LEGACY: A Tony Stark Daughter Story Masterlist (Reader Insert Version)

death by a thousand cuts | dr. michael 'robby' robnavitch x daughter au!

⚘ 'Cause saying goodbye is death by a thousand cuts Flashbacks waking me up I get drunk, but it's not enough ⚘ fics: the grudge. death by a thousand cuts. exile. (robbys pov) ⚘ blurbs+imagines: don't you ever grow up. i lost them too. er visit from hell. ⚘ head cannons + background info!: vera monroe robnavitch. vera & her dad's relationship. ⚘

masterlist.

_ She reminded him too much of everything he lost. So she became everything he feared.

⚘

But I'm right where you left me Matches burn after the other Pages turn and stick to each other Wages earned and lessons learned But I, I'm right where you left me

Free Fallin' (jack abbot x f!reader)

18+ account - minors do not interact

jack abbot x university proffesor f!reader Word Count: 4.4K Rating: E

Summary: On your birthday, your best friend convinces you to celebrate in a big way. The night takes a wild turn when you get a little too rowdy and accidentally fall off a bar table, ending up in the emergency room. There, you meet the charming and handsome Doctor Abbot.

Or simply…

You’re hot for your doctor. And he’s hot for you too.

Warning: reader is 30 (adjunct professor & PhD candidate), meet-cute, language, alcohol use, implied age gap (jack is however old you want), internal thoughts about aging as a woman, mentions of a mild injury, sexual tension, smutty thoughts, mutual pining, flirting, brief jealousy (jack is not amused), banter (i hope its witty enough), romcom vibes, fluff, implied smut

A/N: This came to me, and I just had to write it. Brainrot is real. Also, I am not a doctor, so I apologize if anything is medically inaccurate. Thank you Google for your support while I researched. Ok, running away now!

Jack Abbot Masterlist

You woke up with a sharp, pounding ache behind my eyes, the kind that made your head feel like it was in a vice. Blinking against the sterile white ceiling, you immediately noticed the dull throbbing that told you that you had definitely taken a fucking fall. Your whole body felt sore, and a faint, lingering dizziness made the edges of your vision wobble.

Beside you, your best friend Naomi sat in a chair, her shoulders hunched, her face streaked with tears and sniffles. She looked up as you stirred, her eyes glassy with relief and worry. "Thank God," she whispered, her voice trembling. "You’re awake."

You wanted to ask what happened, why you were here, but the pain in your head made the words come out muffled and fuzzy. She reached over, grasping my hand tightly. "You had a pretty bad fall," she explained softly. "You slipped off the bar table during karaoke, and you hit your head pretty hard. One moment you were belting out the chorus, and the next, you were sprawled on the floor, auditioning for a new role as a human pancake,"

Your lips twisted into a weak smile at the absurdity of the situation. The image of yourself flopping onto the floor during karaoke—hit you. The pain made your head hurt, but you couldn’t stop the giggle from spilling out.

It was coming back to you. You really took singing Free Fallin’ a bit too literally—literally falling off the bar table. So, lesson learned: next time don’t mix your fucking liquor.

Just then, a calm, reassuring voice interrupted. "Excuse me,"

It was a very handsome man.

He was painfully good looking.

He stepped into view, his eyes kind and professional.

"I know you might not remember me since you were going in and out of consciousness, but I’m Dr. Abbot, and I’m the doctor on your case. When you were brought in by ambulance, I was the one who examined you. You suffered some bleeding on your forehead from the fall, so I bandaged it up to stop the bleeding. You’re experiencing a mild concussion, but there’s no internal bleeding or serious brain injury."

As Dr. Abbot moved closer—you felt a 'ga-gunk' in your chest and thought it was probably just related to your lingering dizziness. He carefully adjusted the monitor at the foot of your bed, attaching the leads to your chest and checking your pulse at your wrist.

He glanced at the chart hanging beside your bed, his brow furrowing slightly as he noted your vitals—heart rate, blood pressure, oxygen levels—all within normal ranges. The soft beeping of the monitor was a steady backdrop to his calm voice as he explained each finding.

But your eyes kept drifting upward, drawn to the broad curve of his shoulders in his black scrubs. The way his sleeves stretched slightly over his biceps caught your attention, and you couldn’t help but notice the subtle tension and strength in his arms as he moved.

Your eyes lingered a little longer than intended, caught on the lines of muscle beneath the fabric, the way his forearms flexed as he reached to check your IV. You quickly looked away when he caught your gaze, feeling a burn creeping up your cheeks.

"Typically, patients with concussions are observed overnight, at least for 24 hours, to monitor for any worsening symptoms. Since you’re stable and your symptoms are manageable, we’ll keep you here for a few hours for observation, and then we can reassess. Do you have any questions?"

You hesitated, your tongue feeling heavy and awkward. The words caught in your throat, and instead of trying to speak, you simply shook your head, your eyes flickering downward as if the answer was written there instead.

"I’ll be back soon." He offered a gentle smile and stepped out of the room, leaving you alone with Naomi.

Naomi immediately perked up, her tear-streaked face softening as she watched you settle back into the pillows. Her eyes twinkled mischievously as she leaned closer and lowered her voice. "I overheard the nurses talking," she said, a smirk tugging at her lips. "They say Dr. Abbot’s single."

You rolled your eyes, pinching her, and Naomi chuckled softly, stretching her arms above her head.

"You should go home," you told her. "You look like shit."

She scoffed, stubborn as ever. "Fuck off," she shot back, but her eyes softened as she reached out, giving your hand a reassuring squeeze. "But seriously, I’m glad you’re okay."

"Thanks, girl. Go get some rest—you might need it more than I do right now."

"Happy Birthday!"

Your eyes drifted toward the clock on the wall. The minute hand had just reached the twelve—midnight. The second hand swept steadily, marking the moment when your birthday officially began.

You let out a dry chuckle, sarcasm curling around your words as you glanced at the clock. "Well, nothing screams celebration like a concussion and a hospital stay." Internally, though, your stomach clenched. Honestly, you’d been dreading this birthday—more than you cared to admit. There was something about turning 30 as a woman that felt... stressful. Sure, aging was a privilege—something to be grateful for—but lately, you’d been feeling scared about it. Thirty wasn’t old, not by any stretch, but it definitely didn’t feel young anymore. You weren’t in your 20s anymore, and that realization was going to take some getting used to.

Naomi leaned in for a quick hug. "I’ll check in later tonight. Or I guess it’s today now? But if you need anything—anything at all—just text me or call me."

"Thanks. Love you."

"Love you too. Rest up. You’ve got an entire new decade to conquer," she teased.

As the door swung open again, Dr. Abbot stepped in, a small tray in hand with a syringe and a couple of pill bottles.  He set the tray down carefully on the bedside table and looked at you with a slight smile. "Just some more medication to help you with the pain," he said softly. "And to help you sleep and make sure you’re comfortable. To be safe, we’re going to keep you here for 24 hours for observation."

A strange wave of embarrassment washed over you at his words. The reality of your situation sank in—this wasn’t just a quick bump and a bandage; they wanted to monitor you overnight. The thought of being stuck in the hospital made you feel like a dumbass.

You blinked, then hesitated before speaking. "You know, I… I almost never drink,"

Dr. Abbot paused for a moment. "Oh?" he prompted softly, a slight arch of his brow as he prepared to hear what you had to say.

You shifted uncomfortably, feeling the heat rise in your face. "I feel like a fucking idiot," you admitted quickly, the words tumbling out before you could second-guess yourself. "I’m the boring one in my friend group. I’m an adjunct professor at Carnegie Mellon, while I complete my PhD dissertation, so I’m usually grading papers, preparing lectures, or doing research—you know? I’m not the type to get drunk on a Thursday night. I don’t really go out much. I’m usually the type to stay in, read a book, or binge-watch some murder mystery documentary."

You sighed, a little embarrassed now. "My best friend convinced me to throw a birthday party with my closest friends, even though I didn’t want to celebrate. I hate birthdays, honestly. Always have. But she said it was important and that I needed to let loose… and well, here we are." You looked down at your hands, feeling exposed and a bit vulnerable, wondering if your doctor thought you were pathetic.

He paused for a beat, then offered a gentle, reassuring smile. "You know," he began, trying to lighten the mood, "I don’t even remember my 30th birthday. The only thing I remember is waking up in a bathtub after what I can only assume was a pretty wild night. No idea how I got there. Next thing I knew, I had to go in for a shift—completely hungover. Shit happens."

You glanced up, surprised by his openness. His tone was easy, almost amused, as if sharing a little secret. He gave a small, deliberate nod and reached for the syringe on the tray. His eyes briefly flicked to your face, studying you with an almost clinical attentiveness, but beneath that, there was a subtle softness—an unspoken kindness that lingered in his gaze. He gently inserted the syringe into your IV port, administering the medication with careful steadiness. His fingers, though deliberate, brushed lightly against your wrist as he checked your veins.

"You mentioned you’re an adjunct. What do you teach?"

"Economics. Specifically, game theory."

A small, almost appreciative smile touched his lips. "Ah, game theory. That’s a fascinating field—complex, strategic, and very precise. I imagine your classes must be quite engaging. Do you find it challenging to keep your students interested with such abstract concepts?"

"It depends on the class, but I try to make it as interactive as possible," you said, forcing a smile. Inside, though, you were in pain, and you winced as you spoke, hoping he wouldn’t notice.

As Dr. Abbot finished administering the medication, he paused for a moment, his eyes lingering on yours with a subtle, almost inscrutable expression. He seemed to sense something was off.

"Game theory," he began softly, his voice smooth and deliberate, "is all about understanding the strategies of others—predicting their moves, and then choosing your own accordingly. Maybe I can apply that here." He tilted his head slightly. "In this hospital room, I suppose we're both playing a kind of game. You're trying to recover, and I’m trying to ensure you're safe. My goal is to make sure you're not in any pain, and yours—" he paused "—is to let me know if anything feels off.”

He leaned in just slightly, his tone still light but precise. "You could try to hide discomfort, acting as if everything’s fine—maybe bluffing to keep the game going. Or, you might be straightforward, signaling clearly if something's bothering you. But I’m watching for those signals—every subtle shift, every reaction." His eyes pierced into your soul. "I’m trying to read your moves—predicting whether you’re in pain or just playing it cool."

There was a brief pause before he continued, his voice soft but focused. "And I suppose I’m deciding whether to make a move now—maybe ask more directly—or wait and see if you reveal your hand." His beautiful eyes flicked over your face, measuring, attentive, as if probing for clues.

You started to feel the effects of the medication—your thoughts drifting, your senses slightly dulled, yet the way he looked at you made your heartbeat quicken. The combination of his words and the gentle sedation created a strange, intoxicating feeling.

Suddenly, with a breathless laugh, you blurted out, "You know... you’re really fucking handsome." The words tumbled out despite the pain you were trying to hide. The medication made your voice softer, your words more honest and unfiltered. You winced again, silently telling him you were in pain, your face betraying your attempt to keep up the act.

A flicker of surprise crossed his face for just a moment before he composed himself again, a subtle, knowing smirk forming, rubbing his scruff to hide his smile. "Well," he replied, voice steady and measured, as if he’d been waiting for that admission all along. "It seems you’re quite good at playing your hand."

As the medication’s gentle grip began to take hold, your eyelids grew heavier, the edges of your vision softening into a haze. The steady rhythm of the monitor seemed to lull you further into a drowsy state. Your head sank slightly into the pillow, and your breathing slowed, each inhale more relaxed than the last.

With a faint, breathless whisper, you managed to voice the question that had been lingering in your mind. "What’s your name?"

"Jack," he replied quietly.

You paused, savoring the sound of his name on your tongue, a soft, almost breathless repetition. "Jack," you echoed, the word slipping out with a tender, lingering tone before your eyelids fluttered shut, and the room gently faded into darkness.

The next morning, the hospital room was quiet but busy with the steady hum of activity outside your door. You woke slowly, the lingering fog of medication still dulling your senses, but feeling surprisingly clearer than the night before. Your body was less sore, and the pounding in your head had abated to a dull throb.

You waited a few hours before calling your parents, who lived in New York, because if you had reached out last night, they would have thought you were dying. You didn’t want them to worry, since they already didn’t love the fact that you lived in Pittsburg away from family.

After finally summoning the courage to call, you could hear your mother’s voice cracking when she spoke, trying to sound stable but failing. You could almost see her clutching the phone tightly. Meanwhile, your father’s voice burst with a flurry of questions—how you were feeling, what exactly happened, which hospital you were at, and what the doctors were saying. His tone was urgent, almost frantic, and you could tell he was weighing the options in his mind, close to booking a flight himself just to make sure you were okay.

You had to remind them both that it was just a concussion, that Naomi would be keeping a close eye on you, and that you were in good hands. You reassured them that you were doing fine, and that you would rest and follow the doctor’s instructions.

Still, you understood their worry—distance made everything worse.

Dr. Abbot—or Jack came in a few times throughout the day, each visit brief but impactful. He checked your vitals meticulously, his eyes flicking between the monitor and your face. Each time, he seemed to study you carefully as if trying to gauge how well you were really doing.

He was so attentive.

It was making you feel crazy inside. And horny.

You had to remind yourself he was just doing his job.

Your nurses, Dana and Princess, meanwhile, cast subtle glances in his direction when they thought you weren’t looking. You noticed the way they exchanged knowing looks, lips pressed into thin lines, or small smirks that seemed to carry some unspoken joke. Once or twice, you caught him with a slight blush when he thought you weren’t watching—an odd, almost humanizing detail that made him seem more approachable, more real.

You learned a few things about him—some through conversations with him, and others from the nurses. He told you he was a veteran and had been a combat medic. Princess mentioned that he’d volunteer and come in on his days off sometimes.

Dana even shared a story about him giving blood while actively treating patients, emphasizing that you had one of the best doctors on your case. It was clear he was dedicated, going above and beyond in ways that went beyond just doing his job.

Friends from your party last night trickled in over the course of the day—Naomi, of course, first and most persistent. She brought flowers, a card, and a bag of snacks. Other friends arrived in small groups, some cracking jokes, others just sitting quietly, holding your hand, or showing you embarrassing pictures and videos from last night.

At one point, you were sitting up a little with your close friend, Max. You’d been chatting lightly, everyone else had left at this point, when the door swung open again.

In stepped Jack, a serious but composed look on his face. His eyes immediately landed on you, then shifted toward Max, who was mid-laugh, clearly enjoying a joke you’d just told.

Jack’s eyes narrowed slightly as he took in the scene—your relaxed posture, the way this man was leaning toward you, his hand resting lightly on your shoulder. It wasn’t an overt gesture, but enough for Jack to notice.

"Visiting hours are over," Jack said curtly, voice even but with an unmistakable edge, as he stepped into the room and looked directly at Max. His tone was firm, controlled—more a command than a suggestion.

You glanced at the clock—there was still about an hour left before visiting hours officially ended, but you didn’t bother correcting him. Max looked at Jack with a hint of surprise, then nodded politely.

"See you later," Max leaned down and gave you a quick kiss on the cheek before stepping out of the room.

Jack’s sharp eyes lingered on Max for a moment longer until the door closed before turning to you. "Boyfriend?"

You let out a soft, amused laugh, shaking your head. "Oh my god. No, no. Just a buddy."

He blinked, clearing his throat, and then softly pulled a chair closer to the side of your bed. "In about an hour, you’re going to hit that 24-hour observation window. How are you feeling? Ready to sign some discharge papers, or do you think you might need a little more time here to rest?"

"Honestly, as lovely as this hospital stay has been—really, I’ve enjoyed the cocoon of this really sterile environment and the constant soundtrack of beeping monitors. But, I have to admit, I miss my bed. The king-size throne I call my own. Nothing beats the plush comfort of my mattress after a long day of pretending to be a responsible adult."

Jack raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at his lips. "Plush? Nothing beats the support of a good foam mattress. I mean, have you ever tried those memory foam wonders? They contour to your body, cradle you like a baby, and make you forget all your troubles."

You snorted. "Please. Foam beds are overrated. Give me a sturdy, springy mattress any day. Something that bounces back when I flop onto it, and doesn’t sink me into a deep abyss where I’ll never be found."

Jack chuckled softly, leaning back in his chair. "A bounce, huh? I’m more of a memory foam person myself. Plus, it’s scientifically proven to align your spine. You know, for healthy back support."

You rolled your eyes. "Support is overrated."

Jack grinned, crossing his arms. "Foam beds are like having a personal cloud that you can mold to your exact liking. Plus, no metal springs poking you in the middle of the night—unlike some of us who grew up sleeping on ancient mattresses that felt like a medieval torture device."

"Well, Dr. Abbot," you murmured softly, "maybe next time I need a little more support, I should find someone who can make sure I’m comfortable—preferably someone with a very gentle touch." Your gaze lingered on his, eyes flickering with a hint of invitation. "And I have a feeling you’d be pretty good at that."

His eyebrows lifted, and he gave you this look that clearly said he was surprised by your bold comment. Honestly, you were a little shocked yourself; maybe the drugs hadn’t fully worn off yet.

Fuck… why did you say that?

You could have sworn he was staring at your lips, but maybe you were just imagining it. He didn’t look like he was so much older than you that it would be out of the question for him to find you attractive, but enough that you knew he might think you were too young for him.

You shifted slightly in the bed, feeling the faint ache in your muscles as you prepared to sit up. You knew the moment had come to get yourself ready to leave. "Alright," you said softly, your voice a little hoarse. "I need to get changed before I sign the discharge papers."

Jack leaned forward slightly. "Take your time, I’ll bring those discharge papers for you."

You carefully swung your legs over the side of the bed and stood up slowly, making your way to the small bathroom in the corner of the room, closing the door behind you. You peeled off the hospital gown, feeling the cool air on your skin, and then slipped into your own clothes that Naomi had brought over for you earlier—comfortable jeans, a cozy sweater, and your favorite sneakers. Once dressed, you took a moment to compose yourself, steadying your breath.

When you stepped back into the room, Jack was standing near your bedside table and had set the discharge papers there. You grabbed the discharge papers from the bedside table, glancing over them briefly—your signature was required here, a few checkboxes, and some instructions.

You picked up the pen, your hand steady despite the lingering fatigue. With a few deliberate strokes, you signed your name.

"Who’s picking you up from the hospital?"

"Naomi."

Jack nodded.

You looked up at him, offering a small, tentative smile as you extended your hand. "It was nice to meet you, Dr. Abbot,"

He paused for a moment, studying your face before reaching out to take your hand in his. His grip was firm but gentle, and for a brief second, there was a flicker of something in the air. You could sense the shift—the way his eyes darkened slightly, the way the corners of his mouth twitched as if he was struggling to maintain his composure.

"Likewise," he replied, exhaling through his nose. "But you can call me Jack. You’re not my patient anymore."

The words hung in the air, heavy and charged, as if he was about to say more—maybe lean in, maybe close the distance between you with a kiss. You could sense the shift in the atmosphere—but just as that moment seemed inevitable, his pager chirped insistently from his belt, breaking the spell. The sound was intrusive, almost cruel as it echoed in the stillness of the room. You both jumped slightly, the surprise breaking the spell that had wrapped around you. His brow furrowed slightly as he glanced at the device, then looked back at you.

"I’m sorry," he said quickly, voice returning to a professional tone. "Something urgent just came up,"

You nodded slowly, trying to mask the disappointment that threatened to spill over. "No worries. Go save some lives,"

With a slight nod, he stepped back, giving you one last, lingering look before turning on his heel and heading out the door.

One Week Later

It was Friday, and your classroom was finally emptying out, students gathering their belongings, whispering excitedly or yawning as they headed toward the exits. Towards their weekends. The late afternoon sunlight spilled through the windows, and you leaned against the podium, watching the last of your students shuffle past, their chatter fading into the hallway.

One voice drifted over the murmur of footsteps.

"You know, I had the biggest crush on one of my professors back when I was in college."

You turned slightly, catching a glimpse of a figure leaning casually against the back wall, a familiar, easy smile on his face. It was Dr. Abbot—Jack—standing there with a relaxed posture.

Your heart still skipped a beat.

But you decided to play it cool. And not show your hand quite yet.

You raised an eyebrow, a playful smirk tugging at your lips. "What class did your professor teach?"

One corner of his mouth lifted. "Anatomy,"

Your mouth suddenly felt dry, and your mind went directly to the gutter.

Stepping forward, you called out casually, "Dr. Abbot."

He looked over at you, eyes crinkling when his smile widened as he pushed off the wall and approached you.

"Call me Jack," he reminded you, voice even, no nonsense.

"Right. Jack," you repeated, chewing on the inside of your cheek.

He gently lifted his hand and reached out to touch your forehead, "This okay?"

You nodded.

His touch was reassuring yet delicate. It felt intimate in a way that went beyond medical concern. You closed your eyes as he shifted into doctor mode, asking you quick questions, and how you’d been feeling. Despite the clinical tone, you couldn’t help but feel a pang in your heart at the tender way he looked at you and asked about your recovery. After a moment, he slowly withdrew his hand, letting it fall to his side and slipping his hands into his pockets.

"I hope I’m not overstepping," he hesitated slightly, then offered a nervous chuckle. "With just your name, Google made it pretty easy to find out what days and times you teach on campus when I found your syllabus online." His smile was genuine, but there was a gentle caution in his tone—like he meant no harm and didn’t want to push any boundaries. He paused for a moment before adding, "And I have to say, your rating on RateMyProfessor is stellar. Clearly, students think very highly of you."

You felt the heat creep onto your cheeks at the compliment.

"Well, Jack," you said with a playful tone, "I’m glad to know my privacy is so easily compromised. Maybe I should just start handing out my home address next." Your eyes twinkled with amusement, clearly teasing him.

"Or maybe," he said softly, a smirk tugging at his lips, "you should just hand out your phone number next. So, that I can take you out to dinner."

The grin that stretched across your face was massive.

There was just something about him.

Normally, making the first move wasn’t something you would do. But right now, you didn’t care. You hooked your fingers into the collar of his Henley and tugged him forward, pressing your lips to his. He hesitated for a beat, not reacting right away. Jack’s expression was unreadable. Then, slowly, he brought his lips back to yours, a deep guttural groan escaping him as he finally responded. Your tongue traced over his lower lip, and he took that as an invitation to intensify the kiss. Your fingers tangled in his hair, and he cupped your face with his hands as the kiss grew hotter and more frantic.

By the third date, you discovered that his bed really was as comfortable as he claimed.

Maybe foam beds weren’t so bad after all.

dividers by @saradika-graphics

NPT (folks who interacted with Jealous): @abbotjack. @takingitdaybyday-1. @houseofodd. @midniqhtt. @letsgobarbs. @chixkencxrry. @akgirl1993. @roses-and-grasses. @hansfics. @strange-hyperfixations. @la-vie-est-une-fleur29. @ozarkthedog. @stellamarielu. @emmalyn2233

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As Above, So Below I Chapter 1- I'll Tell You Everything is Copacetic

Synopsis: Two attendings, one new psychologist working both the day and night shifts on a rotation. You could have sworn you heard both of them call “dibs,” and you’re more than willing to entertain the both of them.  Pairing: Michael "Robby" Robinavitch x Fem!Reader and Jack Abbot x Fem!Reader Word count: 2.1K Warnings: Talk of mental illness and other psychological things, violence, dark humor, and some smut along the way  :) A/N: I couldn’t decide between Robby and Abbot, so I present you with BOTH. Tag list is open, Part 2 coming soon

As Above, So Below. "Quod est superius est sicut quod inferius, et quod inferius est sicut quod est superius." -- That which is above is like to that which is below, and that which is below is like to that which is above.

It based on the notion of Hermeticism; the idea that God was a magician.

The religious and philosophical idea that the universe is broken into the Macrocosm (the universe), and the microcosm (the individual).

That which is above, corresponds to that which is below in order to accomplish the miracle of one thing. In simplest terms—whatever happens in the spiritual world, also happens in the physical world, and vice versa.

Your spiritual and physical world existed on two equal and opposite sides; day shift and night shift.

Two very different shifts.

Two very different paces, senses of humor, and inside jokes 

Two very different attending doctors.

And you were vying for the attention of both of them. 

Part 1: I'll Tell You Everything is Copacetic

The promotion from the career you had grown comfortable, came unexpectedly and as the result of a physical altercation with a patient. You, the staff psychologist at a maximum-security prison, had come face-to-face with a makeshift weapon during a routine therapy session. The irony, which had not been lost on you, had been that your patient had been so worried that he’d never get out of prison, he had no insight into the fact that stabbing someone in the back with a sharpened toothbrush, would surely end in those exact consequences. He was one of your favorite patients. It was a real “Et tu, Brute” type of moment, both figuratively and literally. 

The thing they don't tell you about being stabbed in prison, is that the threat needs to be cleared before life-saving measures can be started. There you were, on the ground, bleeding from a stab wound that barely missed your spinal cord, waiting for EMS to arrive, while you almost choked to death on the pepper spray canister that had been deployed by security as they watched on in horror. The other thing they don't tell you about being stabbed in prison, is how motherfucking painful it is and how that trauma will likely linger long after the pain. 

