about the way she said his name last night.

Sometimes he’ll let her watch. Slowly. Eyes on her. Hand slick. “This is what you do to me. Come here and taste it.”

K – Kinks

• Praise & control: Loves telling her she’s good for him, that she belongs to him.

• Overstimulation: He lives to push her past what she thought she could take.

• Breath play: His hand on her throat, light pressure, always in control.

• Degradation—but soft. Stuff like, “You’re such a needy little thing, huh? Bet you like being ruined by someone older.”

He also adores tying her wrists with his tie.

L – Location

Mostly his bedroom. But: Against the counter in the clinic when no one’s around. Backseat of his car after a rough shift. Her place on her tiny couch—legs hanging off the edge

If she asks to try somewhere new? He’s game.

M – Motivation

Her. Always her.

The way she says his name. The way she clings to him during kisses. The innocence paired with the want.

He gets hard at the sound of her voice sometimes—especially when she doesn’t realize how she sounds.

N – NO

Won’t degrade her to the point of humiliation. Won’t play dumb jealousy games. Won’t ever hurt her without her consent—and never emotionally. Never uses sex to manipulate or punish. That’s a hard line for him.

O – Oral

He’s a devotee. Jack will go down on her for hours.

Sloppy. Tongue-flicking. Moaning into her pussy. Watching her unravel. He’ll whisper against her, “Come on, give it to me, sweetheart. Let me taste all of it.”

When she finally sucks him off, clumsily at first? He loses it. Guides her, praises her, damn near explodes.

P – Pace

Controlled and deep. Jack fucks like he’s trying to ruin her for everyone else. But when she begs? He can go fast, rough, and leave her breathless.

Q – Quickies

Yes. Especially when she’s being a brat, teasing him in public. Up against a wall, hand over her mouth, fast and filthy. But he always finishes the job properly later. In bed. Slowly.

R – Risk

Will take calculated risks. Clinic hallway after hours. Closed office. His car. The idea of her almost getting caught makes her wetter—he loves discovering that about her.

S – Stamina

He’s older, but controlled. One orgasm isn’t enough for him—he wants to wring every one out of her.

Can go multiple rounds if she teases him enough. Always takes care of her first.

T – Toys

He introduces a vibrator. At first she’s shy—but curious. He uses it on her while whispering filth in her ear.

Also loves blindfolds and silk ties. Keeps a small, locked drawer just for their fun.

U – Unfair

So unfair. He’ll edge her for hours. Deny her until she’s sobbing, legs shaking.

Then he’ll say, “Think you’ve earned it now?”. And give it to her until she forgets her own name.

V – Volume

Jack is more verbal than loud. Groans. Deep moans. Filthy praise.

But when she really gets to him? He growls. Breathless and low. Her? He tries to make her scream. And succeeds.

W – Wild Card

One time, he let her tie him up. Just once. Just to give her control. She was nervous—but the way he gave in? It changed something. She’s never looked more powerful. And he’s never come harder.

X – X-Ray

5.5’inches, thick girth, pinkish head with two thick veins running up the shaft. He’s got a scar on his hipbone—shrapnel from some medical crisis years ago.

He lets her kiss it during slow nights, hand on the back of her head. Softest he’s ever been.

Y – Yearning

He wants all of her. Not just her body—but the shy glances, the sleepy smiles, the hunger behind her inexperience.

Jack’s addicted to the way she trusts him. And he worships it.

Z – ZZZ

He doesn’t sleep easily. Trauma, memories.

But after sex with her? He’s out in minutes, one hand still on her waist, her head tucked into his chest.

[obsessivefanfictionauthor]

You Don't Have to Go it Alone Anymore

Part 4—Dennis Whittaker

The Pitt men (Robby, Abbot, Park, Shen, Langdon, Jesse, and Whitaker) when you show up in their lives again...with a child that looks a lot like them.

T/W: 18+ MDNI. NSFW. Angst. Trauma with parents. Catholic religion and abortion talk. It's a heavy one but Dennis is amazing. A/N: Heads-up, this one is a little different. The kiddo is a kid. He's seven. Well, you'll see. Hope y'all like it!!!

Tags: @lunamoonbby @lillly-ofthevalley @justreadinghere7 @thedamnqueenofhell @abbot976 @kitkatrina @a-loveunlaced @fishsticks-jellybeans @itchbbwgirl03 @imabapical @sebby-staan @shadowysoulphilospher @kmc1989 @staygoldsquatchling02 @kinard-luca-street-deacon-chris @keepingitundercover @darknessofhell666-blog-blog

The apartment is filled to the brim with cardboard boxes, some stuffed with clothes, others filled toys and books and all the pieces of material things which work together to form a life. You can’t help but marvel at the way it all condenses, flattens, packages. As if it’s really that easy to just pack up a life and leave. 

            As if a home is only the people and things and not the place. 

            Not the walls with the marks from the photos, from the notches of height, marking every year of growth. Not the walls which heard the cries of an infant at 2 AM. Not the walls which heard your cries, the ones you had when you were just too tired, just too sad, just too overwhelmed being nineteen years old and handling a baby and college and clinicals. 

            Packing everything makes it seem like your entire life is really just portable, impermanent. 

            “Mommy,” you hear the small, high-pitched voice of your son call, his voice watery and hurt, wavering. “Why do we have to leave?” You turn, your movements slow, hands still holding the tape, some of it still sticking to your fingers, residue left behind from the box full of your old textbooks, taking in the sight of him, his red curls mussed from sleep, one hand rubbing his eyes, the other holding tight to his rainbow teddy bear, green eyes squinting at the light, sleep still resting in them like a haze, a fog. 

            “Bud,” you sigh and set the tape down on the box behind you, doing it by feel before stepping towards your son, crouching down and opening your arms for him. Arms which he runs into, small body quivering with sadness and cold, his Sanrio Cappuccino pajamas thin and soft but doing little to combat the violent rush of AC. “You’re supposed to be asleep.”

            “And this is supposed to be home,” he whispers, his voice quiet and gaining a form of steadiness from your hold. 

            “And homes have to change sometimes, sweetie,” you tell him, shifting until your ass is on the ground and he’s climbed onto your lap, curling into you although at seven, he reminds you lately, he’s growing too old for cuddles. 

            “But why? Why do we have to leave Granna and Papa? Why do we have to leave the beach?” His words carry a sting with them, one that hits you in the heart, causing a clenching feeling as he holds himself tighter to you, gripping you impossibly tight, so tight his thin arms shake. 

            “Because my job is gone, hun,” you say, your hand rubbing circles on his back the same way you did when he was a baby and you would soothe him in the middle of the night. Back when he was so small and little and had those impossibly green eyes that looked at you with nothing but trust, complete absolute trust. “And Granna pulled a lot of strings with her sister to get me the new job.”

            “But why?!” His voice is shrill and hurts your ears, the same way his cries did when he was a baby because of that sound of him in pain or hunger or anything wrong. Anything you were trying to fix, prevent, help, soothe, whatever it would be. It hurts because he’s hurting and anything that hurts him, hurts you. 

            “Because I’m a trauma nurse, honey. And PTMC is where Granna thinks I’ll be best. It sucks that we have to leave but…Pittsburgh won’t be so bad. You know, California isn’t where I was born. I’m from nowheresville Nebraska and I left them behind so…Home is what we make of it.” He snuggles deeper into you, a sniffle sounding, but then you feel him nod into your stomach. 

            “Okay,” he whispers and you have that feeling, that one where it feels like your heart is dropping from your stomach to your feet, that bit of light-headed relief. 

            “Okay to move?”

            “Yeah.”

            “Okay to go back to bed?” you ask him, your tone just slightly sardonic and you look down at him, watching as he looks up at you, that look of absolute trust shining there again as he shakes his head. 

            “I think I need more cuddle time,” he says and all you do is nod because how can you refuse him? He’s your son and he’s growing up so fast, too fast. One moment he was a squealing baby in the hospital, the one you thought you would give away but wanted to soothe all the same. The one you knew you could never part from as soon as you held him, as soon as you held him in your arms, looking at those eyes, so perfect, so bright. 

            One moment he was a baby in a sling coming with you to class. One moment he was a toddler taking his first steps, saying his first words (Mama, of course). One moment he was a toddler running on the beach. One moment he was a child learning his letters, learning to spell, to read, to write. One moment he seemed so small that he could never grow and now he’s seven, fast approaching eight. 

            Now he’s growing up and it all seems like those days of him being small enough to fit in your arms, light enough to sit in a car seat, on a booster seat were just a blink of an eye. And it seems that pretty soon you’ll open your eyes after blinking and find that his forty-two with a wife and kids of his own, his childhood gone in that small blink. 

            So, yeah. You’ll take the cuddle time when he wants it because you don’t know when it will be gone.

            “Do you have everything?” you ask Luca, enunciating every word clearly and concisely, not because he doesn’t understand but because you’ve found that if you speak it slowly, he’s more apt to ensure he listens. 

            “Yes,” he replies, his voice curt in that way that children have when they’re irritated but also understand that they can be that irritant. “As long as the movers have taken all our stuff to Pittsburgh then I have everything of right nowtravel.”

            “Good,” you say, waving your hand and gesturing him over to you, his Batman suitcase wobbling on its broken wheels behind him, that clatter of plastic against tile echoing around you. “You’re okay, bud, right?”

            “Yeah, Mommy,” he says, his words quiet, a little sad, “I’m okay. Home is what we make of it, right?” You squeeze him, one arm wrapped around him from the side, looking over your shoulder at the walls that you’ve lived in since you were eighteen and pregnant, ankles so swollen you could barely get a pair of diabetic socks on in the morning. 

            “That’s right,” you tell him, unable to keep that quiver from your own voice no matter how hard you try to be his brave mother. The one who never wavers. “Home is what we make of it…Now, Granna and Papa are waiting for us at the airport so I think it’s best we leave now, right?”

            “Yeah, I guess so,” he says, his thin arm squeezing you back, a million memories in this apartment flashing through your head—pregnant at eighteen, a tired overworked nineteen year old mother, a twenty year old mom trying her best to succeed in clinicals while managing a two year old and on and on until now, here, a twenty-six year old mother with a seven year old son, preparing to leave. To make a new home somewhere else. 

            Kind of like what brought you here in the first place. 

            “IT’S MY BODY!” you scream, your voice shattering and breaking as the tears pour down, your parents stone-faced before you, a Bible tucked under your father’s arm. “MY CHOICE!”

            “You carry life within you. You cannot kill it,” you father says, his voice low and deep and clear in that way that resonates through you, the way it always has when he reads the Bible passages every night, your mother braiding your hair for night. 

            “FUCK OFF!” you reply, turning away from them, preparing to go up the stairs, to your room where your duffel bag sits, packed and ready for the trip to California, your full-ride scholarship your saving grace, but a hand closes around your wrist. Small but calloused, warm and cracking—the hands of your mother. 

            “You do not disrespect the life or us,” she hisses and you glance over, your body tensing, knowing what’s coming and yet still unprepared for the sharp searing slap upon your cheek, red-hot pain bursting as your teeth cut into the skin of your inner cheek. 

            You can taste the bloom of metal on your tongue and you spit onto the floor, your saliva tinged red with your blood. 

            “That’s what I think of your fucking religion,” you reply and wrench your arm from her grip, her fingers digging in like steel, leaving marks behind as you head up the stairs, turning and grabbing the duffel bag from underneath your bed—the bed decorated with things your mother chose for you to be her “good Christian girl”. 

            “You leave and there is no coming back. You won’t be our child any longer!” you hear your father say behind you, just a hint of thickness in his throat, just a hint that he cares for you and you turn around, hefting your duffel onto your shoulder as you elbow past him. 

            “Then guess I’m not your kid.”

            “So,” Jena says as you step out of the shuttle, helping Luca out and setting him on the ground while the shuttle driver grabs your bags. “I checked in with the moving company and all your stuff is already in the house. Not unpacked of course, but there.”

            “That’s great,” you say, your voice tired but truthful, that hint of irritation still seeping through, something Jena picks up on, her eyes narrowing and gleaming in that way she has. 

            “It’s a lot, sweetie,” she says and then she crouches down as Luca runs at her, his suitcase abandoned behind him, running straight into her arms to wrap his arms around her neck. 

            “I’m gonna miss you, Granna,” he says, his voice quiet in a reedy, thin way. A high-pitched way that betrayed the fact that he was close to dissolving into tears. 

            “I’m gonna miss you too, hun,” she says, her voice calm in that even way she has, the one that soothed you when you first met her, nineteen and just given birth, holding a baby you were never going to give up yet before couldn’t have imagined keeping. “But Papa and I will be along soon. We just have a few loose ends here to tie up here and then we’re following you guys to Pittsburgh.” It’s the first you’re hearing of this shift, this move and you look at her, her blue eyes meeting yours over his shoulder, one eyebrow arching and she mouths after at you as Luca pulls away from her, a smile blooming on his face as he glances over his shoulder at you, a large smile on his face. 

            “Did you hear that, Mommy?” he asks you nod, a tired yet happy smile blooming on your face, one you try to suppress, but can’t. 

            “I did, bud,” you tell him, your hand reaching for his suitcase as he runs off towards Flynn who stands waiting, arms open for Luca already. “Moving? Really, Jena?”

            “Lena and Dana talked me into it,” she says, rising from the crouch, walking towards you, her reddish-blondish hair pulled back into her typical tight braid. “And let’s be honest,” she continues as she places her arm around your shoulder, pulling you against her, “I was gonna miss you too much anyways.”

            “I was gonna miss you too,” you whisper, that familiar lump growing in your throat as you lean your head down, resting it on her shoulder, just like you would do when you were young and overwhelmed and needed the world to slow down, just a little bit. Needed the comfort of a mother, the way you never got from yours. 

            “Lot has changed, kid,” she says, both of your eyes following Luca and Flynn as they play chase in the middle of the airport, darting around other boarders, people coming home from travels or visiting for the first time or the fiftieth. 

            “Yeah,” you whisper, that lump just growing larger as the tears sting your eyes more and more and more. “Yeah, a lot has changed.” And you lift your head, looking over at her, noticing that she’s already looking at you, eyes steady in that way you remember, will always remember. 

            “You’re not that scared teenager anymore,” she whispers, her eyes glimmering with unshed tears. “You’re a woman who is brave and beautiful and strong and I love you so much. And I know that…” she breaks off, swallowing hard, her eyes flicking up to the ceiling as she draws in a deep, shaky, rattly breath. “I know that no matter what, you can handle what life throws at you.”

            “Because of you,” you tell her and both of you begin to cry, those tears slipping over your cheeks, salt drying out moisturized skin, tracks left in place, angry, stinging tracks that burn in a way that reminds you that sadness can hurt but that not all hurt is bad. 

            Some hurt reminds you you’re alive, that you’ve lived. 

            That you’re still living. 

            And she’s part of the reason why.

            The baby is crying, loud reedy cries that echo through the sterile room. He’s crying the kind of cries that cause an ache to form inside your chest, the kind of ache that burns and can only be soothed by being the reason the cries stop. By being the one who protects, who makes the danger go away. 

            “Give him to me,” you call out, your voice weak and body sweaty, limbs shaky. “Please!”

            “It’s not recommended to give the baby to the mother when she wants to give them up for adoption,” your caseworker says, voice low and calm and slow as though she thinks that you’re the infant, the child, the one in need of soothing and protecting.

            “Can you prevent me from holding him?” you ask and you can see the calculation in her eyes, the recalibration when she realizes that you are not the kind of case she normally deals with, you are not the one who takes her word as law, but rather prods around her orders searching for the truth. 

            “No,” she says and the words sound like they’ve been ripped from her throat, forcefully torn as you’ve found a loophole in her power. 

            “Then I want to hold him. I can make him stop crying,” you say and one nurse, the one with the jovial smile, the one who’s been helping you the whole time smiles that jovial smile, pressing your baby into your arms. 

            You think you’ll just get him to stop crying, calm him down and then sign the papers, sign him away and live the life of a nineteen-year-old, pre-med college student but then he’s in your arms and he settles, curling into, seeking your warmth, little fists moving as if he wants you as you hold him. 

            And then his eyes open. His eyes open with large impossibly green irises that fix on you, a gleam of love and acceptance and innocence and trust shining through. A look that cracks that fragile wall in your heart, that separation you had hoped to put between you too. 

            A wall that cracks even more so when he opens his mouth, not to cry, but to unleash a small, little squeak, one so fragile and tender and breakable. One so perfect and innocent that you can’t give him up. You can’t because this is your son. 

            Your child. 

            A piece of you and a piece of the only man you’ve ever loved. 

            “You’re not taking him from me,” you whisper and you can hear the caseworker sigh and stand, the action causing you to glance up, taking in the sight of her as she rolls her eyes, even as a smile blooms on her face. 

            “I’ll go tell the prospective parents that you’ve changed your mind,” she says and then she’s gone, leaving you holding your son, this precious, perfect child in your arms as his eyes close, face twisting into sleep, a kind of peace as he finds safety in your arms. 

            “…No! I want to see them…” you hear snippets of the dialogue, a woman’s voice louder than the others, one that has leadership and power. The kind of energy that someone in charge of a lot of things has. 

            “Let me in, Callie!” you hear that same voice say, far too close to your room and then the door to your room opens again and a woman steps in, dressed in baggy blue jeans and a hospital shirt, her reddish-blond hair (strawberry, you think it’s called) braided back, a large leather purse over her shoulder. 

            “Hi,” you whisper, watching as this woman who stormed in with fury on her face slowly melts to a tired one, confused and yet hopeful. 

            “How old are you?” she asks you and you shift a little on the bed, pain beginning to emerge through the epidural, brain function returning to full speed again, causing you to realize that she was the woman who wanted to adopt your son. 

            And she’s asking about you. 

            “Nineteen,” you tell her, your voice cracking a little, throat dry and raw from the screams you had at the beginning of the birth. 

            “You in school?”

            “Pre-med.”

            “You thought about nursing?” she asks you, her gaze flicking from between your face and the baby softly snoring in your arms.

            “Gonna have to now,” you tell her and you watch as she changes again, nodding once and then stepping in deeper into the room, both hands curled around the strap of her purse as she sits down beside you on the chair recently vacated by the caseworker. 

            “My name is Jena Handzo-Carsen,” she says. “I was the prospective mother, but let’s be honest,” she relaxes into the chair, crossing her arms and leaning back, one leg crossing over the other—a pose your mother would have been appalled at. “I’m old. I was only adopting, really, because my sisters thought it would be good for me. See, I’m the charge nurse at this ED, but I didn’t want a baby, my husband Flynn did. You see…I wanted a daughter for years but I’m infertile, I know TMI, TMI, whatever. 

            “I don’t know your story, but I want to. I don’t want your son, I want you. I want a daughter and…kid…I think you need a mother. Something tells me you don’t have one right now and I don’t think that’s right. You’re in uncharted waters and I’m willing to sign up to navigate ‘em with you. You in?” 

            You look at her, at the way her blue eyes are focused on you, not your son but you. You look at the way her bag has buttons for Pride and abortion. You look at the way she sits, arms crossed to protect herself from pain and you nod. 

            Because in her you see a kind of person you want to be. Spine of steel. 

            “I’m in.”

            Your first shift at the PTMC ED falls on July 1 in the middle of a heat wave, in a time when there is no school to rely on, but rather hospital daycare. 

            A daycare that you have no idea what floor it’s on. 

            “Mommy,” Luca groans as the two of you step into the Pitt, the place where you’ll be working for, preferably, the rest of your career. “I don’t wanna be here! I wanna be home.” His whines hurt your heart because you can’t change what’s happened. You can’t change that you’ve had to leave, uproot his life, you can only work with what you have even when you feel like you’re strung too thin, standing on a highwire, about to fall. 

            “I know, bud,” you whisper, pausing and crouching down before him, one hand resting on his shoulder, the other on the ground, fingertips pressing down into yellowing tile to hold you steady. “But I gotta work and I gotta find out where the daycare which means we need to ask someone and then go there. And I know it’s not home, but bud…I can’t change that. I’m…I’m doing the best I can here.” Your voice is that cheerful note of the just about to cry. The just about to cry but trying their best not to. 

            “I’ll stop whining,” he begins, his expression shifting into a little bit of worry at your tone while also that mischievous look he has, the one that promises extortion. “If we get ice cream after your shift.”

            “Deal,” you say, your words out of your mouth almost before he finishes speaking and he claps his hands once, excited as all get out while you stand on shaky legs, taking his hand again and walking to the nurse’s station where a woman stands with blonde hair drawn up tight in a bun, certain strands falling loose. 

            And her profile looks a lot like Jena’s. 

            “Dana?” you call out, your voice rising in that question way and the woman turns, her eyes identical to Jena’s, narrowing as she takes in you and your son, her eyes widening when she takes note of something, something Jena must have said because her eyes widen with recognition. 

            “Jena’s kiddo,” she says, an iPad resting on her hip as she walks over to you, taking in your son, one eyebrow arching. “So…” she says to him, “you’re the kiddo who was extorting your tired mama, huh?” He shakes his head, violently in that little kid, full body shake and she can’t help but snort, lifting her glasses up to her nose, the pair of them hung around her neck by a pink beaded chain. “Well, if you see that kid then, tell him to cut his mama some slack, okay? She’s doing all she can.”

            And Luca nods, turning to you and tugging on your hand, a sign for you to bend down so he can whisper in your ear, a sign he’s had since he was little-little and you oblige, leaning down, hearing him whisper, “sorry, Mommy. I didn’t realize.”

            “It’s okay, bud,” you whisper in reply, standing up and ruffling his red curls with your free hand. “Dana, what floor is the daycare on?”

            “Just a minute, kiddo,” she says, sounding for all the world like Jena. “Jena’s told me all about you but this is the first time I’m meeting you and little Luca here, so slow down, sugar.”

            “But I should be working,” you tell her but she waves away your words, pulling out one of the rollie chairs for Luca who jumps up on it, the chair spinning around and around and around. 

            “You settle in okay, sugar?” Her voice is calm and quiet and even, the kind of soothing that you now know to be genetic, the same kind Jena has. 

            “Pittsburgh is quite different,” you tell her, “but I grew up in Nebraska so it can’t be worse than that. Especially since I grew up on a farm so…you know…” you trail off, glancing down at your Skechers nursing shoes, the shoes a gift from Jena when she noticed you only wore basic sneakers without the proper soles. 

            “Holy shit!” you hear a loud feminine voice yell, a voice loud enough that it startles you, your heart jumping into your throat as you turn, noticing a short black-haired doctor, hair pulled into a low ponytail, her eyes wide, gaze on your son. “It’s a mini-Huckleberry!”

            “Who?” you ask Dana, your eyes narrowing on the doctor as they approach, their badge declaring TRINITY SANTOS, R2. 

            “One of the R1s here,” she answers as Trinity leans up against the nurse’s station, just as Luca stops spinning on the chair. 

            “Hi!” he says, waving his hand as vigorously as can, something he likes to do, something which drives Jena nuts. “My name’s Luca, what’s yours?”

            “Dr. Trinity Santos, kiddo. How old are you?” They arch an eyebrow, leaning on their elbows, gaze focused solely on your son. Something which unnerves you but causes Dana no stress. 

