Mrs. R

This City Doesn’t Forget (part one · the wedding)

you weren’t supposed to see him again. not like this. not in this dress, not in this city, not with his last name still catching in your throat. but pittsburgh remembers what you tried to bury

pairing : jack abbot x f!reader

content/warnings: alcohol, mentions of past infidelity (not by reader or Jack), emotional repression, unresolved sexual tension, proximity, flashbacks (not as explicit), lying by omission, angst, guilt, wedding setting, Pittsburgh.

word count : 2,674

a/n : no smut in this part—just aching tension, bad decisions almost made, and the beginning of everything unraveling. If you guys like this perhaps I will write part two sooner than later. 18+ ONLY, not beta read.

You hadn’t planned on coming back to Pittsburgh.

Not really.

Not to stay, anyway.

You’d told yourself it was a city you’d passed through—something borrowed when you were eighteen. Temporary, in that way so many things feel permanent until they’re not. You left with no grand finale. No promises. No reason to return. Just a couple of half-used notebooks, a box of textbooks you never sold, and a past you’d done your best to forget.

But then came Match Day.

And the envelope said,

Allegheny General. Emergency Medicine. Pittsburgh.

Your fingers had clenched the paper just a little too tightly. Someone beside you had screamed. Someone else had cried. And you— You just stared.

Because it didn’t feel like fate. It felt like a dare.

You’d worked for it. You knew this program was good. You applied like it was a long shot, a name you could cross off the list without consequence.

And now, you were a PGY-1 with three weeks to relearn how to breathe in a city you swore you’d never see again.

So you moved back early.

You told people it was to settle in. To be prepared. Responsible. Practical. You needed time to unpack, sign the forms, memorize your badge number, figure out the best spot to get coffee before a night shift.

But that wasn’t really it.

The wedding was this weekend.

And if you were going to return, you might as well rip off the bandage.

You told yourself it would be fine. Just another obligation. You’d show up, smile when it was expected, drink something sparkling from a glass too thin, find your table, and disappear before the second round of speeches.

In and out. Unnoticed.

That was the plan.

But plans don’t account for ghosts. They don’t make room for versions of yourself you thought you outgrew—versions that still remember the way someone used to look at you like they weren’t supposed to.

The version that heard his name mentioned—of course he’d be there, of course he’d be involved—and forgot how to breathe.

You thought she was gone.

But she showed up anyway.

Because some things don’t stay buried. Especially not what happened with Jack.

People know pieces. Just enough to make them look twice when you walk into a room.

They know his brother cheated on you. That you ended things. But no one knows what happened after.

They don’t know it was Jack who showed up that night—quiet, steady. That he found you on the porch, sat beside you without a word, handed you a beer and stayed there, saying nothing until the tears stopped burning your throat.

They don’t know how it shifted.

How grief softened into something slower, heavier. How silence turned into stolen glances, how those glances started to hold.

How one night he leaned in—close enough to kiss you, close enough not to—and you let him. You wanted to.

And that should’ve been it.

But it wasn’t.

It happened again. And again. And then again after that.

It wasn’t love. It wasn’t anything you had words for. It was too raw for that. Too hot. Too consuming. It was his hands under your shirt before you could ask him to stop. His mouth on your neck. Your body arching into his like it had been waiting for this—for him—long before either of you were willing to admit it.

He’d show up late, knock quietly, stand in the doorway like he didn’t want to come in.

And you’d let him in anyway.

Sometimes you wouldn’t even speak. Just hands and breath and hunger. His voice rough in your ear. Yours gasping into his shoulder. You were always on borrowed time, always telling yourselves this doesn’t mean anything.

But you kept coming back.

And then, one morning—he didn’t.

No knock. No warning. Just a note slid under your door, folded once. His handwriting, familiar and clipped.

This can’t happen again.

He left for another deployment that week.

You haven’t seen him since.

No one knows the truth. But they know enough.

Enough to feel the shift in the air when his name brushes too close to yours. Enough to catch the tension in your silence. Enough to know something happened between you.

And that whatever it was—it didn’t end clean.

Now, years later, you’re back in proximity with the same family. The same name lingers behind you—woven into laughter, casual conversation, the soft clink of champagne flutes.