Leaving that job wasn’t a suggestion as much as it was a directive. You were medically cleared after 12 weeks, but the optics of the entire situation made it difficult for management to move forward without shouldering most of blame. The split was mostly amicable; they wouldn’t have to feel any guilt about a weapon making its way all the way to your therapy session, and you’d never have to wear khaki cargo pants and a "stab vest" again that clearly was just for show. 

You applied for the job of Chief Psychologist at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center as soon as it popped up on your archaic Linkedin profile, and got the job the following week. The long-waited return to your hometown and all of the skeleton's in your childhood home's closet. The emergency room didn’t exactly sound like a soothing retreat for the recently stabbed, but it did promise the perfect distraction – 12-hour shifts, vacillating between days and nights, and no time to think about all of the things that had happened up to this. And, as a cherry on top, you’d be the first in this position, a long-awaited overhaul of PTMC only relying on psychiatry and social work for their mental health needs. To have someone on-site, in the emergency room, was PTMC's big wet dream; and you were happy to give them that happy ending.

---

Your shift starts at 7am and you take the long way to work to clear your head. The city you once called home has hardly changed, but the feeling of being back was heavier than you expected.

Your phone dings, a familiar face and name.

Dana: Hey kid, come find me at the nurse's station when you get here. you're gonna fit right in

Your physical therapist told you to take it slow, and walking was about as much as you could handle still 12 weeks post-injury. The pain shot down your back from your shoulder blade to your hip, a lingering limp still evident. The scar was "gnarly" according to your best friend, but you had been too afraid to look. PTMC sat at the top of the delightfully named "cardiac hill" -- One of the steepest hills in the city, home to several of the best hospitals in Pittsburgh and the University of Pittsburgh campus. According to local legend, more heart attacks happened here than any other place in Pittsburgh.

Your injury forced you to relocate with the distance in mind, but you weren't exactly thrilled to be sharing the sidewalk with undergraduate college students and their roller backpacks who barely look up from their phone. You were, however, thrilled to see one of the seven wonders of the world on your way to work-- Dunkin'.

America does run on Dunkin', and you know why? Because it's trash, and so is society. You don't walk into a calm environment of espresso machine and jazz music, surrounded by independent filmmakers discussing their film adaptations of David Foster Wallace like you would at a hipster coffee shop. Dunkin' welcomes you with bloodied open arms into a warzone. An absolutely unhinged battlefield, people screaming, the excitement of giving your order to someone who absolutely could not give a fuck. You let Dunkin' tell you what you need, and not for lack of trying. You give the order but they rarely listen. Today you walk out with a large iced mocha, with whipped cream, after ordering a large vanilla latte with oat milk. The universe just feels right, a little off its axis and sickenly sweet.

You walk through the double doors to the ER sliding in between two gurneys on their way to the ambulance bay and make your way to the nurses station, Dana waiting with open arms

"It has been far too long, my girl," Dana hugs you tightly, "and boy am I glad you are okay, and you are here. Your mom told me what happened, how you holding up"

"Almost recovered. You should see the other guy" you reply, "and you look great."

"Thanks kid," Dana smiles, her eyes shift to someone behind you "Oh captain, my captain."

"A patient?" You hear his voice before you see him, and when you turn around, it's hard to look away. He's all tall, dark, and handsome, a real father-figure vibe towering over you. Cargo pants, black scrub top, a fancy watch, a faded hoodie. This must be the place, and this guy definitely fucks. He must have clocked you the moment you walked in--looking like a lost puppy with a limp and a cup full of coffee. Of course he thinks you're a patient.

"My daughter's best friend, and your new psychologist," She corrects him, "This is Dr. Robby."

"Sorry, I saw you come in and were limping, just wanted to make sure you were okay," He nods, confirming that he did, in fact, notice you as soon as you walked in

"The limp is more of a talking point than a medical emergency, but I wouldn't say no to someone taking a look at it. I almost got laid out by an undergrad with a roller backpack on my way here." You smile, outstretching a hand, "I'm Y/N Wheeler, the new head of the psych department."

"Michael Robinavitch, but everyone calls me Robby," He shakes your hand, noticing the tattoo stretching from your wrist to your elbow and under the sleeve of your shirt. He instinctively tilts your arm to examine the ink, a thumb rubbing over your wrist softly, without even noticing he's doing it. Ooooph. You clear your throat and his eyes meet yours, face turning a deep shade of red.

"Don't worry, it definitely goes all the way to my shoulder. If you're good, I'll show it to you." You quip, maintaining eye contact until he looks away,  "and yes, the nose ring is real too."  

“Wheeler! I see you've met Robby" John Shen takes a step next to Robby, a matching Dunkin' cup in hand. He raises his glass to yours, knocking the two together, "Cheers, bitch. Never thought I'd see the day you moved back to Pittsburgh. Welcome to the thunderdome.”

Shen looks at Robby, “She's straight from the feds. You didn't see her on the news--”

You interrupt before he can divulge any gruesome details of the trauma to your new colleague, “He means that I was a psychologist at the federal detention center not that I was in prison. Although always keep your cards close to your chest."

"Sorry, You two know each other as well?" He raises his eyebrows as the dynamic playing out in front of him, "Jesus Pittsburgh really is small world."

"We met in grad school. Gave him therapy the whole way through residency” You reply, "taught him everything he knows about screaming internally while keeping a straight face." 

"Ah" Robby nods, "That really does explain his shockingly chill demeanor." 

“Oh great, you're all here." Gloria interrupts the conversation, coming up behind you in a pastel purple pantsuit. Over teams she seemed less, up tight. In person, she's all business in the front and even more business the back, "Our newest chief psychologist. We now have our own consult, and she's overseeing the entire department."

"Figured I could help the ol’ pill pushers up in psychiatry. And plus, these patients seem like a breeze compared to prison." You make a joke, trying to assess the humor of the group. Shen gets it, and laughs. Robby gets it, wants to laugh, but stuffs his hand in his pockets. Gloria doesn't get it at all. 

"She’ll be spending her time between day and night shifts, the full 12 hours, so use her as an appropriate resource," she continues.

"You save 'em and I’ll keep them from jumping off the roof" You say quietly, nudging Robby with your elbow, a smile spreading across his face as Gloria turns around and heads off to whatever upper-management office she spawned from. 

"So where did you go to school?" Robby asks, hoping your answer reveals something about your age.

"I went to Pitt for undergrad and then Drexel for graduate school. Did my internship, post-doc, and forensic fellowship with the feds" You nod, "we had an infirmary unit, which closely resembled a hospital, but more security forward than anything. I'm board certified in forensics, but my internship focused mostly on neuropsychology." 

"Don't take this the wrong way, but fuck am I glad they hired someone like you." He responds, rubbing a hand over his neck,"Hell, some of us could probably use an evaluation."

"I'm excited to be here, but I'm definitely going to have to learn the sense of humors around here. I'm pretty fucked up from the prison, i don't have a great filter, but i work hard and I care about my patients." 

He stops walking and turns to face you, "you'll fit in great. So why did you leave the feds?"

"Honestly, I was tired of getting pissed on." The way you say it, so matter-of-factly, with the ability to maintain a serious expression causes Robby to snort. It catches him off guard, a genuine laugh erupting from his throat. He looks at you like he's not quite sure what to make of you yet, but his gaze lingers, a smirk on his face.

"Speaking of getting pissed on" another attending comes up behind you, shorter than Robby, but equally as handsome in a way that screams he's got his own trauma, “Kraken is in two if you’re into that sort of thing." 

"Dr. Abbot" Dr. Robby shoots him a look like he's trying to corral his kid. These two know each other. Maybe not biblically, but you know they've definitely cried in front of each other. Something you wouldn't be opposed to seeing.

"Who is the kraken? And do I look like I’m into that sort of thing?" He wasn't expecting you to shoot the same level of bullshit back to him,even as a shit-eating grin appears on his face.

"Never met a nose ring that wasn’t," He shrugs

"A little early for kink shaming, Jack, "Shen interjects, unable to help himself.

"Can't wait to see what my tattoos suggest" you raise an eyebrow

"Sorry, Do you two know each other too?" You can't tell if Robby's annoyed with him or the conversation, but Abbot ignores him.

"Military?"

"Feds."

He nods his head in approval, narrowing his eyes like he's trying to figure out if you're worth his time, "You on nights?"

"Next week. Running a support group on how to dive off the roof and land on your feet at 1am." You don't miss a beat.

"Right up my alley" Abbot responds, "you're going to be trouble."

You catch the look between Robby and Abbot, something unspoken. For a second, you could have sworn they were calling dibs.

Asking Robby to walk you down the aisle after u said yes to Jack hOLD MY HAND SYDDDD 😭😭😭😭

The Handoff 𖥔 ݁ ˖ִ ࣪₊ ⊹˚

a/n : I fear I took your idea and turned it into a 4k word emotional spiral. I genuinely couldn’t help myself. like… Jack crying in uniform??? Robby soft-dad-coded and holding it together until he can’t??? the handoff?? the dress reveal??

summary : Jack proposes in the trauma bay. You say yes. Before the wedding, you ask Robby to walk you down the aisle.

content/warnings: emotional wedding fluff, quiet proposal energy, found family themes, Jack crying in uniform, Robby in full dad-mode, reader with no biological family, soft military references, subtle grief, emotional intimacy, and everyone in the ER being completely unprepared for Jack Abbot to have visible feelings.

word count : 4,149 (... hear me out)

You hadn’t expected Jack to propose.

Not because you didn’t think he wanted to. But because Jack Abbot didn’t really ask for things. He was a man of action. Not words. Never had been.

But with you? He always showed it.

Like brushing your shoulder on the way to a trauma room—not for luck, not for show, just to say I’m here.

It was how he peeled oranges for you. Always handed to you in a napkin, wedges split and cleaned of the white stringy parts—because you once mentioned you hated them. And he remembered.

It was how he left the porch light on when you got held over.

How he’d warm your side of the bed with a heating pad when your back ached.

He’d hook his pinky with yours in the hallway. Leave your favorite hoodie—his—folded on your pillow when he knew he’d miss you by a few hours.

Jack didn’t say “I love you” like other people. He said it like this. In gestures. In patterns. In choosing you, over and over, without fanfare.

No big speeches. No dramatic declarations.

Just peeled oranges. Warm beds. Soft touches.

So when it finally happened—a proposal, of all things—it caught you off guard.

Not because you didn’t think he meant it. But because you’d never pictured it. Not from him. Not like this.

The trauma bay was quiet now. The kind of quiet that only happens after a win—after the adrenaline fades, the stats even out and the patient lives. You’d both been working the case for nearly forty minutes, side by side, barked orders and that intense, seamless rhythm you’d only ever found with him.

You saved a life tonight. Together.

And now the world outside the curtain was humming soft and far away.

You stood by the sink, scrubbing off the last of the blood—good blood, this time. He was leaning against the supply cabinet, gloves off. Something in his shoulders had dropped. His body loose in that way it never really was unless you were alone.

He didn’t speak at first.

Just watched you in that quiet way he always did when his guard was down—like he was trying to memorize you, just in case you weren’t there to catch him tomorrow.

You flicked water from your hands. “What?”

“Nothing.”

You gave him a look.

He hesitated.

Then, casually—as casually as only Jack could manage while asking you something that was about to gut you—

“I’d marry you.”

You froze. Not dramatically. Not visibly. Just enough that he caught the subtle change in your face, the way your mouth parted like you needed more air all of a sudden.

His eyes didn’t move. He didn’t smile. Didn’t joke.

“If you wanted,” he added after a beat, voice a little lower now. A little rougher. “I would.”

It didn’t sound like a performance. It sounded like a truth he’d been sitting on for months. One he only knew how to say in places like this—where the lighting was too bright and your hearts were still racing and nothing else existed but you two still breathing.

Your chest ached.

“Yeah,” you said. It came out quieter than you meant to. “I’d marry you too.”

He exhaled slowly through his nose.

And then he stepped toward you—not fast, not dramatic, just steady. Like he’d already decided that he was yours. Like this wasn’t new, just something the two of you had known without ever having to say it.

No ring. No big speech. No audience.

Just you. Him. The place where it all made sense.

“You’re it for me,” he murmured.

And you smiled too, because yeah—he didn’t say things often. But when he did?

They wrecked you.

Because he meant them. And he meant this.

You. Forever.

You didn’t tell anyone, not right away.

Not because you wanted to keep it a secret. But because you didn’t have anyone to tell. Not in the way other people did.

There were no group texts. No parents to call. No siblings waiting on the other end of the line, ready to scream and cry and make it real. You’d built your life from the ground up—and for a long time, that had felt like enough. You’d learned how to move through the world quietly. Efficiently. Without needing to belong to anyone. Without needing to be someone’s daughter.

But then came residency.

And Robby.

He hadn’t swooped in. Hadn’t made it obvious. That wasn’t his style. But the first week of your intern year, when you’d gotten chewed out by a trauma surgeon in the middle of the ER, it was Robby who handed you a water, sat next to you in the stairwell, and said, “He’s an asshole. Don’t let it stick.”

After that, it just… happened. Slowly.

He checked your notes when you looked too tired to think. He drove you home once in a snowstorm and started keeping granola bars in his glovebox—just in case.

He noticed you never talked about home. Never mentioned your parents. Never took time off for holidays.

He never asked. But he was always there.

When you matched into the program full-time, he texted, Knew it.

When you pulled your first solo central line, he left a sticky note on your locker: Took you long enough, show-off.

When a shift gutted you so bad you couldn’t breathe, he sat beside you on the floor of the supply room and didn’t say a word.

You never called him a father figure. You didn’t need to.

He just was.

So when the proposal finally felt real—settled, certain—you knew who you had to tell first.

You found him three days later, camped at his usual spot at the nurse’s station—reading glasses sliding down his nose, his ridiculous “#1 Interrogator” mug tucked in one hand. He didn’t notice you at first. You just stood there, stomach buzzing, watching the way he tapped his pen against the margin like he was trying not to throw the whole file out a window.

“Hey,” you said, trying not to fidget.

He looked up. “You look like you’re about to tell me someone died.”

“No one died.”

He leaned back in the chair, eyebrows raised. “Alright. Hit me.”

You opened your mouth—then paused. Your heart was thudding like you’d just sprinted up from sub-level trauma.

Then, quiet: “Jack proposed.”

A beat.

Another.

Robby blinked. “Wait—what?”

You nodded. “Yeah. Three days ago.”

His mouth opened. Then shut again. Then opened.

“In the middle of a shift?” he asked finally, like he couldn’t decide whether to be horrified or impressed.

You smiled. “End of a code. We’d just saved a guy. He said, ‘I’d marry you. If you wanted.’”

Robby looked down, then laughed quietly. “Of course he did. That’s so him.”

“I said yes.”

“Obviously you did.”

You shifted your weight, suddenly unsure.

“I didn’t know who to tell. But… I wanted you to know first.”

That landed.

He didn’t say anything. Just stared at you, his face soft in that way he rarely let it be. Like something behind his ribs had cracked open a little.

Then he let out a breath. Slow. Rough at the edges.

“He told me, you know,” he said. “A few weeks ago. That he was thinking about it.”

Your eyebrows lifted. “Really?”

“Well—‘told me’ is generous,” he muttered. “He cornered me outside the supply closet and said something like, ‘I don’t know if she’d say yes, but I think I need to ask.’ Then grunted and walked away.”

You laughed, head tilting. “That sounds about right.”

“I figured it would happen eventually,” Robby said. “I just didn’t know it already had. This is the first I’m hearing that he actually went through with it.”

He looked down at his coffee, thumb brushing the rim. Then back up at you with something warm in his expression that made your throat go tight.

“I’m proud of you, kid. Really.”

Your throat tightened.

“I don’t really have… anyone,” you said. “Not like that. But you’ve always been—”

He waved a hand, cutting you off before you could get too sentimental. His voice was quiet when he said, “I know.”

You nodded. Tried to swallow the lump forming in your throat.

“You crying on me?” he teased gently.

“No,” you lied.

“Liar.”

He reached up and gave your arm a firm pat—one of those dad-move, no-nonsense gestures—but he kept his hand there for a second, steady and warm.

“You’re gonna be okay,” he said. “The two of you. That’s gonna be something good.”

You smiled at the floor. Then at him.

“Hey, Robby?”

He looked up. “Yeah?”

You opened your mouth—hesitated. The words were there. Right there on your tongue. But they felt too big, too final for a hallway and a half-empty cup of coffee.

You shook your head, smiling just a little. “Actually… never mind.”

His eyes softened instantly. No push. No questions.

Just, “Alright. Whenever you’re ready.”

And somehow, you knew—he already knew what you were going to ask. And when the time came, he’d say yes without hesitation.

It happened on a Wednesday. Late enough in the evening that most of the ER had emptied out, early enough that the halls still echoed with footsteps and intercom beeps and nurses joking in breakrooms. You’d just finished a back-to-back shift—one of those long, hazy doubles where time folds in on itself. Your ID badge was flipped around on its lanyard. You smelled like sweat, sanitizer, and twelve hours of recycled air.

You found Robby in the stairwell.

Not for any sentimental reason—that’s just where he always went to decompress. A quiet landing. One of the overhead lights had a faint flicker, and he was sitting on the fourth step, half reading something, half just existing. His hoodie sleeves were shoved up to his elbows.

He looked tired in that familiar, permanent way. But settled. Like someone who wasn’t trying to be anywhere else.

“Hey,” you said, voice low.

He looked up instantly. “You good?”

You nodded. Walked down a few steps until you were standing just above him.

“I need to ask you something.”

He squinted. “You pregnant?”

You snorted. “No.”

“Did Jack do something stupid?”

“Also no.”

He closed the folder in his lap and gave you his full attention.

You hesitated. A long beat. “Okay, so—when I was younger, I used to lie.”

Robby blinked. “That’s where this is going?”

You ignored him.

“I’d make up stories about my family. At school. Whenever there was some essay or form or ‘bring your parents to career day’ crap—I’d just invent someone. A dad who was a firefighter. A mom who was a nurse. A grandma who sent birthday cards.”

Robby didn’t move. Just listened.

“And I got good at it. Lying. Not because I wanted to, but because it was easier than explaining why I didn’t have anybody. Why there was no one to call if something happened. Why I always stayed late. Why I never talked about holidays.”

You looked down at him now. Really looked at him.

“I didn’t make anything up this time.”

His brow furrowed, just slightly.

“Because I have someone now,” you said. “I do.”

He didn’t say anything. Not yet.

You took a breath that shook a little in your chest.

“And I’m getting married in a few months, and there’s this part I keep thinking about. The aisle. Walking down it. That moment.”

You cleared your throat.

“I don’t want it to be random. Or symbolic. Or just… for show.”

Another breath.

“I want it to be you.”

Robby blinked once.

Then again.

His mouth opened like he was about to say something. Closed. Then opened again.

“You want me to walk you?”

You nodded. “Yeah. I do.”

He exhaled hard. Looked away for a second like he needed the extra space to catch up to his own heart.

“Jesus,” he muttered. “You’re really trying to kill me.”

You smiled. “You can say no.”

“Don’t be an idiot.” He looked up at you, and his voice cracked just slightly. “Of course I’ll do it.”

You hadn’t expected to get emotional. Not really. But hearing it out loud—that he’d do it, that he meant it—it undid something small and knotted in your chest.

“You’re one of the best things that ever happened to me, you know that?” he said.

“I didn’t have a plan when you showed up that first year. Just thought, ‘this kid needs a break,’ and next thing I knew you were stealing my chair and bitching about suture kits like we’d been doing this for a decade.”

You laughed, throat thick. “That sounds about right.”

“I’m gonna need a suit now, huh?”

“You don’t have to wear a suit.”

“Oh, no, no. I’m going full emotional support tuxedo. I’m showing up with cufflinks. Maybe a cane.”

You rolled your eyes. “You’re unbelievable.”

He stood then—slower than he used to, one hand on the railing—and looked at you with that same warmth he always tried to hide under sarcasm and caffeine.

“You did good, kid.”

You gave a crooked smile. “Thanks.”

The music started before you were ready.

It was quiet at first. Just the soft swell of strings rising behind the door. But your hands were shaking, your throat was tight, and everything felt too big all of a sudden.

Robby looked over, standing next to you in the little alcove just off the chapel doors, tie only mostly straight, boutonniere slightly crooked like he’d pinned it on in the car.

“You’re breathing like you’re about to code out,” he said gently.

You gave him a half-laugh, half-gasp. “I think I might.”

He tilted his head. “You okay?”

“No,” you whispered, eyes already burning. “I don’t know—maybe. Yes. I just—Jack’s out there. And everyone’s watching. What if I trip? Or ugly cry? Or completely blank and forget how to walk?”

Robby didn’t flinch. He just reached out and took your hand—steady and instinctive—his thumb brushing over your knuckles the way he had that night during your intern year, when you’d locked yourself in the on-call room and couldn’t stop shaking after your first failed intubation. He didn’t say anything then either. Just sat beside you on the floor and held your hand like this—anchoring, patient, there.

“Hey,” Robby said—steady, but quieter now. “You’re walking toward the only guy I’ve ever seen drop everything—without thinking—just because you looked a little off walking out of a shift.”

You blinked, chest already starting to tighten.

“I’ve watched him learn you,” Robby continued. “Slow. Quiet. Like he was memorizing every version of you without making it a thing. The tired version. The pissed-off version. The one who forgets to eat and pretends she’s fine.”

He let out a quiet laugh, still looking right at you.

“I’ve seen Jack do a thoracotomy with one hand and hold pressure with the other. I’ve seen him walk into scenes nobody else wanted, shirt soaked, pulse steady, like he already knew how it would end. He doesn’t rattle. Hell, I watched him take a punch from a drunk in triage and not even blink.”

His hand tightened around yours—just slightly.

“That’s how I know,” he said. “That this is it. Because Jack—the guy who’s walked into burning scenes with blood on his boots and didn’t even flinch—looked scared shitless the second he realized he couldn’t picture his life without you. Not because he didn’t think you’d say yes. But because he knew it meant something. That this wasn’t something he could compartmentalize or walk away from if it got hard. Loving you? That’s the one thing he can't afford to lose.”

Your eyes burned instantly. “You’re gonna make me cry.”

“Good. Less pressure on me to be the first one.”

You gave him a teary smile. “You ready?”

Robby offered his arm. “Kid, I’ve been ready since the day you stopped listing ‘N/A’ under emergency contact.”

The doors creaked open.

You sucked in a breath.

And then—

The music swelled.

Not the dramatic kind—no orchestral swell, no overblown strings. Just the soft, deliberate rise of something warm and low and steady. Something that sounded like home.

The crowd stood. Rows of people from different pieces of your life, blurred behind the blur in your eyes. You couldn’t see any one of them clearly—not Dana, not Langdon, not Whitaker fidgeting with his tie—but you felt them. Their hush. Their stillness.

And at the far end of the aisle stood Jack—dressed in his Army blues.

Not a rented tux. Not a tailored suit.

His uniform.

Pressed. Precise. Quietly immaculate.

It wasn’t a performance. It wasn’t for show. It was him.

He hadn’t worn it to make a statement. He wore it because there were people in the pews who knew him from before—before the ER, before Pittsburgh, before you. Men and women who had bled beside him, saved lives beside him, watched him shoulder more than anyone should—and never once seen him like this.

Undone. Open.

There were people in his family who’d worn that uniform long before him. And people he’d served with who taught him what it meant to wear it well. Not for attention. Not for tradition. But because it meant something. A history. A duty. A vow he never stopped honoring—even long after the war ended.

And when you saw him standing there—dress blues crisp under the soft chapel light, shoulders squared, mouth tight, eyes full—you didn’t see someone dressed for a ceremony.

You saw him.

All of him. The past, the present, the parts that had been broken and rebuilt a dozen times over. The weight he’d never put down. The man he’d become when no one else was watching.

Jack didn’t flinch as the doors opened. He didn’t smile, didn’t wipe his eyes. He just stood there—steady, quiet, letting himself feel it.

Letting you see it.

And somehow, that meant more than anything he could’ve said.

The room stayed still, breath held around you.

Until, from somewhere near the front, Javadi’s whisper sliced through the quiet:

“Is he—oh my God, is Abbot crying?”

Mohan choked on a mint. Someone—maybe Santos—audibly gasped.

And halfway down the aisle—when your breath caught and your knees went just a little loose—Robby spoke, voice low and smug, just loud enough for you to hear.

“Well,” Robby muttered, voice low and smug, “remind me to collect $20 from Myrna next shift.”

You glanced at him, confused. “What?”

He didn’t look at you. Just kept his eyes forward, deadpan. “Nothing. Just—turns out you weren’t the only one betting on whether Jack would cry.”

Your breath hitched. “What?”

“She said he was carved from Army-grade stone and wouldn’t shed a tear if the hospital burned down with him inside. I disagreed.”

You gawked at him.