            “Seven,” Luca says, his tone proud and Trinity turns over her shoulder, yelling out for this Huckleberry and it seems like the world stills and shifts and rearranges when a man steps out from a patient room. 

            A man you never thought you’d see again. 

            “Dennis?”

            “Hey,” Dennis calls out and you glance down from your position in the hayloft, noticing him and the way the setting sun seems to catch on every strand of red, making it shine like fire. 

            “Hey, what’s up?” you call down, pulling your knees up to your chest, wrapping your arms around them and resting your chin in the crevice between them as you look out from the hayloft at the rest of the barn and the glimpse of the farm beyond. 

            “Good to come up?” he asks you and you shrug even though inside you’re squealing, wanting nothing more than him up here beside you, his arm around you, pulling you close, closer still. Friends to lovers is the story you want for the two of you, yearn for it in every shared glance and graze of the hands but you know it’s a tale meant only for contemporary romance. 

            “Yeah, why not,” you tell him and you hear him reach the ladder, scrambling up and settling his body beside yours, the two of you clad in plaid shirts and jeans with t-shirts underneath. Normal farmwear. 

            “Did you see the poster for that dance in town?” he asks and you tilt your head to look at him, taking note of the way he stares resolutely ahead, unwavering and not looking at you, his jaw clenching just slightly. 

            “No, what does it say?”

            “It’s just a dance for the teens in town. Probably lame but I…” he trails off and flops down on his back, looking up at the barn ceiling, not looking at you, his neck muscles rigid, holding him in perfect place. 

            “But you what?” you ask him, laying down beside him and poking him in the side with your finger, right at the spot that makes him giggle every time. Just like now. 

            “I was wondering if you would, um…maybe, uh, want to…you know, go with me?” His voice cracks into a squeak at the end, one the two of you ignore even as his cheeks flame that pink you love so much. 

            “As…a date?” you ask him, coughing at the end, trying to suppress the hopeful lilt of your voice, but at your words he turns, those perfect, beautiful eyes with the colour you can never quite place, sometimes green, sometimes grey, focused solely on you, pupils expanding across. Dark against light. 

            “Do you want it to be one?” he asks you and in response, you do something you’d be punished for if your parents ever found out or wandered in. You kiss him. Hard. Your teeth cut into his lip and his hand hold you a little too harshly but it’s perfect. 

            It’s perfect because it’s real. 

            And you do go to the dance with him, the two of you hoping for another kiss. And it does happen. And it’s even sweeter than the first.

            “What…?” Dennis stands there in the ED, his body frozen as he takes in the sight of you, older but still perfect, the girl who got away. The girl he gave his heart too, tried to call so many times, yet never got an answer. The girl whom he loved, loves, and lost. 

            The girl who stands right here in grey scrubs, a nurse badge on. 

            “Dana,” he hears you say, your voice loud, yet sounding like it’s underwater. “What floor is the daycare on?”

            And that’s when he sees the boy, standing on a chair, bright red curls and electric green eyes. The boy has his nose, but your chin, a mix of yours and his skin. A perfect amalgamation of the two of you. 

            Like another chapter in a love story he thought was over, but was maybe just beginning. But then he watches, body still frozen, heart beating far too fast, vision tunnelling as you help the boy hop down and turn towards the elevator, his small hand in yours. 

            And Dennis knows that he can’t let you go again. He can’t let you disappear again, not without an answer. He’s gone eight years without you after eighteen years with you and he can’t go another day, another hour, another minute. 

            There’s a story here, one he doesn’t but one he needs to. There’s a story with that boy, with your nurse’s scrubs. There’s a story that he hasn’t been a part of, but he needs to be now. He can’t lose again. 

            “WAIT!” he shouts across the ED, finally finding it in him to move, to run, barely conscious of his actions, the only thought on his mind, not losing you again. He’s gone so long without an answer, he at least deserves. “For god’s sake, Cherry,” he cries and he watches as you freeze, no doubt the childhood nickname catching you off guard, by surprise. 

            Enough that he can reach you, his hand landing on your shoulder, a gentle touch. The kind that is tender but questing. One that says I need an answer.

            “No one’s called me that in eight years,” you whisper and he steps around to look at you, at the way tears line your eyes, your gaze drifting anywhere but him. 

            “Maybe because you shut us all out,” he says and his voice is darker than it normally is. Dark enough that you look at him, your eyes narrowing on him in a fierce glare. 

            “I didn’t shut anyone out. I chose my own life and they didn’t want that version of me and they made damn sure that you couldn’t have it either.” And then you push past him, to the elevator, your little boy looking over his shoulder to narrow those impossibly large green eyes at him in the most perfect mirror of your glare he’s ever seen. 

            But all the while, your words ring through him. 

            They made damn sure that you couldn’t have it either.

            It has been a long shift, knowing you were so close yet so far away all day. There for almost every case, yet busy with so many more that he couldn’t get you alone. He’s waited all day, waited for a moment, but instead, he’s had to wait and manufacture one, bribing Ahmad to tell him the make of your car. 

            And now he waits, leaning against it, watching as you emerge into the parking lot, the shape of a little boy in your arms, your son’s voice—Luca—echoing through the still air, ambulance strobe lights casting gloomy shadows in the dark lot. 

            “…and they had fancy desserts, Mommy…” he hears the little boy yell, arms flying wide as you walk with him, towards the car. 

            “And this all meant you couldn’t walk to the car?” Your voice is as dry as he remembers, cruel with a cutting sense of humour, one that’s softened just enough for a son. A child. 

            “Yes.” In that moment, Dennis wants to cry because he knows. He knows Luca is his and he needs to know everything about him, about you, about your life. Why you’re a nurse and not a doctor. Why you work in an ED and not a surgical room. Why you’re here now. Why, why, why to a million different things. 

            But it starts with you telling him that Luca is his because he’s gone seven years not in his son’s life. He won’t go another one. 

            “Luca, honey,” you say and Dennis knows you’ve spotted him, knows that you know why he’s waiting. “Mommy’s gonna put you in the car but she’s gotta talk to someone before we go, okay?”

            “Alright,” he says and Dennis steps back, steps around to lean against the trunk while you walk past him, opening the backseat, letting Luca climb in and settle down, buckling himself while you close the door and turn to him. 

            “What do you want?” Your tone is curt in a way that it almost never is. At least, never was. 

            “Luca’s mine, right?” He knows that statistically, only one time is needed for a baby to happen, he just didn’t think that graduation night would have been that. 

            He didn’t think that the first and last night the two of you were ever together was the one that would result in a child. 

            “Ow,” you hiss, your face screwing up in pain as Dennis pushes in just slightly, just the tip resting inside of you. The two of you are young, just graduated, happy in a way that everyone says you won’t be again. The two of you are in love. 

            Which is why you’re here, in the old abandoned barn, laying in the hayloft where you had your first kiss, the two of you naked, trying. Trying to do what’s never talked about. 

            What’s called the sin.

            “I’m sorry, Cherry,” he whispers, the nickname gained from the time time you spit out a cherry seed as a kid, the seed landing in the garden and taking root. It was a small sprout by planting season and you had built your own mini greenhouse around it. It was not full-grown and always bared fruit. 

            “It’s okay, Denny,” you whisper and then he’s inching in slowly, so slowly, the feeling of you around him strange and new and odd yet perfect at the same time. He knows that you hurt, but the two of you did everything the book said to do—the contraband book that your cousin had. Your cousin all the way from New York. 

            He prepped you by stimulating you, bringing you to a release, but he knows it still hurts, still stings. It’s why he sits and waits before you nod again and then he’s moving, rocking into you, your lips chasing his as his body slams up and into yours again and again and again. 

            Until he’s releasing inside of you, the tremors of your walls pulling it from him and he collapses beside you, pulling you against him, smoothing the hair back from your face and pressing a kiss to your sweaty cheek. 

            “I love you,” he whispers. “With all that I am, I love you.”

            “I love you too, Denny. With everything.”

            “Yeah,” you whisper, tears welling faster, threatening to fall as you look at the man you love, have always loved. “Luca’s yours. It only takes once, right?” You laugh, the sound choked as your throat thickens with tears, some of them slipping down your cheeks. 

            “Why didn’t you tell me?”

            “Because the bastards that raised me…fucking took—it. Your contact information. I couldn’t reach you even if I tried. And I did. I called every number I could think of, but I never reached you. And I missed the window for an abortion because of the shitshow trying…to fucking find a place to live and school—and you. And I was—gonna give him…up for adoption but then…I held him and…yeah, Dennis he’s your son.” You swallow hard, tears falling fast, vision blurring as you look down at your feet, not wanting to see him but instead you feel his hands on your shoulders, a steady grip. 

            “I still love you,” he whispers and those words push you to sobs, your body convulsing with the force, falling against him as he holds you, his hand rubbing soothing circles on your back as you sob. Every emotion you’ve tamped down for eight years rising again in his presence. “I never stopped. I kept waiting but you never showed. Until today.”

            “What does that—have to—do with…anything?” you ask him, your voice choked, coming thick and slow in between your coughs. 

            “I believe in fate,” he says. “Not the religion we grew up with but fate. And maybe you showed up now, here, because fate or God or the universe is telling you that you don’t have to go it alone anymore. That I’m here.”

            “You’re willing to just take on a seven-year-old boy who doesn’t know everything about us? You’re willing to just earn your way into his life? Into mine?” He lifts his hands to cup your face, his touch igniting a fire in your skin that you haven’t felt in eight years. 

            “Yeah,” he says, pressing his forehead to yours. “Because I never stopped loving you and I’ve been waiting. This was through no fault of us so whatever you’re willing to give me…” he pauses and sighs, his chameleon eyes locked on yours. “I’m willing to take.”

            “Luca,” you say as the two of you settle into the booth in the ice cream parlour across from Dennis, “this is your dad.”

            “You’re my dad,” Luca says, his voice calm and quiet in an even sort of way, the habit he’s picked up from Jena, Lena and Dana, his ‘grandmothers’ as they’ve dubbed themselves. “What’s your favourite ice cream flavour?”

            “Mint chocolate chip, why?” Dennis answers, his elbows landing on the table as he leans forwards, eyes narrowing on Luca who sits up straighter, a smile blooming on his face. 

            “You are my dad. I always knew his favourite flavour was mint choc chip. Didn’t I, Mom?” He turns to you and you nod. 

            “Yeah, kiddo. You did.”

*

            “Look, Mommy!” Luca yells, running into the room, his hand wrapped tight around a baseball bat, arm held aloft as if it’s a war trophy. “Daddy took me to a ball game and I caught this!”

            “That’s great, buddy,” you say, rising from the table where you’ve been working on your final paper, your final assignment before becoming an NP. “Now, where is Daddy? I kind of have to talk to him.”

            “In the mudroom. He was kind of shocked when I called him Daddy today instead of Dennis, but I figured two weeks was enough time for him to sweat,” Luca says and in those words, he sounds just like you and you sigh, ruffling his hair as he runs off to his room. 

            Dennis has been spending his free afternoons with Luca, working hard to become a dad. Working hard to be one worthy. And you’ve noticed, like always. Just like when you were a kid when everything he did was endearing. 

            It’s the same now. Just heightened. New love building on the remnants of the old, the never quite forgotten, never quite closed. The door that’s always been open a crack. Just enough to wonder what if. 

            “He called you Daddy,” you say as you step into the mud room where he stands, one hand on the back of his neck, a nervous tick he’s always had. 

            “Yeah,” he says, looking at you as a blush spreads across his face, the dusty pink one that brings out his freckles. The one you’ve always loved. 

            “You want to stay? It’s Series Saturday where we binge watch a whole season whatever show we pick,” you say and watch as he relaxes, melts and nods. 

            “I’d love that.”

            “Lunch,” Dennis says, the words abrupt and awkward as you look up from where you’ve been typing at the station, your eyebrows knitting together. 

            “What about it?” you ask him, attention half on him and half on the request for radiology you’re writing, newly granted your NP license. 

            “Lunch with me, today?” You love this man so much, all his awkward quirks and social graces. 

            “Yes, Dennis,” you say and look up at him, one eyebrow arching in that mom way you’ve perfected, the one that gets Luca back to his homework. “Now get back to work.”

            “Yes, ma’am,” he says, saluting you, a dopey smile on his face as he turns and bumps into Donnie. 

            “Sorry, Donnie!” he cries and you lift your hand to cover your mouth, stifling a laugh as he glances over his shoulder at you, cheeks and ears aflame. 

            “I still love you, Dennis.” And those words are enough to get the pep back in his step. Because you love him still. 

            You never stopped. 

            “Not like that!” you hear Luca cry and you step out of the kitchen where you have cookie dough resting on the counter, taking a peek into the living room to see Dennis on the floor, holding a Superman doll aloft in the air. “You have to move your arm like a snake.”

            You and Dennis share a glance, one that speaks of love and second chances and hope. One that speaks of a love story that’s better in reality than on a screen or page. 

            Love. 

            Just love.

            “What’s this for?” Dennis asks you, holding up the key you had cut recently to your house. 

            “You,” you tell him, turning and placing the last dish in the cupboard. “It’s a key to the house so that you can move in with us if you want.”

            “YES!” he yells and you can’t help the snort that escapes you as he comes up behind you, scooping you into his arms, placing a kiss against your cheek. “I would love it.”

            “I know.”

            Three years of slowly repairing the cracks of trauma. Of distance. Of years not lived with one another. Three years of shaping lives to fit together when they weren’t cut that way to begin with. 

            Three years of carving space for a man so used to never taking up any. Three years and two weeks to plan with Luca, the perfect moment. 

            A proposal. 

            “What’s this?” Dennis asks, lifting the coloured envelope from the table, you and Luca both seated in the same pose, arms crossed and faces pinched tight. He opens the envelope, shaking it onto his palm, a thick silver band falling out, an inscription upon it. 

            The one he said to you that night three years ago: Fate was telling us that you don’t have to go it alone anymore. A matching one for you sits in your pocket. As long as he says yes. 

            “Dennis,” you say and he looks at you, his expression shocked and face ghostly pale, all the blood gone. “I love you and Luca does too and we decided it was time to ask you if you want to be part of our lives full-time. If you want to…marry me?”

            “YES! OMIGOD, YES!” he yells, slipping the ring onto his finger, watching as you do the same with yours, Luca putting one on himself too. 

            Rings that tie the three of you together. 

            A family carved. Because he had the need to know, to tell you that you weren’t alone anymore. 

            That he was there. 

[annsfics]

♡ a man's duty ♡

♡ pairing: brett richards x fem!reader

♡ synopsis: after the death of your husband 2 years prior, you've withdrawn and become a shell of your former self due to grief. one man was there for you during that time, until you eventually pushed him away and broke his heart too. when you arrive on station 42's doorstep one afternoon during an absentminded afternoon walk, you run into their new battalion chief. and soon thereafter, the two of you fall into bed together.

unable to ever let yourself move forward, however, you leave the following morning... until the results of a small plastic test brings you back.

♡ content: angst, hurt/comfort, widow!reader, exploration of past bode x reader, p in v sex, creampie, suicidal ideation, pregnancy, mention of a housefire

♡ a/n: i've only watched s4 e1-4 to try & get a grasp of brett's character, so apologies for any inaccuracies.

Emerging from the confines his new office—strange to even think of it as that, even if a handful of weeks have already passed since his arrival—to instead step into the main engine bay for a bit of fresh air, Brett's brows furrow at the sight of a young woman clad in a wrinkled dress and old sneakers wavering at the entrance of the station, near a freshly washed truck.

"Miss?"

His questioned greeting earning him no response, he comes closer with quiet steps. Studying the rueful expression painted across your feminine features, he steels himself for whatever may lie ahead. "Excuse me, miss? Something I can help you with?"

Turning on your heel, your eyes first flit to the mustard-colored CAL Fire decal ironed onto his t-shirt before trailing higher. "What?"

His greying brows slowly draw further together.

You don't look...well. Your complexion is pallid, your eyes are devoid of so much as a spark of light, and a frown seems to tug at your lips like you're, in a sense, perpetually disappointed.

"I asked if there was something I could help you with," he repeats softly. "Are you alright?" Brett asks with a slight tilt of his head.

You blink absently. "I didn't mean to..." You slide a hand over your clavicle and then to your shoulder. "My feet just carried me here. I was on a walk."

At least you're in a safe place if you're on something, he supposes. Brett nods. "Do you need help finding your way back home, miss?"

It's your turn now for your brows to knit together. "I'm sorry, who are you?"

He folds his arms easily behind him. "Brett Richards. I'm the new Battalion Chief."

Your face falls.

"Oh. Vince," you whisper in understanding. "I... I should've gone to his service, but..." you shake your head, then glance toward a sea of redwood trees in the near distance, which stretch toward the pale blue sky above.

"You knew him?" he questions.

You nod.

"May I ask how?" Brett inquires carefully.

"I—" You blink back tears, but know it's a losing battle. They always win, and have consistently every day for the last two years. "My late husband worked here."

His heart sinks. Late husband.

You're so fucking young and already a widow has been made out of you because of this occupation; this life.

How can he hate fire—something which does not think or breathe or act, but merely is—yet be simultaneously thankful for it because without it... Who knows where he'd be?

In its absence of being a problem, he wouldn't have the distinct privilege of serving as its solution.

But at least his wife would still be alive then, same as your husband.

"You have my condolences," Brett mutters with a slight shake of his head. "I've seen the portraits," he states thumbing in the direction of the admin office that lies across the hall from his own. "Of... Those the station's lost. What was his name?"

You swipe a tear from your cheek. "Eric," you whisper.

Brett hasn't been here for an extraordinary length of time, but he's nevertheless heard the name—knows that it carries weight even still; complete admiration. "Handsome man," he says with curved lips. "Dark hair?" he questions to ensure he has the right guy in mind.

Another nod.

You wander toward the garage's opening. "I should've gone. I just... I knew that if I did, I would've done nothing but sob the entire time. I didn't want to make a scene."

Brett comes to stand at your side. It feels like you're talking more so to yourself than him, but he's willing to listen if it makes you feel better.

He gets it.

"I'd say that a funeral is the one place where tears are welcome."

You shake your head and wipe away another. "They wouldn't have been for Vince."

Horrible as that sounds...

He shrugs. "I don't know how close they were, but you're about the same age. Bode is really going through it right now, as I'm sure you can imagine. When you lose someone like that... The more people who reach out, the better."

"That hasn't been my experience," you snap. "For a couple weeks, people might be at your beck and call, but they inevitably disappear when they go back to their own lives and decide that just because your world has stopped spinning, it doesn't mean that theirs has to, too. No one cares. It's easier this way. If you don't let anyone in, then you can't lose them."

"Alienation is no way to live," he gently argues.

You about-face. "I mean no offense when I say this, but you have no idea what it's like to lose a spouse. To feel a part of your soul die when they do. To realize that the life you once thought you would have—had been planning to spend alongside them—has vanished in an instant. You could never understand that sort of grief. And if you're lucky, you never will."

He doesn't fill with anger; doesn't seek to lash out at you for it. Brett is unaware as to when Eric died, but he assumes it wasn't terribly long ago since you still seem to be in the early throws of the five stages.

"Before I reply, I want you to know that I'm not upset. And you don't need to apologize, because I understand," Brett assures with a feigned smile and a nod of reassurance. "But I'm not that lucky, because I do know what that sort of loss feels like."

Your features shift—you wince and glance away in hopes of composure. "I'm s—"

Brett stops you before you can pour forth guilt-laden regrets. "It's okay. You had no way of knowing. And... What're the chances, y'know?"

You wrap your arms around yourself, wishing they were another's instead.

He tilts his head back. "Same way for her. She did this too." He swallows thickly. "Was on a roof. It turned to sponge beneath her feet and—" he jerks his head to the side and clears his throat.

"I'm sorry," you whisper mournfully. "Did... Did you have children?"

"A daughter," he replies with a faint smile. "All grown up and living on her own now."

You resent him for it. For having a piece of his wife still while you have nothing.

"You're fortunate," you state flatly.

The sound of rubber boots approaching sounds from the opposite side of the engine bay then. You each turn to greet whoever has arrived and Brett nods at Bode when he rounds the front of the firetruck parked to your left.

He nearly asks if he needs him for something, but finds his words swallowed up at the charged look exchanged between you.

"Hey," Bode murmurs with a dip of his chin. Sliding his hands into his pockets, he nudges the cement floor with the toe of his shoe. "Didn't know you were comin' by."

Your attention moves to his chest and Bode shifts uncomfortably.

Swiveling on your heel, you bid Brett a quiet farewell and leave in silence, same as you came.

Brett watches you go, and when he turns to question Bode about what the hell just happened, he finds himself standing alone.

"You mind telling me what that was?" Brett asks with crossed arms.

With his head half buried beneath the hood of his GMC, the noisy, stuttering zip of a ratchet fills the empty space Bode is otherwise meant to himself with a reply he doesn't much feel like giving.

"She seemed upset," Brett continues. "Not that you look too happy yourself."

Bode snorts derisively. "Don't I?" he snips sarcastically.

"Listen, I know I'm new to all of you. Means I'm still learning the lay of the land, so to speak. There's clearly history there. Just trying to find out how much of it I should concern myself with."

Bode tosses down the tool with a sharp metal clang, then grabs a socket wrench next. Flitting through his toolbox for the correct attachment, he shakes his head. "None," he deadpans with a venomous glare before stepping up to his truck again.

"Guessing you knew her husband, though," Brett remarks with a shrug.

A rhythmic clicking echoes off the room's sturdy walls.

"You know him well?" Brett presses while advancing forward step-by-step.

Bode shakes his head in irritation, wishing he'd just drop it. Old man is acting like a dog with a bone. "We were partners," he grunts. "I was there when he—" He purses his lips and continues on with engine repairs.

"What happened?"

"Housefire," he retorts. "The hell do you think?"

Bode moves to the left. "Later found out it was electrical. Not like that matters."

Brett simply listens.

"Family of four, but the husband was out of town on work. The mother and the oldest boy were already outside when we got there. Whole fuckin' thing was up in flames. She just—" he grimaces. "She just kept screaming 'my baby boy is upstairs, you have to save him, you have to save him'. So we went in. We're going room to room, they're all empty. I... I could hear the wood splintering; groaning under the weight of what had turned to kindling and ash. Knew the support beams were about to give.

He grits his teeth. "I tried to pull him out, but he just—he wouldn't listen to me. Kept telling me that he wasn't leaving until he had him in his arms. Eventually yelled at me to shut the hell up and keep searching."

Bode retrieves a wrench next.

As if he can fix anything now.

"He was like an older brother to me. I worshipped the ground the guy walked on. I wanted to be just like him. He'd been at it longer than me, so I told myself that he'd leave when it was time to finally go and not a moment sooner. That he could never be that stupid."

Bolts being tightened emit a quiet pop while Bode's arm works in tandem with the tool he holds tightly to. "And then the ceiling caved in. It barely missed me. He—"

Brett remains quiet.

"I ran out of there like a goddamn coward and left my brother behind. Turns out," he says with a bitter chuckle. "The kid was never up there to begin with. Got turned around downstairs, but ultimately made it out. So Eric died for nothing."