And your body still remembers what it felt like to come undone in his hands.

You try to shake the thought. Bury it.

Because now you’re here. At your ex's wedding. Moving through it like it’s just another event on your calendar.

You arrive early—not dramatically, just early enough to avoid the spectacle of walking in late. Early enough to slip through the edges while the music is still soft and no one’s had enough to get loud.

The venue is every Pinterest bride’s dream: string lights, linen runners, eucalyptus draped over archways and tucked into centerpieces like someone spent hours pretending it was effortless.

You keep your expression even. Your heels steady. Your breath controlled.

And then the faces start to register.

A few from college. Some from the family. Familiar enough to sting. One of his cousins waves you over, smiling too warmly, like she’s rewritten history into something forgivable.

You smile back. Offer polite answers. Tell her you moved back for work. Let them fill in the rest.

No one says his name.

Not yet.

But it lingers. In glances, in pauses, in the way people talk about him and wait—just a beat too long—for your reaction.

You keep moving. Find your table. Table Nine.

Close enough to the dance floor to be inconvenient. Far enough from the family tables to make a point.

Your name is written in cursive, tucked beside a sprig of dried lavender. The seat beside yours is still empty.

You don’t even bother to check who it’s for. You’re not planning to stay long enough for it to matter.

You take a slow sip of champagne and pretend it doesn’t taste like memory.

But then—without warning—you’re back there.

Eighteen years old. Barefoot on a back porch in the thick of late July. A cold beer sweating in your hand, your legs stretched across your boyfriend’s lap. Laughter in your throat, someone’s playlist crackling through a speaker tucked behind a lawn chair.

And across the yard—leaning against the railing, one shoulder dipped into the shadows—was him.

Jack Abbot.

The older brother.

You hadn’t meant to notice him. Not like that.

But the moment your eyes caught on his—just for a second, just long enough—you felt it.

Something you weren’t supposed to feel. Something sharp and low and completely out of place.

It didn’t matter that you were wrapped up in someone else’s arms. That you were smiling like everything was fine. That his brother had just tucked a strand of hair behind your ear.

Your attention still drifted.

To Jack.

He was quiet, unreadable, beer in hand, watching the yard with that steady gaze of his. Not staring. Not even looking directly at you.

But somehow, it felt like he saw everything.

You told yourself it was nothing. Just curiosity. Just a moment.

But your skin said otherwise.

You could feel him—without him ever touching you. The tension in your shoulders. The awareness crawling across your collarbone. The heat that rose to your face when his eyes met yours for just a beat too long.

You looked away first.

And you told yourself it didn’t mean anything.

But it stayed with you. Tucked in the back of your mind. Not a fantasy. Not even a thought. Just a question. A flicker.

A what if.

You never said it aloud. Never let yourself imagine it all the way through.

Because it would’ve been wrong.

He was your boyfriend’s brother. And you were still pretending to believe that mattered.

But your body knew it. Even then.

Even before everything fell apart.

And now—now you’re standing in a black dress, back in a city you swore you were done with, and every nerve in your body remembers what it felt like the first time you looked at Jack Abbot and wanted.

What you don’t know is that he saw you the moment you stepped out of the car—and he hasn’t stopped looking since.

He hadn’t meant to. He wasn’t looking for you. Just stepped out front to grab a bottle or a box or something else forgettable from his truck.

Then he looked up.

And everything stopped.

You didn’t notice him. Not then. You were focused on the tent ahead, face neutral, shoulders back, like you were walking into a battlefield and refusing to flinch.

But Jack did notice.

He saw the curve of your neck, the glint of something gold at your collarbone. The way your dress clung like it had been chosen for someone you swore you weren’t thinking about.

He saw you—and for a second, he didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

Then, slowly, he stepped back behind the truck, dragging in a breath like he needed to remember what year it was.

He didn’t mean to stare.

But he did.

Because he remembered, too.

And yet, you don’t see him at all—not when you walk inside, not during the greetings, not while you make your quiet rounds with a smile you’ve rehearsed too many times.

He’s nowhere. And then—he is.

You’re halfway through your second glass when you hear him.