“She told me—and I quote—‘If Dr. Y/L/N ever changes her mind, tell her to step aside, because I will climb that man like a jungle gym.’”

You almost tripped. “Robby.”

“She’s got her sights set. Calls him ‘sergeant sweetheart’ when the nurses aren’t looking.”

You clamped a hand over your mouth, laughing through the tears already welling. And the altar still felt a mile away.

He finally glanced at you, face softening. “I said she didn’t stand a chance.”

You blinked fast.

“Because from the second he saw you?” Robby added, voice lower now. “That was it. He was done for.”

You had never felt so chosen. So sure. So completely loved by someone who once thought emotions were best left unsaid.

Robby must have felt the shift in your weight, because he pulled you in slightly closer. His hand—broad and warm—curved around your arm like it had a thousand times before. Steady. Grounding. Father-coded to the core.

“You got this,” he murmured. “Look at him.”

You did.

And Jack was still there—still crying. Not bothering to wipe his eyes. Not hiding it. Like he knew nothing else mattered more than this moment. Than you.

When you finally reached the end of the aisle, Jack stepped forward before the officiant could speak. Like instinct.

Robby didn’t move at first.

He just looked at you—long and hard, eyes bright.

Then looked at Jack.

Then back at you.

His hand lingered at the small of your back.

And his voice, when it came, was rougher than usual. “You good?”

You nodded, too full to speak.

He nodded back. “Alright.”

And then—quietly, like it was something he wasn’t ready to do but always meant to—he took your hand, and placed it gently into Jack’s.

Jack didn’t look away from you. His hand curled tight around yours like it was a lifeline.

Robby cleared his throat. Stepped back just a little. And you saw it—the tremble at the corner of his mouth. The way he blinked too many times in a row.

He wasn’t immune to it.

Not this time.

“You take care of her,” he said, voice thick. “You hear me?”

Jack—eyes glassy, jaw tight—just nodded. One firm, reverent nod.

“I do,” he said.

And for once, that wasn’t a promise.

It was a fact.

A vow already lived.

Robby stepped back.

A quiet shift. No words, no fuss. Just one last glance—full of something that lived between pride and grief—and then he stepped aside, slow and careful, like his body knew he had to let go before his heart was ready.

And then it was just you and Jack.

He stepped in just a little closer—like the space between you, however small, had finally become too much. His hand tightened around yours, his breath shallow, like holding it together had taken everything he had.

The moment he saw you—really saw you—something behind his eyes cracked wide open.

He didn’t smile. Not right away.

He didn’t say anything clever. Didn’t reach for you like someone confident or composed.

It was like he’d been waiting for this moment his whole life—and still couldn’t believe it was real.

“Fuck,” he breathed. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You tried to laugh, but it cracked—caught somewhere between joy and everything else swelling behind your ribs.

The dress fit like a memory and a dream at once. Sleek. Understated. A silhouette that didn’t beg for attention, but held it all the same. Clean lines. Long sleeves. A bodice tailored just enough to feel timeless. A low back. No shimmer. No lace. Just quiet, deliberate elegance.

Just you.

Jack took a breath—slow and shaky.

“You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” he said, like he wasn’t entirely sure he was speaking out loud.

You blinked fast, vision swimming.

“You’re not supposed to make me cry before we even say anything,” you managed, voice trembling.

He gave a small, broken laugh. “That makes two of us.”

You could feel the crowd behind you. Every attending. Every nurse. Every person who thought they knew Jack Abbot—stoic in trauma bays, voice sharp, pulse steady no matter what walked through the doors.

And now? They were seeing him like this.

Glass-eyed. Soft-spoken. Undone.

Jack looked at you again. Really looked.

“I knew I was gonna love you,” he said. “But I didn’t know it’d be like this.”

Your breath caught. “Like what?”

He smiled—slow, quiet, reverent.

“Like peace.”

You blinked so fast it almost turned into a sob. “God. I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

“No, I don’t,” you whispered, smiling through it.

Behind you, the music began to fade. The officiant cleared his throat.

Jack didn’t move. Didn’t look away. His thumb brushed over your knuckles like it had done a thousand times before—only this time, it meant something.

“I’ve never been more sure of anything,” he said softly. “Not in combat. Not in med school. Not even the first time I intubated someone on a moving Humvee.”

You laughed, choked and real. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m yours,” he corrected. “That’s the important part.”

The officiant spoke then, calling for quiet.

But Jack leaned in one last time, voice so low it barely touched the air.

“Tell me when to breathe,” he said.

You smiled, heart wrecked and steady all at once.

“I’ve got you.”

And Jack Abbot—combat medic, ER attending, man who spent a lifetime holding everything together—closed his eyes and let himself believe you.

Because for once in his life, he didn’t have to be ready for the worst.

He just had to stand beside the best thing that ever happened to him.

And say yes.

The beginning of the end.

Poly! Abbot x FormerBAU!F!Reader x Robby. <3

Sum: An average day at works takes a turn for the worst, as Pittfest comes to greet you with a gun. OneShot!

(This story is separate from my other BAU x Pitt works and features my attempt at my Asks for BadassBAU!Reader! I hope it was worth the wait and please read the warnings my duckies! <3)

CW: TGun violence against you and the pitt shooter, talks of killing and saving people by killing them. M/M/F, Pittfest, you're a second year resident so agegap relationships and power dynamics. A small bit of smut, daddy kink, and descriptions of body parts at the end. Very brief mentions of overdosing, a hand in a blender, Myrna. Implications of your tricking the unsub by agreeing to said crazy talk. F!Reader - mentions of you being smart, kid as a nickname by our two men. MDNI

As you're getting ready for your shift, you can't help but think about how different your life is now.

The Pitt, as Robby affectionately called it, was grueling. On your first day, you had seen two people overdosing, someone's hand stuck in a blender, and met Myrna, who decided you'd your pretty face was worth switching sides for a night or two.

Sighing, you couldn't help but laugh as you thought about how being a second-year resident was no different from being in the BAU.

Least I don't have to worry about serial killers with too much time on their hands planing their revenge on me, you think with a snort.

While you still kept in close touch with everyone back at Quantico, even offering advice and help when needed, you wouldn't go back unless you absolutely had to. Sides, what would your favorite grumpy attendings do with you? You giggle, thinking about Dr. Abbot and Dr. Robby.

You had grown close to them, finding comfort in his presence. They reminded you of the best parts of Hotch, Rossi, Spencer, and Derek. When your feelings had turned romantic for the both of them, you really didn't know what to do, confiding in Spencer and Penelope. They encouraged you to try, but fear stops you, not wanting to ruin what you had.

It was enough, knowing they shared little laughs with you in rare downtimes, how they took turns being your coffee or secretly walking you to and from work. If they asked for more, you'd give it to them immediately.

But nothing goes on the Pitt without Perlah and Princess knowing, so you can only imagine what the betting sheet looks like. Most of the day shift argued you'll end up with Robby, while the night shift was rooting for Abbot.

——

As you head in, you can already sense this was going to be a tough day shift. Sailing you up to the roof, spot your favorite old man duo.

"Room for one more?" You ask, joining them.

"For you, baby? Always," Abbot smirks out, but you can see the tension in his shoulders, the sadness in his eyes.

You quietly move in between them as Abbot grabs you firmly. Face buried into your hair, taking in your sweet scent, before passing you to Robby. Giggling lightly, you hang off Robby as he gives you a squeeze.

"Everything okay?" You ask, glancing at the two and noting the letter in Robby's hand.

"Just your usual existential crisis. Let's go, kid."

——

The three of you head down as you take note of the already drowning patient board, and group of new doctors in front of the nurses' station.

"We've got new students," Robby informs you as he leads you to them, leaving Abbot behind to chart. Your hand carefully brushes against his as you walk away, a silent goodbye.

"God help them," you snort out, making Robby huff.

"Alright, welcome to the Pitt. I'm your attending Dr. Robinavitch, but you can call me Dr. Robby. Over here, we have our charge nurse, Dana; she's the one really in charge and will be your best friend here if you want to make it. Your senior residents are Dr. Langdon and Dr. Collins. If you can't find me, you can go to them. If you can't find any of us, you go to Dr.L/N here, or honestly, just go to her anyways," he informs them, placing a large hand on your shoulder, giving it a playful squeeze.

You give a little wave and smile to the new team.

"Careful, Robby. Your favoritism is showing," Dana jokes, watching the two of you and shaking her head.

"Walking HR violations, those two." Collin joins her as they share a teasing look.

Sticking your tongue out, you sigh, glancing at the patient board. "Let's do this, yeah?"

--

Patient after patient, you barely had a second to breathe. You can tell the day's getting to Robby, as last night had to Abbot. You follow him to the bathroom, pushing him back in when he tries to come out.

"Jesus y/n. What the fuck.” he breaths out as you lock the door, blocking it with your body. "Talk to me, Robby."

He glares at you, unwilling to talk. "Move. Now. I don't have time for this."

"Hey. Please. Don't hide from me." You whisper as you move closer to him.

He drags his hands over his face. "Today, of all days, is fucking shit."

Closing the gap fully, you drag him into your arms. His body shakes as he burrows his head into your neck, arms wrapped around you. His scruff tickles you, just for a second, as his signature scent warms you.

Sighing, he unwillingly lets you go. "Walking HR violation, you know."

Smirking, you watch his brown eyes darken as he takes you in once more. The three of you have been playing this dance for a while, and you wondered once again when the dam will finally break.

——

"So, are they dating?" Santos asks Garcia, Perlah, and Langdon as they work on the same patient. She caught the two leaving the bathroom together, looking a little.. disgruntled to say the least.

"Honestly? That's the running bet. Either him or the night shift attending," Garcia answers, passing her a scalpel.

"Minimum bids $20," Perlah chimes in as Santos asks to be put down for Robby.

——

At some point, you help Whitaker get new scrubs, feeling bad for the kid.

"It's fucking shit day, kid, but you're showing up and trying. We can't ask for more." You say, giving him a clap on the shoulder before walking away.

"She's so cool," he whispers as he joins Mel, Mateo, and Javadi.

"Dr. L/n? She's the coolest and like hella smart. Used to be a therapist, I think, for Quantico or something before coming here." Mateo informs them, nodding your way.

"I feel like I know her from somewhere; I just don't know where," Javadi says as she watches you move with confidence.

"Dude has like five degrees. She's smart like you," Mateo adds, making Javadi blush and stutter.

"She really is cool," Mel adds. She likes you. You and Langdon have easily become her favorites here.

But of course, It was near the end of your shift when everything went wrong.

—-

"Where a MASH unite now. Old school. That means no fancy X-rays, electronic charting, EKGs, or anything," Abbot orders out, putting on his orange vest.

"How will we chart them then?" McKay asks, raising her hand. Abbot nods her way. "Great question. Everyone gets a patient chart attached to their wrist. Write as you go, and if you run out of room, write on their foreheads."

"Seriously?" Javadi says as Abbot smirks, "Seriously."

“Alright.” Robby claps his hands, getting everyone's attention. "You know your zones, and remember to listen to your zone leaders. Abbot, L/N with me for a second. Everyone else, go."

The group breaks up into their colored zones, tensions running high as they wait. It would be any second now.

Nodding, you join Abbot and Robby, giving the former a hug. "Thank god for you, your crazy scanner, and go bag of like everything."

"Even got your favorite protein bars, kid," making you smile. "Marry me?"

But before either can respond — The ambulance sirens ring loud and true. heart pounding and palms sweating. It was time.

——

It was a fucking mess.

So many victims as you look around. You feel pulled in twenty different directions, but it has to be done. Jake's girlfriend is dead, and Robby is missing. You don't get a second to breathe as you go to help Abbot.

"How do you know so much when you're only a second year?" Santos asks, helping with the red zone as the pink calms down.

"Kids a certified genius," Abbot answers for her, as he performs a tracheostomy. "Call Walsh. This one's ready for surgery."

"Seriously?" She asks. Langdon chimes in as he works next to you guys. "L/Ns got like 4 degrees"

You can't help but smirk "and a nice rack," getting a deep chuck from Abbot.

The two of you notice Robby's back, pulling Whittaker with him. You share a look with Abbot, knowing you'll all be talking soon.

"I've got the next one. Go help Mohan," you tell him as the next victim rolls in.

"Bullet wound in the arm," Shen tells you as you take over.

The guy's lanky with a large black sweater and jeans on. You can tell he's covered in blood despite it bleeding in with the fabric. The hair on the back of your neck stands. You note that the armed police are only outside.

"You with me sir?" you ask as you look his arm over, taking over the pressure.

"Yeah, the guy got me good," he says, avoiding eye contact with you.

"I got you." You carefully let go of the pressure, only to notice it's just a graze. A graze that's way too light to have been from whatever gun was used on everyone else here. You don't stop your movements, eyes traveling to his hands and waist.

"Did you see what happened?" You ask slowly, taking in his jittery frame. Fuck, you think. Your far from the police outside, and he's in perfect range to hurt the most amount of people possible.

"Yeah, I got to see it all." You still for just a second, and it happens.

He grabs you in a headlock, gun out, and presses it to the side of your head in a matter of seconds.

"Nobody move!"

Screams fill the air as you watch your team cover patients with their own bodies, Abbot and Robby rushing towards the center before stopping. Fear. That's the only thing they know now as they watch. Abbot's hands are clenched, knowing that trying anything would put you in a worse position.

The armed guards rush in from the ambulance entrance as the man holding you screams at them to stop.

He's frantic, head whipping from the crowd to the police. His grip on you firm, squeezing you tightly to the gun.

"Move, and I'll blow her fucking brains out," he orders, panting heavily. You can feel his body shake.

"Who the fucks in charge," the shooter continues. As Robby slowly raises his hand, Abbot beside him.

"Let's talk. It's alright, nobodys gonna move," holding eye contact with him.

"How many"

"How many what." Robby demands.

"How many did I fucking kill" the shooter spits out.

Robby swallows, not wanting to answer, so you answer for him.

"Six," you whisper as he looks down at you, moving the gun to your temple.

Whimpers fill the room as everyone watches in horror. From the corner of your eyes, you can see Abbot take a step closer before the shooter starts laughing hysterically.

"Six? All those fucking guns. All that time planning. Shooting myself in the arm to kill fucking six?? You were all supposed to die. I was supposed to save everyone, but you ruined it," he screams out at the end, and you can tell he's losing control rapidly.

You needed to act fast. You needed him to loosen his grip, just for a second.

"I know they did", you whisper calmly to him as he stares you down again. His eyes are wild, wide, and blown.

"You were going to save all of us? Weren't you?" You continue softly. He nods, looking unsure for the first time.

"You can still save us. I see you. You're who we needed, who I needed all along," you say, turning fully into his embrace. Your hand creeps slowly up his chest, trying not to spook him.

You hear terrified gasps in the background but ignore them, focusing solely on the unsub.

"That's right, that's right," he whispers. "You see me?"

You smile innocently at him, pushing your head further against the gun for just a second.

"I see you."

There.

His hold loosens as his mind wanders, but you got him.

Quickly, you move, stomping on his foot as your hands grand the gun and his wrist, twisting it harshly like Hotch taught you.

The shooter screams in pain as you rip the gun out and pistol whip him before dropping the gun and kicking it to Abbot -- Who quickly dismantles it.

"Unsub down!" You call out.

The police run in as you back away from the shooter arms up in the air.

——

You're silent. The police chief, someone you had worked with before, just finished interviewing you as you manage to avoid everyone. Up on the roof, you finally breathe. You feel the adrenaline leaving your body as you lean against the rail.

"Room for two more?"

Looking back, you see Abbot and Robby. Their eyes rimmed red, exhaustion deep in their bones. The three of you pause before Abbot breaks the spell, striding to you.

His hands grasp your heads, forcing you to make eye contact. "You ever try to do that again? I'll fucking hog tie you down. Fuck, I'm so mad and proud," your eyes teary as you stare into his.

"Can you hog tie me anyways?"

"This girl," you hear Robby laugh out as Abbot buries his head onto the top of your head. Robby moves to join you two as your squished between them. It feels like hours have passed.

"How the fuck did you do that?" Robby asks, after making sure you're actually okay.

"Remember I used to work for the FBI?"

They give you a blank stare.

"You were a therapist?"

Snorting, you shake your head. "You guys just assumed I was! I was with the BAU for a long time."

The blank stares continue.

Robby opens his mouth and then stops. "So… not a therapist."

"No!, you sexist old men!," laughing as Abbot pushes you.

"I'll show you old," he continues, grabbing you by the waist. He shares a look with Robby over your head, getting a nod back before leaning down to do something he's been waiting months for.

His kiss shocks you to the core. Lips warm, a little chapped but it's perfect, like him. Controlled and demanding obedience. You whimper into it as it feels, his fingers digging into your side and hardening cock against your tummy.

Letting go, you look at him and then Robby before he finally moves. He leans down, kissing you in a way that's fully Robby. Moments later, he lets you go.

The men stare at each other, you in between them again. You watch as their heads tilt towards each other, sharing their first passionate kiss. Another whimper escapes you as your core heats up. They're fucking perfect, you think.

Abbot clears his throat. "We should go home together." He stares you both down in a way that only Abbot does.

Giggling, you agree, as Robby's ears and neck turn red. "Let's close shop first? Then mine, Yeah?"

——

To your embarrassment, claps fill the air as you reenter the ED. Dana hugs you first. "Don't ever do that again."

Smiling, you feel relieved. "Don't really plan on it."

Your heart swells at how worried everyone was, a part of you was nervous they would have taken your crazy words to the shooter for real.

Javadi is the first to put it together.

"Holy fuck your y/n l/n!!! The Y/N L/N from the freaking BAU!! You work with David Rossi and the FBI!!!" She's in shock, having been a fan of the team, and couldn't believe she didn't put it together sooner. You looked different t in your cute scrubs, having usually seen you heels and power suits.

"I thought you were a therapist!!" Landon questions before you raise your hands in defense.

"You guys just assumed! I'm retired BAU!"

"You're too young to be retired from anything!!" He argues back, giving you a hug. "I will bite you!!!" You growl back as you both laugh. He hugs you firmly, thanking you quietly.

The two of you have always had a brother-sister relationship, and you're glad it's not going anywhere, even with his current problems.

“Alright, alright, let my girl breathe," Robby

"My girl," Princess whispers to Perla's in Tagalog excitedly! But Perlah shakes her head as she points out the way Abbot is looking at you.

"But we have questions!!,” someone calls out.

Laughing, you agree to answer a few.

"What's David Rossi like!" Victoria blushes out as you giggle.

"As charming as you think but way too old for you," you smirked at her.

"How did you stop him, the shooter?" Whittaker asks.

"It's something I'm trained for, so for the love of god, please never try that on anyone for any reason." You look at your coworkers firmly.

A sigh escapes you as you answer a few more questions about your time at the BAU. Yes, you know how to use a gun and caught some bad guys. Finally, Abbot called it quits for you and drags you back to the locker with Robby.

He grabs your bag for you, and you smile gratefully. As you leave the building, it's almost shocking how normal it is again. A room full of new patients waiting, with Myrna asking to see Abbot biblically later.

Giggling, you follow the two men home.

——

Robby's place is a quick walk. It's spacious, for just him. Neat, cozy, and almost exactly what you pictured. Photos of him, Jake, his family, and your nights out with the rest of the staff. You try not to analyze him, a part of you that's hard to stop.

You're unsure of what this means for the three of you, but you're willing to try.

"Shower?" Robby grunts out before he nods. He leads the three of you to a bathroom with a large walk-in shower.

Abbot swallows as he notices a shower bench and wall handles, his heart squeezing. "Those?…" he nods towards it.

"Yeah" Robby smiles gently, "Got crutches and Y/Ns favorite soaps too" and for once, Abbot is stunned silent. He places a soft kiss on Robby's lips, before stripping his shirt off.

You watch them, heart swelling with love and need. Their bodies are still hard from the demands of your profession. Their shirts are off before they help you with yours.

"Arms up, baby", Abbot commands as Robby removes your shirt. Your bra, pants, and undies are next. Their eyes dark with desire as they take you in.

"Fucking beautiful baby," Abbot groans, his fingers ghosting over you.

"Could watch you all day pretty girl" Robby's brown eyes taking in every inch, as he tries to ignore his rapidly growing cock.

"Shower first, please." you tiredly laugh out.

You help Abbot with his leg as he settles on the bench. You try not to stare at his salt-and-pepper happy trail, large thighs, or swelling cock.

Robby turns on the water as you help each other bathe. The water and soap feels cleansing, like a new beginning for the three of you.

——

Making your way into Robby's bedroom, the three of you lay on his bed. It's a tight fit, but its perfect.

Kisses are traded as fingers continue to feel, group, and touch. It's all so new and overwhelming, but you refused to stop. You need them now.

Abbot sits up, leaning against the headboard, and settles you into his lap. You can't help but whine and grind your ass against his cock. It's large and thick at the base, while Robby's is just a little longer.

"Naughty little girl, wanting us to take care of that perfect wet pussy huh?" He whispers in your ear as Robby spreads your legs open, kissing his way down from your thighs.

"Please, Daddy," you whimper out, having to stop yourself from humping the air. Their groans fill the room as your words sink in.

"We got you, baby, we got you. Gonna fill you all night long, we promise.”

The night was the first of many in your unconventional relationship and one the three of you would never forget.

Throuple It

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!MDNI!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

(This is a prequel to "Double It." I don't think the order read is important, but Double It was written first. You can read Double It: Here )

Summary: You and Robby have been a couple for over two years. You're in love and content, but can't help but feel something's missing. Despite Jack being in arm's reach, none of you are bold enough to chance breaking your friendship; that is, until Robby's had enough of going in endless circles. Will his risk pay off?

A/N: This kinda got away from me. I don't normally write one-shots over 3,500 words, so this being over 4,000 is weird for me. I hope you enjoy it because I'm most likely I'm not gonna be able write again until mid-May 😭

WARNINGS: Smut, MMF Threesome, Oral (Both M & F Receiving), Fingering, Squirting, Jerking Off, MxM, Intimate Aftercare, Daddy Kink, Sir Kink

Jack and Robby are intimate with each other. If you don't like that, this probably isn't the fic for you.

*Written before season 1 finale, so Jack's anatomy isn't up to date. It will be in future fics*

Tag List: @nocturnalrorobin (LMK if you don't want to be tagged in the Pitt stuff)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You let out a content hum as the just-below-scalding water hit your skin. It, objectively, had been a long day. Not that every day in the Pitt wasn’t long, today had been especially grueling. You’d had a heartbreaking case of child abuse to kick off your shift, and it only went downhill from there. You took a deep inhale of the steam-filled air and tried to let this shift roll off you like the water coursing down your body. You’d only clocked out less than an hour ago from a twelve-hour shift, but you were trying to get better at leaving work at work. You knew it was a Herculean task and you’d most likely never fully be able to let things go, but you had to try. Not only for you, but for Robby. When you got together over two years ago, you’d made a promise to hold each other accountable for any self-destructive behavior. Hell, you even got him to go to therapy. Was it only twice a month? Yes. Did he bitch about it the entire week leading up to it? Also, yes, but you were still proud of him.

He had even begun to take small steps to solidify preexisting relationships. You both had issues with isolation/blocking everyone out when you should really be reaching out. He’d been getting coffee with Dana before work and becoming more vocal with those he was mentoring. He and Jack had even started watching football together when they both had off. They’d been alternating where they watched. Tonight, it was at your townhouse. You had triple-checked with Robby that it’d be okay for you to be there. You had offered to stay with a friend for the night, but he insisted that it was just Jack; there was no reason to worry.

Fuck, Jack, now he’d always be a special case. You were as close to him as you were to Robby, until you and Robby started officially seeing each other. You didn’t have any definitive proof, but you had felt him pull back and retreat. He’d never done anything bad by you or been outwardly dismissive; your relationship just felt off. In a way that makes you overly cautious when interacting with him. You didn’t want to spook him and lose him altogether. What you wouldn’t give to have your old dynamic back. Or maybe something else.

You quickly shook your head, dismissing the thought as you turned the water off. That was a yearning you’d only shared with Robby, cocooned in his arms, bathing in the early morning light. You trusted him enough to let him in on your internalized feelings. To your surprise, he’d shared a spark of that feeling with Jack. You knew Robby had been with men in the past, but unlike you didn’t identify as somewhere on the queer spectrum. He prefers not to have a label, instead, he views his attraction as a case-by-case basis rather than a blanket identity. But that confession didn’t catch you fully off guard.

No, what really surprised you was when Robby asked if you’d like to make a pass at Jack, as a couple. You knew it was a possibility, but you’d never let yourself believe that Robby would feel the same way, let alone want to attempt to pursue Jack. It was a hard call to make. He had always been better at reading people than you were, but you were more practical than emotional. You’d made a pros and cons list, and the cons ended up winning. You’d both agreed to be there for him as a friend; Robby more begrudgingly than you.