"He died trying to do the right thing," Brett mutters. "And it wasn't cowardly of you. It was self-preservation."

Bode's arm falls to his side—that grease-covered tool still held tight in his calloused grip. "Yeah? What right thing was that? Refusing to listen? To remember his training? Trying to save a kid that was never trapped at all because their fuckin' mom couldn't keep an eye on him!" he shouts with vehemence.

"I was the one," he shouts while throwing the tool toward the wall with a resounding ting. "Who had to tell her. Had to look my best friend's wife in the eye and tell her that he was dead, all while knowing that I was the reason. I had to hold her when she collapsed in my arms, screaming for a man who was never coming home again."

He swipes his forearm beneath his nose. "Should've been me." He shrugs. "Maybe I was never meant to make it out of that house, because I've felt like a dead man walking ever since."

Brett shakes his head. "Who would both of you dying in there have helped? Your dad? Your mom? Your crew?"

"It doesn't matter now. Can't change it." He laughs without mirth and looks to Brett with raised brows. "And you wanna know what I did about it after? That very same night?" he offers with arms dramatically outstretched from his sides.

Settling his palms on his hips, he chews his lip in contemplation. "I'm there, and she just keeps crying and crying, and I am too, but no matter how tightly I hold her, no matter what I say, I can't make her pain stop. I destroy her entire fucking life—I kill someone that we both loved—and I can't do this one thing," he spits. "And then she turns to me with these big, teary eyes and my heart stops. Because now she's begging me. Please, Bode. Please, please, please."

He runs a trembling hand through his hair. "So I slept with her in his bed. Something I always wanted to give her, or—or have with her, and I couldn't have let it happen at a worse possible time."

Silence falls and his mind drifts... To messy sheets that smelled both of you, and all-too familiar cologne. To soft, naked skin and spread thighs and you whimpering softly for him to just please make the pain stop. To help you.

He started between your legs with slow kisses and gentle licks before moving over your stomach with kneading hands, suckling at your breasts with parched lips, nipping at your neck with quiet passion before finally sinking inside of you.

He can never admit it—will take it to the grave that he knows he deserves sooner rather than later—that it was the best sex of his entire life.

It'd never been so all-consuming and soul-swallowing before. Not with anyone.

He knows the grief clouded his assessment of the moment and does still, but...

Finally, Bode raises his head while swiping tears from his stubbled cheeks with the heel of his hand. "Next morning I found her sick in the bathroom. I tried to... Tried to help. She smacked me. Then said she was sorry and crawled into my lap. Next, she told me to go. Just go and don't come back, she said. So I did."

He sniffles, then returns to his truck with a Craftsman screwdriver. "But it wasn't that simple. Not with funeral arrangements needing to be made and her having no one else to lean on. No one that was as close to her or knew either of them as well as I did, that is."

He begins loosening a part Brett can't make out from the angle he stands at.

"My mom would come by. She'd cook and clean and try to... To get her to look through catalogues for caskets and goddamn flower arrangements. But she wasn't having any of it, so I stepped up. I took over and got it done."

He can still remember the day when he thought he would be granted forgiveness. Had hoped for it, anyway, because it would make things easier, even nominally.

But he's never been that fortunate.

You had shot up from the couch and padded across the room while sinking your nails into your scalp and screaming No, no, no repeatedly.

"This isn't right! I don't—I don't care about caskets and pillows and— It can't even be opened, anyway!" you'd shouted.

Meanwhile, Bode's pit of despair grew impossibly deeper for having failed you.

"It's not like I can afford any of it! Just stop talking about it! Shut up!"

His mother had stuttered for a reply—grasped heedlessly for a way to calm you down—until he stomped over to her, ripped the damn glossy booklet from her hands and muttered that he would do it instead.

So she rose and busied herself in the kitchen as a distraction while he coaxed you back over to the sofa with quiet, comforting words of encouragement.

"Don't just pick the cheapest or easiest option to get this whole thing over with, or the day will come when you regret it."

He'd rested a heavy palm against the small of your back while turning to face you. "I don't want you to regret it."

You'd sniffled while shaking your head. "I don't want to either."

He had sat up the least bit straighter—had felt a glimmer of hope rising in his chest—until you met his eyes and spoke again. "But it doesn't change anything."

Bode's face had crumpled then while the two of you sat wholly unaware of Sharon clocking the interaction from a room away—knowing that you weren't actually discussing different types of varnishes.

"He built this place out of hard wood, so he would've fucking hated poplar," Bode had stated while tearing out and balling up an entire page.

"I can't afford—"

"I don't want you to worry about price," he'd interrupted. "I'll take care of it."

"But—"

"I said that I'll take care of it," he had insisted with gentle conviction. "Whatever you need," Bode said while squeezing your hand. "I'm here."

When you rested your weary head on his shoulder, Sharon padded into another room to start on a load of laundry to give the two of you some privacy. And he used to moment to grant the crown of your head a swift kiss.

You leaned on him after that.

For a long time.

During the funeral, when you couldn't make it through the first sentence of your husband's eulogy, he rose from his seat, buttoned the front of his suit jacket, and joined your side while pulling you against his own. As you sobbed into his shoulder, he read your heartfelt words despite the tremble in his voice.

He had to be strong for someone else then.

It wasn't about him anymore.

And during the twenty-one gun salute for Eric's time in the Marines, he kept an arm around your shoulders to keep you steady when they fired. When they lowered him into the ground, he kept your fingers laced between his own to keep you the least bit more together.

And when it was all said and done, he took you back home and saw the terrified look on your face due to the prospect of walking into an empty house for the first time. So he offered to let you stay with him instead. For as long as you needed. When you accepted, he ran inside, packed you a bag which included a handful of Eric's things, and took you home with him... Where you quickly fell apart.

Bode eventually spent his days at the station and all his nights at home bathing, feeding, changing, and cleaning you up if you had an accident. Not to mention holding you when you woke screaming from night terrors.

He was there every day and became whatever you needed him to be. Husband, father, friend, caretaker, priest, philosopher... Until the day came when he found you headed for the door.

Something had changed between the two of you by that time. Something...monumental.

He begged you to stay. Had told you "I would never leave you like this."

To which you simply replied "because I'm not yours to leave" before stepping out.

He started drinking then. After all, what was one more addiction to top the rest of 'em off?

"That was two years ago," he tells Brett. "We haven't spoken since. Haven't seen each other, either. Or... She hasn't seen me, rather. I go to the cemetery to talk to him sometimes, despite the fact that I always leave feeling worse than when I came. Because even though he's dead, I can't bring myself to speak the words aloud: I fucked your wife.

"When she's there, I watch her from a distance while she falls apart. Or falls asleep in front of his headstone, curled into the fetal position, begging him to come back to her. And I drive away. Because that's what I do when someone needs me, apparently: I leave. I left him behind, I left her that next morning, and I leave her with him still so that she can continue getting worse while I pretend like I don't spend my days thinking about sticking a pistol in my mouth."

Richards nearly finds himself at a loss for words due to the weight of it all. More than even he would ever know how to carry, he thinks.

"You love her," he supplies quietly. "Nothing you did was done out of malice."

"Love," Bode remarks. "Yeah. And look at all the good that it's done us."

Manny catches Brett on his way back to his office to retrieve his keys so that he can head home. Out of all of it, the one comment Richards refuses to forget is the one about a pistol. The kid was already doing horribly, and his father's death has only served to compound it.

He can't imagine what seeing you again—coupled with your refusal to even speak to him—is doing to his psyche right now. But in terms of conversation, he got as far as he was going to with Bode today.

Probably further than anyone else has in a long while, he assumes.

He hopes it'll provide him some relief to have finally said it all out loud: how he blames himself, what the two of you did that night, and the torch for you that he still carries.

"Headin' home, Chief?"

Brett nods and hooks his thumbs through his belt loops. "Yeah, figured it'd be best. Long day and I need to get something figured out for dinner."

He glances back in the direction of the garage where Bode is still hard at work, fixing God knows what. "Keep an eye on the kid for me, will you? Think he's gonna have a rough one tonight."

Manny's brows furrow. "He get into it with you again?"

Brett leans over to study his boots for a moment while shaking his head. Straightening again, he looks at the man in front of him. "No. Just... Eric's widow was here. Stopped by and they, uh... Had an encounter, I guess you'd say."

Manny folds his arms. "Y/N was here? When?"

"Just a bit ago. Couldn't have been half an hour. Why?"

He huffs with a shake of his head. "Just haven't seen her since right after Eric's funeral. Surprised she came around."

Brett's lips tug downward. "You all could try and reach out to her. I didn't know her then, and not that I do now, but she doesn't seem to be doing well. When you get into this line of work, it's with the understanding that you're supposed to be a family. You don't cut someone out just because that binding link dies."

Manny studies him silently for a moment. "We have reached out. Multiple of us, and multiple times. Gone so far as to show up at her house just to check on her. But when the door is locked and the blinds are drawn, there's not much you can do if the other person doesn't wanna be found."

Brett sighs while scrubbing a hand down his weathered face. "She made it sound like efforts stopped on the other end."

Manny's shoulders lift then settle. "I get it: pushing everyone away. Feelin' like maybe we could never understand. That while we lost him, too, it was in a different way. Not as heavy. Bode took it the hardest, o'course. Whether because she blames him, or he blames himself—hell, maybe both—or because something else happened, I don't know. All I do is that... When Eric died, it felt like they both went with him."

Brett cups the back of his neck and massages the taught muscle beneath. "It won't last forever."

Manny brushes past him. "Didn't think it'd last this long."

It's almost three weeks later before Brett sets eyes on you again, and it's in a somewhat unexpected place.

While in search of a creamy white sauce for the halibut he's having tonight for dinner, he catches sight of a familiar frame out of the corner of his eye while passing the baby aisle.

Turning back on his heel, he watches you from a distance as you clutch a tiny pink onesie to your chest with eyes squeezed tightly shut.

His heart breaks on your behalf.

If he has nothing else, he does his daughter, even if she's elsewhere now because she could no longer stand to be in the house where her mother wasn't anymore.

He makes a decision in that moment to seize an opportunity. If he could get Bode to open up with minimal prying involved, perhaps he can you, too.

"We meet again," Brett remarks with a quiet lilt in his voice.

Blinking open bleary eyes, you turn to him with a solemn expression. "Oh."

You wrack your mind for his name. It started with a B, didn't it? Or was it a D? It doesn't matter. You met only the one time, so how can he be offended when you get it wrong?

"Brad," you supply uselessly.

"Brett," he says with a chuckle. "But close enough," he remarks with a one-shouldered shrug. "You here picking something up for dinner?"

You eye the basket hanging from the bend in his arm. "I was." Placing the onesie back on the hook where it belongs, you take a small step back. "But I lost my appetite."

Before you can turn to leave, he speaks again. "I usually make too much, so I'd like it if you could join me."

Manipulative verbiage, he knows, but if he asks whether you'd like to, Brett has a feeling that you'd promptly find a polite way to decline.

Wrapping your arms around yourself, you waver. "I'm not much in way of company," you whisper.

"Not asking for conversation," he replies, despite knowing that he'll be gently prodding for as much later, but strictly for your sake. "Just for you to eat."

Silently, you consider while tacky pop music plays overhead and fluorescent lights blind.

Metal forks clink quietly against porcelain plates while you and Brett both dig into the dinner he's cooked tonight. He offered you a glass of white wine, but drinking only makes things worse, so you poured yourself ice water instead.

His place of residence is quite...unconventional. An old firehouse remodeled into a home.

Personally? You hate being inside it and wonder how he himself can stand it. If it were you, you'd find no rest here.

Just nightmares.

Chopping your seasoned fish into tiny pieces, you push them around your plate until they disappear beneath a sea of sauce. You rather make a game of it.

You sometimes wonder if something is wrong with you now that can't be fixed.

"Can I ask about you and Bode?"

Your head snaps up and you focus in on him with narrowed eyes of suspicion. "Excuse me?"

He takes a sip of his beer. "The day you came by, it's like there was this look exchanged. He seemed withdrawn afterward. I know that he and Eric were partners and... That Bode was there when—"

You stab into your fish to pry out the spine. "It's really none of your concern."

"I'm not trying to step into territory where I'm unwelcome to. Just curious, I guess," Brett says gently, like he's toeing a landmine.

"All you need to know is that it was his fault," you bark. "He left Eric behind. He let him stay too long as it was. So you should keep that in mind when you think of sending him into a burning building."

You take a miniscule bite that's comparable to a nibble, and then another.

"Seems to me like Bode blames himself too. The fact that you do—if it were me, that is—would make such an impossibly heavy load that much harder to carry."

You release your utensils with a clatter. "Is that why you invited me here? To lecture me about something you weren't even there for? You have no idea—"

"No," he interrupts with raised palms. "I'm just..." He sighs.

Resting both his elbows atop the table, Brett rubs his hands together. "I was angry too. For a long time. My inability to move on is what finally drove my daughter away. After she left, the day eventually came when I looked up and realized just how alone I was... Because I was so mired in grief, and it was all my own doing. I don't want anyone else to go through that if they don't have to."

You swallow thickly and consider the bottle of wine still on the counter.

You should've made an effort to get drunk enough until you could no longer see straight.

"I don't want to move on," you state with finality. "I don't want to forget. The pain I feel is the only thing I have left. Do you want to know why I was in the baby aisle? I went to get something to eat, but then I thought—like I have a thousand times before—why do I deserve to? To enjoy a good meal? To take care of myself for even a second while he lies rotting in the ground? So I hurt myself. I took myself down that aisle until I felt bad enough to go home hungry instead."

Brett's features draw together in sympathy for the broken girl who sits in front of him. "As a husband who loved his wife more than anything, if you were her... The way you've treated yourself would do the very opposite of bring me peace. I'd rather burn in Hell for all eternity than let her suffer for another moment the way you have."

You grab your fork again. "At least in Hell, we'd be together again." Stabbing a piece of cold fish, you lift it toward your mouth. "It's where I live every day."

Washing dishes is a silent affair. Standing close to Brett's side, your elbows occasionally bump together when he hands you a wet plate to dry, or when he scours a pan with a Brillo pad to remove stuck-on grease and fish scales.

Being near someone so tall and tough and warm, however, makes you feel things you once thought forgotten.

This is why you've endeavored to remain alone: because with masculine company comes temptation.

You note the steady rise and fall of his strong chest with each breath he takes, the way the muscles in his forearms and biceps flex and contract with every movement he makes, and how his cologne reminds you of a summer night right here in fire country.

He's all man, and it makes you ache desperately for one you no longer have.

Once the kitchen is clean, and leftovers have been tidily stored away in the fridge, Brett meets your awaiting gaze with a smile as he wrings his damp hands with a dishtowel. "Even though I clearly failed at conversation, I hope dinner was at least decent."

You nod with a forced smile while taking a step closer. "It was. Thank you." You watch as he tosses the towel back onto the counter. "I appreciated it."

"Anytime," he replies with a nod and crossed arms.

"You..." you swallow nervously while taking another step forward in an effort to bridge the physical gap. "You said that you were lonely."

He shrugs slightly. "I think it's better now with me whipping 42's crew into shape. Gives me something to dedicate myself to, at least for awhile."

You nod, though you're not really listening.

You've little concern for the fire station or those residing within it right now.

"I'm lonely too," you state while resting a palm atop one of his rough hands. Cupping his stubbled cheek, you tug at his tan, freckled arm. You want him to drop it to grant you access to his chest. To him.

No boundaries to hold himself back from you.

"But you understand me," you whisper while rising up, onto tiptoes. The underside of your breasts brush against his forearms, and he finally drops the limbs down to his sides. "Let me help you."

You're not doing this for him at all.

Pressing your lips softly to Brett's, he falls back against the granite countertop behind him, and catches himself against it with his hands.

You slide your arms around his neck then and pour all the passion you've been withholding for your late husband into the intimate gesture. You run your tongue along the seam of his lips until he grants you entry, and you deepen the gesture by cupping the back of his head.

Just as you're about to let your hooded eyes flutter closed, the older man grabs you by the hips and pushes you back a few inches. "Y/N—"

"Please," you plead with a broken voice and gathering tears. "Please." You kiss him again. "Please, Brett."

He tries to remember what it was that you apparently said to Bode the night the two of you fell into bed together. It was something similar, wasn't it? All pleading words and tears he couldn't turn away from, nor a woman he could've resisted if he tried.

Tugging you back against his chest, Brett suddenly understands why, even now, you're still a weakness for him.

You're the first woman he's taken to bed since his late wife.

Sat atop the mattress with you in his lap and one of your pebbled nipples in his mouth while his aching hands roam your soft, naked skin, he's reminded of just how good making love can feel.

Cradling the back of his head, your hips rock against his while you pepper his forehead with tender kisses.

He worries that when he finally nears his finish, he won't be able to pull out in time, if at all. The fleeting thought had crossed his mind to stop you long enough for him to procure protection, but there's none here.

Once his wife began menopause, there was no longer a reason to keep it around. Had he done that, though, the moment would've been gone, and so, too, would you have been by the time he got back from the drug store, as well as his will to follow through once he had time to properly think.

You pant quietly against his shoulder. Tilting your head to the side, you press your damp lips to his and gently flick your tongue against Brett's in a bid to stir it to life.

Everything here in this bedroom tonight is slow—carefully measured. Every touch, every brush of eyelashes against cheek, every sigh and whimper and embrace.

But no matter how good it is, you won't look at him.

You haven't since he carried you in from the kitchen.

He ignores why that might be until it finally happens, right against his ear.

"Eric."

Brett tells himself that if he tries hard enough, maybe he can be that for you. It's the right thing, because he's aware of what this is.

Closure.

He wishes it could be as much for him too, but he's further along in the grieving process than yourself. The time for pretend lovemaking has passed.

He's onto other things.

Brett tilts his head back to watch you—to study the serene expression spread across your previously tortured features. There's your parted lips, your sweat-laden skin which tastes pleasantly of salt, and the way your cheek twitches each time he reaches a specific fleshy spot between your legs with his erect cock.

You're young. Too young, he knows.

But God, you feel so fucking good; like a welcome escape.

"Eric," you whimper again while carding your fingers in his greying curls. It's best you keep your eyes shut, he figures. He's all the wrong color there.

His days of pigmentation are long gone.

Only aging and a map of stress in the form of wrinkles has been left in its wake.

You crush your lips to his and whine against his open mouth. "God," you shudder. "I love you."

His cock twitches.

Brett can scarcely remember the last time someone said that to him. "Again," he rasps in a gravely voice that sends a chill up your spine, for it seems so familiar.

"I love you," you whisper.

Silver-blue moonlight spills across the bed where you both sit intertwined as one.

With one arm around your waist and the other cupping your cheek, he keeps you close until you both come undone.

Once Brett spilled himself inside of you, you each clung to the other for a spell while simply breathing.

And when you reluctantly opened your eyes and surveyed unfamiliar wood paneling and a foreign red-and-black checkered robe hung atop a hook on the wall, your stomach churned.

Not him.

When you pulled back—wanting off his lap and for his limbs to release you—he gazed up at you with eyes clouded over not from lust, but gratefulness.

Meanwhile, you had cringed away—nearly sneered in disgust at what you had done to yourself. What you had done...with him.

And when he saw it, his hold loosened and you fled to the bathroom to wash away your betrayal.

Brett's heart had sank to his knees when you returned because you had been seemingly unable to meet his eyes. When you plucked your shirt from the floor and clutched it to your breasts to cover your modesty, he filled with disappointment.

"I should head home," you had mumbled.

He had known it would've been the smarter option; that you got what you came for and it was over now. But he felt he was owed his half of the unspoken bargain as well.

"I'd prefer it if you stayed," he muttered from the edge of the bed.

So now here the both of you lay. You, turned onto your side away from him—clad only in one of his 49ers t-shirts—and him onto his, but facing your back. He assumes being held after is tradition for you—that you seem the type. Him too, in truth, but being the one doing the holding.

He'd like to, but you seem reluctant to be touched now.

He doesn't have the right hands. Or body, face, or soul.

Brett reaches out anyway and slides a palm along your back—his callouses catching in the thin fabric there. "Do you want to talk about it?" he asks quietly.

There's a beat of silence, followed by the sound of you sniffling, and then you speak. "Please," you sob. "Just go to sleep."

He turns onto his back, and then his side to face away from you while thinking of how deeply he misses his wife, and how much he wishes that things were different.

You pad around the bedroom gathering clothing items and tugging them on one-by-one while remaining conscious of Brett's breathing all the while. You suppose that if he wanted to track you down, it wouldn't take much effort on his part to recover paperwork on your husband, so as to find your home address, but he also doesn't seem the type.

Once you've popped on your second sock, you verge toward the door and slip out without a sound.

You're a mess and know his cum is still inside you—one can only do so much with a quick rinse while squatting in an unfamiliar tub—but deign that you'll take care of it once you're back home safe. You'll have a nervous breakdown after scrubbing your soiled skin raw.

Just when you spot your shoes by the door, a floorboard creaks behind you and your spine goes ramrod straight.

"Trying to sneak out, huh?"

Now tense, you slowly turn back to him on your heel.

At least he's dressed in a pair of flannel pajama pants and a matching dark blue t-shirt now. You left his sports one folded on the foot of the bed. "I didn't wanna wake you."

With crossed arms, he shrugs. "Was planning on making you breakfast when we both got up."

You bristle. "You don't need to do that."

He huffs and takes a step forward. "Listen, I know what last night was—"

"A mistake," you interrupt with concrete certainty before he can make this any worse. You need to crush any potential hope he has for something more like a bug beneath a rock.

He stumbles back a step.

You shake your head and glance toward the dining table the two of you occupied last night. "I've just...been so lonely. And you were right there. And so kind to me." Your chin wobbles, and you're thankful for it. Sadness you can do; grief especially. "I missed my husband."

Brett pads forward with a clenched jaw. "Are you even aware—" he shakes his head from a sense of bubbling irritation. "You said his name. Twice. Told me—or, I guess I should say him—that you loved him. It stung, but I kept quiet because I knew it's what you needed: one last chance to be with him. Because hardly ever do we know that the last time is going to be just that. But to wake up alone the next morning too—"

"I'm sorry, Brett, if you thought that this was something it wasn't. It was just sex. Nothing more. It'll never be anything more. We're strangers to one another. It's bad enough that I was unfaithful to my husband, so staying for breakfast and pretending like I wasn't..." you trail off, now at a loss for words.

Done with this conversation, you turn to leave again.

"You can't cheat on a dead man," Brett retorts.

You shoulders draw together tightly while your hands morph into fists at your sides. "Do not ever speak about Eric like that again. A man you never even knew."

"Seems like habit for you," he spits. "Using a man for sex just to be with your husband again, then tossing him aside the next morning when you're left feeling guilty."

You seethe. "Did Bode tell you?" you snap.

A muscle in his jaw feathers. "Right after you left that day. He was worked up and just needed someone to finally talk to about it, I think. I should've taken it as a warning, but—"

"So long as you were getting laid it didn't really matter, though, did it?" you sneer.

Silence descends. "Get your things and get the fuck out of my house," Brett orders with icy composure. "Now."

You swipe your shoes from a rubber mat sat in the entryway, flip the lock on the door, then slam it shut behind you after you exit.

Left all alone—same as always—Brett blinks back the tears brimming in his eyes and turns to head back to bed.

It's three weeks later when your world tilts on its axis, despite your efforts to prevent it.

So you take the time to debate with yourself, but ultimately lean in the direction of what you consider to be the "right" choice when you return to Station 42's doorstep.

Bode watches from the shadows as you pick your way across the vacant engine bay, until he finds his voice and steps out. "Something you need?"

When you turn to meet him, he notes how different you appear, even from just a handful of weeks prior.

Your cheeks are fuller and your body more filled out. Color has returned to you, as well as life to your eyes. Even your clothes seem more put together—form-fitting and clearly pressed with an iron. "I'm looking for Brett," you explain. "There's something I need to speak with him about."

Jealousy rears its ugly head, but he keeps the feeling tempered for now. For your sake. "Was in his office last I saw him," he supplies.

You nod with a delicate smile. "Thank you."

A quiet knock sounds from the other side of the frosted glass window positioned in the middle of Brett's office door. "Yeah," he calls from the other side while flipping through a pile of paperwork.

Least favorite part of the job for him.

The door clicks open and swings inward while a quiet scuff of shoes enters the half-cramped space.

Stacks of metal filing cabinets line the wall opposite the desk he sits at, and a towering card catalog is shoved flush against the wall behind him. Piece of outdated furniture, but the crew found new use for it by stuffing it full of hardware and instruction booklets they were reluctant to misplace.

Lifting his head from an incident report—wanting for a welcome reprieve from a responsibility he'd be all too happy to hand off—Brett is left disappointed when his eyes meet with yours.

"I hope it's okay that I'm here," you say softly.

Leaning back in his chair with arms now defensively crossed, he regards you with a displeased expression. "What d'you want?"

"For starters, to apologize for that night," you begin.

Much to his surprise, you don't shy away from the elephant in the room.

"You were kind enough to invite me into your home, make me dinner, feed and host me. You were right that I used you in return. I hope you know I didn't intend to, though."

Leaning back against a cabinet, you continue. "After we cleaned the kitchen, I just... Made a split-second decision. Perhaps I shouldn't have, but I can't undo it. I can't change what's happened. All I can attempt is making amends. So I'm sorry. Truly. Especially for the way I spoke to you, and my trying to sneak out the next morning without even a word goodbye. It was cowardly and you deserved better."

Gone is the girl from almost a month ago, he thinks as he studies you. In her place, a complete stranger. But he supposes you were anyway, just as you said.

At least this version isn't quite so hopeless.

He wonders as to what's changed. Maybe you just got what you needed from him.

Brett shrugs indifferently. "Like you said, can't change it."

You dip your chin in acknowledgement. "There's one other thing I came to tell you. And before I do, I want to preface by saying that I expect absolutely nothing of you. I simply felt that you deserved to know. I would want to if I were in your shoes, but I in no way am trying to force your hand one way or the other, nor will I ever ask you for anything because of it."

Shifting in his seat, he clears his throat while his eyes flit toward the door, then back to you. Brett folds his hands in his lap after casually settling an ankle over a knee. "Let's here it then."

A hand flutters toward your belly and comes to gently rest there. "I'm pregnant."

The air in the room evaporates in an instant and the world silences all around him. No birds chirp outside the window, no torque wrench can be heard across the engine bay where it echoes from the garage, and the breath in his lungs has ceased circulation throughout his body.

"And I'm keeping my baby," you add gently. "When Eric died, so did... So many things for me. I felt like I did. But the possibility of children were one of them, as I only ever wanted to bear his. When I thought of any other way to, only three possibilities presented themselves, and none were preferable."

"One," you begin while clasping your hands at your waist. "IVF. But with what it costs..." You shake your head.

"Two, I could meet a stranger at a bar and follow them home. But what if he hurt me? Gave me a disease? Was a horrible person that my baby would have then come from?" You sigh. "Not that that inherently means my child would've been too, but I would've rather known who I was lying down with instead of that. And if they insisted on contraception, then there went my idea. Right out the window," you state while glancing to the one behind him which is cracked slightly open to invite in a warm summer breeze.

"Three: I enter into a relationship I neither wanted nor desired just for the sake of conceiving, which would inevitably end in disaster. But now I'll have peace in knowing that my baby will have come from a good man."

"Did you plan this?" he hisses while planting both feet on the floor and leaning in toward you with a raised brow of contempt.

"No," you insist with a wave of your hand. "No. That night, I wasn't thinking clearly. But I haven't really been since my Eric's death. I... I haven't been touched in two years, Brett. Not a hug, not a kiss on the cheek. Not so much as a handshake. That is how fervent I was about keeping people away, because I was terrified that the moment I let someone in, I would lose them too. Even if I did, I told myself that they could never understand me, so why try at all? Why bother ever caring?"

He leans back again with hesitancy in his eyes.

"I could feel the heat coming off your body while standing next to you. Just your arm brushing against mine made my knees go weak. I... I was that starved for physical touch. So I threw myself at you in an attempt to be with Eric again, just like you said. And it worked. For a bit."

Pressing the pads of his thumbs together, he remains silent while you get whatever is left out into the closing space between you.

"I do want you to know that I took a measure to try and prevent it. I didn't even go home to shower after. Instead, I headed straight for the pharmacy and picked up Plan B. When I got it home I... I sat on the floor of the bathroom for an hour just staring at that stupid box before tearing into it and swallowing a pill I didn't really want to take." You rub your hand nervously against your arm while looking away. "I almost hurt myself after for it, but didn't."

His brows pinch together.

"I always wanted to be a mother, and I believed, at the time, that I had destroyed my last chance for it. Clearly, though," you say while touching your belly again. "It didn't work."

Elbows settled on either wooden arm of the rolling chair he sits in, Brett shakes his head in confusion. "If you've been that close to the edge this whole time... I mean, how've you been providing for yourself?"

Not a ridiculous question, you think.

"Eric's life insurance policy," you say with a nod. "He took out a rather large one. Understandable, given this occupation. And there was his pension from here and the VA. Which... Survivor benefits alone wouldn't have been enough to live off of once everything else ran out. The crew here also gathered together a sizeable sum in the wake of his death. Their helping with funeral costs helped immensely too. I could barely bathe myself, let alone pick out a casket that would never be opened."

You choke back a sob.

Not even could you look at him one last time—touch or kiss his face. It was all taken from you in a blazing instant.

"Bode did so much of it," you relay. "More than I deserved after what happened between us."

If things were different... Maybe it'd be him instead that you were giving this long-running speech to.

You wonder if he'd be more or less receptive to your practiced words.

"And when the money ran out?" he presses.

You meet his gaze with conviction. "I planned to meet my husband."

Growing cold all over, his skin pricks with horripilation. "You intended to end your life, you mean," Brett levels.

You falter for a moment. "I know I haven't been doing well, which is truly an understatement, but I have a therapy appointment for tomorrow. I'm going to be attending regular sessions, because my life is no longer just about me now. I have to do better for my baby."

He chews his cheek. "You seem like you are already." He shrugs. "A bit."

You nod in agreement. "When I saw those little pink lines, two feelings overcame me. Guilt—which doesn't even feel an appropriate word for the weight of it—and relief. Guilt for... Feeling like I had betrayed my husband in the worst way possible, and relief for finally having a reason to keep going; because I finally had something which I had resigned myself to never getting to experience: a life growing inside me; a child to raise."

You curl your fingers protectively against your abdomen.

"So now you know," you finish. "And I understand with your age, and the fact that you're a widower as well—coupled with you already having an adult daughter—that this isn't something you ever anticipated: becoming a father again."

You take a step back toward the door. "It just felt right to me that you should know; be made aware." You settle your palm over the cool brass handle. "Goodbye, Brett."

Shooting out of his chair, he sends it rolling across the floor before it bumps into a back corner. "You never even asked me," he says in a panic.

You release the handle. "What?"

"Whether I wanted this. You just made an assumption and went with it."

Drifting back to him, you look into his wide brown eyes. "You're right."

Granting Brett your full, undivided attention, you turn to face him once more. "I did make an assumption. Because of your age and...circumstances," Such as his late wife and daughter, who you imagine can't be terribly far from you in age. "I figured that you were comfortable with where you were in life. For someone to come along and tell you that you're going to be a father all over again is... Quite the burden to carry."

Brett takes a steady step forward. "I never thought that I would be. Figured my path was set after she passed. But I'll be damned if I let you walk out that door to do this all on your own. Not after all you've been through."

Bathed in a sense of resilience, the chief gazes down at you with utter stoicism—sure of the next step you're each about to take as one. "Because I'm going to be there," he states. "For every doctor appointment, ultrasound, and when we find out its sex. Every holiday, birthday, and field trip. And you best be sure that I'm sticking dollar bills under our kid's pillow for all twenty teeth. No other man gets that privilege."

The sudden stinging of your eyes you blame on the arid summer air.

"Maybe it'd be easier to think of me as some useless sperm donor, but I'm made of sterner stuff, sweetheart. Meaning that I'm old-fashioned."

Fifteen minutes ago, he'd thought he would be unlikely to ever set eyes on you again. But the wheel of fortune had other intentions, clearly. With his entire life changed in an instant, Brett finds himself with one clear choice lain at his feet.

A mantle to uphold.

Inhaling a deep, calming breath which expands and fills his lungs, the silver-haired man slowly exhales, then holds tightly to your delicate hand. "Marry me."

Your eyes widen in complete shock.

"Just hear me out," he insists. "I'm aware that you're not in love with me. And, to be fair, neither am I with you. But now knowing that you're carrying my kid, I feel that I have an obligation. To keep you safe. It is a man's duty to look after the mother of his child. So it's now mine to look after you. At least this way, you'd both have health insurance, financial security, and someone to provide for you; a man to lean on... Whenever I'm needed."

You become very aware of the silver band wrapped round your finger. "And if... If I lost it? It's common in the first trimester. More than people talk about. If that did... There'd be nothing left to bind us together."

You slip your hand from his. "I don't want you to do something you'll later regret."

"We can wait if you want," he states gently. "But once you're well into your second, this is something I'd like to happen. For my own peace of mind."

A handful of weeks ago, you couldn't get out of his house fast enough, nor could he rid himself of your presence. Now... Now he's asking you to take vows until death. Something you already did once. Why don't they specify whose death? One of yours, or both?

"I don't want to make a widower of you twice," you whisper.

He tilts his head while his brows verge together.

"If I... If my baby died inside me..." You sniffle, then shrug, as if to pretend what you're about to say carries no true weight at all. "My plan was still to join my Eric."

"I won't let that happen."

Your eyes flutter closed for a moment. With a shake of your head, they open again. "You—"

Pressing his palm to your belly, you quiet. "Nothing else happens to you now. Nothing," Brett states emphatically.

You curl your fingers around his. "I need time to consider."

He nods in understanding. "In the meantime, we should exchange information. Like I said: I'm a part of your life now. And I will be there, starting with your first check-up."

"Hey," Brett calls from behind you.

Spinning on your heel, you look at him. "When's your next OB appointment? I forgot to ask."

The sound of something metallic rings in the quiet space—like a tool has just slipped from someone's grasp. "Let me check my calendar," you reply while retrieving your phone from your pocket. "I think it's in a week."

"You're pregnant?"

Nearly dropping the sleek device from a sense of surprise, you jerk your head to the left and are met with the sight of an irate Bode.

"His?" he snarls while pointing at Brett with an accusatory finger.

"Bode..."

Advancing forward with angry stomps, he shakes his head with complete disapproval. "You sick fuck," he spits. "You come to town, try to take advantage of a grieving widow who's young enough to be your daughter, steal my father's seat here—"

He swings on him.

A closed, meaty fist meets with solid cheekbone, sending Brett stumbling toward the floor.

Clambering on top of him, Bode fists the neck of the other man's t-shirt in his nondominant hand and continues his violent tirade.

You scream for him to stop, but all he hears is the angry ringing in his ears.

Brett clips him in the side, tears at his shirt hard enough to rip the cotton seam in half, then tosses him onto the floor, followed by a fist to the face just to get his actions to cease. "Stop fighting me!" he shouts while attempting to shake some sense into the boy when he takes him by the shoulders.

"Hey!" Manny shouts while running toward them in a panic. "Alright, that's enough now!"

Bode grapples with Brett's clenched hands that're fisted in the material of his ragged t-shirt in a desperate attempt to continue their scuffle, but as soon as Brett stands and goes stumbling back, Manny hoists Bode onto his feet.

It takes two more individuals to subdue and practically carry him away, but once his enraged vulgarity-laden screams disappear down the hall, Brett sweeps you up in his arms and cups the back of your head protectively as if you're the one who's been injured.

Each of Brett's cheeks, as well as his chin, are covered in angry red bruises. There had been talk of his nose being broken, but it was thankfully a false alarm in the end.

Only you fussing over him did he accept, so you were made to play paramedic when you cleaned his cuts and scrapes with sterile gauze and antiseptic from a first aid kit found in the restroom.

Bode, however, is in far worse shape.

Emotionally.

Sat just outside one of the station's open side doors, atop a rolling cooler, Bode dabs at his nose with a wad of tissues that's now saturated with blood. Seems the wound has begun to clot, but he continues to hold the makeshift pressure-dressing anyway.

"Brought you a clean shirt," you say quietly from the doorway.

Padding across fresh green grass and dry gravel, you seat yourself next to him and rest the garment in his lap.

"It one of his?" he mutters.

You shake your head. "Found it on your bunk."

Unfolding, he tugs his ruined one off over his head before tossing it aside to replace it with your offering. "Surprised you remembered where that is."

Trailing your eyes along the smattering of hair found across his bare chest, you glance away when you glance the tattoo near his heart of Eric's name, followed by 'forever my brother' scrawled just beneath it, and his year of death beneath that. "Course I do."

A pause of silence falls between you.

"So you're pregnant," Bode deadpans. "By some geriatric that you don't even know."

You turn slightly and your knee knocks against his. "It wasn't planned," you say softly. "I was at the store one night, and so was he. To be kind he invited me over for dinner. One thing led to another—"

"I don't need to hear this," he grumbles.

"I initiated, if that makes you feel less...hateful toward him. And it wasn't about him. I was just..." You shake your head. "It wasn't about him."

He knows who it was. "If that was something you needed, you could've called me. Not gone to a stranger."

Your eyes flit to his in surprise.

"Better it be me than him." He shakes his own head and drops the tissues between his booted feet. "Doesn't really matter now, though, does it?"

You pick at your nails. "Bode, I—I'm so sorry that I ever hurt you. Everything you did for me after Eric's passing... I can never hope to repay it. And the way that I left was not only cruel, but selfish. I wish—"

You raise your head and choke back a sob. "I wish I hadn't walked out the way I did. You're the only reason I'm even still alive. Believe me, I wanted to be dead, but you—you refused to let that happen."

Leaving you alone during the day had been the worst of it, because he spent every shift terrified that he would come home to a corpse. He locked up his guns and knives as a preventative measure, but had you been determined, you would've found a way. He knew that. And there was only so much time he was allotted off for bereavement. As it was, the station gave him more than company policy even allowed. Others were forced to take on extra shifts because of it so that he could stay home with you.

"Was it because you felt something more?" he asks while turning his head slightly to the side. "I mean, you felt guilty about it, right?"

He sighs. "As if you were the only one. You think I didn't hate myself for falling in love with you too?"

"Bode—"

"Listen, I'm not saying that I'm somehow entitled to you, or a form of repayment for looking after you. But for you to just suddenly be better, when three weeks ago you couldn't even look at me ,while I feel like I'm fucking drowning doesn't feel fair!" He started off calm, but his timbre grew in fervor until it morphed into shouting.

You don't stop or try to calm him, however.

This rage is well-deserved for all the damage you've left in your wake.

"I mean, you couldn't even fucking be there," he sneers. "My dad died and you were nowhere to be seen. I took care of Eric's funeral arrangements. I cleaned you up when you wet yourself from nightmares, and held you until you finally felt safe again when the sun came up. And you couldn't even be bothered to have your ass in a seat for an hour for my sake."

Fleetingly, you clutch at your belly—at the life growing inside it—and wish...it weren't there at all.

If not, you could fix this by giving Bode what he's always wanted.

You.

Cupping a hand over your mouth to quiet your mourning cries for what has been lost between you, you take calming breaths to try and quiet yourself. The time for him to care about your suffering has long since passed, you're sure.

"I tried. I got ready, but the minute I set foot outside the door..." you sniffle. "I felt like it was that day all over again. I wasn't even sure that I could drive myself. And it'd been so long since we last spoke. I didn't know for sure if you'd want me there—"

"That's bullshit," Bode rumbles. "I left you a voicemail begging you to come. Telling you that I needed you."

One which you still have saved, but you don't inform him of it.

It had been short, simple. To the point.

His voice had been thick and laden with grief-stricken tears as he pled with you over his phone's speaker. "He's dead. My dad is dead. His funeral is this Sunday and I need you to come. Please. Whatever's happened between us... I can't do this without you. Please just come."

The only thing he ever asked of you and you couldn't be bothered to give it.

Maybe you don't deserve all you've found.

"I know," you whisper.

"Should've been us," he remarks while kicking a pebble and watching it skitter across the lot. "If there was anyone you were meant to move on with, it was me. Maybe it makes me sound like a piece of shit to say it, but it's what Eric would've wanted too. Someone you can actually grow old with. Who's been there for years and knows you better than that asshole can ever hope to. I was there at your absolute worst. Can you really say with all certainty that Brett would do the same?"

If you tell him about his proposal, neither of them may walk out of here alive. "I guess time will tell."

He snorts, then rises. "I won't be there," Bode says while shoving his hands in his pockets. "When he breaks your heart, I won't be there to fix it this time. So don't even think of asking me to be when the day comes."

You don't follow after him.

True to his word, Brett is ever-present for your every need. For your first ultrasound when you each cried happy tears over a fuzzy image of your little blip, to getting married at City Hall, to deciding on a Godparent, as well as your shared housing arrangements in an effort to make things work as one.

Therapy continues to go well for you, while Brett informing his daughter of her new stepmother and sibling... Not so much. So you keep your distance out of respect, knowing that she has every right to feel cross. You assure her that she's welcome to visit the new house Brett purchased for the two of you in an effort to be closer to her at any time. She's yet to take you up on the offer, but your door remains open and your heart hopeful, but for the sake of her father.

You busy yourself with preparing your home for your little bundle that's soon to arrive, and when you ask a particular someone to meet you at your late husband's grave site for the third anniversary of his death, you're met with no response, but pray anyway that he'll come so you can extend an offer.

The sharp slam of a truck door interrupts your one-sided conversation with Eric. Turning on the heel of your sneaker, you slide a soft hand over your swollen belly and greet Bode with a forced smile.

Forced, because you're unsure how to decipher the look on his face. His lips are pursed and his shoulders taught, but he seems more put together than last you saw him.

His beard is better trimmed this time, at least.

"Thank you for coming," you say to break the silence.

He merely nods in return.

"Made it sound important. Whatever was on your mind, that is."

"It is."

Running a palm over the expertly carved granite of Eric's headstone, Bode's cheek twitches while his face goes flush with grief. "What I'm about to say is probably going to sound cruel," he begins, speaking first. "But I'm done apologizing for something that was never my fault. I tried to get him out, but because I looked up to him like an older brother—deferred to whatever he said—I backed down. He was trying to do the right thing. Trying to save a kid that neither of us had any idea wasn't even up there to begin with."

He returns his hand to his pocket. "I respected Eric. Maybe more than anyone, and so I also respected his final decision. I'm in no way blaming his own death on him, but he made a choice, and nothing I did or said was going to change it. I've played and replayed that moment a thousand times. Maybe more. And it always ends the one way. The way in which it happened, because no one—not you or I—can change the past."

His speech concluded, he turns to face you. To absorb whatever thoughts you have awaiting him.

You cradle your belly and sniffle. "It was easier to blame you because you were still breathing. How could I—" you shake your head ruefully. "Blame him when he was dead? My own husband? What sort of monster would even think to?"

Bode's feature soften, and swaying oak trees of vibrant green reflect in his eyes. "Not a monster. A human being. A grieving wife who felt like she had lost her purpose and a part of herself."

"I'll go to my own grave being sorry for putting that on you, Bode. For ever letting you think for a moment that I held you responsible. For shattering your heart and driving into the ground because of it." You slide your free hand atop your belly. "And for this. For taking away our chance of a future by refusing to just stop and think first."

Taking you into his arms, he pulls you close and runs a soothing hand down the back of your head while shooshing you. "What's done is done. It's over now."

"I pray that one day you can forgive me," you mumble while burying your face in his chest.

"If that's what you need to find peace, then you have it. I don't need you carrying that kind of weight around like I have when nothing good'll ever come from it."

You breathe a long, drawn-out sigh of relief, and something flees from you then. Like a bird taking flight, and with it, a seedling of darkness.

"So, why did you ask me here?" he inquires with a hand against your back.

"Brett and I discussed it, and we both agreed. Maybe he did for my sake, but..." You lean back and plant your palm atop Bode's chest while brushing a thumb over the dark fabric that obscures your husband's ink memorial. "We know who we want for our daughter's Godfather."

His lips slightly part and his eyes search yours to confirm the veracity of what you've just said.

"But more than that, since we've both moved, and Brett has sold his house, only mine is left. I don't... Want it to go to strangers. You and Eric built that house. So if anyone should have it—"

"You don't want it anymore?"

You slowly shake your head. "Being there has been slowly killing me. In every corner and hallway I see him. Or memories of us. If I stay in that house—or go back to it—I'll return to the way I was. I know it. So if you want it, it's yours. Free and clear."

You cup his cheek. "And God forbid something ever happens to the two of us, I want you to take over raising her; being her father." You brush your thumb along the curve of his cheekbone. "She's going to need you there growing up either way."

You slide your hand into his. "I want you there. I promised myself that I'd never ask anything else of you. But I'm asking this for my daughter."

Turning to study his brother's headstone, he knows he has a promise to keep. One to look after you always if anything ever happened to Eric.

He had wondered for so long if your late husband ever knew about his feelings toward you. He wasn't nearly as good at hiding it as he thought, turned out, when a year before his untimely death, Eric sat him down by a bonfire with a couple of beers on a chilly October night and made his wants abundantly clear.

"Anything ever happens to me and I'm no longer around to take care of her, I expect you to be the man who steps up. I know how you feel toward her, and I'm not blaming you, but thanking you. For giving me peace of mind by knowing that she has someone else who loves her just as much as I do, and who'll be there for the good, bad, and anything else inbetween."

He'd turned to him with a stony expression after taking a swig of his beer. "Think you can do that for me, little brother?"

He never told you, because he didn't want you to feel obligated to be with him simply because it was what Eric wanted. Your free will was more important. Nevertheless, he broke his promise by letting you walk out the door that morning, and has continued to every day since.

He won't let another day go by where he doesn't hold true to it now.

Bode presses his lips to your forehead. "Okay."