You tried to push all that to the back of your mind as you crossed into your bedroom. Shit. It was way later than you thought. They’d be here any second. You quickly got ready, dressed in a pair of leggings, a tank top, and an oversized hoodie (that was definitely not Robby’s). You had just managed to slip your slippers on when you heard the door opening downstairs. You crossed the hall over to your stairs and began to descend, the smell of Indian food getting stronger the closer you got to the kitchen. You paused at the doorframe, taking in the sight of Jack and Robby’s shared smile as your partner passed Jack a bottle of beer. You were hesitant, debating if you should retreat back to the living room to let them have a quiet moment that was so rare in your line of work. Before you could decide, Robby turned to you and looked down at you with a soft smile.

“Hey, Love,” he greeted, pecking you on the lips, blocking your view of the rest of the kitchen. You immediately knew something was up. You quirked a brow at Jack over Robby’s shoulder, and he just shook his head with a small smile, before taking a swig from his bottle. You gently, but firmly pressed by Robby, before your eyes widened at the sight of the takeout. Three. There were three bags of takeout, each the size of a standard brown grocery store bag.

“Michael,” you said, in an even tone, turning to face him. You could see the cringe on his face as he geared up for your lecture. He knew he was in trouble, not because you only ever called him by his first name when he fucked up (or was receiving punishment), but because of your tone. You’d never been a shouter; when you were arguing or annoyed, you got quiet and deliberate with your tone.

“Why is there enough take-out to feed the entire city.”  You asked with a quirked brow.

“You like leftovers?” he responded, you faintly heard Jack huff a laugh behind you. You just gave him a disappointed look before letting out a sigh and turning away from him, shifting your focus to the three massive bags of food.

“I just lost my takeout privileges again, didn’t I?” he asked jokingly, leaning back against the counter next to you.

“What do you think?” you asked, giving him side eye.

“Plates are in there,” you said to Jack, nodding at the cabinet next to him. He wordlessly grabbed three ceramic plates and opened the drawer below the cabinet for three forks and spoons as you finished laying all the food out.

“Feel free to dig in,” you said, smiling up at him. You switched places with him to grab a soda from the fridge. Ever decisive Jack had already filled his plate and headed to your adjacent living room, while Robby spoon hovered over multiple dishes. Your vision strayed from your partner; eyes locked on Jack’s ass as he bent down to take a seat on your armchair. Why did he have to have such a pinchable ass? You debated whether you should be sad that he was always in baggy scrub bottoms that did nothing to show off his figure, or happy that you were in the group of people able to see him out of scrubs.

“See something you like?” Robby whispered in your ear, arms wrapped around your middle.

“Shut up,” you groaned, face warm, as you turned to make your own plate. You couldn’t decide if you were more embarrassed by being caught or checking out Jack to begin with. It’s not like you made checking him out a habit, but when you were able to do so discreetly, you jumped at the opportunity. You were still foaming at the mouth from walking in on him changing tops two weeks ago. You saw the briefest glimpse of his toned stomach and happy trail. God, what you’d give to see where that trail led. Okay, maybe you were a little obsessed. You once again had to center yourself before your imagination could fully run away with it. You broke out of Robby’s grip and quickly made your plate, grabbed the bag of roti, and turned on your heels, heading for the couch. You sat down cross-legged before picking up the remote and attempting to find the right channel. You tried to find it for a few minutes before Jack put you out of your misery.

“It’s on channel 67,” he supplied, before taking another bite of food.

“Thanks,” you smiled, typing in the number. The game clicked on as the coin toss had just been called.

“Not a football fan?” he asked, before you had the chance to answer. Robby interrupted you as he plopped down on the couch next to you.

“Do you even know the rules of football?” Robby asked, teasingly.

“Ish?” you replied, taking a bite, “I know the general aspects of the game, but I couldn't tell you anything strategy-wise.”

Jack nodded, still chewing. A quiet fell over you as you all enjoyed your dinner (and minimum the next three meals) of Indian food. You’d ask questions here and there as the game progressed, which Robby and Jack answered. You all shifted into comfier positions after you’d finished your meal. Jack slid his plate onto the coffee table before kicking his feet up on the ottoman. You’d curled up into Robby’s side, his arm reclined against the back of the couch. He pulled down the blanket resting on the back of the couch and draped it over you after the draft had finally gotten to you, causing you to shiver. You shared a smile, his arm migrating down to rest on your hip under the blanket. You frowned when you looked back up and saw Jack’s jaw clench and unclench. You immediately recognized it as one of his grounding techniques. What you didn’t know was what had caused him to get frustrated. Your vision shifted back to the game as you thought back to everything that had happened since he’d gotten here. Maybe he was still dealing with something from his shift earlier. You were so in your head; you didn’t notice Robby’s hand moving closer to your core until he was actively cupping your clothed pussy. Your eyes widened; you kept your gaze locked on the TV screen.

You tried your best to school your face as Robby stroked up and down your core above your leggings. You bit your lip as his hand dragged up one last time before he slipped under the elastic of the top of your leggings. Your face warmed as he now cupped your bare pussy.

“No, panties?” he whispered in your ear, “Naughty girl, were you expecting this? Am I not giving you enough attention? Is that it? Fuck you’re dripping, that’s it isn’t it? Daddy’s not giving you enough attention, so you have to act like a slut to get my attention; while we have company. What would Jack think? Bet he wouldn’t have any patience for your brat behavior.” Robby’s voice dropped, before he continued, “Squeeze my arm twice if you want to keep going.”

You hesitated, your face felt like it was on fire as your hand locked around Robby’s wrist. You gave it two quick squeezes, eyes locked on the commercials playing in front of you. Robby places a loving kiss on the crown of your head, before slipping a finger into your pussy. When he was met with no resistance, he quickly added another finger. You held back a whimper as he slowly thrusted in an out, taking time to hit all the little spots that drove you crazy, his thumb hovering above your clit. He was taking his time with you. If he really wanted to, he could make you cum within a few minutes, no he wanted to play with you tonight. Your eyes widened as he suddenly switched it up and began to circle your clit in quick succession and thrusted in and out of your pussy at a breakneck pace. You struggled not to moan, the wet smacks of Robby’s palm against your pussy were just contained under your throw blanket. Fuck you were close. Fuck, what were you going to do? You tried to think of something when Robby’s thick fingers suddenly stilled. You let out an involuntary whimper in shock.

Fuck                                                                                                 

There’s no way Jack didn’t hear that. He was too damn perceptive to begin with, coupled with the loud volume of your whimper sealed your fate. You swallowed thickly, slowly shifting your focus from the TV to Jack, Robby’s fingers still lodged in your pussy. Your eyes widen as you eyed Jack, his eyes already focused in on you. His gaze didn’t waver, like a predator sizing up his next meal. At least his jaw wasn’t clenched anymore. Could you even count that as a win?

“Robby,” Jack said, breaking the silence,

“Yeah,” Robby answered nonchalantly, like he wasn’t knuckle deep in your pussy.

“Make her cum,” He ordered.

“Yes, Sir,” Robby playfully, a lazy smirk scrawled across his face. Before you could even process the situation, Robby was adding a finger and thrusting back into your pussy fast. His other hand slipping down between your legs to toy with your clit as he curled his fingers against that spot.

“Fuck,” you moan, rocketing towards your release, eye still locked on Jack’s. Your hips involuntarily chased after Robby’s fingers as the coil in you tightened impossibly fast. You whined desperately, hips humping at his hands.

“Dadd-Jack, Fuck, I’m gonna-” you managed to spew out before your orgasm cut through you. You held Jack’s gaze as you convulsed around Robby’s fingers. You moaned as Robby worked you through your orgasm. He slowed his pace when your breathing evened out; his fingers stilled, still filling you. The game fell into the background, all your focus aimed at Jack.

“Fuck,” Jack groaned shamelessly palming himself through his jeans, “Does she always look so pretty, when she cums?”

“Always,” Robby answered without hesitation, “Though she looks even prettier when she squirts.”

“Is that right?” Jack asked, teasingly raising a brow at you. The heat rushing to your face paired with the warmth of your orgasm made you feel uncomfortably hot. You hid your face in Robby’s shoulder, embarrassed, as they continued to tease you.

“Yeah,” Robby started to answer his question, “Quickest way is oral, especially when she’s already warmed up with an orgasm.”

“You go down on her or does she sit on your face?” Jack prodded                                                                                                ,

“Either,” Robby answered, honestly, “You know how shy she can be, though, easier to convince her to open her legs than actively sit on me.”

“I can see that,” Jack responded in a teasing tone, sounding closer than before, “Bet she tastes as good as she looks.”

“Better,” Robby brags, “Wanna taste?”  

Your eyes snap open at his offer, his fingers flexing in your slick pussy. You let out a whine as he slowly worked his fingers out of your pussy. It was quiet for a moment before you heard Jack let out a moan. Your curiosity outweighed your embarrassment, eyes widening as you pulled back from Robby’s shoulder.

Fuck, the sight alone made your clench around nothing. Jack didn’t just lick your release off of Robby’s fingers, no, he was cleaning them. Sucking them clean, while holding Robby’s gaze. Your core was once again aflame, only heating up more when the realization that he was tasting your wetness before you’d even had the chance to kiss. He let out a groan before he released Robby’s fingers with a “pop”.

“You're right, she does taste better than she looks.” Jack caught your gaze, smirking down at you, “Bet she tastes better from the source though,”

Your heart was hammering in your chest at Jack’s boldness. You let out a whimper, core pulsing in need.

“Please,” you panted in need, you didn’t know where this was going or how it would affect the foundation of your relationship. You were too far gone, your pragmatism and caution put in the rearview mirror. All the time spent longing and lusting after Jack took the wheel.

“Ask properly,” Robby scolded into your ear.

“Please go down on me,” you begged, tears pricking your eyes from frustration.

“Please go down on me?” Jack prompted you,

“Sir, fuck, please go down on me Sir.” You whined. You saw something shift in the way Jack was looking at you. You worried, you’d gone too far for a moment. You never discussed it before, but calling him Sir just felt right. All your worries disappeared as he gently cupped your face, his calloused thumb stroking up and down your cheek.

“Good girl,” he praised, drawing you in for a kiss, your eyes fluttered shut as you let Jack take the lead. You couldn’t help but moan as Jack dominated the kiss. It was rushed, desperate, and raw. Raw, like he wanted you as badly as you wanted him. You could analyze that later; for now, you needed him. You gasped into the kiss as he tugged the blanket loose from your lap. Revealing your bare pussy to him. He groaned, helping you kick off your leggings, leaving you in Robby’s hoodie for now. You pulled him back in for another kiss while Robby dragged you onto his lap. He eased your legs apart for easier access for Jack. Your hoodie and tank top don’t last long between the two of them.

You were panting, lips puffy, when Jack finally pulled back and started to kiss down your neck. He worked slowly and deliberately as he nipped and sucked down your chest; like he was committing this moment to memory. You moaned desperately as he sucked your nipple into his mouth, his cold hand twisted and tugged at your other nipple. Robby held your arms to the side as he wrapped his arms around your middle. The scruff of his beard tickled your right shoulder where his chin was perched. His other hand still on your hips the moment you tried to grind forward, against Jack’s growing bulge. You were beginning to get desperate.

“Baby,” he said in a warning tone, immediately identifying the shift from lust to need. You both loved and hated how well he knew you. All you could do was whine desperately for Jack. You didn’t care how he took you; you wanted him now.

“Daddy,” you groaned, “can’t”, you panted, “fuck please Sir, need it, need you so bad.”

“You can and will wait,” Robby said in a strict tone, “Or do you want to be punished? I was gonna teach Sir how to make you squirt, but I bet he’d love to see how desperate you get from a few rounds of spanking.”

Jack smirked up at you, hovering right above your mound. You were on the edge of full-on crying from frustration when he finally parted your slit with his thumb. A moan tumbled from your lips as he broadly licked from your opening to your clit. He toyed with your clit as he waited for further direction from Robby.

“You’re gonna have to make her cum again, she only squirts when she’s overstimulated or edged. After she cums don’t let up. Her safe word is ‘code’. We use the stoplight system.” In lieu of answering Robby, Jack started off by thrusting two fingers into your already stretched core.

“Fuck,” you moaned as his lips sealed around your clit. You knew you wouldn’t last; you were too geared up by his teasing.

“Good girl,” Robby praised in your ear, “Does he feel good love?”

“Daddy,” you panted in response.

“You gonna make a mess for us?” He teased.

Before you could respond, Jack’s fingers curled at the perfect angle to hit that spot. The one spot that Robby would avoid delaying your release when you were being punished. The spot that never failed to make you crumble.

“Daddy, please, can I? Can I please?” you begged, bordering on a shout.

“Go ahead love,” Robby encouraged,

You felt flushed as you let yourself succumb to the pleasure. Thighs quaking around Jack’s head, clit pulsing, and voice raw as you came with a shout. As directed, Jack didn’t let up. He continued tracing patterns onto your clit, his finger’s never breaking pace.

Fuck

You could feel your next release festering in your core; it was all too much, too soon. You were already wound so tight that you’d only last a few more seconds. You didn’t have any time to ask permission, before it was shooting through you. At some point, Robby released you, allowing your hand to find its way laced with Jack’s hair as you came flush with his face. Jack’s name like a prayer on your lips as you seize, completely overstimulated. You fell boneless against Robby’s frame, as you attempted to recover, breath coming out in stuttered gasps. Jack’s lower face was a mess, slick, pupils blown. He gently eased his fingers from your heat, pulling the collar of his t-shirt up to wipe his mouth. As you came back down to earth, you felt Jack’s even breath against the back of your neck. At some point, he had migrated up to the couch, cradling you between him and Robby.

“You alright, baby?” Jack asked, after you finally came back into your body. You hummed for a moment before answering.

“Yeah,” you said, in a small voice, taking a deep breath, “It was just a lot.”

“Do you think you’re done for the night?” he asked, rubbing soothing circles into you hip, cock throbbing against your back.

“But you and Daddy didn’t-” you started before Jack cut you off.

“You’ve already been such a good girl.” He said soothingly, pressing a kiss to your forehead, “How about we get you comfortable and I’ll take care of Daddy. Does that sound good, love?”

“Mhm,” you hummed, involuntarily clenching at the thought of the two of them together.

“We’re going to need words, love.” Robby reminded you patiently.

“’ Kay,” you nodded, the edges of reality starting to get a bit foggy. Robby’s desperation showed through as he helped you settle on the other end of the couch, curled up in your throw blanket, pillow supporting your lower back. He gave you an emotion-filled kiss, pecked your forehead before he turned to meet Jack’s gaze. You let an involuntary gasp as Jack shoved Robby back onto the couch, partially kneeling on the couch. His right knee was placed strategically between Robby’s spread legs, while his left leg remained standing. Robby immediately started grinding up against Jack’s thigh as Jack fists the hair at the nape of Robby’s neck, forcefully pulling him in for a kiss. You bit your bottom lip to suppress a moan, getting wet all over again. They immediately started out rough to a level you normally had to beg Robby to be with you.

They looked perfect together to the extent that you didn’t know if you should be jealous or turned on. You couldn’t tear your eyes from them as they began to strip. Your focus locked on Jack’s bare chest as he began to work down his jeans, his happy trail leading down to his already hard member. Once they were both bare, Jack gave you a quick glance; a smirk pulled at his lips as he took in your wide eyes and repressed whines. Robby monopolized the opening to grip Jack’s hips and flip him, before sliding down between Jack’s legs. Jack let out a stuttered, “Fuck”, at the sight of Robby between his thighs.

“This alright?” Robby asked with a smirk, hands pushing Jack’s legs apart to make room for his broad shoulders.

“Fuck,” Jack groaned once again, “Yes,” he let out hesitantly.

Jack hissed at the contact of Robby’s tongue. He licked up the underside of his cock, before teasing his tip and swallowing around Jack. A moan cut through Jack as Robby bobbed up and down. He started out slow, before building up speed. It only took a few passes before Jack bottomed out. Jack threaded his fingers through Robby’s hair in a tight grip. He controlled Robby’s movements as his hips began to thrust up to meet his mouth halfway. From your spot, you can see Robby beginning to tease himself, before he began to thrust up into his hand at the same rate Jack was down his throat. Jack groaned, throwing his head back against the couch, his hips stuttering.

“I’m gonna cum,” he moaned, instead of pulling away Robby right hand settled under Jack’s thighs pulling him closer. His left hand squeezed himself harder, pumping himself faster to sync up with Jack. They locked eyes as Jack came down Robby’s throat, his cock still hard in his stilled fist. Jack let out another groan as he eased out of Robby’s mouth, followed by a surprised whimper when Robby leaned forward and stated to lick Jack’s cock clean.

“Fuck, good boy,” Jack groaned, leaning forward and cupping Robby’s face. He pulled Robby up for a kiss, this time much more gently, as he was still high off his orgasm. Robby straddled his lap, reciprocating Jack’s emotional kiss. A kiss that would always say more than what either man was willing to divulge about their emotions. Robby gasped against Jack’s lips as his hand wrapped his still throbbing cock. Robby moaned shamelessly, falling face-first into Jack’s shoulder as he took care of him. It didn’t take long before Robby’s cum painted their stomachs. You rubbed your thighs together needily as Robby panted softly against Jack’s shoulder. You could see their lips move as they spoke in a low tone to each other. Before you knew it, Jack was picking you up and carrying you up to the bathroom off of your master bedroom. He pulled you in for a playful kiss as he set you down on the counter. You were vaguely aware of Robby filling the tub in the background. You shared a soft, intimate bath, talking about nothing and everything at the same time. Afterwards, you were tucked into bed, Robby settling in behind you. You quickly caught Jack’s wrist as he pulled away to leave.

“Please,” you asked, looking up at him through your lashes. Not yet immune to your puppy dog’s eyes, he turned around and kissed the back of your lovingly as Robby pulled you back to make room for him. You fell asleep on his chest, and Robby curled up around you. While you didn’t know what to make of this new dynamic you could worry about that in the morning. Right now, all that mattered was you were safe and so were your partner(s).

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A/N: Thanks for taking the time to read! I hope you enjoyed it. I am working on two other Pitt Fanfictions (One where Robby is solo, and the other is a soulmate AU), but I have a million papers due, so I'm probably gonna be on a forced hiatus til mid-May. I just want these old men to kiss and be taken care of 💛

Anyway, hope you're having a good day wherever you are ^-^

Death and the Lady: Chapter Seven: Chibs Telford x Reader

PREVIOUS CHAPTER FOUND HERE

Slightly NSFW 18+

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@youngadult9016  @mrsfilipchibstelford @mamawiggers1980 @ravennaortiz @liveinsteadofdreaming @redwoodmaya

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Chapter Seven: Unconventional

Y/N was thankful that Skeeter had been willing to allow her to borrow his Toyota pick up truck as she was quite sure the old hearse would not even manage to make the short thirty mile drive from Charming to Lodi. 

Although it should reasonably only take her a couple of hours to travel from the funeral home in Charming to Saint Elizabeth’s Institute in Lodi, Y/N was not willing to take the risk of anything happening to the old hearse. 

Given that her Acura was still in the care of TM Auto, and would be for a while at least according to Chibs, she was not looking to add another broken down vehicle to her problems. 

Skeeter had not seemed to mind her borrowing his truck for a few hours at the very least. He knew she’d been putting this off for far too long now. 

Y/N would be lying if she tried to claim she had not been tempted to use her lack of reliable transportation as a reason to avoid making this trip today, but she knew she’d been putting it off for far too long now. 

The last time she’d made the trip had been two Christmases ago when she’d visited home for the holidays.  

She adjusted her coat pulling it closed tighter against her body as she made her way through the long hallways of Saint Elizabeth’s. 

It was a plain looking building, a little dull to be honest. It was a large structure that looked very much like any other hospital. The sign out front simply stated Saint Elizabeth’s Institute and stated the year it had been established. 

The inside of the building felt sterile and always held an odor of bleach and an undertone of something quite unpleasant that someone had attempted to cover with lavender air freshener. The scent always gave Y/N a headache. 

The entire place actually made her feel ill. The building always felt far too cold even in the winter. The sparse furniture in the hallway and the lack of decor only added to the feeling of cold. The walls were all either white or a pale blue. She’d assumed the color choices were meant to be calming, but it just made her feel lethargic.

The overhead lights gave the hallway a far too bright tone and patients and nurses alike passed Y/N on occasion as she slowly made her way through the halls, though the patients for the most part seemed to be escorted by a nurse or some other aide.

Y/N cringed as she neared the hospital’s recreation room having been told by the nurse on hand that this would be the best place to visit with her brother.

Lunch had ended not long ago and medications had just been given out. Most of the hospital’s residents were in their rooms or off to their daily therapy sessions. Y/N had been told simply to head to the recreation room and a nurse would fetch Daniel and bring him to her.

She sighed as she reached the room trying not to cringe as she took a seat in a plastic chair by a small table. She’d never grow accustomed to the strange furniture in the institute. It was all plastic and mostly bolted down to the floor.

She knew the reasoning of course; some patients might be prone to violent fits and it wasn’t wise to have heavy furniture that was not attached to the floor. A nurse had reassured Y/N, the first time she’d noticed the strange furniture, that it was intended both for the safety of the staff and residents alike.

The recreation room didn’t seem to have much for recreation. There was a television which was bolted up high against the wall, a few board games in a cabinet, a few books and magazines, and a few jigsaw puzzles. Y/N guessed that the staff kept most of the recreation locked away until it was time to use it. 

Y/N adjusted the visitors badge that had been attached to her coat, briefly debating taking the coat off but deciding against it as she noticed a chill to the air as the air conditioner switched on making the cold space all the more icy.

She shifted in her seat crossing and uncrossing her legs. She frowned slightly regretting not wearing something more casual. 

She’d chosen to wear an outfit she might usually wear at work; a black dress, tights, a dark coat, and a pair of black ballet flats. 

She was technically making this trip during a work-day after all, so she’d dressed for the work day.

She sighed, staring down at her hands as she placed them on the table in front of her. She resisted the urge to pull out the pocket mirror she carried in her purse and check her appearance. She silently debated if she should have worn her makeup a little lighter. The darker lipstick most likely made her look all too much like a woman in her late twenties instead of the girl Daniel at times remembered her as being.

A voice in the back of her head warned her that Daniel might not entirely recognize her today, though she’d been told by the nurse that he was having a good memory day.

Y/N knew that most of the time though Daniel most likely still pictured her as that eighteen year old girl with a nostril piercing and an honestly peachy tone of pink hair that had faded over the summer, her roots all too noticeable. He remembered her as she’d been back when he was 24 years old, the year he’d had his accident.

She knew she’d grown since then. She no longer appeared to be that rebellious punky teen girl. She looked like an elegant young lady. 

It felt strange to realize that though she was the younger sibling it felt as though she'd somehow taken the role of the older sibling. She was older now than her brother had been when he'd had his accident.

She was certain her more professional adult look might seem alarming to him if his memory happened to be struggling that day.

Y/N wouldn’t lie, at times she feared that a day would come where Daniel would no longer recognize her as his sister. As they grew older she knew her appearance would change all the more. 

The doctors didn’t seem to have any clear answers as to whether his memory would decline further with his head injury. For the most part she felt that the doctors seemed to stick to the line that no head injury was exactly alike. She’d heard the promise that they would monitor his symptoms but only time would tell what the future held for him. 

All they knew was that her brother struggled with his impulse control, his emotional control, and occasionally short term memory. He also struggled with self-care; remembering to do something as simple as bathing and brushing his teeth. Then there was the issue of the seizures, though they were rare. 

The medications he took were meant to control the seizures as well as his emotional outbursts.

For the most part Y/N felt that the medications only made him drowsy and slow. They’d caused him to put on weight as they increased his appetite. That was why he would not stay on them if he was left to his own devices. He didn’t like how they made him feel, but without them his symptoms only worsened. 

She knew that because of all of these issues that the hospitalization was necessary. It didn’t stop her from feeling guilty as hell though.

She tried to appear as though she was carefree as the nurse she’d spoken to entered the room guiding her brother over to the table.

Y/N hesitated to reach for him as he was sat down at the table across from her. She always feared touching him first, almost certain that one day he would only see her as a stranger.

Her brother was clean shaven; it was a stark contrast to how he’d been before the accident. He usually always wore some scruff. His hair was no longer shaggy the same way he’d once kept it; instead it was cut shorter than he’d ever keep it if it was entirely up to him. He seemed far too pale and the dark circles under his eyes were far too noticeable. He was wearing the same thing he usually wore each time she saw him; gray sweatpants and a white t- shirt with socks and houseshoes. 

He was at least clean; the staff made sure he bathed. 

Y/N at least made sure to send him clothing as often as she could, always initialing the tags with his name so that it would hopefully not be misplaced when the laundry was done. The hospital bracelet he wore on his wrist alerted staff of his name and his level of care along with some other information. The print was always too fine to read without making her feel like she had to strain her eyes. 

She was relieved as he seemed to recognize her after a moment of uncertainty. He spoke his voice a raspy sluggish tone as his hand reached out for hers. “What are you doing here?”

Y/N spoke her voice soft as she tried to pretend the nurse wasn’t lingering nearby clearly monitoring the situation. “I was in the area. I thought I’d come for a visit.”

“Is dad here too?” The question spilled from Daniel’s lips Y/N doing all she could not to outwardly grimace.

Telling her brother that their father was dead was not something that had stuck in his memory. He went back and forth between remembering their father was dead to forgetting it entirely.

His doctors had advised her not to tell him that their father was dead during the times he seemed to forget. It was too upsetting to him, she’d been told. It would only make him relive the fresh grief over and over again.

“No, he couldn’t make it…work is busy. Skeeter and he had a big funeral they had to prep for.” Y/N lied through her teeth hating that it had to be like this.

She knew it was the best case scenario of course. It was cruel to keep making him relive that grief in times like this.

However it was difficult to pretend that their father wasn’t dead and buried in Charming’s cemetery where he’d been for months now. She knew well enough he was dead. She’d embalmed his body at his request in his final wishes. She’d chosen the casket and the flowers as well as the pamphlets for the funeral. She’d found a minister to speak at his funeral. She’d written the obituary and paid to have it posted in Charming’s local newspaper. She had stood in a receiving line for mourners playing the role of the bereaved instead of the funeral director. She’d had to take on the emotional and financial burden of the funeral. She had to read his will and realize her life was changed forever. 

She had to do it all by herself, and now she had to carry on this act pretending that none of that emotional turmoil had happened. 

Daniel twisted his lips, his brow furrowing. “He’s mad at me.”

“Why would you say that, sweetheart?” Y/N asked managing to give his hand a gentle squeeze trying to keep her voice level.

She winced a voice in the back of her head taunting her that she was an awful sister, lying to her brother carrying on this charade that their father was alive.

Daniel scoffed at the question, his brow furrowing further. “I don’t know…he’s just mad at me. I must have done something awful. That's why he never visits.”

Y/N sighed that cruel voice in the back of her head insisting if their father was still living and had any reason to be mad at anyone then she would probably be the one in deep shit at the moment given her current ties to SAMCRO. She was quite sure she would be the reigning champion of being the family disappointment at the moment. 

She pushed the thought from her mind, her voice cracking somewhat as she struggled not to start crying. “That isn’t true, my darling. He’s not mad at you. He loves you very much. He loves both of us more than we know. Even if we upset him, he’d never deny us that love. You know he’s always been there for us…even when we mess up. That’s the kind of dad he is. Remember that time I broke that brand new urn that we had in the display room because I kept playing in the display room after he told me not to. He was so upset but he didn’t even yell or spank me. It was a super expensive urn too…uh had the gold edges to it…it probably cost a fortune, but he only gave me a firm talking to and didn’t make me feel bad for it for too long. I was barely grounded. You know dad’s heart. He wears it on his sleeve. Even if you upset him, he wouldn’t be a jerk about it.”

She paused, taking a deep breath once again lying through her teeth. “You know how he is, Danny. He’s a workaholic. Once he gets caught up with work there’s no pulling him away. I’m sure he’s going to visit soon…maybe once work slows down.”

“When can I go home? I want to go home.” Daniel remarked, apparently moving on from the subject of their father on to another difficult subject.

She sighed, shaking her head, not surprised by the choice in subject. They had this talk often and it was always difficult.  “I don’t know when, Danny. You’re still not well. You have to stay here a little longer. Just until you get better. I know it’s hard, but you have to stay here a little longer.”

“I feel fine though. I feel okay, I just want to go home. Please, Y/N take me home.” He insisted his voice cracking, he squeezing her hand almost hard enough it hurt.

She took a deep breath shaking her head, a stray tear working its way down her cheek. She wiped it quickly with her free hand. “I can’t. I wish I could, but I can’t…not yet.”

“Why not?” He snapped, squeezing her hand even harder enough to make her flinch the pain shooting through her nerve endings.

She sighed as the nurse stepped forward ready to step into action if things got too out of hand. 

She spoke, taking a deep breath. “Because you aren’t well. I know you think you feel fine, but you aren’t ready to go home yet. Just be patient, sweetheart.”

“It’s easy for you to say. You don’t have to stay here.” He snapped again his grip on her hand not loosening even slightly.

She took another deep breath, shooting the nurse a glance of reassurance before she spoke again. “I know. I’m so sorry. I would take you home if I could, in a heartbeat. We have to wait though.”

She spoke again trying to distract him knowing it was the best method to take when he got worked up like this. “In the meantime try to find things to keep you busy. The grounds here are nice, aren’t they? I saw some flower beds the last time I was here. I know you like going outside and seeing them when it's nice out. You should see the greenhouse back home. The tomatoes and cucumbers are getting big…the strawberries are looking good too. I can bring you some strawberries next time, if they’ll let me. You like those right? The strawberries were always your favorite. I know you didn’t care much for the gardening part of it…except for that time you grew that marijuana plant that you tried to hide behind my tomato plant. I was so annoyed when I found it…and it didn’t really work anyway because you couldn’t keep enough light on it to actually do anything. Remember that?”

“I don’t care, I want to go home.” Daniel snapped at her squeezing all the harder she audibly letting out a gasp the pain becoming a little too much to ignore.

With this the nurse stepped forward two orderlies seeming to appear out of nowhere.

Y/N cringed as her brother was yanked from her by two large orderlies while fighting against the pull. She held her aching hand trying to ignore the pain and keep her voice soothing as she spoke to him. “Daniel, please. Don’t fight them. Just take a deep breath and calm down. It’s okay, just calm down, please, my darling.”

Of course, her soothing did little good, her brother struggling against the hold. Y/N shrank away as the nurse stepped forward placing a hand on her shoulder. “We’ve got this handled, Miss. Y/L/N. Don’t worry. We’re going to give him something to relax him.”

Y/N parted her lips tempted to snap that she didn’t want him doped up more than he already was, but she kept the words at bay

She turned her eyes to the floor feeling helpless as the nurse guided her from the room. She felt the tears begin to fall at the words that were shouted at her by her big brother as she left the room. “I hate you! I don’t want you to come back! I hate you!”

—---

She didn’t allow the tears to fully fall until she left the building, practically collapsing against a bench on the walkway up to the entrance.

She took a deep breath trying her best to keep her composure as she wiped at her eyes furiously. 

She was thankful that there were seemingly no other visitors nearby though she had a feeling if there were they would not pay her any mind. She had a feeling her reaction was a normal one for those visiting loved ones at the institution.

She took another deep breath trying hard to push the last words she’d heard her brother say from her mind.

She knew he didn’t mean them, not really. That was the thing about his condition. The filter that should stop him from saying the first thing that came to his mind just didn’t exist anymore.

Y/N stared down at her purse, opening it and searching through it for the travel sized container of tissues she always carried, her hands brushing across her cell phone.

She was stunned as a thought crossed her mind; she wanted Filip.

It felt odd to admit, even if it was only in her head.

It had been a few weeks since that date they’d had and surprisingly Chibs had called her loyally every single day. Although the calls were never quite at the same time each day, they still managed to be a daily occurrence.

It was strange to admit that she’d found some comfort in the calls.

The calls were something she actually found herself looking forward to.

It was almost funny to consider how a few weeks before she had just wanted her admittedly criminally prone Scottish admirer to get lost, but now she happily anticipated the daily phone conversations they had.

She was a bit surprised that he had not pushed her to plan the second date she’d promised him. A small part of her had to wonder if perhaps he was waiting on her to make the next move. It felt almost amusing to consider that the scary outlaw was feeling nervous and waiting for her to make the next move. 

The phone conversations they'd had felt light, especially considering the way she’d practically dumped her past traumas into his lap on that first date.

They’d talked about their days, Y/N discussing whichever body she was prepping or her frustrations with the local florist who was always screwing up orders for funeral flowers. He’d talk about something dumb Half-Sack or Juice had done and a bike or car he was working on at the garage.

She’d found that she liked the clear sense of adoration she heard in his voice when he discussed his brothers even when he called them idiots. She’d also discovered that she liked the passion in his voice when he talked about whatever motorcycle he was repairing. 

She’d enjoyed listening to him discuss a terrible but healthy smoothie Juice had tried to get him to drink or something truly awkward Half-Sack had managed to say right in front of Clay. 

She was surprised to find that Chibs made her laugh. Even when she was stuck in the gloom of embalming a difficult case that felt honestly depressing; she was able to place Chibs on speaker phone and feel some sense of light through the gloom. 

The conversations had felt easy with him though they hadn’t necessarily been deep conversations.

It still felt nice; discussing her day with someone. It wasn’t something she’d had with someone in a very very long time.

She was stunned to admit that she had found a sense of comfort with Chibs. It was such a contradiction when she said it outloud; the dangerous outlaw biker felt comforting. 

She was surprised to find that he was sweet; it was something she’d not expected. She knew no one would believe her. It sounded like another huge contradiction; the admitted criminal was sweet.

She wasn’t naive of course. She knew that Chibs most likely had a side to himself that was far from sweet. She was aware enough to know that he had most likely done horrible things in the past and was capable of doing terrible things in the future.

It was a simple fact that she was surprised failed to invoke fear in her. If anything, a voice in the back of her head was quick to remind her that she’d done a few awful things of her own lately…even if those awful things were at SAMCRO’s request.

That voice in the back of her head still taunted her of course that Chibs would only lead her back to being the unhappy girl she was living in the chaos of SAMCRO. The voice was all quick to call Chibs a devil who’d tempt her back into being in that dark place she’d been in almost a decade before. The voice insisted he’d lead her right back into hell. It reminded her of something her grandmother used to say; you can’t dance with the devil and then keep wondering why you’re in hell. 

Another voice snapped that it was hard to believe she would be unhappy though. She certainly didn’t feel unhappy around him. Being around him didn’t feel like she was in hell. Sure, she was aware that the world he existed in came with a level of chaos. 

She reasoned that in a way she had already signed herself back up for that chaos. She’d signed herself up for it the second she’d agreed to help SAMCRO out and had insisted she would be their new funeral home contact for future favors.

She had asked the devil to dance first hadn’t she?

She was still surprised she’d felt so comfortable explaining everything with her brother and dumping some of her childhood traumas onto Chibs. She was even more surprised that he’d not run screaming.

Y/N could admit she’d not exactly been open about the darker aspects of her childhood and teen years with past boyfriends.

She had only mentioned that she’d been raised in a funeral home and her brother was special needs. She’d casually mentioned she’d been rebellious at one point in her life not going into too much detail.

With Chibs, she’d realized that he’d find out the reality of her brother eventually. If she didn’t say something, surely someone around town would mention it. 

She’d guessed telling him herself would at least let her control the narrative. At least if it came from her lips then he’d get the truth and not whatever wild tale he might hear from someone else.

Somehow even with the truth about her brother and the darker aspects of her childhood, Chibs had not seemed to shy away.

It was something she was astonished by. She was accustomed to people leaving when she was too much.

She’d more often than not been told she was too exhausting to be around. She’d more than often been referenced to as being difficult by boyfriends and friends alike. She was too morbid, too snarky, too moody, and just flat out too much to put up with for the long-term.

Chibs didn’t seem to think that she was too much.

So maybe that was why she reached for her cell phone dialing the familiar number.

She let out a breath she’d not even realized she’d been holding at the sound of his voice on the other end of the line. “Hen, I was jus’ thinkin’ bout ya.”

She managed to feel a small tight smile cross her features at the statement. She was no longer tempted to tell him that he was full of shit and just trying to flatter his way into her pants.

He’d often started out the phone calls he made to her the same way I wanted to call because I was thinking about you.

It felt nice to believe that he thought about her enough to want to hear her voice.

She managed to speak grimacing as she realized her voice felt as weepy as she felt. “Hey.”

“What’s wrong? Ya sound rough, lass.” The concern was evident in his voice. She could distinctly hear the sounds of the garage in the background hinting he was at TM Auto.

The noise grew fainter indicating he seemed to be moving further from the garage most likely wanting to find some privacy for their conversation.

“I just…I’m out in Lodi…visiting my brother.” She admitted staring down at her lap the stark black of her clothing looking inky and harsh against the pale concrete below her feet.

“Aye, wasn’t a good visit I’m guessin’?” Chibs was fast to respond that concern still so clear in his voice.

She let out a weak laugh shaking her head as she responded. “No, no it wasn’t”

Chibs was fast to speak his voice taking a softer tone, the sound feeling soothing. “Ya wanna talk ‘bout it?” 

“I kind of want a good stiff drink to be honest…but uh…yeah…I mean, it’s just difficult. He doesn’t remember our dad is…gone…and he doesn’t get why he can’t go home. It’s just…it’s a shit situation. The last thing he said before I left was that he hates me and never wants me to come back.” She remarked a shaky sigh leaving her, her eyes still focused on the pavement below her trying hard to not let herself break down again.

“Oh, Hen, ya know that ain’ true righ’. He doesn’ mean it. He’s jus’...confused, love. Yer his sister. He loves ya.” was the reply she received. She was a bit surprised to hear a hint of shakiness in his own voice.

“I know, I know…he’s no longer has the ability to stop himself from saying the first thing that comes to his mind…I mean most people if they’re upset might first think they hate someone…but usually that filter in their head will stop them from just blurting that out…his filter…it just doesn’t do what it should. I just hate it…today was allegedly supposed to be a good memory day too…so much for that.” She remarked another shaky sigh escaping her lips.

She swallowed the lump developing in the back of her throat before she spoke again not having it in her to hate how needy her voice sounded. “Can you talk to me about something different…anything? Something nice?”

She was surprised by the response she got. “Ya ever had shortbread? Scottish Shortbread?”

“Uh, I mean…I’ve had shortbread cookies…from the grocery store.” She admitted, a bit thrown off by the conversation choice, but she had requested that he talk about literally anything else other than her current situation.

She rolled her eyes, unable to stop the hint of a genuine smile from crossing her lips at his quick reply. “Nah, not that. That’s pure shite, Hen. Leave that grocery store prepackaged stuff alone. I’m talkin’ real Scottish shortbread.”

“I guess, I’ve never had it then. What’s so special about it?” She dared to ask the misery she felt a moment before lifting by the second.

Chibs didn’t waste a moment to reply. “It’s amazin’, one of my favorites. My ma used to make it the best…I can’ get hers round here of course. The trick is ya gotta have it fresh, with tea or milk on the side. I’m gettin’ ya some real shortbread. Ya gotta try it at leas’ once.”

She spoke, shaking her head the words falling from her lips. “Maybe you should take me to get some then. I apparently need to see what I’m missing.”

“Aye, ya askin’ me out on a date, Hen?” The response came so naturally a flirty tone entering his voice.

She smirked it not taking her long to answer. “I am…and I won’t even bribe you with car repairs.”

She felt as though the misery she’d felt just moments ago was long gone as Chibs managed to laugh at the response he fast to respond. “Aye, ya don’ gotta bribe me to take ya out, love.”

She shook her head ignoring the cruel voice in the back of her head that claimed she belonged locked up right alongside her brother if she was agreeing to another date.

She distinctly remembered the comment Gemma had made the day she’d given Y/N a ride home. It's never just one date.

It would seem indeed that it was not destined to be just one date.

—--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Chibs sighed, his stomach churning as Tig gazed up at him as he passed by the bar in SAMCRO’s clubhouse. “You going to see Y/N again?”

Chibs let out a huff knowing that the cologne he’d put on had most likely given him away. He’d only worn it once afterall the last time he’d taken Y/N out. He was certain Juice must have blabbed his big mouth all about Chibs’ big date and the effort he’d put into his appearance for said date . “Aye, I am.”

“You’ve been talking to her a lot lately. Lots of phone calls.” Tig observed the comment making Chibs feel uneasy.

“Aye.” He kept the response short, shifting the box of shortbread he’d rode out to pick up from a bakery early this morning before they had a chance to sell out.

It wasn’t his mother’s shortbread but it was the closest thing he could find all the way out in California.

“So, you hitting that?” Tig dared to ask, Chibs narrowing his eyes at the question, his free hand that wasn’t holding the box of cookies forming a fist.

He pushed back the desire to throw a punch as he replied. “Ain’ none of yer business.”

Tig smirked, clearly spotting he’d maybe struck a nerve with his brother. Occasionally he could admit he liked pushing his brothers’ buttons…mostly out of boredom.

He’d taken notice of course, that Chibs had been skipping out on Friday night parties and had definitely been neglecting the croweaters.

There was only one possible thing keeping Chibs so distracted. He’d definitely noticed the little looks Chibs had sent SAMCRO’s new asset that night at the crematorium. 

Tig didn’t particularly care to be honest. He was struck by a sense of curiosity though.

He had been around almost a decade before when Y/N had been a frequent visitor to the clubhouse. He could remember the mouthy girl who had been more than willing to drink and smoke a joint. He could also distinctly remember that she’d been less than interested in letting him in her pants….and he’d tried quite hard to charm his way into them.

He could admit it was a bit of a knock to the ego to think that Chibs might very well be traversing territory Tig had failed to explore. He had to admit he felt envious of the Scot.

Tig shook his head. “Just saying, brother. Be careful with that one. She knows a million ways to get rid of a body. I wouldn’t piss her off.”

“Ya ain’ got nothin to worry bout.” Chibs snapped thinking back to the tense conversation he’d had with Clay before that first date he’d had with Y/N.

Tig shook his head a sigh leaving him not helping but to prod a little more even if he knew his next statement was an asshole move. He could admit that a sense of jealousy was maybe pushing him to run his mouth. “I’m guessing little Miss. Death doesn’t know about your wife back in Belfast…pretty sure you’d already be in a casket somewhere if she did. Didn’t think she’d be cool with being a mistress. I mean, she was wild back in the day, tight as hell and a great set of tits from what I heard too, but she still had some moral backbone.”

Chibs moved forward, his fist partially raising but he didn’t have a chance to get far, Juice taking enough notice to step in between Chibs and Tig. Juice maneuvered Chibs away quick to speak. “Let’s take a walk man, come on.”

“Ya keep yer fuckin mouth shut bout her. Ya don’ know what yer talkin bout.” Chibs snapped sending a warning glare at Tig's direction as Juice pushed him away.

Chibs yanked from Juice’s attempts he glaring down at the younger man. “I don’ need a fuckin’ walk. Ya tell that prick if he ever mentions her body or calls her a mistress again I’ll fuckin’ bash his head in.”

Juice groaned as he watched Chibs storm off towards his bike. He rolled his eyes as Tig approached him, the man shrugging his shoulders apparently not minding the death threat. “Was it something I said?”

Juice shook his head as he watched Chibs ride off. He sent Tig a look he speaking. “Really?”

Tig shrugged, playing innocent. “I’m just looking out for him. She finds out about his wife, he’s dead meat. Not to mention, if he pisses her off real good then we lose our funeral home contact.”

Juice shook his head, not responding as he made his way back into the clubhouse. He had to hope that if Chibs continued whatever he had going on with Y/N that he explained his complex past and she didn’t murder him.  

Even with as crude as Tig had been, Chibs most likely would be buried alive if he kept that tidbit of information from Y/N.

—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Y/N sighed as a firm knock sounded at her office door, cracking slightly Skeeter’s head barely peeking in. 

The man spoke, his eyes rolling ever so slightly at the information he was about to share with his boss. “You have a gentleman caller.”

Chibs frowned, unable to see past Skeeter as Y/N let out a groan from behind the half closed door. “I can’t decide if that’s worse than calling him the outlaw biker. It sounds less panic inducing to anyone that might overhear it, but it makes me sound like I’m some sort of freaking Southern Belle.”

She paused before speaking again. “Well, let him in.”

Skeeter did as he was told though he looked as though he’d much rather deny Chibs entry. Chibs didn’t miss the stern look of disapproval as he passed by the mortician.

Y/N spoke, spotting that Skeeter was still lingering. “You can go, Skeet. I promise I’m fine all on my lonesome.”

Chibs didn’t miss the glare Skeeter sent his way before he shut the door behind him.

He took a deep breath trying to calm any rage that was still lingering around in his gut after his confrontation with Tig. He refused to let her see the enraged parts of him.

He studied her, the sight of her soothing him. She was dressed in another work outfit, another black dress similar to the one he’d seen her wear the first time he’d come to the funeral home.

He had to wonder how many black dresses she owned. He had a feeling it had to be quite a few.

She pushed back her chair standing up from her desk and rounded it as she made her way over to him.

She pressed a soft kiss to his cheek, the action soothing him further. She spoke, spotting the tension practically vibrating off him. ‘Are you okay? You seem…agitated.”

Chibs did his best to give her a smile though he knew it came out as more of a grimace. “Jus’ Tig bein a fuckin’ prick.”

She let out a small bitter laugh rolling her eyes at the comment. “I guess he hasn’t changed much in my time away.”

Chibs took a deep breath tempted to ask her if she’d ever been intimate with Tig, but he bit his tongue.

He had a feeling she’d not given Tig had only commented on what he’d heard about her.

Chibs silently reminded himself that he didn’t care what her past with SAMCRO was. She had said it herself. She was no longer a club hangaround.

A possessive little voice piped up in the back of Chibs’ head insisting she was his now. Another voice piped up that he’d meant what he’d said to Tig. He’d kill the man if he ever commented on her body ever again. He didn’t care if the man was his brother, he’d bash his face in. 

He took a few more deep breaths trying to calm himself. 

Another thing Tig had said had troubled Chibs; the mention of Fiona. It was something Chibs knew would have to come up sooner than later.

Chibs knew Tig was right about one thing…if he kept that part of his past hidden from Y/N she’d probably shove him in the ground. In fact, Chibs was sure that if he withheld this information from her then Y/N would bury him so deep that the devil himself would need a shovel to dig him back up again.

He took a deep breath holding out the box of shortbread he’d gotten; he was no longer as giddy about presenting it to her as he’d been moments before. “I got ya somethin.”

She took it from him, a soft laugh leaving her becoming distracted from his clearly tense mood. “Shortbread. I’m supposed to drink it with tea right, or milk?”

“Aye, whichever ya want. Try it tonigh’ and let me know what ya think.” Chibs replied, his strained mood fading by the second. 

She placed the box on her desk giving him a soft smile. “You didn’t have to come all the way over here just to give me some cookies.”

“Aye, I wanted to…I was hopin’ I could take ya out fer lunch too.” Chibs insisted, having made up his mind on the way to the Funeral Home.

He had to come clean about his past. He had to open up and pray she didn’t hate his guts or assume he was attempting to make her into the other woman.

She gave him a soft smile nodding down to her clothing. “Do you mind if I change shoes? I don’t think heels are a smart idea on the back of a bike.”

He nodded his head trying his best to give her a smile and hide the anxiety beginning to bubble in his stomach. “Aye, heels are probably not a good idea, Hen. I’ll wait on ya.”

She pressed another kiss to his cheek, that warm feeling washing over him again soothing a bit more of his agitation and anxiety.

He watched her leave the room, taking a deep breath as he dropped down into one of the chairs across from her desk.

He stared around the office studying the multitude of items. He clasped his hands together spotting a thick binder sitting on a shelf behind her desk that was labeled casket catalog 2007-2008.

He prayed to any God that might be listening that she wouldn’t shove him in any of those caskets after he broke the news about the life he’d been banished from in Belfast.

Chibs tried to find something less distressing to focus on. His eyes caught a photo on the wall it lifting his spirits momentarily. 

He barely recognized Y/N in the photo. She was so young, clearly barely a teenager. He could distinctly spot a pair of braces on her teeth and a t-shirt emblazoned with Charming’s nearest high school’s mascot. He guessed that perhaps it was a photo leftover from when the office had belonged to her father.

Another photo was framed beside it. Y/N was even younger in this one sat on the front porch of the Funeral Home with a little boy beside her. She looked quite miserable in the soft pink dress she was wearing judging by the clear scowl fixed into her little features. He felt his stomach turn realizing the boy sitting beside her had to be her older brother.

He sighed thinking back to the phone call they’d had the day before after she visited her brother, hoping he wasn’t about to give her another reason to cry. 

He didn’t have long to focus on the fear as the office door opened the object of his adoration reentering the room, a pair of black converse on her feet and a dark coat over her dress.

She spoke nodding to him. “Okay, I’m ready when you are.”

He stood up taking her hand in his once again praying to anyone who might happen to be listening that he wasn’t about to lose the woman he’d just barely managed to start winning over.

—---------------------------------------------------

The taco stand was a bit of a surprise. Y/N didn’t think much of it though, deciding that she was just happy to have a second date with Chibs even if it was a little more spontaneous than she’d expected.

They sat outside on benches the weather thankfully not cool enough for the outdoor space to feel uncomfortable. They seemed to be the only patrons at this stand and she hoped that this wasn’t a sign of the quality of their meal. 

Chibs himself was debating if the taco truck was the best plan. He’d decided that an outdoor space was probably best for the bombshell he was about to drop on her. 

He sighed as she spoke, raising an eyebrow at him taking notice of the fact that he seemed distracted. He’d not even touched his food yet and had seemed dazed as he’d ordered. “Are you sure everything is okay? I mean, how bad did Tig piss you off?”