"There's daddy!" you shout excitedly.

Exiting a glass door at the back of the house, a toothy grin breaks out across Brett's face at the sight of your little girl toddling toward him with wobbly steps and outstretched arms.

Scooping her into his own, he tosses her up just once before cradling her safely against his chest. "Oh, now there is my girl," he coos.

Winding an arm around your shoulders when you come nearer, Brett pulls you close to his side and brushes his lips against yours. "Mm," he hums. "Both my girls."

"Made chili for dinner," you remark while pressing your lips to the warm skin of his neck that smells pleasantly of pine.

Little Erica babbles excitedly while pinching Brett's nose between her tiny fingers.

"Smelled it all the way from outside the house. Smells good, baby."

You give your husband a peck on the cheek, then lead him back inside while a clear, shimmering lake ripples at your back. "Let's eat."

[pearlessance]

Sweetheart

Pairing: Andrew Cody x shy!f!Reader

Summary: Everyone knows that Pope Cody's girlfriend is a real sweetheart. What they don't know is that, behind closed doors, you're a real fuckin' freak, too.

Warnings: +18 explicit content MDNI, porn without plot, established relationship, shy!reader, unspecified age gap, size difference, pope teaches you how to shoot a gun and touches you at the same time, face slapping, face fucking, reader has hair that can be styled, messy blowjob, reader helps complete a job, praise, car sex, reader makes out with pope over a mask so masked sex, restrained hands, creampie, overstimulation kinda, only barely lightly edited

Note: take that p w/o plot tag seriously cause uh....yeah. this is just me wanting to fuck pope cody bad

WC: 2.3k

[masterlist] [AO3]

Everyone thought Andrew Cody was a pervert.

And, really, how could they not?

They see him; all big and brooding, with wrinkles around his eyes and rough hands. And beside him stands you; soft and innocent, all shy smiles and quiet words. A sweetheart by every definition of the word.

He's older than you. Bigger than you. Meaner than you. All it takes is one glance at your manicured fingers around his broad bicep and your cheek pressed to his shoulder to know that, yeah. He's probably (definitely) taking advantage of you.

A girl your age doesn't know any better. Naive little thing. All you see is the handsome man that stands in front of you, who foots the bill when he takes you out to a nice restaurant or on a shopping spree. You see the way he stares down a guy who looks in your general direction a little too long and the way he walks just a step in front of you in a public setting, clearing a path of safety.

What young girl wouldn't want a man like that?

But what they don't see is the way you don't even flinch when you're riding shotgun in his truck and Andrew sets his pistol in your lap. They don't see the blade he'd bought for you—sharp and small, wedged right between your breasts every time you leave the house without him.

They don't see the way your skin prickles when he teaches you the proper way to shoot a gun, standing in front of the bathroom mirror, pointing the barrel at your reflection.

His hands are at your hips, thumbs resting at the elastic band of your pretty, red panties. Andrew's voice is low and slow in your ear. "Mm. Tuck your elbow in. Squeeze the handle a little harder. Yeah, there you go. Now put your finger on the trigger, baby. Just like that. And when you're ready, you just gotta pull it."

You breathe in slowly, and your finger presses down on the exhale.

The gun clicks.

"Yeah, that's it," he says, sliding his hands lower, beneath the crimson fabric. What he finds is unsurprising to him, of course. Arousal pooling between your thighs, your clit slick and swollen and desperate to be touched. He circles it slowly, tentatively, lovingly. "Again, sweetheart."

Andrew doesn't speak much on the rumors that go around about the two of you. He's sure even his brothers believe some of them.

It's to be expected, really, with that mousy demeanor of yours.

You put your hair up a different way one day and when Craig compliments you on it you get all shy, hiding behind Andrew's shoulder with your cheeks flaming.

He thinks it's real cute. The way you act all timid in front of them, murmuring a thank you with that soft voice of yours, unable to meet Craig's eyes all because he complimented you.

But only an hour later, Pope's undoing the clips in your hair while you look up at him from down on your knees, saying—begging, "Hit me."

And Pope does. Smacks you hard, one good time with his palm against your cheek. The sound is like lightning through the open air. He doesn't do it because he wants to, he does it because of that misty look in your eye, because of the way you moan at the impact.

Because of the way you look up at him through your lashes and smile real wide, giggles falling off your kiss-swollen lips, like there's no place you'd rather be.

He gives you just what you need, fucking your mouth until you're crying for it, burying himself at the back of your throat.

Each little gasp for air you make pushes him closer and closer to release, but what really does him in is the way your hand finds his thigh, tracing a little heart-shape into the denim of his jeans while you choke on his length.

Andrew finishes at the back of your mouth without warning, filling you until his release spills from the corners of your plush lips.

His cock still aches when he pulls himself out of you. Your pretty makeup that you spent all that time doing this morning runs down your cheeks now, and sticky webs of saliva and cum connect his cock to your tongue.

"You look so pretty, swallowing me down like that. My beautiful girl. Say it."

Your eyes are bloodshot and watery but filled with love as you look up at him. "I'm your beautiful girl," you say, smiling wide, sticking out your tongue to show him the mess he's made of you before swallowing hard.

"Yeah you are," he murmurs. "My sweetheart."

You've even got Smurf fooled.

They're having a family meeting one afternoon, planning out the details on how to rob a marijuana dispensary that pays its employees exclusively in cash.

While you're moving around easily in the kitchen, Smurf watches you from the living room with a drink in her hand.

Craig and Deran are bickering, trying to figure out a way to distract the night shift security guards that stand watch at the front entrance.

And then Smurf suddenly says, pointing with the rim of her crystal glass, "Her."

Pope shakes his head. "No. Not happening."

"Think about it," Smurf says. "You go in right as the last employee walks out. She walks up, begging to be let in, and says she'll pay extra. Girl like her? They won't expect anything. Just a pretty sweetheart looking to end her day with a little indica."

His brothers are quiet, looking between you and Pope, toeing the line of choice.

In the end, Andrew lets you choose. Makes it clear that if working a job with them makes you feel uncomfortable in any way, they'll figure something else out. He lays out the risks and the reward and reminds you to be honest about your feelings.

But you agree almost immediately and no amount of talking on Andrew's part sways you. It's over the moment you take his big hand, press his palm to your cheek and say, "I love you, Andrew. Even this part of you. Especially this part."

It melts his heart and fills him with this almost uncomfortable level of tenderness. He would kill for you, die for you—all to keep you here by his side.

The job goes perfectly. Andrew and his brothers are able to slip through the ceiling vents unseen, all because you're batting your eyelashes and making your shy little jokes to the guards out front.

They leave the warehouse with duffel bags full of cash and get away clean and undetected.

You're waiting three blocks away in Pope's truck, sitting casually behind the wheel, coating your lips in that pretty lipgloss while looking in the rearview mirror. But your phone is clutched tight in your hand waiting on a text of confirmation.

Pope makes Deran drop him off so he can set his eyes on you sooner rather than later.

And the moment you see him, your eyes light up in this way he knows all too well. Pope nods, adrenaline high as he lifts the clear plastic mask over his face just enough to set it on the top of his head. "We're good," he says.

The hesitant look on your face turns into a grin, soft giggles flitting off your tongue. You slide back across the cab to make room for Pope behind the wheel. You look past him, to Craig and Deran in the car with no plates full of stolen cash. "We'll see you at home," you tell them.

And maybe they don't understand at first, but Pope does. Of course he does—he can feel the way that wanting, lustful energy buzzes beneath your skin.

He puts the truck in drive and pulls out of the lot, but he doesn't make it two blocks before you're wrapping those sharp, painted nails around his bicep.

Pope just smiles as you kiss his shoulder repeatedly, nuzzling the cords of muscle through the fabric of his black hoodie. It seems like such an innocent, sweet touch. But he knows the truth—knows it's not only sweetness in your heart, it's hunger.

"Hang on, baby," he says, hand resting on the inside of your thigh, squeezing tightly. "Lemme pull over."

He finds a secluded alleyway that offers just enough darkness to remain undetected. And the minute he puts his truck in park, you're climbing into his lap.

Pope welcomes the taste of your hungry tongue. Lets you slide it into his mouth, over his teeth, licking and sucking like your life depends on it. He's already half hard in his jeans, but the second you tilt your hips, grinding yourself down against his bulge, he's done for.

"You look—god, you look so good," you whimper, hands around his neck. You don't squeeze, but rather just rest them there, thumbs feeling the quickening beat of his pulse through his jugular.

"Did such a great job today," Andrew says, fingers flexing hard around your hips. "My perfect girl. Such a sweetheart."

You whimper at the namesake, a term he'd coined just for you, his shy, gentle girl. "Andrew, please."

He knows what you're asking for. And who is he, after all, to deny a girl like you? Someone good and soft and so very desperate.

He reaches beneath you, between your legs to find the buckle of his belt. In one swift movement, he undoes it with a clink, and pushes his jeans and boxers down.

"Wait."

Andrew freezes.

At first he fears he might've done something wrong. Assumed wrong or maybe gone too far or pushed too hard. Like usual. Like usual.

His mind starts to spiral, because who could ever hurt you if not a monster? Sweet girl. Sweet heart.

He's a monster. He's a fucking—

And then you smile, and those invasive thoughts disappear as quickly as they'd manifested.

You bat your eyelashes at him with this innocent look on your face, and tug the plastic mask on the top of his head down.

Pope understands then. Of course he does—because you're his filthy, sweet girl. His.

Your clit pulses and he can feel it against his cock, even through the cotton barrier of your underwear.

Andrew tilts his head, watching you through slightly plastic-obstructed vision. He waits for you to move first.

And you do so by leaning forward and laying a wet, open-mouthed kiss against the mask, right over his lips.

It's the most erotic thing Pope has ever experienced.

Because he knows you want him—the awkward, quiet Andrew.

But right now, you're asking for a different version of him. A much more violent version of him; you want Pope.

The part that thieves and breaks and kills. The very worst of him. And not only do you want it, you're twitching for it. Breath coming out like a sigh, hands clutched tight, pussy aching for him.

And the realization—God. He could die. He could fucking die from how much he loves you.

He takes you right then and there. Pulls your underwear to the side beneath your skirt and sinks his cock into you in one hard, claiming thrust.

Pope holds your wrists together tightly behind your back and makes it hurt, because he knows good and well that's what you want. All the while your tongue laves against the plastic of his mask, breath fogging up the surface, a sick, perverted indulgence that drives him insane.

He circles your clit with his free hand, reveling in the way it throbs beneath his rough hands.

It doesn't take long. It never does. He feels the slick velvet of your center squeeze his cock like a vice. Pope doesn't let up, rubbing your clit until you lean back with your eyes squeezed tightly closed, chasing the release you've needed since the moment he'd asked you to help them on this job.

"Look at me," he demands. It's not a request but an order.

You do, mouth open to make room for the cute moans that echo in the cab of his truck. "I'm gonna—god, please please I'm gonna fucking cum—fuck—"

He doesn't say anything. Just tilts his head and watches you.

It hits a second later, and it's beautiful. The way you fall apart in his lap, thighs shaking, fingers flexing beneath his hold, fighting desperately to keep your brain tethered to the earth.

Andrew fucks you through it. Circles your clit until you're squeezing your thighs together, running from the sensitivity.

He finishes inside you a moment later, cock twitching as his orgasm settles low in his belly. And when he's finished, spasming with the aftershocks, you lift the plastic mask from his face and discard it on the floor of the passenger seat.

You smile and kiss him softly and say, "Let's go home. I'm hungry now."

Andrew knows the two of you will take one step into that house and they'll all know what you've gotten caught up doing. They'll see the mess of his curls and the flush on his face. They'll see your swollen lips and the spit drying at the corners and they'll think, 'Jesus, Pope. You can't get off that poor girl for even ten minutes?'

And he won't say anything, of course. He'll just let them go on believing the rumors, believing that he's the one who's insatiable for the shy girl who's gotten caught up in his gravitational pull.

Pope will let them keep on believing you're just a sweetheart.

[oxalaia-quilombensis]

my favorite fics :)

I've been on a liking spree so that I could put this list together of all of the best fics of Shawn's characters I've been reading lately. This list is in no way comprehensive but I've done my very best to put everything I've been loving on it

It is also 100% smut

JACK ABBOT

quarantined by @itslowkeyatthenightshift you and your attending butt heads—and it’s no secret around the ED that Dr. Jack Abbot is harder on you than the other residents. He pushes you further, critiques you sharper, expects more—and you’re done with it. Just as you’re about to go to Dr. Robby to request a switch to days and finally put some distance between you and him, your patient—and his patient—tests positive for COVID-19. Suddenly, you’re both exposed, and with hospital protocol leaving no room for argument, you have no choice but to quarantine together.

do you want the kitchen tour? by @witchywithwhiskey when your already bad date takes a turn for the worse, the head chef of the restaurant comes to see what he can do to help. when he offers to give you a tour of the kitchen, you jump at the chance to escape, and your bad night turns into something else entirely.

behind closed doors by @andrewmiinyard you took over jack and robby's spare room a few months ago and now you and jack are constantly at each other's throats. robby has finally had enough and he's hoping some forced proximity will do the trick. seems like it works a little too well.

temperature control by @mrshatosy Jack Abbott was supposed to find a safer hobby. He wasn’t prepared to find you.

you have no idea by @geminiwritten even after swapping from nights to days, you just can’t seem to escape the inconveniently attractive night shift attending. then a ptmc night out, a sparkly dress, and a not-so-innocent game of never have i ever leads to dr. jack abbot making sure you can never utter the words “never have i ever finished during sex” ever again

the art of mutual benefit by @softundermoonlight “I will pay for your coffee,” you add quickly, stepping forward and leaning into his space. He keeps shaking his head, so, in a moment of pure madness, and lacking better ideas, you just say: “I’ll go down on you.”

gentleman's instinct by @sun-snatcher Sometimes you're reminded how merciless Abbot can be. You indulge in it.

semper fi by @hirukochan Jack Abbot finds himself feeling oddly protective over the new night shift attending. He tells himself it's natural. You were the young widow of a Marine, a military spouse who brought the greatest sacrifice for her country - your husband. He watched you push on with gritted teeth, haunted by your own demons and trauma, all for the little girl depending on you. It was only natural. Any serviceman would feel an obligation towards your well-being. Any serviceman would want to know you were safe... happy... So how come, he can't help but feel like he is stealing another man's life?

ANDREW CODY

bambi series by @miasvelvetvoid One secret changes everything. As the Cody family’s carefully buried truths come to light, you find yourself caught between running from the people you love and fighting for them. In the end, loving Pope Cody doesn’t just change your life, it changes the entire family.

here is my hand that will not harm you by @erwinsvow against better judgement, you send a letter to a man at folsom with very sad eyes. against even better judgement, you send letters every week for years until he stops replying one day. and against everything you know, when he shows up at your door, you invite him inside.

sweetheart by @pearlessance Everyone knows that Pope Cody's girlfriend is a real sweetheart. What they don't know is that, behind closed doors, you're a real fuckin' freak, too.

late shift by @in-ky Being the Cody’s on-call emergency nurse isn’t easy. A dislocated shoulder turns into late night gunshot wounds and before you know it, you’re part of the family. After a rough night, Pope needs some TLC. And who else can help him if not his favorite nurse? You’re the only one who can stitch him up, physically and emotionally.

break me down and I'll call you mine by @flowersforbucky other than the men he brings home on occasion, you’re the only person who knows that deran cody is gay. when your best friend becomes anxious that people are growing suspicious of his sexuality, you suggest telling people that the two of you are dating. everything is going perfectly…until his brother is released from prison and you start feeling things that you haven’t felt in years.

fate. by @andrewmiinyard the three times you decided to flirt with pope cody and the one time you decided to take it one step further.

crush by @pittrabbit the aftermath of overhearing that conversation between pope and baz

worthy by @stellamarielu you tell andrew you want to start a new life with him— away from the chaos of his family, and he agrees with another future promise on his mind

found out by @love-quinn as his favourite waitress at the only diner in town that’ll still serve him, you’re pope’s girl. doesn’t matter if you have a boyfriend, everybody in town knows you belong to andrew cody. especially your poor neighbours on the other side of your apartment’s paper thin wall. you’d usually try and be more considerate of the noise, but with your boyfriend in the trunk of his car, pope needs everybody to hear exactly what he was doing on the night of the third. for alibi purposes.

TITUS DANFORTH

the hunt and the vow by @sargeant-bxrnes you broke up with titus danforth this morning. by nightfall you’re running through his family’s forest with a seven-minute head start and one rule: if he catches you before sunrise, you marry him.

the devil's favorite by @hirukochan In all the years Titus had been alive, no woman had ever captured his attention like you did. Titus could not explain it, he just knew, from the second he first met you, he needed you like air. And he'd move heaven and hell if necessary to get you. Not his father, not yours, not the Lawyer, Mr Le Bail or his demons he had watching over you could ever stop him.

the lottery by @thatcorporategirlie You return to the estate after learning Chester has fallen ill, and learn that the beginning of a new game is about to unfold.

mrs. danforth by @rr-after-dark  As Titus Danforth's sugar baby, you don't know much of his secretive, wealthy lifestyle. But when he accidentally gets you pregnant with a potential Danforth heir, it's decided that you'll be joining the family. There's no manual as you're plunged into their world of extravagance and violence.

hazard pay by @spikedfearn The Danforth estate was built to swallow screams, and tonight you’re the one cleaning up what the hunt leaves behind. When Titus Danforth arrives bleeding, furious, and far too aware of your hands on him, the private medical room becomes its own kind of trap.

please let me know if any of the links aren't working. I want to make sure everyone gets credited for their amazing work :)

[skzyeri]

brendon park fic recs - two

F - fluff S - smut A - angst ♡ - series ☆ - one shot ◇ - imagines and drabbles yeri's favourites

last updated - 05/06/2026 ⤷ fic count - 24

fic recs: one - two

@an-abysma1-0bserver ——————————

☆ pregnancy and everything after | A. ⤷ this should’ve been the happiest nine months of your life.

@bbfwrites ——————————

☆ hair | F. ⤷ you and brendon have differing opinions on how he styles his hair

@bitterwitchhh ——————————

☆ above, a shark, a serpent eater and a cormortant | F. A. ⤷ your day starts like shit when you wake up with the worst backache of your entire life. it starts low, at your tailbone, and works itself up up up. you feel the radiated pain everywhere. standing hurts. sitting hurts. even laying down and frantically googling what that might be hurts. 

@chiefdirector ——————————

☆ drunk | F. ⤷ it had been a good evening. a very good, alcohol induced evening. ☆ princess | F. ⤷ the emergency department was not a happy place. it was full of hurt, discomfort, and death. most days something tragic happens, from a baby being abandoned to hearing a family go through the worst day of their lives. despite all the bad, there was always good as well. ☆ asshole ex | F. A. ⤷ your life was good. you had an amazing job, wonderful friends, an adorable cat named thomas, and you were back on your own two feet. for a long time, you had been stuck in a relationship with a man who seemed to want nothing more than to bring you down with him. the relationship had taken seven years of your life, and you were determined not to let that god-awful man have a second more of your time. ☆ personal and professional | F. ⤷ brendon park was a hard man to get along with. at least that is what about 90% of his coworkers would say. you don't get nicknamed 'the shark' for being nice and delightful to everyone around you. besides, he preferred to keep his work life completely separate from his personal life.

@choasthriver12 ——————————

☆ his shark bait | F. ⤷ you waked in the pitt with a frown on you your face. a tired smile from working nonstop for 12 hours straight with a few hours break in between. ☆ the wife unknown | F. A. ⤷ when y/n gets injured on the job and is brought to ptmc, one of the biggest secrets are revealed.

@gingerhouseplant ——————————

☆ brendon park x pregnant!wife!reader | F. ⤷ reader is pregnant and goes into labor!

@jadeittic ——————————

☆ six weeks minimum | F. ⤷ after a bad fall leaves you with a broken leg, brendon turns your recovery into a full-time mission. no matter how insane he gets about your healing, every moment becomes proof of just how deeply he loves you.

@jollygoodswag ——————————

◇ soft!brendon park headcannons ⤷ [ part 2 part 3 ]

@mareenaauditore ——————————

☆ into the deep blue | A. ⤷ a "routine" SWAT mission takes a disastrous turn, and brendon only finds out when he's called to attend to the injured agent. the worst part is that the agent is his wife, a fact no one knows. ☆ claimed in ink | F. ⤷ princess, perlah, and trinity gossip after hearing rumors from the ortho floor about park the shark and some... tattoos?

@medusasfics ——————————

◇ sugar daddy!park headcanons

@moonjellin ——————————

◇ dad!park the shark heacanons

@novemberaster ——————————

♡ my kink is karma | S. A. ⤷ in the midst of robby's downward spiral, he ended your relationship and proceeded to be immature and treat you poorly. after time, healing, and reflection, you find yourself believing in something, or someone, again. only this time, it’s with brendon park. this fuels robby's lashing out at people as he finally gets his karma. ⤷ [ part 2 ]

@obsessivefanfictionauthor ——————————

☆ you don't have to go it alone anymore | F. S. ⤷ when you show up in his life again...with a child that looks a lot like him

@redsakura101 ——————————

☆ dazed & confused | F. ⤷ the only one able to break your concentration is the very shark of the hospital. though he might strike fear into the hearts of the other staff, as they steer clear. in your eyes, it is a sweet and welcomed distraction.

@rr-after-dark ——————————

♡ statistically speaking | F. S. A. ⤷ after completing your residency, you join the staff at the Pitt, the hospital where your husband of nearly ten years (who you already have five kids with) works. with a common last name and radically different personalities, you make a bet on how long it'll take everyone to figure out that you're married. ⤷ [ part 1 - trinity santos ] ⤷ [ part 2 - frank langdon, samira mohan, & james ogilvie ] ⤷ [ part 3 ]

@thefictionalmanswhxre ——————————

☆ park's girls | F. ⤷ what starts out as a weekend visitor now becomes a permanent part of the park family. ☆ left a mark on my heart | F. A. ⤷ you catch the attention of a large brooding ortho attending. after a fall while working, you also catch his heart. ☆ to love & protect | F. A. ⤷ after three years of marriage, brendon never failed to surprise you and make being married feel like a fairytale. he loved you fiercely and you, him. one trait that brendon possessed that you never really saw in any other man was how protective he was of you. 

@tumbleweedstillhaspanic ——————————

◇ park the shark x single-mom reader | F.

[borninmontage]

can you feel it?

Part two // Masterlist // AO3

pairing: Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x graphic designer!afab!reader

w/c: 8.3K words

summary: Eight days after your breakup with Robby, a kitchen accident leaves you needing stitches. The only thing worse than the injury is running into him at the Pitt (and seeing him with his ex).

warnings/tags: age gap (I imagined r around 27, but I didn't specify. Robby was her first serious relationship, though), jealous!r, angst, longing, language, r hurt herself catching a knife, r does not magine herself having kids.