She cringed worrying that she was pushing it. She imagined it had something to do with the club. She wasn’t sure if they were at the level where Chibs was going to be that open with her about anything related to the club despite her partnership with SAMCRO as a provider of favors.

Chibs let out another sigh deciding he wouldn’t repeat exactly what Tig had said. He had a feeling she’d probably kill the man for commenting on her body in that crude of a manner especially in relation to her past. “He’s jus’ an arse sometimes. It’s jus…I got somthin to tell ya.”

She felt her stomach roll hating that statement. It sounded so ominous. “What’s going on?”

Chibs sighed, deciding to ease into this. “I know I ain’ told ya much bout my family.”

Y/N spoke her cheeks flushing the words falling from her. “I haven’t given you much of a chance. I mean…I kind of turned our first date into a trauma dumping session. I didn’t leave you much room to talk about your own family.”

Chibs spoke, shaking his head reaching out his hand pressing over hers. “It’s fine, Hen. I didn’ mind it.”

He took a deep breath speaking again the words falling out of his lips. “I have a daughter.”

She widened her eyes, not expecting that. She guessed it shouldn’t be too surprising though. He was in his forties. He had to have some life before her. “How old is she?”

“Thirteen…Kerrianne…her name is Kerrianne.” Chibs responded a small smile crossing her features.

“That’s a pretty name, I don’t think I’ve ever heard it before. What’s she like?” Y/N asked genuinely curious to know.

She was surprised she didn’t mind the concept of dating a guy with a kid. She’d never really been around children, but she liked them. She had never really put much thought into if she wanted children of her own. She found that she liked Chibs enough to accept that he was a parent and to accept whatever role she played in that if their relationship should progress to that point. 

Chibs cringed the words falling from him. “I don’ know…I ain’ seen her since she was bout four.”

Y/N felt her stomach drop at this information. He was a deadbeat? She felt her stomach sour at the thought. 

Chibs sighed, shaking his head, spotting the look on her face only able to imagine the thoughts running through her mind. He had a feeling none of them were positive. He spoke again the words sliding from his lips before he could stop them. “She lives in Belfast…with my wife.”

Y/N was certain if she had a drink in her hand she would have tossed it in his face. She glared at him, yanking her hand from his her voice harsh. “You’re fucking married? Are you serious?” 

She scoffed getting up from the bench before he had a chance to register what was happening. 

She spoke, snatching up her purse and her coat as she prepared herself to leave her temper rising by the second. “What am I then? Am I just some stateside fun? Was I meant to be the girl you fucked in the US while your wife and kid sit back in Ireland? I mean, I knew you SAMCRO guys were kind of dysfunctional when it came to relationships and monogamy but this really takes the cake on fucked up. I don’t know what you’ve heard about me from Jackson and all your little friends down at the clubhouse. I know I haven’t always been smart about the guys I’ve hooked up with in the past, but I have developed way more of a sense of self worth than I had almost a decade ago. I am no one’s fucking mistress. Have a nice life Chibs…actually, no, you have the life you deserve. You are such an asshole.”

Chibs scrambled up from the bench moving quick to follow her. He reached out taking her hand in his not shocked as she yanked it away her voice raising. “Don’t you dare touch me!”

Chibs moved fast moving in front of her placing his hands on her shoulder he fast to speak. “Just give me five minutes…Jus’ five minutes to explain.”

“Explain what? You’re a married deadbeat dad, I’m the other woman. End of story. Good riddance.” She snapped moving aside trying to move past him.

Chibs moved just as fast stepping in front of her. “There’s more to the story, lass. Jus’ please, hear me out. If ya still hate me after I tell ya the entire story, I’ll fuck off.”

She groaned tempted to tell him that there was not a story on this planet he could tell to explain away the bombshell he’d just dropped on her.

She gazed up at him, hating to admit that she noticed the longing in his eyes. There was a sense of desperation there that she didn’t like. 

She let out a huff crossing her arms over her chest. “You have five minutes. If I sense even an ounce of bullshit, I’m leaving and not looking back.”

Chibs nodded his head nodding over to a nearby bench. “Can we sit?”

She scoffed, rolling her eyes. “Fine, but the time to go to the bench and sit deducts from the five minute timeline I set.”

He spoke as they sat he sighing. “Fiona an I are estranged. I ain’ seen her in close to a decade now. I ain’ even spoke to her on the phone.”

“But you haven’t divorced her and you don’t see your kid.” Y/N snapped not entirely impressed if this was his attempt to explain himself.

Chibs cringed fast to speak again. “It ain' an option… neither the divorce or seein my Kerrianne.” 

He paused, spotting the look of annoyance on her features as she spoke. “Let me guess? Getting divorced is a huge Catholic no no? Is being a deadbeat dad just a passion project for you?”

Chibs let out a huff shaking his head. “I ain’ exactly practicin’ So, no’ entirely and I ain’t a deadbeat by choice.”

She glared at him her words harsh. “ Don’t you dare try to feed me that my ex is nuts and won’t let me see my kid bullshit. I have heard it from a guy before and I don’t believe the story.”

He spoke shaking his head. “This ain’t me being some arsehole da abandonin his kid. Fiona ain’t the one keepin me away.”

He paused, clearing his throat knowing he had to tell the entrie story, every painful detail. “I met Fiona when I was sixteen. I’d moved to Belfast with my ma an my sister Cait. We moved from one housin’ estate to another…we were poor…My da…he was a real prick…mean bastard who no one missed when he walked out…my ma worked herself to the bone to barely scrape by. I was angry, mad at the world. I was pissed at the government and establishment in general. Fiona…er family was involved in the cause. Third generation…True IRA.”

He paused not wanting to meet Y/N’s eyes as he explained this bit of information. He spoke again, a sigh leaving him. “She talked bout the cause…bout her family. Told me grand tales of the figh’ fer a free Ireland. I was entranced with her stories…entranced with her. By the time we were married I was fully involved in the cause.”

He took another deep breath taking a chance to peek over at Y/N not liking that a hint of fear had joined the rage in her eyes.

He spoke again hoping that even if she understood the history behind Fiona and him that the mention of his involvement with the cause wouldn’t destroy things anyhow. “There was this lad…an ol’ friend of Fiona’s…they were childhood friends. He knew her before I did…Jimmy O’Phalen. He loved her before I did…He hated me…hated that I won Fiona…hated that she loved me…hated my background. He claimed I couldn’t be loyal to the cause given my ancestry…I wasn’ Irish, so I wasn’t as dedicated…I didn’ pay him any mind. I kept on with the cause. Life went on. The years passed by. Fiona an I somehow survived all of our twenties intact..made it to our thirties.”

“Kerrianne…she was born and it was like my life…it got brighter. I loved bein’ her da. I saw it as a chance to be a better lad than my bastard of a da. I stopped bein’ so angry…I…Jimmy O’ called it a weakness…He rose up in the ranks of the cause…got himself into a pretty high spot on the food chain…He started sowing distrust among others involved…started sayin’ I was a loyalist to the crown…sayin I was not truly dedicated…and then when my Kerrianne was barely a year old…Jimmy O’ did this to me.” Chibs explained reaching up to slide along the scars embedded into the flesh along his cheeks.

He paused his throat growing tight still not wanting to meet Y/N’s eyes. He spoke again a shaky sigh leaving him. “I gotta nother scar, along my belly. He tried to gut me too…it was…I almost died…I los’ a lotta blood, lost consciousness. I think the face…the attack was a play on my birthplace…Glasgow…He…he changed his mind toward the end I guess, decided not to kill me. Decided to give me a chance to live. Had his crew drop me off at the front steps to a hospital. He excommunicated me from the cause.”

“Fiona…your daughter?” Y/N dared to ask amazed she found the words as she tried to absorb everything he’d told her thus far her mind going a million different directions all at once.

Chibs let out a shaky breath the words falling from his lips. “Jimmy O’ took em as his…Fer over a decade now…they’ve been with him. He took my wife an’ raised my little girl as his own. Told me if I ever tried to get em back he’d kill em.”

He shook his head a sigh leaving him. “I wished I’d died tha’ nigh’ fer a long time….i wished he’d just killed me instead of keeping me alive to torment me. I joined up with SAMBEL…Belfast Sons. I knew em from business with the cause. I was their firs’ prospect. They took care of me. I found my place in that world.  I…I tried to watch my Kerrianne from a’far…Jimmy O’ let me fer a wee bit…guess he liked dangling her round me…tormenting me with seein’ her from far away…I lasted in SAMBEL fer a few years…but it jus’ it got so…it hur’ seein’ my sweet wee Kerrianne…not bein’ able to even go near her. The chance to patch over to SAMCRO came up an I took it. I wanted to escape.”

He dared to look over at Y/N as he spoke, explaining himself. “Divorcin’ Fiona ain’ an option. Jimmy O’ won’ even let us speak on the phone…I ain’ seen her since I left Belfast. Ya ain’ my mistress. Ya can’t be the other woman when the only reason I ain’ divorced is ‘cause I can’t even talk to my estranged wife to start a divorce.”

Y/N let out a shaky sigh, her mind and her heart feeling heavy. She let everything he’d just told her soak into her brain, her mind going a million different directions. 

The rage she’d felt left her body making her feel exhausted. She felt as though she’d been hit by a mack truck. She felt so drained that all she wanted was to lie down and not move again for a long while. 

Those pesky voices in the back of her mind that screamed that Chibs would lead her to ruin were so fast to speak up insisting that everything he’d just told her was the only evidence she needed to know that he’d lead her to destruction.

Her heart spoke up easily picking up on the pain in his voice as he recalled the story. She thought of him lying in a hospital recovering from the attack all alone wishing for death knowing he’d lost everything. 

She thought of his reaction each time she’d kissed his cheek thus far, the look on his face that told her that no one had shown him that kind of softness. It hit her that she’d kissed a reminder of all that he’d lost.

She let the realization that he was still legally married roll through her brain debating his insistence that she was not his mistress. 

She thought of his daughter and his wife, what their lives must be with the man who had harmed Chibs. She questioned why Fiona had not fought for him though she cursed herself for having such a thought. She didn’t know how she would react if it had been her…if she’d been a mother. 

She felt her stomach turn, her mind flashing back to what he’d said about the True IRA. The thought frightened her. 

She sighed knowing that she’d already realized that Chibs had most likely done horrible things in the past and would do horrible things in the future. She knew he’d never pretended not to be a criminal…at least to her.

She felt a voice in the back of her mind perk up pointing out that Chibs had not given her a reason to think he might harm her. If he was going to harm her he would have killed her that night in the cemetery when she was burying those cremains.

Yes, his past involvement with the cause definitely made her stomach turn and she had a feeling that SAMCRO was still involved given his mention of SAMBEL being involved with the True IRA.

A voice in the back of her head piped up that she wasn’t exactly innocent. She’d done some pretty heinous things for the club lately.

The realization hit her that she didn’t feel afraid of him even with the past misdeeds he may have done for the cause. Even with what he’d done…what he would do in the future for the Sons; she was shocked to find that she didn’t fear for her life. 

Chibs felt as though he was the last person on this planet she expected might harm her. Filip Chibs Telford was no monster. 

She thought of how sweet he’d been on that first date and how lovely he continued to be. 

A monster wouldn’t hold her hand so gently while she spilled her heart about her brother  and her past. A monster wouldn’t bring her shortbread. A monster would never look at her like she was a fine work of art. 

Chibs dared to speak knowing he had to spill his heart as a last ditch effort to hopefully not lose her. “I ain’ been interested in a woman fer more than sex since I…since Fiona…I took advantage of all that came with the clubhouse.”

Y/N cringed decoding that he meant the croweaters. 

Chibs spoke again, a sigh leaving him. “I let myself get swallowed up by life in the Sons...I didn’ want to feel…din’ want to let my heart get involved…Then I met ya. I didn’t expect ya…didn’ expect I’d like ya as much as I do. All I know is yer the firs’ woman I met in over a decade who I wan’ more than just sex with. I like bein’ with ya. I love talkin’ to ya. I think bout ya more often than not. I feel good with ya around. I’m havin a good time with ya and I want to see where it takes us. I don’t want to lose ya when I’ve jus’ barely gotten to have ya. I know I ain’ conventional…I may not be able to give ya the traditional path mos’ relationships take…I jus’ know that when I’m with ya…I don’ want get swallowed up by chaos to escape the misery. So, all I’m askin’ fer is the chance even if it ain’ conventional.”

Y/N let the words marinate in her mind. She picked up on what he said about wanting to be swallowed by chaos to escape feeling awful. Wasn’t that what had led her to hanging around SAMCRO almost a decade before?

She sighed at the realization that no, Chibs would not exactly be able to offer her the stereotypical relationship path. If he was still married there would be no white wedding in the future.

She furrowed her brow knowing she wasn’t exactly in the place in this relationship with him to even consider marriage. The concept of even thinking that far into the future this soon in a relationship that was barely even beginning to bloom was preposterous. 

She glanced over at Chibs her heart telling her that she’d had fun with him. She didn’t want to sink into misery and isolation when he was around. 

She recalled the thought she’d had that first date when she had to leave to attend to the deceased that had fallen into the care of her funeral home.

For the first time in her life she preferred the company of someone living and didn’t want to avoid life to tend to the dead.

Her heart screamed that she didn’t want to go back to isolating herself and spending all her time with the dead.

She wanted to live. Chibs made her want to live.

She reached out, making up her mind, her hand sliding over his as she spoke. “Do you promise me every single thing you just said to me is the absolute truth? I am not the other woman?”

“I swear to ya. You are not a mistress. I may be a bastard, but I ain’ goin to lie bout that.” Chibs insisted his heart daring to lift just the slightest.

Y/N sighed telling the fears in the back of her head to shut up, deciding to listen to what her heart screamed. “Okay. I’m here…I’m not going anywhere Filip.”

She paused, shaking her head as she spoke again. “I’ve never been the conventional type…I don’t expect traditional from you…at least not in the white picket fence stereotype ... .I do expect monogamy, Filip. If you want someone who’s fine sitting by while you get your dick wet somewhere else then I’m not the girl for you.”

“I am fine with that. I don’ want anyone else, Hen. I haven’ even considered it since we met.” He replied being completely honest with her, surprised to find that he didn’t think he’d miss the freedom of not being committed. 

She paused, deciding to be honest. “Just promise me something Filip…Swear to me that I’m not a cheap replacement or a fill in for your estranged wife. I can’t be a substitute for what you want ... .I can’t just be the girl you bide your time with while you wait for what you really want to come back to you.  I have already filled the role as a substitute pussy for a guy in the past. I refuse to do that again. I don’t want to be used to fill a void in a man. I’m worth more than that.” 

Chibs furrowed his brow surprised by the anger that bubbled up in him at her admission about this man from her past. 

He gave her hand a squeeze, the words leaving him without hesitation. “Yer not fillin any void fer me…ya ain’ a substitute fer Fiona.  I ain’ bidin my time with ya. I want ya fully and completely fer exactly who ya are. Ya ain’ filling a spot fer anyone else.” 

She let out a shaky breath, her heart insisting that this was all she needed to know.

She leaned in her lips close to his cheek as she spoke. “Is this okay?”

He widened his eyes as he realized what she was asking. He nodded his head quick to reply. “Yes, please.”

She pressed her lips to his cheek he surprised by the dampness gathering at the corners of his eyes.

The kiss remained lingering, Y/N reaching up to wipe a stray tear from his face as she finally pulled back.

She spoke her voice soft, finding some humor in the moment. “Okay, next date no trauma. We aren’t allowed to cry on the third date.”

Chibs let the laugh leave him, he nodding his head agreeing wholeheartedly.

He wrapped an arm around her waist not helping but to tease her the horrible mood he’d been in all afternoon lifting. “So, I’m gettin a third date?”

She leaned into his embrace a small laugh leaving her. “So long as you promise we don’t cry.”

“Aye no tears from me.” He insisted, squeezing her all the tighter.

She relaxed against him, her eyes closing her body feeling lighter than it had felt in so long.

She knew this was far from conventional but she wasn’t lying. She’d never been a conventional girl.

God I hate to be that person but ughhhhhh I love that jack fic where they find out reader is pregnant and I'm CRAVING a second part to that (if you're u to of course). Like, how it'd be during her pregnancy, him being sweet but also worried and protective. Omg I need more soft jack w a baby on the way!!!!!

The Camouflage Onesie

part two of he begins to notice (read this first!)

content warnings: pregnancy, medical references, nausea/morning sickness, sexual content (explicit but consensual), body image changes, hormonal shifts, domestic intimacy, emotional vulnerability, labor and delivery scene, emotionally intense partner support, and high emotional/physical dependency within a marriage. yeah. pregnancy

word count : 5,735

WEEK 5

The test turned positive on a Sunday. By Monday morning, the entire medicine cabinet had been rearranged like it was a trauma cart.

Your moisturizer had been nudged over to make room for prescription-grade prenatals, a bottle of magnesium, a DHA complex, and—of all things—two individually labeled pill sorters with day-of-the-week dividers. One pink. One clear. Yours and Jack's, apparently.

You found him in the kitchen at 6:42 a.m., already in scrubs. He was calmly cutting the crusts off toast while listening to NPR and making a second cup of coffee for himself.

When he turned, he gave you a long once-over—not in a critical way, but diagnostic. Like he was scanning you for vitals only he could see.

“You’re flushed,” he said. “And your pupils are dilated. You feel dizzy yet?”

You furrowed your brow. “No?”

“Good. You’re hydrating better than I thought.”

You blinked. “Jack, I haven’t even said good morning.”

He walked over and handed you a glass of room-temp water. “I’m loving you with medically sourced precision.”

You stared at the glass. “This isn’t cold.”

“Cold water upsets your stomach. Lukewarm helps with early bloat.”

“Jack.”

“I know what I’m doing.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Do you?”

He tilted his head. “I’ve watched septic patients stabilize faster than accountants facing a positive Clearblue. I know exactly what this is.”

You pressed your hands to your face and groaned. “You’re not going to hover this much every week, are you?”

Jack leaned down, brushing a kiss over your shoulder. “No. Some weeks I’ll hover more.”

“I made your appointment already,” he said, voice casual. “Friday. Dr. Patel. 3:40.”

You blinked. “You didn’t even ask me.”

“She owes me a favor,” Jack said. “Got her niece into ortho during the peak of the shortage last year. Trust me—she’ll take care of you.”

You frowned, stunned. “How did you even pull that off so fast?”

Jack raised an eyebrow. “Sweetheart. I’m an ER doctor. I have connections. I can get my wife seen before the week’s out.”

Your eyes welled up suddenly—caught off guard by how steady he was, how sure. You were still half-floating in disbelief. Jack was already ten steps ahead, clearing the path.

WEEK 6

You learned very quickly that pregnancy was a full-time job—and Jack approached it with quiet precision.

The first time you dry-heaved over the kitchen sink, he didn’t rush in with a solution. He didn’t lecture or hover. He just stepped into the room, leaned against the counter, and waited until you looked up.

“Still thinking about that leftover pasta?” he asked softly.

You made a face. “Don’t say the word pasta.”

He crossed the kitchen, wordless, and pulled open a drawer. Out came a wrapped ginger chew. Then he disappeared down the hall.

When he returned, he had your cardigan in one hand and a bottle of lemon water in the other.

You blinked at him. “What are you doing?”

Jack handed you the water first. “You always run cold when you’re nauseous. But I know you’ll refuse a blanket if you’re flushed.”

You stared.

He draped the cardigan over your shoulders.

“You okay?”

You nodded slowly. “I think so.”

“Okay,” he said. “Let me know when you want toast.”

You half-laughed, half-cried, wiping your eyes on your sleeve. “You don’t have to be this gentle every second.”

Jack leaned in. “I’m not being gentle. I’m being exact. There’s a difference.”

Later that night, you sat curled up on the couch, still wrapped in the cardigan, while Jack quietly swapped your usual diffuser oil with something new.

“Peppermint,” he said when you asked. “Helps with queasiness.”

You raised an eyebrow. “And the bin next to the couch?”

“Let’s call it contingency planning.”

You smirked. “You’re really building systems around me, huh?”

Jack looked at you—soft, certain. “No. I’m building them for you.”

He moved across the room and brushed your hair back off your forehead, thumb pausing at your temple like he could smooth out whatever discomfort lingered there.

“You’re not the patient,” he murmured. “You’re the constant. And I’m going to do whatever it takes to keep the ground steady under your feet.”

You didn’t have a clever reply.

You just pulled him onto the couch beside you and tucked yourself into his chest—grateful beyond words that this was who you got to build a life with.

WEEK 9

Jack was folding laundry on the bed when you walked into the room barefoot, carrying a bowl of cereal and wearing his old college sweatshirt.

You caught his glance. “What?”

He shook his head, smiled a little. “Just thinking you wear my clothes better than I ever did.”

You rolled your eyes, but your smile gave you away. He set a towel down. Reached for your bowl as you sat on the edge of the bed.

“I got it,” you said.

“I know,” he murmured, holding it anyway while you shifted the pillow behind your back. Once you were settled, he handed it back.

You took a bite, then glanced at the basket of half-folded laundry.

“You know that’s mostly my stuff, right?”

Jack looked at the pile. “It’s ours. Who else is gonna fold your seven thousand pairs of fuzzy socks?”

You laughed into your spoon.

He leaned against the dresser and just looked at you for a second. Not in a way that made you self-conscious—just soft. Familiar.

“You’re quieter this week,” he said.

You shrugged. “I’m tired.”

He nodded. “Want to go somewhere this weekend? Just us?”

“Like where?”

“Nowhere big. Just—out of the house. We could rent a cabin. Lay around. Sleep until noon. Let you pretend I’m not watching you nap like it’s my full-time job.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You do that now?”

“Not always. Just when you start snoring like a golden retriever pup.”

“Jack.”

He grinned, walked over, and kissed your temple.

“Alright, no trips. But at least let me cook something tonight. Something warm.”

You sighed. “You already do too much.”

He looked at you seriously then, crouched a little so you were eye-level.

“I don’t keep score,” he said. “I’m your husband. You’re growing our kid. If all I have to do is make dinner and fold socks, I’m getting off easy.”

WEEK 14

By week fourteen, the second trimester hit like an exhale.

You weren’t queasy every morning anymore. Your appetite returned. You could brush your teeth without gagging. And Jack, for the first time in weeks, actually relaxed enough to sit through an entire episode of something without checking on you mid-scene.

You were curled on the couch together—your head in his lap—when he slid his hand beneath your shirt and rested it on the soft curve of your stomach.

You raised an eyebrow. “You’re subtle.”

“I’m consistent.”

You snorted. “You’re clingy.”

His thumb brushed just under your ribs. “I’m memorizing.”

You shifted slightly, tucking your feet closer. “You already know everything about me.”

Jack looked down at you, the corners of his mouth twitching. “I know the before. This part? This is new.”

He went quiet, and you could feel the shift in him—something deeper, more reverent than before.

“I’ve seen pregnancy before,” he said. “But I’ve never… watched it happen to someone I come home to.”

You turned your head to look up at him. “You okay?”

Jack nodded slowly. “I just keep thinking… you’re building someone I haven’t met yet. And I already know I’d give my life for them.”

Your throat tightened. You reached for his hand where it rested on your stomach, lacing your fingers through his.

“We’re doing okay, right?”

Jack bent down, kissed your forehead. “You’re doing better than okay.”

You smiled. “We’re a good team.”

“The best,” he said. “Even if you keep stealing all the pillows.”

You laughed. “You sleep like a corpse. You don’t need them.”

He grinned. “You’re getting cocky now that the nausea’s eased.”

“You’ll miss her when she’s gone.”

“No, I’ll just be glad to have you back.”

You rolled your eyes. “You have me.”

Jack kissed you again. Longer this time.

“Yeah,” he whispered. “I do.”

WEEK 15

It started with the baby books.

Not the ones you bought. The ones Jack picked up—three of them, stacked neatly on the nightstand one morning after a grocery run you hadn’t joined him on.

You noticed them after your shower. He was still in the kitchen, loading the dishwasher, humming something that definitely wasn’t in tune. But the titles made you pause.

“‘What to Expect for Dads,’” you read aloud, holding the top one up when he walked in. “You going soft on me?”

Jack raised an eyebrow. “Hardly. Just figured if you’re doing the building, I can at least read the manual.”

You smirked, flipping through a page. “You’re the manual.”

“I’m the triage guy. I don’t have maternal instincts. I have protocols.”

You leaned back against the headboard. “You’re being humble, but you’re gonna ace this.”

He shrugged, crossing the room to sit on the edge of the bed. “I just want to know what’s coming. I’ve done newborn shifts. I’ve handed babies to people shaking so hard they could barely hold them. But this? This isn’t a shift. This is us.”

You touched his arm. “You’ve already done more than I can even keep track of.”

Jack looked at you for a long moment. Then placed his hand over yours. “I don’t want to just be useful. I want to be good. For both of you.”

You didn’t know what to say.

So you leaned forward and kissed him—gentle, deep. His hand slid to your stomach as naturally as breathing.

You pulled back just enough to whisper, “You already are.”

That night, when he thought you were asleep, he cracked open the book again.

And stayed up past midnight reading about swaddling, latch cues, and the difference between Braxton Hicks and the real thing.

WEEK 16

Jack stood in the doorway of your office for almost a full minute before saying anything.

You looked up from your laptop, eyebrows raised. “What?”

He didn’t move. Just scanned the room—your desk, the bookshelf, the little armchair in the corner that you never actually used.

Then, finally: “Is our house big enough for this?”

You blinked. “For what?”

He gestured vaguely toward your belly, then the room. “All of it. A baby. Crib. Noise. Diapers. More laundry. Less sleep.”

You smiled gently. “I thought we were turning this room into the nursery.”

“We are,” he said quickly. “I just… I keep running scenarios in my head. And this place felt huge when it was just us.”

You closed your laptop. “Jack.”

He looked at you.

“We’ll figure it out. We already are.”

He crossed the room, leaned against your desk. “I’m not trying to panic.”

“I know.”

“I just keep thinking about how everything’s going to change. I want to make sure we still feel like us once it does.”

You stood and wrapped your arms around his waist, head resting against his chest. “We will. You think too far ahead sometimes.”

“That’s my job,” he murmured.

“And mine is reminding you that it’s okay to not solve everything all at once.”

He kissed the top of your head. “I know. I just want it to be enough.”

WEEK 19

Jack was unusually quiet on the drive to the anatomy scan.

Not anxious. Just focused in a way that told you his brain had been working overtime since the moment he woke up. His hand rested on your thigh at every red light, thumb tracing small circles against the fabric of your leggings.

“You good?” you asked, turning down the radio.

He glanced over, nodded once. “Just running through the checklist in my head.”

You smiled gently. “You’re not at work, babe.”

“I know. But I’ve never seen one of these as a husband.”

You reached over and laced your fingers through his. “You don’t have to be perfect today. You just have to be here.”

He gave you a look. “I am here. That’s the problem. I’m so here I can’t think about anything else.”

The waiting room was dim, quiet, and smelled vaguely like lemon disinfectant. Jack sat beside you, legs spread in his usual posture, one hand on your knee. His thumb tapped once. Then again. Then stopped.

The tech was warm, professional. She dimmed the lights. Asked if you wanted to know the sex. You said yes before Jack could answer.

You held your breath as the screen lit up in shades of blue and gray.

“Everything’s looking healthy,” the tech said. “Strong spine, great heartbeat, long legs.”

Jack tightened his grip on your hand.

“And it looks like you’re having a girl.”

You exhaled all at once. Then laughed. Or maybe cried. It blurred together.

Jack didn’t say anything right away. Just stared at the monitor, jaw tense, eyes glassy.

You turned to look at him. “Jack.”

He blinked. “Yeah.”

“You okay?”

He nodded slowly. “Yeah, I just—” He swallowed. “She’s real.”

The rest of the appointment was a haze—measurements, murmurs of “good growth,” the gentle swipe of gel off your stomach. Jack didn’t let go of your hand the entire time.

That night, you came out of the bathroom in an old t-shirt and found him standing at the dresser, staring down at something small in his hand.

You stepped closer. “What’s that?”

He held it up without looking—one of the newborn onesies you’d bought weeks ago in a moment of cautious optimism. Light yellow. Soft cotton.

“You think she’ll fit in this?” he asked.

You smiled. “They’re tiny, Jack. That’s kind of the whole point.”

He nodded but didn’t move.

You wrapped your arms around him from behind. “You’re allowed to feel everything. It’s a big day.”

He turned, wrapped his arms around you carefully. “I think I was more afraid of not feeling it.”

You pressed your forehead to his. “You’re allowed to be happy.”

“I am,” he said, voice rough. “I just keep thinking about how I’m going to keep her safe. How I’m going to teach her to breathe through chaos. How I’ll probably mess it up a hundred times.”

“You’re not going to mess it up.”

He looked at you. “You really think that?”

“I married you, didn’t I?”

Jack smiled for real then. “You’ve always been the smarter one.”

You rolled your eyes. “But you’re the one who’s going to end up wrapped around her finger.”

He kissed your temple. “That part was inevitable.”

WEEK 25

Jack convinced you to finally start looking at houses.

You’d been reluctant—emotionally attached to the place you’d built your early marriage in, skeptical about change when everything in your life already felt like it was shifting—but Jack had waited. Quietly. Patiently.

And then one morning, while you were brushing your teeth, he leaned in behind you, kissed your shoulder, and said, “You deserve a bigger closet.”

That was how it started.

Now, you were standing in a half-empty living room with sun pouring through tall windows and a sold sign posted out front.

Jack had just gotten off the phone with your realtor. “It’s official,” he said, sliding his phone into his back pocket. “Inspection cleared. We close in three weeks.”

You blinked. “We really bought a house.”

He walked over, wrapped his arms around your waist from behind, rested his chin on your shoulder. “Correction: we bought your dream closet.”

You laughed. “You think you’re funny.”

“I know I am. Also, there’s a window bench in the nursery. You don’t even have to try to make it Pinterest-worthy.”

You leaned into him, eyes scanning the bare walls. “I can already picture her here.”

Jack pressed a kiss to your neck. “I already do. I see her trying to climb that windowsill. Leaving fingerprints on every square inch of the fridge. Falling asleep on the stairs with a book she couldn’t finish.”

Your throat tightened.

You turned in his arms. “You really love it?”

He looked at you seriously. “I love what it gives you. I love that it lets you breathe. And yeah—I love that it’s ours.”

Later that night, back in your current house, you sat on the floor with your laptop open, scrolling through registry links and bookmarking soft pink paint samples. Jack handed you a cup of tea, then lowered himself on the couch beside you with a quiet grunt.

“Is it weird that I already want to be moved?” you asked.

He shook his head. “No. It’s called nesting. I read about it in that chapter you skipped.”

You shot him a look. “You’re the worst.”

“I’m the one folding swaddles while you build spreadsheets. This is our love language.”

You leaned into him, content. “Yeah. I guess it is.”

WEEK 27

You’d been on your feet all day—organizing documents, boxing up odds and ends, making lists of what needed to be moved and what could be donated. Jack told you to slow down three separate times, each time gentler than the last.

But now, at 8:43 p.m., you were barefoot in the kitchen, half bent over a drawer of mismatched utensils, when he walked in, tossed a dish towel on the counter, and said, “Okay. That’s it.”

You looked up. “What?”

Jack didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t have to. He crossed the room, took the spatula from your hand, and gently nudged you toward a chair. “Sit. Let me take over.”

You blinked at him. “I’m fine.”

“You’re stubborn.”

You folded your arms. “Same thing.”

Jack crouched in front of you, resting his forearms on your knees. “You’ve done enough today. Let me be the husband who makes you sit down and drink something cold while I finish sorting forks from tongs.”

You softened, your fingers drifting to his hair. “I know you’re right. I just feel useless when I’m not doing something.”

“You’re 27 weeks pregnant,” Jack said, voice warm. “You made a person and folded three boxes of bath towels. That’s two more miracles than anyone else managed today.”

You exhaled and leaned back.

Later, when you were curled on the couch with a glass of iced water and your feet propped on a pillow, Jack settled next to you and tugged a blanket over both of you.

“House is gonna feel real soon,” he said.

You nodded. “She’s going to be born there.”

Jack’s arm slid around your shoulders. “We’ll bring her home to that nursery. Hang that weird mobile you picked that I still don’t understand.”

“You said it was ‘avant-garde.’”

“I was being polite.”

You smiled, tired and full. “We’re really doing it, huh?”

“We are.”

You rested your head on his chest. Jack’s hand drifted instinctively to your belly, and stayed there.

“Hey,” you said after a minute. “Thanks for making me sit.”

Jack kissed the top of your head. “Thanks for letting me.”

WEEK 30

You caught him standing in the doorway of the nursery around 9:00 p.m., arms folded, shoulder braced against the frame like he was keeping watch.

The room was nearly done. Diapers in bins. Chair assembled. Books on shelves. But Jack wasn’t looking at any of that. He was staring at the window, like he was imagining the light that would come through it in the early mornings.

You leaned against the opposite side of the doorway, watching him.

“What’s going on in that head?” you asked.

He glanced over at you. “Just thinking.”

“Dangerous.”

Jack cracked half a smile but didn’t move. “I keep picturing her. Not just baby-her. Grown-up her.”

You walked toward him. “What version?”

He tilted his head. “Seventeen. Wants to borrow the car. Has someone texting her who I probably don’t like.”

You laughed. “You’re already dreading a boyfriend?”

“I’m already dreading anyone who gets to be in her world without knowing what it cost us to build it.”

That stopped you.

Jack finally looked at you then—really looked. “She’s not even born yet and I already know I’d lay down in traffic for her. And I know how fast people can break things they don’t understand.”

You rested your hands on his chest. “You’re not going to be scary.”

Jack raised an eyebrow.

“Well. You’ll look scary. Army vet. ER attending. Perpetual scowl. Built like you bench-press refrigerators for fun.”

He snorted. “Thanks.”

“But you’ll love her in a way no one will mistake for anything but devotion.”

Jack leaned down, pressed his forehead to yours.

“I’m not good at soft,” he murmured.

“You’re good at us,” you whispered. “That’s all she’ll need.”

He pulled you into his arms then, one hand resting flat against the curve of your belly. “She’s gonna hate me when I make her come home early.”

“She’s gonna roll her eyes when you insist on meeting everyone she ever texts.”

Jack grinned. “Damn right.”

You laughed into his shirt. “You’re so screwed.”

“I know.”

But he held you a little tighter. Didn’t say anything else. Just stood there in the dim nursery, one arm wrapped around the two of you, as if holding his whole world in place.

WEEK 32

You’d read the pregnancy forums. The blog posts. The articles with vaguely medical sources claiming the third trimester came with a spike in libido. You thought you’d be too sore, too tired. Too preoccupied.

What you hadn’t expected was the absolute onslaught.

It was like your body had one setting: Jack. Crave him. Need him. Get him here, now, fast.

He’d just gotten home from a late shift, dropped his keys in the bowl by the front door, and disappeared into the shower while you laid in bed attempting to not whine out loud. That resolve lasted six minutes.

When he walked into the bedroom, towel low around his hips, water dripping down his chest, you didn’t even mean to say it:

“I’m gonna die.”

Jack froze.

He crossed the room in seconds. “What is it? Where’s the pain?”

You were already on your back, one hand pressed to your belly, the other covering your eyes.

“Not pain,” you groaned. “Just hormones. God, Jack—this is insane.”

He crouched beside you. “You need to describe what’s happening.”

You peeked at him from under your hand. “I need you. I need you.”

Jack stilled. Blinked. Then dropped his forehead to your shoulder with a long exhale.

“Christ. You scared the hell out of me.”

“I’m sorry,” you mumbled, laughing into your wrist. “I just—I’m desperate. I thought it would go away. It’s not going away.”

He lifted his head. Smiled. “Desperate, huh?”

“You’re not helping.”

“I think I am.”

Jack kissed your temple, then your cheek, then hovered over your lips. “You sure you’re good?”

You reached for him. “No. I’m feral.”

He didn’t waste another second.

What followed wasn’t frantic—it was focused. Jack stripped you with efficiency and reverence, lips brushing every newly sensitive part of you. Your belly. Your hips. Your breasts. He murmured to you the whole time—gentle things, grounding things.

“You’re beautiful like this,” he said, kissing the swell of your stomach. “You’ve been patient. Let me take care of you.”

“Please,” you whispered. “I feel insane.”

“I know. I’ve got you.”

He slid inside you slow, controlled, the way he always did when he wanted to make it last. But tonight, there was something more behind it—urgency without rush, intention without pressure.

You clawed at his shoulders, moaning into his neck. “Jack, Jack—”

“Right here.”

“I missed you today.”

“I missed you too. I always do.”

You wrapped your arms around his neck, legs tightening around his waist. The angle shifted, and everything inside you splintered.

“Oh—God—don’t stop—”

Jack groaned, teeth catching your jawline. “You feel so good, sweetheart. So damn good.”

He guided you through it, one hand braced behind your head, the other cradling your hip like you’d break without it. When you came, it was with his name on your lips and tears at the corners of your eyes.

He followed seconds later, low and deep and steady, body shaking over yours.

Afterward, he didn’t move. Just curled around you, one arm anchored under your shoulders, the other stroking your belly in long, soothing sweeps.

“Still dying?” he asked eventually.

You huffed a laugh. “Little bit.”

Jack smiled into your shoulder. “Guess I’ll keep checking your vitals.”

He pulled back just enough to kiss your chest, then your stomach, whispering something you couldn’t hear but felt down to your bones.

When you shifted against him, needy again already, he looked up with a low laugh. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Jack,” you breathed, “I’m not done.”

And Jack—predictable, capable, ready-for-anything Jack—just grinned.

“I never am with you.”

The second round was slower. Deeper. You rode his thigh first, panting against his neck, clinging to his shoulders while he whispered filth in your ear—soft, low things no one else would ever hear from him. He touched you like he already knew exactly what you’d need next week, next month, next year.

And when you collapsed against him again, trembling and sore and finally, finally full in every sense of the word—he kissed your forehead and said, “You’re everything.”

“I love you,” you whispered.

Jack tucked your hair behind your ear and kissed your cheek.

“Good,” he murmured. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”

WEEK 35

The third trimester had turned your body into a full-time performance art piece. You were a living exhibit on discomfort, hydration, Braxton Hicks, and the high-stakes negotiation of shoe-tying. You’d stopped fighting the afternoon naps, started rotating three stretchy outfits on a loop, and made peace with the fact that gravity was no longer your friend.

Jack had adjusted too.

Without comment, he now drove you to every appointment. Without asking, he refilled your water before bed. Without blinking, he gave up half his side of the bathroom counter for the ever-expanding line of belly oils, cooling balms, and half-used jars of snacks.

But tonight?

Tonight he came home to find you crying at the kitchen table over a broken zipper on the diaper bag.

“Sweetheart.”

You looked up, cheeks blotchy. “It broke. It broke, Jack. And it was the only one I liked.”

“Hey, hey—breathe.”

You sniffled. “It had compartments. It had mesh.”

Jack took the bag gently from your hands, and examined the zipper like it was a patient in trauma.

“Looks jammed,” he said. “Not broken.”

You stared at him. “You don’t know that.”

He looked up. “I do.”

He walked over to the toolbox without fanfare, and returned two minutes later with a small pair of pliers. Thirty seconds after that, the zipper slid closed like nothing had happened.

You burst into tears again.

Jack set the bag down and pulled you into his arms. “Hormones?”

You nodded into his chest. “I love you so much.”

He smiled against your hair. “You want to take a bath?”

You sniffed. “Will you sit on the floor with me?”

“I’ll bring the towel and everything.”

Which is how twenty minutes later you were in the tub, steam curling around the mirror, your swollen belly just breaching the surface, while Jack sat on the floor, reading your baby book aloud like it was scripture.

“She’s the size of a honeydew,” he said, tapping the page. “Still gaining half a pound a week. Lungs developing. Rapid brain growth.”

You hummed. “She’s been moving a lot today.”

He smiled, reached over, and rested a palm over your belly. “She likes the sound of your voice.”

“She likes pizza. She tolerates me.”

Jack leaned over and kissed your temple. “She already loves you.”

You sighed, settling deeper into the water. “She’s going to love you more.”

Jack’s voice went quiet. “That’s not possible.”

You looked over.

He was watching you like he was memorizing the moment. Like he knew it wouldn’t last forever and wanted to hold every second of it.

“She’s got the best of you already,” he murmured.

You shook your head. “You’re the one who’s been steady through everything. She’s gonna know that.”

He kissed your hand. “She’s gonna know we did it together.”

And you believed him.

Even through the tears, the discomfort, the slow shuffle from couch to fridge to bed—you believed him.

WEEK 36

Jack came home with a basket.

Not from the store. Not from a delivery service. From the hospital. Carried under one arm like it was made of glass.

You were on the couch, half-watching a cooking show, half-rubbing the spot where the baby had been kicking for the last ten minutes straight. Jack came in, dropped his keys, and didn’t say anything at first.

He just set the basket on the coffee table and said, “Robby made me promise I wouldn’t forget to give this to you tonight.”

You blinked. “What?”

Jack gestured toward it. “It’s from the ER.”

Inside: a soft blanket. A framed photo of the team crowded around a whiteboard that read “Baby Abbot ETA: T-minus 4 weeks.” A pair of hand-knitted booties labeled “Perlah Originals.” A stack of index cards, each one handwritten—Dana’s in looping cursive, Collins’s in all caps, Princess’s with hearts dotting the i’s. Robby’s simply read: Your kid already has better taste in music than Jack. Congrats.

You turned one of the index cards over, reading Dana’s note about how you were going to be the kind of mom who made her daughter feel safe and loved in the same breath.

“I didn’t know they even noticed me,” you whispered.

Jack rubbed slow circles against your bump. “They notice what matters to me.”

You looked at him.

He shrugged. “You’re my wife. You’re not just around. You’re part of everything.”

The baby kicked again. Hard enough to make you gasp.

Jack smiled, leaned in, and kissed the place she’d just moved. “She agrees.”

WEEK 38

You’d read about nesting, but you thought it would look more like baking muffins at midnight—not following Jack from room to room like his gravitational pull physically outweighed yours.

He didn’t seem to mind. He’d brush his hand down your back every time you passed, help you off the couch like you were recovering from surgery, and kiss your temple every time he walked by.

By Thursday, the baby bag was packed and parked by the front door. You’d zipped it, unzipped it, and re-packed it twice just to check. And when Jack got home that evening, he nodded at it, then set something down beside it with a quiet thunk.

You glanced over. “What’s that?”

“My go-bag,” he said simply.

You raised an eyebrow.

Jack nudged it with the toe of his boot. “Army-issued. Carried this thing through two deployments and six different states. Thought it’d be fitting to bring it into the delivery room.”

You blinked. “You packed already?”

He nodded, unzipped the top, and tilted the bag open for you to see: a clean shirt, a hand towel, a toothbrush, a few protein bars, and a worn, dog-eared paperback you recognized instantly.

“That one?” you said, surprised. “You always said you hated it.”

“I did,” he admitted, zipping the bag shut again. “But it’s your favorite. I read your notes in the margins when I miss you on long shifts.”

You crossed the room and leaned into him. “You’re something else.”

WEEK 40

You woke up at 2:57 a.m. with a tight, rolling wave of pressure low in your spine. It wrapped around your middle like a band and didn’t let go.

Jack was already shifting beside you. Years in the Army meant he didn’t sleep deeply—not when he was home, not when you were pregnant.

“You okay?” he asked, groggy but alert.

You exhaled shakily. “It’s time.”

He sat up immediately. “How far apart?”

“Six minutes.”

“Let’s move.”

By the time you got in the car, the contractions were coming faster—steadier. Jack didn’t speed, but he gripped the steering wheel like the world depended on it.

You were wheeled in through the ER doors—because of course you were going into labor at the hospital where Jack worked. Princess met you at triage with a knowing smile.

“She’s in three,” Princess said. “Perlah’s setting it up now.”

You were halfway into the room when Jack froze.

He turned to Collins at the desk. “Patel?”

“Stuck behind a pileup on 376,” Collins said. “She’s trying to reroute.”

Jack muttered something under his breath and scanned the monitors. “Where’s Robby?”

“Down in trauma. He’s finishing up a round.”

Jack didn’t wait. He left you in Princess’s care and went straight for the trauma bay.

Robby was wiping his hands on a towel when Jack stepped in. Hoodie half-zipped. Scrubs wrinkled. Wide awake.

“She’s in labor?”

“She’s in active labor,” Jack said. “And Patel’s not gonna make it, but—”

“You want me in the room,” Robby finished.

“I need you in the room.”

Robby dropped the towel. “Done.”

When Robby stepped into your room, you exhaled like someone had lifted a weight off your chest.

“Hey, doc,” you muttered through a contraction.

“You’re in good hands,” Robby said, glancing between you and Jack. “You’ve got half the ER out there whispering about it.”

“Tell them if they bring me chocolate, they can stay,” you joked.

Perlah dimmed the lights. Princess wiped sweat from your forehead. Robby took your vitals himself and kept your eyes steady with his.

Hours blurred together. Jack never left your side.

“You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

“You’re doing perfect.”

“She’s almost here.”

Then everything started to move faster. Robby gave a nod to Princess and Perlah.

“One more push,” he said. “You’ve got this.”

Jack leaned close, his forehead against yours. “Come on, sweetheart. Right here. You’ve got her.”

And then—

A cry. Loud. Full. Brand new.

“She’s here,” Robby said quietly.

Jack didn’t move at first. Just watched. His eyes were wet. His hand covered his mouth.

Princess handed her to you, swaddled and squirming. Jack kissed your forehead and brushed a tear off your cheek.

“She’s perfect,” he whispered. “You did it.”

Later, after they’d cleaned up and the room was quiet, you watched Jack walk over to the bassinet. He held up a camouflage onesie.

“Oh my God,” you said. “Seriously?”

He looked over, completely straight-faced. “This is important.”

“You’re impossible.”

He kissed you once, then again. And held her like he’d waited his whole life.

No Man's Land

Jack Abbot x f!Reader

5.1k || All my content is 18+ MDNI || C.W.: mentions of blood, mentions of guns and shootings, mentions of death/dying/coding, CPR, anxiety about partner's safety, Jack's traumatized, reader's traumatized, mentions of dissociation and compartmentalization, poor description of medical events, potentially incorrect medical descriptions/knowledge, very very light smut, angst, age gap kind of implied with Jack but not explicitly referenced, no use of y/n or related, not proofread, no beta, I think that's all but if I missed any please (nicely) let me know.

Summary: This is my Pitt-Fest-But-Not fic. Development of your relationship through vignettes of the past and conversations between Jack, Dana and Robby. There's a shooting where you work. Jack is at the ED when the dispatch comes in and is terrified when he can't get in touch with you.

A.N.: If my Robby reads like John Carter I'm sorry, except that a little bit I'm not. I feel like I'm struggling with my Jack characterization but can't tell if that's just me hating everything I do. This is my take on one of my fave tropes where reader is in mortal danger. I needed a physical location that could be associated with reader and settled on a courthouse, but what it is reader does there is not described. Probably (definitely?) needs a part two. If you get the nickname, thank you, I feel seen. If you don't I explain it at the end. This is absolutely something I would call him, in part to fuck with people who know his real name. I would love to know if you enjoyed and to hear any thoughts you'd like to share.

“He has a girlfriend,” Robby smirks at Dana. 

She blinks at him. “I’m sorry, I thought we’re talking about Jack Abbot.”

“Oh we fucking are.” Robby stifles his smirk and forces his lips to remain closed and as neutral as possible. 

“You’re shitting me.” Dana’s incredulous look breaks Robby a bit and he starts to laugh, tries to turn it into a cough when both he and Dana look up to find Jack staring at them as he takes his snow dusted beanie off. He gives Robby a ‘really?’ look even though he knew Robby would rat him out to Dana the second Robby had dragged it out of him. 

Dana looks back at Robby. “Who? How did they meet?”

Robby holds up his hands. “You now officially know as much as I do about her.” Dana makes a noise of vague discontent but knows Jack well enough to know Robby is telling the truth. That’s all that’s been revealed. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“It’s not worth it,” you whisper. Jack blinks and looks around, unsure if you’re talking to him. He has no idea who you are, has never seen you before in his life but it appears that you are in fact whispering to him in the middle of this bookstore. 

He raises his eyebrows. “It’s not?”

You shake your head, give him an almost conspiratorial smile. “No, he must have gotten a new ghost writer. It’s really bad in comparison to his other stuff. Save your time and money. I’ll give you a summary right now for free if you’re that curious.”

Jack smiles to himself a little bit as he sets the book back on the shelf. There’s something about you, your smile, the way you just randomly spoke to him. He’s drawn to you. An alarm goes off in some part of his brain telling him to ignore it, ignore you, he could get hurt. He pretends to weigh his options as he turns to face you fully. “How about for a cup of coffee?”

Your brows furrow in confusion for a moment. There’s simply no way this unfairly attractive man is asking to buy you a cup of coffee. “The summary?” You clarify. “That I’d give for free. You want it to cost a cup of coffee instead?” You let out a nervous laugh and some part of his heart aches because you’re so adorable. “I just want to make sure I understand before I potentially make an even bigger fool of myself.” 

“Yep.” He can’t help but laugh a little. “You give me the summary over coffee. Actually, you know what? You’re going to have to give me a recommendation too because now I’m going to have nothing to read.” He clicks his tongue at you. 

“Well,” you laugh out, all breathy as you try to pull yourself together. “You drive a hard bargain but I think I’m willing to accept those terms…” you glance at his name badge, “Dr. Abbot.” You give him a full smile and Jack knows then and there he’s totally fucked in the best of ways. 