A/N: I hope you'll enjoy it! This wasn't supposed to be a two-part story, but it ended up getting a little longer than I planned, so part 1 it is. It’s been a while since I last wrote anything, so I’m just hoping I’m not too rusty. Also, I have no medical background, so I apologize if the ER scenes aren't completely accurate. I hope the next part will come fast🌼 (I found the Robby pics on pinterest, so credits to the owners)

You knew you should have come straight to the Pitt, the same way you should have seen that his fear of commitment would eventually outweigh the little fantasy world you'd built together over the last few months. Yet you put it off, pretended not to see it, and ignored how much it actually hurt.

“Can you move your fingers?”

You flexed them carefully, trying to look as unaffected as possible while the nurse unwrapped your improvised bandage. You weren't sure who she was. You'd heard about multiple doctors and nurses, but none of the descriptions seemed to fit her.

“Yeah.”

Unwrapping it hurts far more than the cut itself, anyway.

“Okay. Sit tight. We won't keep you waiting long.”

You nod, rewrapping your hand and pressing down again, just like he taught you. And when the door opens a moment later, you see him.

It's not cinematic. There's no slow motion, no dramatic swell of music, no sudden zoom-in. Your brain just takes half a second too long to catch up.

Robby is across the hall, near the nurses' station, hugging Noelle.

Not a quick hug, either. They're standing too close, fitting together in a way that's painfully familiar.

Your stomach drops and you look away immediately, as if you've touched a hot stove. As if looking any longer might make it real.

But you're not surprised.

Hurt? Absolutely. Surprised? Not really.

You knew about Noelle. Knew enough to pretend it didn't bother you when it probably should have.

Still. Eight days.

Only eight days -as far as you know- and he's already back with her. So much for the seven-week itch. Somehow he'd made it a few months with you. Looking at him now, you weren't sure whether that was supposed to make you feel better or worse.

You shake your head, determined not to have a breakdown in front of thirty strangers waiting to be treated.

So you step outside.

You spend a few minutes drafting a message to your boss, explaining that you might need half a day tomorrow -or at least a few hours- because you have no idea how long it'll take before a doctor finally sees you.

You hit send, and less than a minute later, you swear you hear your name.

When you look up, you try not to frown.

It's Jack.

Then again, this is the ambulance bay. Any doctor could be here.

Still, he's not wearing scrubs, and he's way too early for the handover.

“What the hell happened?”

“Hi to you too,” you say dryly, trying not to look affected.

You'd missed Jack. That was one of the less obvious downsides of the breakup. Somewhere along the way, he'd become one of your closest friends.

And seeing how worried he looks makes your throat tighten.

He steps closer, already reaching for your wrist.

“How long has it been bleeding?”

“Not that long.”

He raises an eyebrow.

“...Okay, like two hours,” you admit.

”Jesus Christ.”

“It wasn't that bad, I'm in triage. A really nice nurse already looked at it-”

“Not anymore.”

Or maybe that's what he says.

Before you can argue, he's steering you back toward the doors.

You barely register what happens next. As soon as you get past the triage, Jack says something to a nurse you vaguely recognize as Dana. She nods, glancing at a computer screen, and he asks her to page Langdon since he never clocked in for his shift.

You're not really listening. The image of Robby and Noelle is still haunting, replaying every time you blink. Their hug... the ease of it. The history in it. How easy it seemed to slip back into.

And for one awful second, you wonder if you've been looking at it all wrong.

Maybe you weren't the one who got replaced. Maybe, for a little while, you were the replacement. The pit stop. The distraction.

The room is too bright and everything is too loud. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting that harsh, clinical glow that always seems to make headaches worse. The exam table crackles beneath you when you shift, the thin paper sticking slightly to your skin. This is the last place you wanted to be.

Your hand is still wrapped, but the bandage is not doing much anymore. The gauze is damp, a dull red stain spreading through it while Jack stands nearby, arms crossed, glaring at it.

“You really waited?” he asks again, as if he still can't quite believe it.

“I didn't think it was-”

“That bad?” he cuts in.

You shrug.

“I handled it.”

“You were bleeding for two hours.”

“It sounds worse when you say it like that. It wasn't that dramatic.”

“You're in the ER.”

Before Jack can continue, Dr. Langdon steps in, already pulling on a pair of gloves. And honestly, you've never been more grateful for an interruption.

Because you know Jack... or at least, you think you do. He wouldn't let it go. He'd ask why you waited so long. Why you didn't call Robby. He'd keep pulling at the loose threads until he got to the truth, and right now you're not sure you can survive another person looking at you too closely. Or worse, with pity.

You know Jack never liked whatever was going on between Robby and Noelle. Maybe Robby kept the details to himself. Maybe Jack has no idea that the same girl who came before you apparently came after you, too.

Or maybe he knows.

“Alright,” Dr. Langdon says, flashing an easy smile.

Truth be told, he's even more charming than Robby described. There's something boyish about him, softened by confidence and experience. It's a dangerous combination.

And no wedding band. Interesting!

“Let's take a look at Abbot's VIP.”

So he knows who you are.

You immediately offer your hand, asking him to call you by your name.

You thank him, too. You know he must be busy. Hell, the whole department seems one bad shift away from complete chaos.

Langdon smiles and starts unwrapping the bandage, and as the cool air hits the cut, you hiss through your teeth.

Beside you, Jack leans forward despite himself, and Langdon shoots him a look.

Don't panic. Don't panic. Don't panic.

“Okay,” Langdon says as he studies the wound for another second. “Yeah. That's deep.”

“Oh, I love hearing that,” you mutter playfully.

Langdon doesn't react, though. He just adjusts the overhead light, angling it directly over your hand. It makes everything look far more detailed than you'd like.

“Can you move your fingers for me?”

You don't hesitate, so you slowly curl them inward.

The skin pulls tight around the cut. It's an uncomfortable stretching sensation that makes your jaw clench, but everything moves the way it should.

“Again.”

You repeat the motion.

“Good. Now straighten them.”

You do.

“Any numbness?” Langdon asks.

“No.”

He takes a piece of gauze and lightly brushes it across your fingertips, then along the edges of the wound.

“Tell me if this feels the same.”

You nod.

“It does.”

Langdon glances at Jack.

“Alright.” A small nod towards Jack. “No nerve involvement.”

“Your last tetanus vaccine?” Jack asks without looking up.

"Three years ago.”

Another nod.

“You're fine.”

You smile nervously as Langdon reaches for a syringe.

“This part's going to sting.”

“Define sting.”

Jack glances at you as you eye the needle. "It's the worst part.”

“Great.”

Langdon doesn't wait, and the next thing you feel is the needle sliding into the skin beside the cut.

And.

It.

Fúcking.

Burns.

“Jesus-fúck, that hurts.” You suck in a sharp breath. “Sorry.”

That makes Langdon smile and shake his head. “That's a healthy reaction. No need to apologize.”

“Breathe,” Jack adds, arms crossed.

To your surprise, he actually looks concerned.

“I am breathing,” you say through clenched teeth. "It's not my fault this feels like hell."

Then it fades quite fast. Your palm starts to feel so heavy like it’s been inflated from the inside, so you instinctively try to flex your fingers. It's such a weird sensation.

“Take a deep breath.”

Another injection and another flare of that same burning pressure.

“You'll feel some pressure,” Jack says as Langdon trades the syringe for a larger one.

It's a good thing needles don't bother you much, because that one looks ridiculous.

Quickly, he positions it over the wound and presses, and you assume it's saline what shoots into the cut. And you flinch.

It doesn't exactly hurt, it's worse.

The sensation is deep and wrong, as if something is moving where nothing should be moving. You have to fight the urge to yank your hand away.

But you are a big girl. Instead, you watch how the fluid runs out pink at first, then gradually clears. It spills onto the blue pad beneath your hand, soaking into it.

Langdon repeats the process several times and despite yourself, your thoughts drift back to Robby.

How many times has he done this?

How many cases just like yours has he seen? Distracted people catching a knife with their palm while making dinner... How many wounds has he cleaned and stitched over the years? How many patients had come before you were even born?

“Why does that feel worse than I expected?” you ask, mostly to distract yourself. You don't even expect an answer; you just need something to focus on besides him.

“Because it's inside the wound,” Jack answers, still watching carefully.

You just know he's a good teacher.

He seems so patient and pulled together. And you're jealous.

You wish you could inspire that kind of confidence in people... make them feel safe.

“I hate this shit.”

Langdon chuckles and makes a few jokes as he blots the area dry, inspecting it more closely while gently parting the edges of the cut.

But you refuse to watch.

Instead, you stare at the ceiling, counting tiles, then the lights.

Anything except your own hand.

“Alright,” he says finally. “We’re good to close it.”

Once Jack gives an approving nod, Langdon opens a sterile suture kit.

You glance down.

Thread, needle, forceps.

Jack shifts his weight but doesn't leave.

“You don't have to wait for me,” you absently tell Jack. You're more than grateful, but you know he's busy. And so is Langdon "I'm sure you have actual patients to see. And if something urgent comes up, just let some newbie practice their stitching skills on-"

And maybe Robby doesn't have to be the center of every conversation.

“Shut up,” Jack cuts in, but there’s no bite to it. He is worried... he actually cares.

Maybe you can keep Jack.

You can watch tennis together, meet for coffee. Be friends.

Maybe he doesn't have to know how much it still hurts.

The first stitch is… weird.

You don't feel the needle break the skin, but you feel the movement afterward: the tug, the pull.

Like someone's threading something through your hand from the inside.

Your fingers twitch instinctively.

“Try to keep it still,” Langdon says, flashing you a smile that could probably solve half the hospital's complaints.

“I'm trying.” You shake your head. “How many?”

You've never needed stitches before. Well, you’ve also never caught a falling knife mid-air, so there’s that.

“Six or seven, probably.”

“Great, I’ll name them all. I saw that in a film.”

“My son did that once, too.” Langdon says immediately, and Jack huffs a quiet laugh.

“First one’s Jack,” you say, lips quirking into a smirk. You already know exactly how he’ll take it, and you're happy that the mood has changed.

“Absolutely not.”

“Too late.”

“Of course it is,” he mutters, shaking his head, but there’s no real anger in it. He is used to you being a pain in the ass.

Langdon snorts, smiling again. “I’d like to be excluded from this.”

They continue to talk about the shift after that, careful not to wander into anything confidential with you sitting right there.

“You’re definitely number two.”

“Why am I involved in this at all?” Langdon asks dramatically, and you wink.

And somehow, it doesn't even hurt anymore.

Then the door opens.

You flinch so hard your hand nearly jerks.

You've always been easy to startle... too aware of everything around you.

Robby used to think it was funny. He'd appear out of nowhere and say “boo” when you were least expecting it, just to watch you jump. Back when things were easy, of course.

“Hey, what do we have here?” a voice asks. “Abbot, since when do you have a VIP?”

Your stomach drops before you even turn around.

You know that voice far too well. Especially when it slips into that teasing tone... even if he isn't talking to you.

Your body goes still. You don’t even register Langdon’s needle anymore.

Jack catches it immediately, his gaze flicking from your face to the doorway as Robby steps inside.

He looks once. Then again. And only then does it register.

You. Sitting on the exam table. Hand open. Stitches halfway done.

When you finally manage to change your expression into something polite and distant, you catch the shift in his face. But you really don’t know how to read him anymore.

“What the fúck happened?”

He’s already moving toward you before the question is even finished.

You swallow, keeping your voice steady. “Kitchen accident.”

No detail, no explanation.

He stops beside the bed, eyes immediately dropping to your hand. And you’re suddenly very aware of how close he is.

Langdon keeps working, unfazed, though the room feels tighter now, like it has less air in it than before.

Robby’s jaw tightens.

“When?” he asks.

“Earlier.”

“When?”

You hesitate.

“Two hours ago. Probably more.”

You close your eyes for a second. “Thank you, Jack.”

“You waited two hours?" Robby says, sharper now, like he can’t quite believe it.

“I was fine. I handled it. The nurse-”

“That’s not okay,” he cuts in.

“I assume you checked for nerve damage," he adds, already shifting his attention toward Langdon and Jack, trying to take control of the situation.

“Can we not-"

“You should’ve called,” he says, colder now and you can’t tell who it’s meant for anymore.

Langdon clears his throat without looking up. “Almost done.”

But Robby barely reacts.

“Jack found me in triage. And, as you can see, I'm in great hands.”

Robby’s expression shifts again, while Jack raises an eyebrow but doesn’t comment. He looks like he’s been pulled into a game he didn’t know had rules.

“Does it hurt?” Robby finally asks after a long moment of awkward silence, as if the question is an afterthought.

But it isn’t. You know it, so it lands differently. Dangerous in a quiet way.

You glance down at your hand as Langdon finishes the last stitch.

“No,” you say. “Not really.”

It isn’t entirely clear what you’re answering.

“Alright. That’s it,” Langdon says with a small, professional smile.

He cuts the thread cleanly, leaving a neat row of stitches across your palm. Langdon presses gently along the edges of the wound, checking the closure, and in your peripheral vision you catch Robby nodding once, like he’s confirming something to himself.

A final wipe of antiseptic follows, then a non-stick pad, then gauze wrapped carefully around your hand until it no longer looks like your hand at all.

“Move your fingers for me,” you hear Robby gently ask you. And even though every single bone in your body wants to disobey him, you listen.

The movement works, but it feels strange... slightly delayed, as if your hand belongs to someone else for a moment. You wonder if this is exactly what Mary Shelley meant when she wrote Frankenstein’s monster. You almost laugh at your own thoughts.

“Again.”

You flex them once more.

“Good. Make a fist.”

You do.

Just in time to catch the small exhale Robby lets out. Relief, subtle but unmistakable... the kind only someone who knows him well would notice.

Unfortunately for you, though, you've spent enough time loving him to notice it.

“No numbness or tingling?” Langdon asks.

You shake your head. “No.”

“Good. No obvious nerve involvement. Tendons intact, sensation normal.” He pauses, then adds lightly, “Sense of humor intact too.”

“Obviously,” Jack mutters from his spot against the wall.

“Keep it dry for forty-eight hours,” Langdon continues, peeling off his gloves. “No heavy lifting, no gripping if you can avoid it. Change the dressing as instructed. I’ll leave notes, but I’m sure Jack will fill you in.”

Jack glances at you briefly, and something in your stomach twists -guilt, or something close to it-but you don’t know where to put it.

“And before you ask, no, you’re not magically healed because the stitches are in,” Robby adds under his breath.

“I wasn't-”

“You were absolutely going to ask.”

Jack snorts, and you choose not to defend yourself.

“Tetanus shot is up to date,” Langdon says, recapping for Robby as well. He doesn’t know exactly how close you two are, but it’s obvious there’s history there. “So no booster. Stitches out in ten to fourteen days.”

Then he tosses the gloves into the bin, and just like that, the procedure is over.

No more reason for anyone to be hovering around your bed, no more reason for you to still be in his ER.

And somehow, that’s worse. Because now there’s nothing left to distract from the fact that Robby is still standing there.

The adrenaline drains out of you slowly, leaving behind exhaustion, and a small tremor runs through your fingers before you can stop it.

Jesus, you will never try to use a knife again.

Robby notices the change immediately.

Of course he does.

His eyes drop to your hand, then lift back to your face. The concern is brief, but enough to make your chest tighten anyway. Fúck him.

“Should’ve come in sooner,” he says.

Not angry this time, just tired.

You let out a breath. Well, you're tired too.

“Noted.”

“I'm serious.”

“I know.”

“Take ibuprofen or acetaminophen once the anesthetic wears off. Dana will bring your discharge paperwork,” Langdon says, but Robby doesn't take his eyes off you as you gently thank your doctor before watching him go.

“You should’ve told me.”

You finally meet his eyes, finding his tone almost unbearably clinical. Like a lecture... like something to be corrected.

“You don’t get to be worried like that,” you say firmly.

You're tired of this conversation, of him, of pretending this doesn't hurt more than your hand does... of this whole day.

You just want to go home, order takeout, and not think about any of it.

So you hope it lands harder than if you'd raised your voice.

He blinks. “What-”

“You have no right,” you continue, just as quietly, and the room goes very still.

Beside you, Jack wisely says nothing as you adjust the bandage around your hand. You really hope the pain meds are going to be effective. You know this is going to hurt like a motherfúcker.

“I’m fine,” you add, playing it cool. “See? All patched up.”

For a second, Robby just stares at you like he’s trying to decide whether to argue.

But you step past him, with Jack following without uttering a word. Neither of you looks back immediately.

And when you finally do, just before the door swings shut, Robby is still standing exactly where you left him, staring at the empty space on the bed, jaw tight, something unsettled and unresolved sitting heavy in his chest.

Because you’re right.

And that’s the problem.

*

After they discharge you, Jack insists on walking you out. It's not like his shift has started yet anyway.

So you slow your pace, careful not to make it obvious that you're adjusting it for him. You don't know how uncomfortable it is to walk quickly with a prosthetic, and you don't want him to think you're pitying him.

“You okay?” he asks, and you flex your fingers slightly inside the bandage in response, which you end up regretting immediately as a dull, pulling ache shoots through your palm and up your arm.

“Yeah. Just... feels weird.”

“It will,” he says, still looking at your hand. “That's why you shouldn't use it.”

“Noted.”

It's only half a lie, at least. You're gonna slow down. But you can't stop using it completely. How are you supposed to just stop working? Nobody can replace you for two weeks.

By the time you reach the ambulance bay, everything feels different. Quieter.

“You got someone to take you home?”

You can't help but snort.

“I'm not dying, Jack. It's just a cut.”

“Didn't say you were.”

“I can manage by myself. I'm a big girl.”

He studies you for a second longer than necessary, and you know that look.

He's thinking about saying something... probably about Robby, or the disaster that is whatever exists between the two of you. And you're grateful when he decides against it. It's already been a long day: the knife accident, the ER, seeing Noelle, seeing Robby, talking to him.

You just want to go home.

“Yeah. I know you can.”

There's something in the words... Acknowledgment, maybe. Or acceptance or even pride. You're not sure, so you just smile.

“Thanks. Really.”

“For what?”

“For helping me. For not letting me bleed out to death.”

You add the last part just to make him smile. You know he loves drama as much as you do. Maybe even more.

And it works: a quiet laugh escapes him.

“Next time, come sooner.”

“Next time? Hell, I'm never cooking again.”

“Good plan.”

You nod, trying not to look back at the entrance. What did you expect? For Robby to drop everything and come find you? The thought is embarrassing the second it appears. It's ridiculous.

“I really hope I'll see you around. You're a great guy, Abbot.”

That earns you a crooked grin.

“I hope so. You're pretty fun to be around, even when you're bleeding.”

A laugh slips out before you can stop it, and you lift your left hand in a wave.

“Have a good shift.”

“You too,” he says automatically. Then he shakes his head. “Actually, don't work at all.”

“Yeah. Don't.”

You freeze.

Of course.

Inhale, exhale.

Robby is standing a few steps behind Jack.

At some point, he'd come outside, and you hadn't heard the door open.

So for a second, all you can do is stare. He looks different out here.

The harsh fluorescent lights of the department make him look untouchable. Outside, beneath the natural sunlight, he looks less composed... less untouchable. Exhausted.

Like whatever walls he keeps so carefully in place inside didn't quite make it through the doors with him.

His scrubs are wrinkled and a bit dirty. His hair is slightly messed up from running his hands through it, you're sure. And there are shadows beneath his eyes you don't remember noticing earlier.

Or maybe you did, and you just weren't letting yourself look for real. You used to kiss this man every morning. You used to bite his arms, caress his cheeks, and touch his hair as many times as you could.

“You shouldn't be using it,” he adds, nodding toward the bandaged hand tucked against your chest.

You shift instinctively.

“I'm not. And I've already said I won't.”

The lie leaves your mouth before you can stop it. But he knows you better than that and he has more power over you than you'd like.

When Robby takes a step closer, the rest of the world seems to blur around the edges: the ambulance bay, the traffic... even Jack standing beside you. All of it fades into background noise.

And only later do you realize Jack is no longer there.

No goodbye, as if he'd taken one look at the two of you and quietly decided this conversation wasn't meant for him (once again).

He's not close enough to crowd you, but it's enough for you to smell the hospital soap and coffee.

Close enough to remember.

“You really waited two hours?” he asks again, quieter now as he brings his left hand to the back of his head, messing up his hair.

The disappointment in his voice catches you off guard, and you can't control the hollow feeling in your stomach. You've always wanted to be good for him. You never cared about what other people thought of you on the level that you cared about Robby's opinion. So your gaze slides past him toward the street.

“Yeah. I didn't feel like sitting in an ER.”

From the corner of your eye, you see his jaw tighten. His gaze lingers on your face, searching, questioning, but you don't give in. You keep your eyes forward. You won't let him know just how much power he still has over you.

“You should've called,” he says.

There it is. Again.

A laugh escapes you.

His audacity...

“Why?”

“Because I would've helped you.”

You almost laugh.

Of course he would've. He would've shown up and made sure you were okay.

And then he would've gone right back to not choosing you.

Because I have a hero complex and I'd help you even though I can't stand being with you.

“You don't get to help me anymore, Robby.”

His expression flickers, like something in your gaze cuts deeper than the words themselves.

“I know you can take care of yourself, but I-”

“I don't care,” you interrupt, keeping your voice as steady as possible despite the tightness in your throat and the pressure building behind your eyes. “You made it pretty clear you don't want me anymore. And I made it clear I'm not interested in being your friend. So no, I don't want your help.”

The sounds of the ambulance bay drift around you. Doors opening. Tires rolling over pavement. Life continuing.

But neither of you moves.

Robby exhales slowly and drags a hand through his hair while you keep your eyes fixed on the thick white bandage wrapped around your palm.

“Is it starting to hurt?” he asks, and the sudden change of subject is almost funny.

Almost.

The anesthetic is wearing off slowly, and so is the adrenaline, but you'll survive until you get home.

“Yeah.”

You see it immediately. The way his shoulders straighten... the way his attention narrows.

Like every part of him is wired to respond to that answer.

He takes a step closer before he seems to realize he's doing it.

“Alternate ibuprofen and Tylenol when it starts throbbing. You shouldn't need anything stronger.”

There he is. Not your Robby... Definitely not your Michael.

Dr. Robinavitch, the Chief of Emergency Medicine at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center.

Safe territory.

“I'll take something when I get home.”

His gaze lingers.

Not quite staring, but long enough that you're suddenly aware of everything: your posture, your messy hair, your tired eyes. The fact that you've probably got dried tears on your face.

He looks at you like he's trying to remember something.

He looks at you like he's trying to remember something, or maybe fix something... fix you.

Or both.

You're being ridiculous.

“You should keep it dry,” he says eventually. "At least a day. Two if you can.”

“Wow.”

His eyebrows lift slightly.

“Didn't Dr. Langdon just tell me that? It's like you work here or something.”

Usually, that would've earned at least a smirk. He used to love your bratty tone.

This time, it doesn't. His expression barely changes, and the silence that follows settles heavily between you.

Suddenly the joke doesn't feel funny anymore.

Because maybe he doesn't miss this... Maybe this isn't hard for him.

And maybe -just maybe- you were never what he wanted at all.

“Just be careful.”

The words come out softer.

Not doctor-soft.

Dangerous-soft. Boyfriend-soft. The kind of soft that makes your chest hurt. That belongs to a life you don't have anymore.

You feel a fresh wave of frustration rise in your throat.

You can't do this.

“I will.”

You look at him again, and a weird feeling hits you. For one stupid second, you think he's actually going to reach for you.

His hand shifts slightly at his side, then stills.

He doesn't.

You sigh, trying not to be disappointed. You hate yourself for even thinking about it.

What is wrong with you?

“Text me when you get home.”

The words slip out before he can stop them. Like they're instinctive.

You blink a couple of times before you can find the strength to open your mouth.

You need to get the hell out of here.

“No.”

The answer isn't cruel. That's not your intention. It even sounds less firm than you'd like, but it gets the point across.

And for a moment, something in his face falters.

“Right,” he says quietly, as if he's just remembered the nature of your relationship.

Or the lack of it.

You adjust your bag on your shoulder, and the movement feels awkward with only one good hand.

“I'll be fine.”

He nods.

“I know.”

You turn away before he can say anything else. Before you can say something stupid, or even worse, tear up because he looks like he saw a ghost, yet somehow still has time to flirt with his casual ex-flings.

So as you walk, you don't look back.

But somehow you know he's still standing there watching you, just like he watched you leave the first time.

*

By the time you get home, your hand is throbbing in a steady rhythm.

You close the door with your elbow, careful not to put any pressure on the bandaged hand, and lean against it for a moment before making your way to the kitchen.

Everything suddenly feels like too much: the lights are too bright, the apartment is too quiet, and the mess. God, the mess!

The cutting board is still sitting on the counter. Half-chopped vegetables have started to dry at the edges, left exactly where you dropped everything and ran to wash your hand.

For a moment, you just stand there and stare. Then your gaze drops to the thick white bandage wrapped around your palm.

“Fúcking ridiculous,” you mutter.

Whether you're talking about the injury or yourself, you're not entirely sure. You needed seven stitches because you were trying to make yourself dinner.

You make your way to the couch and sink into it carefully. The cushions dip beneath your weight, and that's when the quiet finally catches up with you.

No Jack or Langdon. No monitors beeping in the background.

Just you and the image of Robby standing in the ambulance bay... the look on his face when you told him no. The way he'd watched you leave.

And, despite everything, the memory that hurts the most: Robby's arm around Noelle.

You shift uncomfortably, as though you can physically move the thought away. But of course, it doesn't work.

Because it’s not even about Noelle. It’s about being replaced so quickly while you're still trying to remember how to breathe around the empty space he left behind.

Your fingers curl slightly and the pain shoots through your palm and up your arm immediately.

You hiss through your teeth and force your hand open again. “God, I'm a fúcking idiot!”

Like you were still someone he was allowed to be responsible for.

You knew he was emotionally unavailable, that he was an avoidant, that there was an age gap big enough for everyone to have an opinion about it. But you stayed. You fell in love... you trusted him.

You shake your head.

The worst part is how calm he was, how concerned he still looked.

Your eyes sting before you can stop it.

“No,” you say quietly.

Like that helps.

You pull your phone from your pocket and place it face down on the coffee table before you can do something stupid.

You could text him and tell him exactly what you think of him aka call him a coward and a fúcking asshole. You could say all the things you refused to say eight days ago when he ended it.

You could do a lot of things.

Instead you just sit there, your bandaged hand still aching as something ugly and honest rises up in your chest.

Not sadness, something sharper. Something that needs somewhere to go.

Eventually, you force yourself off the couch in search of ibuprofen, and halfway to the kitchen, a laugh escapes you.

Humorless and pathetic, really.

Because despite everything you miss him.

His stupid, sad smile, his voice, his nose. The way he always stole your fries and pretended he wasn't doing it.

Ten days before you're free.

*

Two days later, it’s worse in a different way.

Not the pain, which you got used to by now. It even became more manageable.

It's the tight, itchy pull under the skin that makes you want to do exactly what you're not supposed to do. To disobey him and prove to yourself you got the power.

You want to use your hand... to test it.

But you don't (except for a few hours when a project deadline leaves you no choice and you're back at your desk, using your hand far more than Langdon, Jack or Robby would've approved of).

You tell yourself it's necessary.

You always tell yourself a lot of things.

*

The message comes on the third day.

Robby: Come in tomorrow morning. Quick check.

No hello. No how are you. No are you available.

Just an instruction. So you stare at it for nearly a minute, then type:

I was told 10 days.

The typing bubble appears immediately.

Disappears.

Appears again.

You hate that your pulse picks up.

Then:

Robby: I know. Just come in when the morning shift starts.

You stare at the message... at the familiar bluntness of it and the complete lack of explanation.

Then you lock your phone and toss it onto the couch beside you as the podcast continues playing in the background.

You have absolutely no idea what they've been talking about for the last ten minutes.

*

You go anyway.

Partly because you're annoyed, and partly because refusing would mean admitting he's gotten under your skin.

The hospital smells exactly the same as it did three days ago: antiseptic and stale coffee.

Jack spots you before you've finished signing in.

“Back already?”

You glance up.

“Apparently I left such a strong impression the boss invited me back.”

His eyes drop to the bandage.

“Follow-up?”

“So I've been told.”

A smile flickers across his face, and you can't help but grin back. He has a kind of charm that disarms you.

“Try not to injure yourself on the way in. Or him. We can't run this hospital without the chief.”

“No promises.”

He walks with you toward the exam rooms, matching your pace without comment. The conversation stays comfortably superficial: the weather, his shift, and the last show you watched - which you're grateful for.

At the nurses' station, he slows. Dana is halfway through updating a chart when she looks up. You exchange a few pleasantries while Jack leans against the counter, listening with a half-smile.

Then Dana's gaze flicks past you toward one of the exam rooms.

Something passes silently between her and Jack, and he straightens immediately.

“Room six.”

“That's it? No dramatic goodbye?”

“I figured you'd had enough medical attention for one week.”

“Fair.”

“Good luck.”

Before you can ask what that's supposed to mean, he's already turning away.

The traitor!

The room is empty when you step inside, but you barely have time to feel relieved before the door opens again.

Robby walks in carrying a chart, and for a second neither of you says anything.

Without the chaos of the emergency department around him, he looks strangely out of place.

Or maybe that's you.

“You came.”

You set your bag down on the chair beside you, keeping your expression neutral as he pumps sanitizer into his palms.

You remember how many times you had to remind him to moisturize his hands, his skin always so dry it looked like it might split open.

“You summoned me via text.”

Something flickers across his face. Annoyance or maybe amusement. You can't tell anymore.

“Sit down.”

There's no point arguing, so you do.

The paper covering the exam table crackles beneath you as you climb up, the sound reminding you of the last time you were here.

Robby pulls on a pair of gloves.

“Let me see it.”

You offer your hand without comment, but for a moment, he doesn't take it.

His gaze drops to the bandage first, studying it like he's already looking for evidence of something worse.

Then his fingers close gently around your wrist as he starts unwrapping it.

The contact is professional, almost detached, but your stupid brain notices anyway.

Layer by layer, the dressing comes away, and he studies the wound in silence.

The stitches hold the edges together neatly now. The swelling has gone down, and the angry redness from the first day has faded into pink.

“Any increased pain?”

“No.”

“Drainage?”

“No.”

“Fever?”

You give him a look.

“No.”

His attention stays fixed on your palm, a crease forming between his eyebrows.

“You've been using it.”

You let out a short laugh.

“That's a bold accusation.”

When his gaze lifts to yours, you want to hit him. It's infuriating how quickly he sees through you.

“You've been working despite our medical advice.”

The certainty in his voice makes it clear it's not a guess.

You look away first.

“I had deadlines.”

“I know.”

Somehow those two words are more irritating than if he'd argued.

Because he does know.

He knows exactly how many hours you'll spend obsessing over a project. What a perfectionist you are. He knows you'll work through headaches, exhaustion, and apparently hand injuries if given the chance.

His thumb hovers near the base of your palm.

“The swelling's worse here.”

Damn it.

You say nothing, and Robby sighs softly- resigned, as though this outcome was entirely predictable.

“You need to leave it alone for a few more days.”

“You sound like a doctor.”

“I am your doctor.”

The silence that follows is familiar, and Robby looks down and resumes wrapping the fresh dressing around your hand, carefully. Methodically. Giving both of you something else to focus on.

When he's finished, he smooths the edge of the bandage into place and steps back.

“You're healing pretty well, despite the fact you haven't been listening.”

You nod, because it should feel reassuring.

Instead, it leaves a hollow ache somewhere beneath your ribs. Healing implies moving on, and you're not sure you've figured out that part yet.

“You'll come back in a week for removal.”

“Yes, doctor.”

His mouth almost curves.

Almost.

You stand quickly and reach for your bag, but neither of you moves for a couple of seconds.

Then, before you can do something stupid, you turn toward the door.

You don't look back.

Not because you don't want to. But because you already know he'll be watching.

*

You try to work.

You really do. The laptop is open on the coffee table, a half-finished design staring back at you from the screen.

But after several minutes of pretending you're accomplishing something, you let your head fall back against the couch and close the laptop.

“Great,” you mutter to the empty apartment. “I'm completely useless. Fantastic!”

Outside, a car passes. Somewhere upstairs, something heavy drops.

Life continues. Unfortunately, so does your brain.

The problem isn't that you keep replaying memories. It's that you keep replaying a sentence.

You can do better than me.

The same calm voice, the same careful expression. As though he'd handed you a gift instead of a goodbye.

Your jaw tightens.

“No, that's bullshit.”

You push yourself upright too quickly and immediately regret it when your injured hand protests. Pain flashes through your palm.

“Shit.”

You sink back into the cushions with a groan, but it's not your hand that's upsetting you.

It's the way he left, as though he was doing something responsible. Noble. As though loving you had been a mistake he was finally correcting.

Your phone lies face down beside you, and without thinking, you reach for it.

The screen lights up.

Nothing.

No messages except the family group chat.

No notifications, either.

You stare at it anyway, then open a message box.

I'm happy for you.

You stare at it for three seconds before deleting it.

I wish nothing-

Delete.

A frustrated laugh escapes you.

“God.”

The worst part is that neither statement is entirely false.

You do want him to be happy. You just wish you didn't have to witness it.

The music keeps playing in the background.

At some point, you stopped paying attention to the playlist.

Now it feels like the playlist is paying attention to you.

Alanis Morissette's voice fills the apartment: raw, messy, unapologetically angry.

An older version of me…

A bitter smile tugs at your mouth. Isn't that funny?

“Yeah.”

You rub your eyes.

“You really thought that sounded noble, didn't you?”

The memory of that conversation has somehow become more irritating with time.

Not less... because now you can hear everything he thought he was saying.

You are not a child, and he knows it. You could have handled him telling you he stopped loving you much better than what he actually said.

The song continues.

Did you forget about me, Mr. Duplicity?

That one almost makes you laugh.

“Fúcking hell.”

You shift forward, resting your elbows on your knees, careful of your hand.

Everything is careful now.

The music keeps going and your mind drifts somewhere you don't want it to.

Toward Noelle. Toward possibilities. Toward images you never invited into your head.

Maybe they want the same things... Maybe he wants a baby with her.

You never really considered having kids. You can't imagine yourself in that position, and Robby knows it. You were honest from the get-go.

You squeeze your eyes shut.

“Nope.”

Your finger points at nothing.

“We're not doing that.”

But your imagination ignores you completely.

Of course it does.

A familiar laugh, a familiar smile, a mini-version of Robby... life continuing without you.

Your stomach tightens.

Not jealousy exactly.

Something uglier.

Much uglier.

I'm sure she'd make a really excellent mother.

You've heard these a hundred times before, but now they feel like they were always about you.

And every time you speak her name

Does she know how you told me

You'd hold me until you died?

Is this what grieving a relationship feels like?

Because it's so humiliating it almost hurts more than the loss itself.

You don't want revenge or to see him miserable. You don't even want him back if being with you made him unhappy. If he truly thinks you're too young, too immature, too much of whatever it was that finally convinced him to walk away with no regrets.

You just want proof that you mattered. That he didn't walk away and immediately become -again- someone else's person. That somewhere beneath all that careful self-control and rational decision-making, there's still a place where you exist. A scar. A memory.

The thought settles heavily in your chest. Now you understand why you've been listening to this stupid song on repeat.

Beneath all that anger is a woman desperately trying to convince herself she wasn't forgettable. That she was loved.

It feels really pathetic.

You drag a hand over your face.

“God, I sound insane.”

But you reach for your phone anyway and hit replay.

*

The removal is simple and fast: clip, lift, pull.

There’s no real pain, just a faint tugging beneath the skin, more memory than sensation.

So you watch him work. Not your hand. Him.

Because this version of him is always like this: controlled, in command, careful in a way that feels effortless.

And it’s unfair how good he looks like this. Glasses on, focused, entirely elsewhere while still being right in front of you.

“You’ve been using it,” he says without looking up.

There had been no real conversation before this, just the quiet logistics of being here. He was waiting at the nurses’ station while Jack finished the handover, you assume.

When the last stitch is out, he doesn’t move immediately. Just checks the skin, thumb hovering near the edge as if confirming something only he can see.

Then he wraps it anyway.

Habit, maybe.

“You’re healed,” he says finally.

“I’m free.”

You don’t know what kind of freedom you mean.

A quiet exhale slips out of him... almost a laugh, before the silence settles again.

You flex your fingers once. Strange how quickly something that was broken can feel like it belongs to you again.

Like it never left at all.

Then you look at him, suddenly making up your mind. It feels like the last real chance to say what’s been sitting in your chest for days. You deserve better closure than silence... and better than what he gave you. You need to do this for your own peace.

“I want you to know something,” you say.

His attention shifts fully now as he waits for you to continue.

“I’m happy for you.”

The words land exactly the way you expect them to. Something in his expression tightens... not surprise, not relief. Recognition.

“I wish you and Noelle nothing but the best,” you add. “I guess she really made an impression on you. You ended up all cozy in the hospital barely a week after we broke up.”

You hope this makes him feel like shit. Because it isn’t really about Noelle.

He exhales through his nose, controlled, and you can't read his expression. His shoulders tense, his expression being unreadable in a way that only makes you more certain you’ve hit something real.

“What are you doing?”

No denial. That alone tells you enough.

You were right.

“I’m not quite as well,” you say, your tone so even it almost sounds detached, like you’re commenting on the weather instead of opening your chest and handing him your heart once again.

And the moment it leaves your mouth, you regret it.

Because it’s too honest and real, and it gives him something he doesn’t deserve anymore.

His jaw tightens.

“Don’t,” he says.

He drags a hand through his hair, and you notice it now: the smallest crack in his control. Not panic exactly, just something closer to discomfort. Or guilt.

You almost smile as pick up your bag.

Then stop. Because if you leave now, it becomes clean.

And this isn’t clean, so you turn back.

“I thought you should know you were wrong,” you say.

A beat.

“I didn’t need better than you.”

Your voice stays steady, but something underneath it fractures anyway. You just needed your Michael.

“I just needed you to stay. Or if you were going to leave, you should’ve said it properly. You should’ve told me there was someone else. Or that you didn’t love me anymore. Not… that.”

The words leave you all at once, sharp and unfiltered, like there’s nothing left to protect anymore. You have nothing more to lose.

For a moment, he doesn’t respond at all. He continues to stare at the wall, then the floor, then your shoes before he finally meets your eyes.

Then, very quietly:

“You should go.”

And something in you almost laughs at how predictable it is. How final. How cleanly he can end things when it suits him.

Your throat tightens. It becomes hard to breathe in a way you can’t fully hide. Your eyes sting, that familiar pressure building behind them until your vision blurs at the edges.

You swallow hard, but it doesn’t go away. It just sits there: heavy, humiliating, like your body is betraying you for still caring.

A short, broken sound slips out of you before you give him what he asked for.

“Well then,” you say, voice lower now, steadier in a different way. “Every time I scratch my nails down someone else’s back.” You pause, holding his gaze. “I hope you feel it.”

The silence after that is immediate. But it's far from empty... it's charged as his expression shifts. Something in him stills completely.

He exhales slowly, tension pulling through his neck and jaw, a faint flush rising there.

When he speaks, his voice is lower now, colder.

“We’re done here.”

*

The next evening settles in too easily and that bothers you.

Like nothing important happened at all.

You tried to focus on work all day, but you can barely get anything done between meetings. Even music doesn’t fill the space properly anymore.

Eventually, you stop pretending it isn’t eating at you, and the phone is already in your hand before you realize you reached for it.

Your thumb rests over the screen as you tell yourself you don’t care what happens next.

But you do.

You think about yesterday, not the words exactly, but the tone.

We’re done here.

Clean. Practiced. Efficient. Like you were just another patient he needed out of the room.

Did your relationship really mean nothing? Did you mean nothing?

The thought of Noelle slips in again, uninvited.

What did he see in her that he can't see in you? What is so special about her? What kind of power does he have to make you still think about him after everything?

Something shifts inside you subtly, almost quietly.

Permission.

He always said you were too kind.

Maybe today you are petty. Maybe you always were, just quieter about it before.

And maybe he deserves to feel all of it.

Your grip tightens around the phone.

“Fúcking asshole.”

Your fingers move before you can think about his feelings and stop yourself.

Sent.

Can you feel it?

[lanawinterscigarettes]

The Pitt Crew with their partner: would they be a yapper or a listener? (headcanons)

Characters included: Michael "Robby" Robinavitch, Dana Evans, Jack Abbot, Heather Collins, Frank Langdon, Cassie McKay, Samira Mohan, Dennis Whitaker, Trinity Santos, Victoria Javadi, Mel King, Yolanda Garcia, John Shen, Parker Ellis, Emery Walsh, Baran Al-Hashimi, Joy Kwon, Emma Nolan

Warnings/contains: gn! reader, swearing, they/them pronouns are used here and there to refer to the reader in a gender neutral manner, nothing else I don't think?? this is pretty tame compared to some of my other stuff

Beginning notes: this'll be pretty short compared to the other one I did like this since there's more characters here (and because this was just a random idea that I had and I thought it'd be funny to do) also keep in mind that these are broad generalizations! obviously if you have to talk about something serious they'd sit down and listen, or if they need to share something with you then they'll open up more, but this is meant to describe them in a casual setting with their partner aka you (they'll be a bit different with people they're not as close to yknow) so just keep that in mind

Michael "Robby" Robinavitch

For as much as Robby won't always want to talk about his feelings, this man yaps a LOT, and it's always about the most random shit too. He'll make quips about patients, coworkers, etc. out of habit but also with the secret hope that you'll find some of them funny and laugh (which if you do has him in a much better mood for the rest of the day)

Loves it if you chat back, but is equally happy if you just listen and don't have much to add other than the occasional hum of acknowledgment. This man is starved for loving attention regardless, so he doesn't really have a preference so long as you're near him

Dana Evans

Like with everyone, Dana is very much a listener when it comes to you, allowing you to rant or chat about whatever may cross your mind (she especially encourages you to do so if you're quieter or don't talk as much). If you ever falter or hesitate with the fear that she's too busy, she'll throw in a reassuring "keep going, I'm listening" to urge you to continue, wanting to keep hearing the sound of your voice

The only time she'll have you pump the breaks is if there's a patient who needs urgent care or something of the like because obviously your job as a healthcare worker comes first before anything else. Other than that though, she's happy to hear you chatter all day long, enjoying the way your talking keeps her company

Jack Abbot

Jack is kind of both, in a way. For the most part, he's a listener, allowing you to talk his ear off about whatever you want if you wish to (or just sit in silence if you prefer), but sometimes he just opens his mouth and can't stop all the words that fall out until he's satisfied

In this case, you're either yapping together, or you're the one quietly and earnestly listening to him as he recounts stuff that's either incredibly mundane or batshit crazy, no in-between. After he's done sharing what he needs to, then he returns to his outwardly aloof state until the next time

Heather Collins

My girl Heather is definitely a listener!! She's always receptive to whatever you might have to share with her, whether it's work-related or something about your personal life, and equally enjoys just existing near you in silence if that's what you prefer

Sometimes she'll seek you out just to hear you talk, because she likes having the cheerful background noise while she looks over case files or fills out patient charts. Every now and then she'll stop to ask a small question, both because she's interested and to show you that she's taking in everything you have to say

Frank Langdon

Yapper all the way. I mean, really, does Frank look like the kind of guy that's ever learned to shut up? (Well, maybe after rehab and while on his apology tour, but I digress)

Talking nonstop is one of his favorite ways to bother you if you're not a yapper like he is, aka the perfect way to get your attention. If you don't want to say anything back, that's fine by him, because he's more than happy to fill the silence with all sorts of nonsense to get a response, even if it's something as mild as a scoff or an eye roll. Hey, a win is a win in his book

Cassie McKay

This woman is a yapper in my very humble opinion, I just know it. Not in an obnoxious way, just more in a "omg this reminds me of that one thing I forgot to tell you about earlier" kind of way where she enjoys telling you everything

She's not used to being super open with people, so for her to share with you most if not all of what's on her mind the second it pops into her head just goes to show how much she trusts you. There's no one else she'd feel comfortable with being such an open book towards but you

Samira Mohan

The most obvious answer here would be listener, but I honestly think that Samira has the potential to be a great yapper too if given the right environment to nurture such behaviors. The closer she gets to you and the more she realizes that you actually care to hear about what she has to say, the more she chats back without hesitation

If you're a yapper, then you'll be buzzing like a bee as you ramble, her engaging in the conversation when she feels inclined to do so. If you're quieter, then she has no problem with filling the silence, or just allowing the two of you to chill if you'd prefer. She likes giving you the option on what you do together

Dennis Whitaker

You might think I'd say he's a yapper since Dennis canonically asks a million questions when watching TV, but I personally think he's more of a listener! While yes, he does enjoy playful banter and engaging in conversation with you, he has no problem allowing you to spill your guts of whatever's on your mind

Even if you're not a big talker, he'll somehow manage to get you to share things with him that you wouldn't normally do with other people because he's just good at that. Any time you start speaking to him on a personal opinion or thought without him needing to pose a question first, he beams with pride at you taking the initiative and happily lets you talk without interrupting any

Trinity Santos

Say what you will but I know a prickly person who also loves to annoy others with everything on their mind when I see one. Trinity is the type of person to yak and yak away in other's ears to get on their nerves but hates with it's done in turn to her (unless it's by you, of course, which she at worst tolerates but mostly listens to fondly)

Regardless of whether you engage in conversation with her or not, she's going to spill whatever's on her mind. Sometimes she'll see how outlandish she can get with her quips and comments until you finally react, always grinning smugly when you break and let out an exclamation at her not-HR-approved language or jokes

Victoria Javadi

This is the Happy-Yapper-2000 right here. I just know this girl can ramble on and on if you let her, whether it be about medical topics or her favorite musician (don't ask her about Olivia Rodrigo unless you're ready for a whole breakdown on the woman's career)

She doesn't mind being the one to fill the silence if you don't talk as much, but if you do then she's happy to chat with you! Sometimes she might apologize for overtaking the conversation, but all she needs is a bit of reassurance that you actually like what she has to say and she'll get right back at it again