“Jack.” He smiles at you as you both begin walking towards the café. “Call me Jack.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Everything quiet enough after handoff, Robby walks out with Jack into the morning sun that does little to warm the breeze pulling leaves off the trees. “Any chance you can cover a shift on Saturday night?” Robby is asking, yes, but he knows it’s not really a question, Jack is always willing to work.

“Can’t.” Jack says simply, shrugging his shoulders. “Sorry.” There’s an expectant silence that hangs between the two as they keep walking.

“Care to elaborate?” Robby finally asks.

“No.” Jack turns and smirks at him. “It’s none of your and Dana’s business.”

“Ha!” Robby laughs. “So it’s her, it’s about her! The ever elusive girlfriend. Will we ever get to meet her? Or does she not want to meet us? Is she real?” Jack stops walking and gives Robby one of his looks. “Holy shit, is it someone here?”

Jack snorts at that. “No it’s not someone here. She’s not even in the medical field.” He sighs, half longing and half resignation of some kind. “She’s honestly dying to meet you guys, especially you and Dana, but I’m trying to protect her from this hellhole. It’s hard with schedules too, to find a time.”

“That’s such fucking bullshit,” Robby laughs. “Are you afraid to truly commit? Think bringing her here will make it too real?” 

It’s a valid question but one that Jack nevertheless resents. “No, actually, if you must fucking know Saturday is our one year anniversary. We have plans. So you’ll have to find someone else to cover. But I’ll bring her around soon,” he laughs through his nose to himself at your stubbornness, “if I don’t she’s liable to just show up one of-”

“A year?” Robby laughs, incredulous. “A fucking year? How the hell did you hide it for three months before I dragged it out of you?”

Jack ignores him. “Also, I’m moving to days. It’s better for us.” He’s so nonchalant about it, just states it like he’s saying the sky is blue, like it’s not going to make Robby’s eyes widen and mouth drop open like it does.

“I don’t,” Robby huffs a laugh, “I don’t even know where to fucking begin.”

“Then don’t.” Jack smirks, starts to walk again while Robby stays frozen, running a hand through his hair. “Go do some actual work.”

“I thought you found comfort in the darkness?” Robby yells after him. 

Jack slows and turns around but keeps walking backwards, one hand holding the strap of his backpack to keep it over his shoulder. He glances down at his phone and the photo of you that is now his wallpaper. He smiles to himself a little, yells back. “Guess I find it somewhere else now.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You giggle, honest to god giggle and Jack could lose his damn mind as he nibbles at your collarbone. “You know if my anatomy class had been this fun, I might have become a doctor too.” 

You’re laying on your back in bed as Jack kisses your sweat slicked skin all over as you both come down from your last round. He’s taken to 'teaching you anatomy' like this, identifying different parts of the human body with his mouth.

“Hmm,” Jack hums against you. “I’m glad it wasn’t then. Fuck doctors.” He starts to kiss down your chest. 

“That has become quite the favorite pastime of mine, yes,” you smirk. “Fucking one specific doctor, actually.” 

“Getting fucked by one specific doctor more like it,” he murmurs into your sternum. He kisses laterally, lips hitting your breast and moving towards your nipple. 

“I think we’ve established what those are,” you moan softly as he takes your nipple into his mouth. You let your hands run through his salt and pepper curls that you adore so much. 

“Can never be too thorough.” You giggle at him again and can feel him smile against you. “But fine, you want something new?” You nod, let your nails scratch gently at his scalp. 

“Nipple,” he kisses your nipple and then down your torso to right above your belly button, “to navel is no man’s land.” He continues to lavish kisses on the soft skin of your stomach before looking up at you when you don’t respond. 

“I can’t tell if you’re fucking with me or not.” You eye him with mock suspicion. 

He laughs and it’s your favorite sound in the whole world, you swear. Well maybe second, only behind hearing him tell you that he loves you. 

“I’m not. Nipple to navel is no man’s land. It’s a real thing. It’s one of the worst places to get shot or stabbed because there’s so many organs that could be hit and the place we’d expect to get hit would depend on whether the person was breathing in or out at the time, whether their lungs were inflated or deflated. And we generally have no way of knowing. It can be difficult to get clear imaging.” He starts kissing lower, down below your belly button, rubbing his stubble along your skin to tease you as he gets lower and lower. “It’s never a good time. Lots of poor outcomes.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It’s supposed to be his day off and yet Jack finds himself staring at the board and running a hand over his face. “It’s still so fucking weird seeing you here during the day and it not meaning something catastrophic has happened.” 

Jack turns to look at Dana. “I’ve been working days for a month now and it’s my day off.”

“You can go, we’re fine for now,” Robby nods at Jack. “Thanks for the brief assistance brother.”

“No, no,” Dana interjects, “he’s not allowed to leave until we nail down a time to meet his girl.” 

Robby raises his eyebrows and starts to tilt his head and open his mouth to agree with Dana. A dispatch comes through before anyone can say anything else and Dana grabs it, pinning Jack down with her eyes, daring him to leave before discussing meeting you. 

“Saved by the bell,” Jack huffs, taking his stethoscope off and starting to walk away. 

“Shooting at a courthouse,” Dana relays to Robby, “not a mass cas, just a few people, two a little iffy, one they’re already doing CPR on, a few caught in the race to get out. Two dead on the scene.”

It takes a few seconds for Dana’s words to truly register with Jack, but when they do his hearing fades to only a sharp ringing in his ear. This wasn’t happening. This wasn’t fucking happening to him again. He’d been so reticent at the beginning of your relationship, waited so long to give in and define it and hand his heart over to you, terrified he’d lose you because of himself and who he was, his imperfections, his past, his trauma, his PTSD, his baggage, as he thought of it. He feels so stupid now, in the moment, not having worried about how he could lose you from a random act of violence, that in the moments he can’t be there to protect you somebody could come in and rip you from him. Just like that. With the pull of a trigger. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“You know, I can confidently say this is the most unique date I’ve ever been on,” you tease Jack. 

“Hey,” he pants, “me teaching you CPR is a great date.” 

“It would be better if you took your shirt off,” you whisper and wink at him before letting your eyes linger on his arm. 

“If I did that you’d be so distracted you’d learn nothing,” he smirks at you, sweat glistening on his skin just a little. Just enough to drive you nearly feral for him. 

 “I think I’ve got the compressions part down, but I may need more help learning the mouth to mouth part.”

He rolls his eyes at you. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You fucking love it,” you shoot back at him, leaning into his space and bumping him with your shoulder. 

He can’t help but kiss you. “Yes,” the word is muffled against your lips, “yes I do.” He gives you a firmer kiss this time before he pulls away. “But really. You should know how to do it, just in case. It will help you feel in control in the moment if the need for it ever arises. You’ll know what to do.”

You bite your lip and smile at him. 

“What?” He eyes you with suspicion. 

You shrug. “Nothing, I just love you so much. Sometimes it overwhelms me, how much I love you.”

He can see it in your eyes, how much you love him, can almost feel it physically squeezing him like a tight hug. He’s really not sure what he ever did to deserve you or your love. “I love you too, Doll.”

“I love you more, Peter.” Your face pulls up into that usual self-satisfied and silly grin you get sometimes when you call him that nickname. It’s a recent thing. You’re calling him it more and more though, it’s becoming a natural way of referring to him. From anyone else he would hate it, hearing it between another couple would make him roll his eyes. But from you? He loves it more than you’ll ever truly know. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Jack spins around.

“Jack you can still go, we’ve got it covered.” Robby looks at Jack for a minute and then meets Dana’s eyes as she looks to him after taking her own look at Jack. 

“What courthouse?” Jack asks. It’s quiet, controlled and clipped and almost missable in the chaos of the ED. He’s not looking at either of them, staring past them at a wall with a chest heaving more and more by the second as his face grows paler. 

He tries to keep it together. Dana will say the name and it won’t be your courthouse and he’ll go straight to your actual courthouse, grab you, take you home and never let you leave. A perfectly reasonable reaction, he thinks.

“Jack-”

“What fucking courthouse?” It’s louder this time, almost enough to pause the chaos of the ED. 

Jack’s voice drips with what sounds like rage to most of those who hear him but is unmistakably fear to Dana and Robby. 

Neither of them have ever seen Jack like this, this scared, struggling this hard to keep it together, truly raising his voice for anything other than to quiet down an unruly patient. His eyes find Dana’s and they’re glassier than she’s ever seen them, the intensity of his gaze making it painfully clear he’s hanging on every word and the wrong ones will shatter him. 

She swallows and opens her mouth and Jack knows what she’s about to say before she even says it. And she does. The name of your courthouse. 

“I’ll triage.” He says it before Dana has even finished, the words hollow and breathless and commanding all at once. He spins and starts off to the bay doors with nothing more. He obviously knows from the report Dana gave that they won’t need triage. He just needed to get out of there and try to create an excuse to stay in the ambulance bay. He knows Robby won’t let him, that Robby and Dana already know you’re at that courthouse, could be a victim. 

Robby and Dana share another look, So you work at a courthouse. This courthouse. “Fuck,” Dana mutters, “I really hope we don’t end up meeting her today.”

Jack’s hand dives in his pocket as he strides to the ambulance bay. He already knows in his heart that there’s not going to be a text from you saying that you’re okay. He hasn’t felt his phone buzz. He never even kept his phone on him until you. 

Even though he knew he wouldn’t have any messages, waking his phone and seeing none hits him like a freight train all the same, right in the chest. It threatens to bring him to his knees, make him sick, but he can’t. He sets it all aside. If you do come out of one of the ambulances he can hear in the distance you’re going to need him at his best. But what if you’re one of the two people dead at the scene? He has to shove that out of his mind too, can’t give into the complete panic that threatens to consume him. 

Disassociate. Compartmentalize. Do the job. ABC. Assess. Stabilize. Repeat.

His fingers fly across his phone automatically, calling you having become so routine. He prefers it so much to texting, hearing your voice, communicating more directly. “Call me,” he starts, “the second you get this message. Or fucking text me,” his voice breaks, “please. Fucking please.” He hangs up and calls again, knowing he’ll get your voicemail again but trying anyway because it’s all he can do. 

He’s helpless, powerless, he can’t do anything to try and save you and that threatens to swallow him whole. 

Your voicemail recording telling people to leave a message plays again and all Jack can wonder is if this is all he’ll have left of your voice in his life. Your voice on your mailbox, maybe some voicemails you’ve left him, videos, voice memos you’ve sent. All distorted by recording, not your real voice. He can’t remember what your real voice sounds like all of the sudden. What your laugh sounds like, how you sound when you’re sleepy or in the throes of pleasure or telling him you love him. God, did he even tell you he loved you the last time he saw you, when he said goodbye? 

“I need you to call me,” he says into the phone again, pauses. “I love you.” He takes a ragged breath in and speaks through his teeth. “I love you so fucking much, so you have to be okay and you have to fucking call me.”

He sends a series of texts asking you to call him or text him or call the hospital or do anything to let him know you’re okay, asking if you are okay, asking where you are as though you’re going to respond. He already knows you’re in the back of one of those ambulances because of fucking course you are, because he’s not allowed to have anything good in his life apparently. How could he be so stupid to think differently?  

“Hey, we don’t need triage for this. The numbers are controlled.” Robby walks out to stand next to Jack in the ambulance bay. “If you want to stay you can, but you can’t wait out here to see who shows up, you have to-”

“Yeah, yeah, jump on the first patient that pulls up, I know, I got it,” he interrupts Robby. 

There’s a silence as Robby passes him a gown and ties for him before he does the same for Robby. 

“Jack, if she’s in one you cannot-”

“Like fuck I can’t.” It’s just a statement. Cool and collected and a projection of indifference. It scares Robby more than if Jack had yelled. 

“No, actually brother, you can’t. I’m telling you right now. You’re not working on her. We don’t work on family, on significant others, and you would tell me the exact same thing. It’s too risky, you’ll be too clouded.” Robby watches Jack’s jaw clench and roll as he stares out at the street. 

He wants to argue that of course he’ll be clear, he’ll be focusing on saving you, he’ll have never been so clear in his life. But part of him knows that seeing you like that on his trauma table, your blood all over the table and him and his hands might make him freeze.

“Fine.” Jack whispers. “But if she’s,” Jack has to pause and take a shuddery breath. “If she’s gone or really going and it’s inevitable you have to let me in. You have to let me try to save her. You have to let me code her, Michael.”

He can taste the rising bile in his throat just at having to talk about coding you.

The first ambulance pulls up before Robby can respond and Jack’s on it so fast Robby’s surprised Jack doesn’t get smacked in the face by the door opening. 

It’s not you. It’s someone who is very much not you and is clearly one of the iffy ones. 

Disassociate. Compartmentalize. Do the job. ABC. Assess. Stabilize. Repeat.

Jack forces himself to go emotionally numb as he listens to the paramedic rattle off vitals and history, trying so very hard to focus on this, something he can do, even if it’s not for you. By the time they hit trauma one Jack’s fine and in full swing, running it like he would any other trauma. Nobody on the team in the room with him suspects anything is amiss.  

He hates the way he can’t see the other’s who come in, that he has to stay with this patient until they’re stable and can’t go looking for you. He chastises himself for not having brought you here before or at least having you meet Dana and Robby. They don’t even know what you look like, couldn’t identify you.

“Jack!” He glances at Dana who stands at the door as he preps for the chest tube. “What’s her name?”

He yells your name at her, impassive and stoic as he reaches for the scalpel, ignoring the looks everyone throws each other at the slightest tremor in his voice.

“I’ll look for her.” Dana promises. He doesn’t respond. He can’t. He’ll fall apart. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The restaurant you’re at has to be the fanciest place you’ve ever been to. It’s the hottest place in the city and you have no idea how Jack snagged reservations here for dinner to finish out celebrating your one year anniversary. 

The lighting and low hum of other patrons talking to each other and glasses and silverware and plates tinkling is cinematic. You feel like the main character. But then that’s always how Jack makes you feel. 

“I got you something.” He pulls out a wrapped rectangular object. 

You click your tongue and tsk at him. “We said we’d do them at home! I didn’t bring yours!”

“I know. I have something for you at home too.” His eyes sparkle in the flickering candle light, a little smirk pulling up. “I didn’t mean for it to be a double entendre, but both are true.” You snort a laugh at him and take the gift from him. “Open it.” He’s still smiling, eyes still sparkling,  but there’s something there. He’s nervous. It makes you even more curious. 

You carefully unwrap the object until it reveals itself as a hardcover book. That same one Jack had in his hand a year ago and that you told him was bad and gave him a summary of over coffee. 

“Oh, Jack,” you say softly, eyes getting a little watery. It’s so perfect. So sweet and sentimental. The book that brought you together, that gave you each other. It’s almost like a physical representation of the foundation of your relationship in a way. 

“You have to open it,” he instructs you in a whisper.

You raise an eyebrow but do as he says. 

‘Move in with me?’ is written on the blank first page. 

You look between the page and Jack. “Is this?” You look back at the page and then up at him again. “Are you really asking…?”

He nods. “Move in with me. Or move somewhere with me, we can get our own place, it doesn’t have to be my apartment. We basically live together anyway at this point. Let’s just make it official, yeah? Wherever you want, you can decorate however you want. Just as long as it’s our place.”

You bring a hand to your mouth for a second before using your napkin to dab at the inner corners of your eyes to stop the tears from falling and look back at him. 

“You’re a romantic, Jack Abbot,” you hum all dreamily. 

“You better not tell anyone. Can’t have you ruining my street cred.” He smirks, but his expression and the way he fidgets show he’s still anxious. “So?”

You realize then you never actually answered him. Sniffling a little laugh and letting a few tears fall you give him his answer, voice thick and full of emotion. “Yeah, I think I’m willing to accept those terms. I’d love to move in with you… Peter.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He hears you counting to yourself before he sees you. “One, two…”

It’s not loud, just said in a normal voice, softer if anything because of how you’re panting, but Jack is so on edge and so desperate to find you he’d subconsciously been listening closely to his surroundings, military training kicking in. His head snaps to you and he doesn’t even know what to think when he sees you being rolled in on top of a gurney, performing CPR that would rival the quality of his own. 

“Why is she..?” He hears Robby question the paramedic as you roll in. 

“She was performing them just as well as we could and it was better to just scoop and run,” the paramedic explains. “She must have had one hell of an instructor.”

“Peter!” You yell, without looking up, not sure if he’s still here. You’re so used to it by now that the nickname is just what comes out of your mouth as you look for him. He’d texted you to let you know he was going in for a bit.  

Jack could sob and the entire team in the room with him can feel a crushing tension shatter. Maybe he does get a little teary just from the sheer relief. He tells himself it’s sweat in his eyes.

“Yeah Doll?” He yells back, not giving a fuck about everyone hearing him call you Doll, and you calling him Peter, knowing full well he’s going to have so much explaining to do about this entire situation, the confusion in the room palpable. 

“I’m okay!” This time he does laugh to himself. 

“Yeah I’d say so,” he mutters, smiling. He’s still anxious to see you, get his own eyes on you, feel you with his own hands. 

It’s only about thirty more seconds before his patient is stable enough and he can rip his gloves and gown off and start putting fresh gloves on as he walks into the trauma room you’d been wheeled into. Normally he’d yell out for someone to talk to him or ask what they’ve got but not this time. This time he doesn’t even care about who’s on the table, only the person who came off it. Only you. 

You’re standing to the side now, watching Robby and the rest of the team work, impassive as pink tears stream down your face from the dried blood on it. You’re just so fucking overwhelmed by everything and now that you’re not doing CPR everything that’s happened is hitting you at once. 

Jack says your name as he moves to you, needs his hands on you. 

“Are you hurt? Were you hit?” He rushes out. His voice brings you back and you look up at him with wide, terrified eyes. He goes to look you over but you latch onto him, hugging him tightly, shaking a bit. 

“I’m fine, I’m okay, I’m, I’m sorry,” you start to rattle off, fisting at his scrub top and clinging to him like he’s the only thing keeping you tethered to reality. In the moment he might just be. 

He hugs you back just as hard, kisses the top of your head. He doesn’t care who sees right now, all he cares about is you. “It’s okay, you have nothing to apologize for. I’m just so fucking glad you’re okay. I thought… I thought you were…” He doesn’t have to finish, you know what he means. “I can’t fucking lose you. I love you way the fuck too much.”

You’ve been so wrapped up in each other neither of you have noticed that Robby’s patient, the one you were doing CPR on, has started to code again. “Abbot, need you here!”

You let him go, nod at him. “Go on,” you whisper, “I’ll be right here. I’m okay. I love you more.” Jack nods at you and walks over, jumping in and assisting Robby.

It’s once you’re out of Jack’s arms, away from his warm body and more grounded in reality that you notice how cold you are, how you’re swaying because he was supporting you far more than you realized, how lightheaded you are, how your abdomen and chest really fucking hurt. You chalk it up to the adrenaline wearing off and being sore from the chest compressions you just did. 

On the other side of the room an instrument tray gets knocked over, metal hitting the floor in a loud clang. It startles you, makes you jump and twist quickly to see what it was, if it was another gun, another shot. You feel something almost tearing, a sharp pain across your abdomen and lower chest, a feeling of sticky warmth against your shirt.

You sway a little, start to realize how much worse the pain is now. It’s bad enough that you can’t even make noise to express the pain. There’s no air in your lungs, you swear. You realize your lightheadedness is now much, much worse, that you’re shivering from how cold you are. Or are you just shaking? You can’t tell. It doesn’t make sense. The room isn’t even that cold. You shouldn’t be so cold. Not unless.

You pull your shirt up slowly and look down and run your hand over your skin and sure enough, there’s a bullet hole seeping blood, about half way between your nipple line and belly button, skin now covered in a dark bruise. 

You cough a little, it’s quiet. It starts feeling like there’s water in your lungs. Like you can’t get any oxygen in even though you’re in a room full of it. The metallic taste in your mouth is what manages to seep into what’s left of your consciousness next. You cough again, into your hand, and feel something wet hit your skin. Blood. 

It hits you. You’re drowning in your own blood. That’s why it feels like you can’t breathe. You’ve been shot. In a bad place, one of the worst places, Jack had told you that night. You get scared, feel your heart pounding. It feels like you’re dying. You don’t want to die, don’t want to leave Jack. You’d just finished moving into your new place together, were going to spend all weekend unpacking and painting and getting furniture where you wanted it. You were going to make your home.

Time. You were supposed to have more time together.

“Hey, Jack,” you slur softly, struggling to keep yourself standing. Luckily he hears you. Your use of his first name and the slur to your voice has him panicking again already. Time slows as he turns around to take you in, eyes going from your face and the blood coating your teeth and trickling from your mouth as you try and smile reassuringly at him, down to your torso where you’re still holding your shirt up just enough for him and everyone else in the room to see the bullet hole and bruising marring your skin. “I think, I think I’m not good, it’s not good.” Your vision tunnels so fast you can just barely see Jack’s expression of sheer abject unadulterated horror and panic as you get out your last words. “Nipples to navel… no man’s land.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Peter. Peter Rabbit by Beatrix Potter. Yes, I worked in a bookstore through college.

been loving the jack abbott fics soooo much!!!

A request for a potential fic about Jack. I was thinking something along the lines of his wife is maybe in the Peds/Psych department and comes to consult in the ER sometimes. The newbies don't know her as Jack's wife, but just the kind peds/Psych doc and then something something they discover she's Jack's wife and they're all like "how did that happen?"

thank uuu!!! this is a good one!!

The Other Dr Abbott

Pairing: Dr Jack Abbott x Wife!Reader

“Vitals are stable but he’s swinging between psychosis and charm like a damn metronome,” Santos muttered, watching the patient over the rim of her coffee cup.

Jack Abbott stood by the trauma bed, expression unreadable, arms crossed, as their patient—a shirtless man in his 30s with wild eyes and blood still drying under his nails—grinned up at the fluorescent lights like they were divine.

Dr. Whitaker explained the patient's history to Dr. Abbott, “He assaulted a pedestrian, bit a paramedic, and started quoting Shakespeare to the defibrillator. I think we’re out of our depth here.”

“Page psych,” Jack said without looking up.

“Already did,” Santos replied. “They said Dr. Abbot’s on call.”

Javadi looked up sharply. “But he’s standing right here.”

Jack sighed. “No. The other Dr. Abbot.”

Santos blinked. “There’s... two?”

Whitaker’s brows furrowed. “Is she your sister or something?”

But before they could interrogate further, the doors swung open.

In walked her—the hospital’s most requested psychiatrist. Elegant. Kind. Intimidating in the quietest way possible. She had a pen behind her ear, a folder under one arm, and a calm confidence that silenced the room the moment she entered.

“Hi,” she said gently. “I heard you needed psych?”

The patient lit up. “Ohhhh. There she is. Finally. Someone beautiful around here.”

Jack’s jaw ticked. “Watch it.”

The patient smirked. “What? Just saying. You all bring me the mean doctor with the wavey hair, but then this goddess walks in? Tell me you see it. She's the moon and you’re... I dunno. A pencil.”

Javadi bit her lip. Santos turned away, grinning.

The psychiatrist pulled on gloves with practiced grace. “I’m here to help, Mr. Reed. Can you tell me how you’re feeling right now?”

“Like I’ve seen heaven,” he said smoothly. “And heaven is you. Are you single?”

Jack stepped forward. “She’s married.”

The patient cocked his head, eyes narrowing like he suddenly understood something far more interesting. “Wait a second... no way.”

“What?” Santos asked.

The patient pointed at Jack, then her. “You’re married. You two. I see it now. That stare. The way you hovered when I called her beautiful? You’re totally married.”

Silence.

Then:

“She’s your wife?” Whitaker all but gasped, looking at Jack like he’d just revealed he was an alien.

Jack didn’t blink. “Yeah.”

Santos’s mouth dropped open. “Hold on—how long has that been a thing?”

“Seven years,” she answered calmly, scribbling notes onto her chart.

Javadi stared. “You mean to tell me we’ve been working beside both of you this whole time and never knew?”

“We keep it professional,” she said, glancing at Jack, who was clearly trying to sink through the floor.

The patient beamed, delighted. “This is way better than when I saw a guy get tasered in the cafeteria.”

“Please sedate him,” Jack muttered.

His wife smirked. “Not yet. He’s lucid enough to spill tea.”

Santos laughed so hard she had to turn around. Whitaker looked like he was trying to solve an algebra problem with no numbers.

“But—but she’s so nice,” he mumbled.

“She is,” Jack said flatly. “And she married me anyway. Try not to think too hard about it.”

As she moved to the side of the bed, the patient winked at her. “I’m just saying... you could’ve done better.”

Jack leaned down, eyeing him coldly. “Say that again and I will intubate you awake.”

Everyone blinked.

The patient raised both hands. “Okay damn. The wave’s kinda hot now that I get the context.”

Javadi crossed her arms. “Well, now I get why he punched that radiologist last year for calling her sweetheart.”

Jack didn’t deny it.