Mel King

Listen to me. Mel is so used to being the listener, it's practically crucial that she's allowed to be the yapper here. She may stop and begin to spout out apologies for talking too much, for not letting you get a word in, but believe me when I say she needs this and it's very important that you let her share all her thoughts and feelings with you

That's not to say you can't talk at all, of course, as she loves hearing your responses to what she has to say. But she's definitely someone who needs a space where she can feel comfortable and safe with being the confider for once rather than the confidee, and you giving her that means more to her than you could ever know

Yolanda Garcia

One thing about Yolanda is that she doesn't yap so much as she bitches. This women is a grade A complainer, even if she doesn't always let it be known due to her job. She's usually professional enough to keep her comments under wraps whenever she gets sent down to the ER, but in the OR she's much more open with it. God forbid you catch her on a bad day, because she'll talk your ear off about Robby and whatever sort of nonsense he keeps dragging her into

Under no circumstances does she want to be given any sort of solutions, either; she just wants to vent. If you have anything to add to the complaint bucket, she doesn't care, but don't expect her to listen if you try giving genuine advice when she's in this sort of mood as conflict resolution should be strictly saved for when she isn't as grouchy

John Shen

You cannot convince me that John isn't a yapper. Just look at this man. I know in my heart of hearts that he will talk your ear off about any and everything that crosses his mind if you let him, and won't even get breathless while doing it

It doesn't matter if you're actually listening or not, because he's going to talk anyway. Chatting about random shit to you that doesn't really matter is his love language, and him irritating the piss out of you when you're both supposed to be working is how he shows that he cares

Parker Ellis

Parker is a listener and proud; she absolutely loves to hear you talk about whatever's on your mind, whether it be something serious or lighthearted, or even if it's seemingly "unimportant". When it comes to you, she wants to hear it all with nothing left out

If she ever has to deal with something else momentarily, she'll give you a quick "hold on baby" and get that done before urging you to continue. She doesn't want to give you anything but her undivided attention when you're speaking to her

Emery Walsh

Like some of the other people in this line-up, Emery is also a known complainer, but that doesn't qualify her as a yapper here in my opinion. Every now and then she'll pipe up with a random unexpected one-liner (such as her unforgettable comment about the "banana pants scheme") but for the most part she keeps her mouth shut if there's something you're desperate to share

No one is allowed to interrupt when you're talking to her, by the way, because in her eyes everything you have to say is important. There could be a patient flatlining in a room over and she's just like "find someone else, my partner is telling me about their blorbos or whatever the hell from this show that they enjoy"

Baran Al-Hashimi

Baran is one hundred percent a listener, and a good one at that. Even if you're not a big talker, she still wants to hear what you have to say, still asks for your opinions on things, whether that be professionally in the medical field or over something smaller and more personal

She doesn't mind being the one to prompt questions if you need a little nudge in getting to open up, as she's great when it comes to coaxing other people into coming out of their shell. Regardless of whether or not you were a big talker before, you know that you can always share with her what's on your mind no matter what

Joy Kwon

Definitely a listener given the way most of her additions to any and all conversations involve a snarky comment or dry quip with nothing else added, including the ones where a patient is the focal point. Joy just prefers to listen and observe, which means you tend to take over a lot of the speaking when you're together

That's not to say she doesn't pay attention, or that you bother her, far from it. She'll quietly absorb whatever you have to say like a sarcastic sponge, making it known that she was in fact listening all along by replying with the occasion question or opinion of hers

Emma Nolan

Call her a puppy dog the way she loves to yap until the cows come home, because Emma adores getting to share all of her thoughts, feeling, and emotions with you as soon as they come up. It's not even on purpose, she just always thinks of you as the first person to tell whenever there's something that she wants to share, regardless of if you're chatty like her or more withdrawn

If you seem busy, then she'll wait patiently and quietly by your side until you're able to listen, not wanting to bother you or interrupt. But as soon as she's given the go-ahead, she's happily chatting away again, a bright smile on her face the whole time

End notes: I hope I didn't accidentally repeat myself too much… I tried my best to keep each portion as unique as possible so none of it would feel stale or overly repetitive

Likes < reblogs | comments are greatly appreciative | requests are currently open | divider by @/pixopix

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[nowbeagoodgirlforme]

Younger nurse reader having impeccable taste (her friends always ask her for fashion advice) and is girly and classy and likes the finer things in life. Abbot thinks that’s so cute and wants to spoil her so so bad but she won’t let him ;))) maybe it gets spicy too ;))

Ooo this is sooo good,I maybe have been a lil extra lmao. I know Jackie loves to spoil his girl. you know I had to make it spicyyyy I hope you like it!!!!

Warnings - 18+ MDNI, sex, unprotected

The Bag

One of Jack’s favourite things about you was watching other people ask for your opinion. Not medical opinions like he was used too, but fashion opinions, decor opinions.

Somehow you’d become the unofficial stylist for half the emergency department. Javadi texted you photos from changing rooms. Santos sent pictures of shoes before dates. Dana once spent an hour on the phone with you asking about her hallway and if the mirror was ‘too much’. And the annoying thing? You were always right.

You just had an eye for it. The stitching, the fabric, the cut, the quality. You noticed details nobody else seemed to see. Jack found it ridiculously attractive.

Not because of the clothes and furniture.

Because you cared about things.

You appreciated craftsmanship, effort, and the little details. It was one of a thousand reasons he was completely head over heels for you.

The only problem was that you never let him buy you anything, ever. Flowers? Absolutely not. Jewelery? No chance. Clothes? Get out.

It’s not that he didn’t want to, Christ he tried. You just insisted if you needed anything you were happy to buy it yourself. You didn’t want Jack wasting his hard earned money on your things.

Which was why Jack found himself standing in a department store one Saturday afternoon, watching you examine a handbag like it belonged in a museum.

The bag was beautiful. Soft leather. Elegant. Expensive in the quiet sort of way, not flash.

You picked it up, checked the stitching, ran your thumb along the strap and immediately smiled. Then you saw the price tag, the smile vanished. The bag went back on the shelf and you walked away. Jack didn’t say a word, but you could almost hear the cogs turning in his brain.

⸻

Three days later there was a very familiar box sitting on your kitchen counter.

You stared at it, then stared at Jack. He stared at his coffee, suddenly refusing to make eye contact.

“Jackie”

“Hm?”

“What’s this?”

You pointed at the box.

“Oh- the bag.”

Jack took a sip of coffee.

“The bag!?” You snapped, voice raising in a mix of shock and anger. You folded your arms and stepped towards him “Do you realise how much that cost?”

“Yeah, it’s fine”

“Jaaack.” You whined “It cost more than my first car!”

Jack considered that, his head now turning to look at you, still with his coffee in his hand and a smirk plastered across his face.

“It wasn’t a very good car then”

You laughed despite yourself “That’s not the point.”

“It kind of is.”

“It absolutely isn’t.”

Jack wandered around the kitchen island until he was standing in front of you, his hands settling on your hips.

“You liked it.”

“That’s not the point-“

Before you could finish his lips pressed against your forehead, his fingers gently pressing at the flesh on your waist.

“Baby, I don’t care how much it cost. You liked it and I wanted to buy it for you. You have to let me treat you sometimes. I love being able to spoil you”

Your heart immediately did that annoying thing it always did when he got serious.

“You don’t have to buy me things though Jackie”

“I know.”

The answer stopped you. There was no argument in his voice. No frustration. Just certainty. You immediately looked down, slightly embarrassed. Jack laughed quietly, slowly stroking his thumb across your jaw.

“Thankyou Jackie- I love it so much, you really didn’t have to but I love it so much baby. But no more gifts!! You’re all I need” you kisses his chest and hugged him a little tighter.

“Is this a bad time to tell you there’s another box?” he chuckled.

Your eyes shot up to him, he looked down at you with a grin before pulling another box forward on the counter. It was smaller, a shiny black plastic, thin square box.

You turned around, not showing your excitement, Jacks fingers still tracing your waist, you could almost feel him smiling from behind you.

You opened the box, pulled the thin paper tissue across to reveal a black lace bra and panties. Tiny silver crystals dotted around the padding of the bra, the matching panties with the tiny silver gems at each side. Your eyes practically lit up.

“Oh my god Jack - they’re beautiful”

Before he said anything you spun around and pulled him into a tight hug, burying your face into his chest. His arms wrapped around you, warm and familiar.

“I was thinking you should try that on? Ya know just so we know it fits?” He smirked.

You wasted no time, letting out a little giggle, then took the barely-there fabric and skipped off towards the bedroom.

⸻

Maybe you had done a little too much. You didn’t just put the outfit on, while you were in there you had fixed up your hair, running your hands through to create volume. Touched up the makeup you already had on and sprayed the perfume you knew Jack loved.

As much as you didn’t like to admit it you loved when he bought you gifts. You didn’t love that he spent his money on you, but you loved how he always knew exactly the kind of stuff you loved. So it was only right to dress all pretty for him, right?

⸻

You walked out the bedroom a little later, Jack had made his way to the sofa, he was half watching the weekly football roundup. As he heard your footsteps approach he turned around, one arm resting on the cushions at the back.

“Fuckin’ hell baby” he spluttered, his own hand slapping his chest as to clear it.

You leaned against the doorway as his eyes darted over your body. He wasted no time in getting off the couch and walking directly towards you, his hands cupping you ass straight away as he pulled you into a hungry wet kiss, you could feel the lace panties getting soaked between your legs.

“Mhm- wait Jackie- let’s go to bed” you giggled, pulling away from the kiss and pulling him by his hand into the other room. He followed you like a puppy until you reached the bed, your hands moved to his wide shoulders before sitting him down on the bed. You sat on his lap, one leg kneeled either side of him and sat back a little. His hands stroking across your body from your ankles, to your stomach, then your chest and finally your neck.

He pulled you into a kiss, his hand still at the back of your neck. A slow, wet and needy kiss. As you grinded your hips down onto him, both of you moaning. His hands gripped onto you ass, pushing you onto him harder.

“Fuck baby - you look so pretty - I don’t even want to take em off” he groaned.

You hands trailed to his waistband, palming over his hard cock underneath the fabric before you gave a gentle squeeze, a grunt falling from his lips as you looked at his hungry eyes.

“Let’s just pull em to the side Jackie” you whined.

As you pulled his cock free from his waistband the tip glistened with precum, you traced your thumb over the top as he threw his head back.

“Fuck baby - no teasing - fuck c’mere” he moaned.

He reluctantly released his grip on your cheeks to pull his hand to your front, snaking between your legs as your toyed with his throbbing cock. His fingers slipped under the delicate fabric and wiped against your slick folds. Whines fell from your lips as he trailed against you, moving your wetness all around.

“Oh fuck, baby- so wet-fuck I can’t wait to feel you” he groaned.

He pulled the lace to the side as you guided yourself over him, your hands on his shoulders to steady yourself. His cock pressed into your needy hole, gentle but firm, his breath was ragged as he squeezed at your thighs to ground himself. Your own whimpers echoing around the room as he filled you.

As you moved your hips against him his thumb searched for your clit, not rubbing, not moving, just firm pressure as you warmed up to his wide cock.

“Jesus baby - so fuckin tight on me” he rasped.

As you picked up the pace your hands draped over his shoulders, his breath growling in your ear as you pushed yourself onto him.

Your nails dug into the skin on his shoulders, the pale skin that’s usually hidden under a shirt, as you rode him. You’d finally got the rhythm just right, the pool of heat building in your stomach as you forced yourself down onto him.

You bounced yourself down, hitting that sweet spot that felt so good no noise came out. His hands grabbed onto your ass, forcing your wet cunt down onto him harder than before. You own hand trailing down your front, furiously rubbing circles over your clit.

“Yes yes-right there Jackie-please I’m gonna cum” you squealed.

Your legs shook as your pussy tightened around him, his groans bouncing off the walls. Your orgasm crashed over you as you whined and whimpered in his ear.

It didn’t take much more to finish him off, the way you sounded when you came, the way you tightened around him and the way your nails dug into his skin.

He pulled you body down onto his cock as you grinded against him, writing and whining at all the overstimulation. With a few final bounces, he threw his head back as his hands gripped hard onto your hips.

“Ohh fuck baby-“ he groaned loud. You could feel the hot ropes of cum filling into you and slowly seeping out. You paused for a moment, utterly exhausted and content before Jack let out a signature old man groan as he laid back.

You body fell on top of his, both of you sweating and panting as you tried to catch your breath, his cock still gently twitching inside you. He stocked his hands up and down your back before you let out a small giggle.

“What’s so funny baby?” He quizzed, you could hear the smile through his voice.

“It’s nothing Jackie, I was just thinking I might let you buy me some more things now”

*****high pitched squeal*****

[showgirlshawn]

Birthday Boy.

John Carter x nurse f!reader

Notes/Warnings: SMUT. Oral (M!Receiving). Season 5 Carter x the fuck ass northwestern shirt is my favorite. Carter calls reader baby, pretty girl, and honey. One slight mention of switch!john carter. Happy (belated) 55th birthday to the loml, Noah Wyle. There’s not a lot of plot. Not canon typical because reader and Carter have smart phones with their locations shared. Medical inaccuracies? Shoutout to twin ( @atlaslapis ) for helping me decide part of the ending 😘

You were already at work for your 16 hour shift when Carter woke up to the cold bed.

“Baby?” he mumbled half asleep before opening his eyes.

Once he blinked his eyes a few times, the scene from a few hours ago came flashing back. You. Waking up. Detaching yourself from him. A kiss before leaving where you whispered. “Happy birthday, baby. I’ll see you at work.”

“Fuck,” he groaned, as he got up and realized he didn’t want to be late for work.

You stared at John’s location on your phone.

“Shit,” you mumbled as you saw he had just left when he was supposed to be there in 5 minutes. Right on cue your phone rang. You quickly began to step outside as you answered.

“Hey birthday boy,” you said.

John could tell you were smirking by the way you talked. You drove him crazy in the best way possible. “Hey honey. Missed you this morning.”

“I missed you too,” you said with a chuckle. You wanted to add birthday boy, but you stopped yourself so you didn’t rile him up too much. 

“Can you do be a favor? Will you-“

“Cover for you since you’ll be 10 minutes late?” You said as you chuckled.

“Yeah. Thanks baby. I Iove you.”

“I love you too, birthday boy,” you said as you hung up and rushed back in to get back to work.

John was on shift two hours before you were able to talk to him for more than two seconds, that didn’t involve patient care.

He was standing at the central hub stretching his arms up when you hurried over and wrapped you arms around him. “Hey birthday boy,” you said.

John grabbed your hand and moved it to his half hard cock. “Hey yourself,” he said as he moved your hand away quickly, before anyone caught on.

You removed your hands from around him and took his hand. “Come with me,” you said.

John looked at you and you batted your eye lashes. “Where to?” He asked.

“To get your birthday surprise,” you said as you pulled at his arm. “Come on, John.”

He followed you down the hall, stopping just before the supply closet. He pulled you back to him and cupped your face, as he bent down to kiss you hard. He opened the door the supply closet, and shoved you in before quickly coming in behind you and shutting the door.

You blinked as you looked at him. “What happened to our spot?” You asked. You and John usually snuck away to the on call room down the hallway.

“We gotta be quick and I can’t wait anymore, pretty girl,” John said as he started untucking his shirt and pulling his pants down just enough to get his cock out.

You quickly dropped to your knees in front of him, and helped him free his quickly hardening cock. You pumped it in your hands a few times, causing John to swallow a shallow moan.

You placed kitten kisses along his shaft before reaching to play with his balls. You slowly worked your kisses back towards the tip and swirled your tongue around the tip before taking it into your mouth and starting to suck. You moved your hands to the outside of John’s legs and began to bob your head up and down his length.

“Just like that, don’t stop, pretty girl, don’t stop,” John cried out. Your usually soft dom boyfriend turned into a sub the moment he saw you drop to your knees, everytime.

When your hair started to get in the way, John made it into a makeshift ponytail. You hummed around him in acknowledgment. “Hmm. Of course. You’re welcome, honey,” John said as you started moving your mouth faster up and down as much of his length as you could.

John started thirsting his hips into your mouth, causing you to gag around his cock, as it made its way down your throat. “Feels almost as good as your pussy, pretty girl,” John said as his hips started moving faster to keep up with your mouth.

You looked up at him, fucked out expression on your face, and saw him looking up at the ceiling mumbling to himself. “B. Balance. E. E-eyes. FUCK baby.”

Of course he was going over diagnosing a stoke. John often would mumble medical procedures during sex - a way to distract him to help him last just a little longer. Most girls found it unattractive, but it made you love him that much more.

You continued to look up at him, as tears started to form at your waterline. You adjusted your hand on his thigh, and he looked down at you. John groaned as he looked away. “Fuck. Keep looking at me like that pretty girl, and I’m not gonna last.”

You hummed around his cock, as one of your hands reached up to play with his balls. John pushed your head further down his cock, as your nose was touching his pelvis. He pulled you back, as he looked down at you. The same fucked out expression as before, with the tears no longer forming, but starting to fall.

“Oh oh oh, pretty girl,” John shuttered, as he pushed you back so you had all of him down your throat. “Oh fuck.” That was all the warning John gave you before his hot cum coated the back of your throat, as John threw his head back. He stared to lose his balance, and grabbed the shelf next to him, causing everything on it to come crashing to the ground.

You quickly pulled yourself off John’s cock, as the items began to fall.

“Fuck. Fuck you okay, baby?” John asked as he reached a hand down to help you up.

You nodded as you opened your mouth - showing John you swallowed everything he had spent down your throat.

“Hmm. Good job pretty girl,” John said, as he kissed you, tasting his salty taste still on your tongue , while tucking his cock back into his pants and started to fix his clothing.

A knock at the door. “You okay in there?” Benton called form the other side of the door. “Heard the crash.”

“Yeah, yeah, we’re okay,” John said without thinking.

“We?” Benton asked.

You and John looked at each other like deer caught in headlights.

“Carter, who the fuck is in there with you?” Benton asked, as he started to jiggle the handle.

You and John quickly shared a glance - realizing in the heat of the moment neither of you thought to lock the door.

As the door flew open, exposing the two of you, Benton exchanged a glare of anger at both of you.

“Get this cleaned up,” he demanded as he turned to walk away, “and next time lock the damn door.”

[rienxangl]

dadbf jack abbot

cw: very big gross age gap (19 & 50), somnophilia on both sides, sub/dom dynamics, established relationship, cockwarming, fauxcest (again! yes i know i love it!), slight exhibitionism, lowkey toxic abbot, dingy reader again..

dad bf abbot who loves you very much, but has many strict rules for you, including a bed time. he has to. don’t get him wrong he’s very lenient with you, so he comprises with 10:30, but you still weren’t satisfied. so, when he first told you, you whined out ‘whyyyy?’ but to jack you have to understand.. you’re only nineteen, a literal kiddo to him.. so you need all of your beauty sleep & rest you can get. which is exactly why you will not be having a job with him. you’re only job is to look pretty for him & be a sweet little girl.

dad bf abbot who doesn’t like when you try to do things on his own.. infact he’ll say- “why didn’t you come get me..? let dad help you out okay?” “i’m a big girl, dad! i can do a few things on my own..” he frowns & grumbles at that. if he can’t do things for you then why is he even here?

dad bf abbot who doesn’t care about the weirds stares you two get in public. everyone can clearly see his age spots, greying hair & silver beard, & facial wrinkles- but then they see you.. the cute young girl clinging to his arm with glowing skin & a pretty smile. so when they all see the way you kiss him right on his lips they all wonder, ‘how did he even get someone like her..?’

dad bf abbot who actually doesn’t even let you refer to him as jack, only daddy or dad. but you don’t have to problem with that. it makes you feel safe & protected with him. plus you love all the nicknames he’s gives you. “my girl.” “baby.” bun.” “doll.” “kiddo.”

dad bf abbot who spoils you insanely. like i said he loves having you all dolled up, so, he pays for your nails, makeup, heels & all things girly you love. ask him to paint your toes? he does it. asks him can yall go to the mall? he takes you happily. asking him to help you satisfy yourself when you’re needy?.. he’s working his big cock into you before you know it.

dad bf abbot who can never give you normal kisses. everytime you try to stand on your tippy toes to wrap your arms around him & give him a little peck, jack holds the back your head to push his lips onto yours so he can lick into your mouth & taste your sweet tongue. you immediately love the way his scratchy grey stubble feels on your face- so gruff & jagged. he grunts when he sucks onto your plush lips & laps up your face- planting sloppy kisses everywhere- making you whimper & whine because of him, feeling yourself slipping from the way he’s always trying to devour you whole.

dad bf abbot who you gave your first kiss & virginity to actually. when you first told him how inexperienced you were he was so, so fucking hesitant to do anything with you- (he swears he has a conscience) but, the way you but looked into his eyes with a hungry need in them & with a heightened lilt in your voice, you managed to convince him so easily- “i trust you, daddy.. i just want you to make me yours.. please.”

dad bf abbot who actually really gross when he’s fucking you. he says shit like- “yeah? you like it when dirty old cock is in your young little pussy hm, kid?” or or “i love fucking stealing your innocence baby.. makes me feel like a filthy pervert.” you don’t do anything but moan & squeal in delight.. loving the way to talks to you with his deep gravely voice.

dad bf abbot who gropes you in public sometimes. taking a handful of your tit or simply going under your skirt & cupping your fat, warm mound. & it looks so filthy from an outliers standpoint.. an old man touching & taking advantage of a young girl.. he hopes no one will ever catch him, or someone might accidentally call the cops.

dad bf abbot who loves the way you suck his cock- flaccid or hard. the way he’s woken up out of his sleep because his little girl was feeling needy- even though she’s supposed to be sleeping. once he gains more consciousness he starts to get hard & throb in your mouth. you moan at way your lips began to widen around him, nose brushing up against his grey pubes. jack tuts at you. “couldn’t even wait for your dad to get up hm?… naughty little girl.”

but it’s also because dad bf abbot likes to do the same to you. on the days he comes home slightly early from his shifts at the crack of dawn & you’re still asleep, he can’t help but to be aroused at your sleeping form. so, he gently crawls on top of you & wastes not a second before pushing his cock into your unprepped hole. vision slightly blury but you can see jack’s shirtless form thrusting above you- and feel him inside you. he’s groaning at the feeling of your pussy stretching around him. when he finally sees your eyes open- he greets you. “morning, my girl. ready for a good day with your dad hm?”

dad bf abbot who loves when you shyly ask to cockwarm him. “m’ feelin so empty..” you say with watery eyes & a shakey tone in your voice. jack wastes no time with pulling out his cock & pressing it into your bare, warm pussy up under your sheer night gown.. you can’t do anything but sigh in relief when you feel him stuffing your cunt to the brim. infact you lay your head on his chest.. drifting off slowly. jack quietly chuckles while stroking your head. he really loves it when you’re clingy like this towards him.

dad bf abbot who really loves & cares about you despite your large age gap. hence why he acts like a dad towards you, because no one can protect & care for you like he can.

a/n: want a dadbf so bad!! im basically just writing out my dreams & thoughts here lol ! hope yall like it <33

oh & i had to use that most recent pic of shawn.. he looks so sexy :0