That voice. Low. Unhurried. Still laced with the kind of weight that makes people listen. Like he doesn’t waste words unless they matter. Like honesty was hardwired into his bloodstream.

He's older. Broader. Calmer in that unsettling way men get when they've learned to live with their damage. There’s a curl to his hair now, grayer at the edges. His stance is the same—shoulders squared, jaw set, eyes scanning everything and nothing.

He’s talking to the officiant. Laughing at something you can’t hear. That same laugh that used to gut you on nights you shouldn’t have cared.

You should look away.

But then he glances over—and this time, it’s deliberate.

His eyes catch yours.

And for one long, breathless moment, neither of you move.

No nod. No smile. No acknowledgment at all.

Just something weightless and sharp, flickering between you like a match never quite struck.

He looks away first.

And your lungs finally expand.

But the ache in your stomach—the one that’s been dormant for years—It returns.

Low. Persistent.

Familiar.

It’s the same ache that started the first time you looked at him and didn’t look away.

The one that never really left.

Not entirely.

You don’t remember excusing yourself.

Just the slow pressure building in your ribs—the kind that makes your necklace feel too tight, your dress too fitted, your very skin too obvious. One toast too many. One laugh from the wrong person. One glimpse of him across the tent and your balance tipped.

So you left.

Out past the bar. Past the music and string lights and curated perfection. Past someone’s grandmother crying over the first dance.

Out to the edge of the venue, where the manicured lawn gives way to stone steps and low hedges and a garden no one’s bothering to look at this late in the evening.

You wait for your pulse to even out. It doesn't.

You tell yourself you just needed air. That you’re not hiding.

But the second you hear footsteps behind you, slow and deliberate, you know—

You weren’t fooling anyone. Especially not him.

Jack doesn’t say anything right away.

You feel him before you hear him. The heat of him. The way the space folds in tighter, heavier, just from his presence.

“You still have a habit of disappearing.”

You stare ahead, voice even. “You still have a habit of following me.”

A pause.

Then: “Only when I’m not ready for you to go.”

You inhale.

Slow. Measured. Dangerous.

When you finally turn to face him, he’s closer than he should be. Hands in his pockets. Tie gone. Shirt open at the collar like he’s trying not to look like a man unraveling.

But he is.

You know it.

“You came back,” he says.

You lift your chin. “So did you.”

“Not the same.”

“No,” you agree. “Not the same.”

He studies you like he doesn’t want to miss anything. The curve of your jaw. The way your lipstick’s fading at the corners. The way you’re still holding yourself like someone waiting for the next impact.

“You didn’t tell anyone,” he says.

You arch a brow. “Tell them what?”

“That you’re back.”

“I’m here for work.”

He smiles, humorless. “That’s all?”

“That’s all you need to know.”

You watch the flicker cross his face. Just a flash of something—hurt, maybe. Or knowing.

“You’re not going to make this easy, are you?”

You shake your head, voice quieter now. “When have I ever?”

Jack exhales. Looks down for a second like he’s choosing his next words carefully.

Then he steps forward.

Just enough that you can smell him—clean, warm, a hint of whatever soap he’s always used that lingers even after he's gone.

“You ever think about that summer?” he asks.

You don’t answer.

But your silence is enough.

He sees it.

“All that time we spent pretending we didn’t want it,” he says, voice low. “And all the ways we failed.”

“You left,” you say.

“I had to.”

“You didn’t have to leave like that.”

“I know.”

The air is thick now. Too thick.

You shift your weight, but your feet don’t move.

And then—

He leans in. Not to kiss you. Not even to touch.

Just to be there.

“I think about it every time I come home,” he murmurs. “Every time I walk past your street. Every time I go into work.”

Something stirs behind your ribs.

His eyes flick to your mouth. Just once.

You see it.

And it wrecks you. It shouldn’t feel like anything. He’s not off-limits anymore. Not technically.

But your body still responds like it’s a secret.

“You shouldn’t be out here,” you say.

He lifts a brow. “You are.”

“I needed air.”

He watches you. “Funny. Thought you needed distance.”

You cross your arms. “And yet here you are.”

“I wasn’t planning to be.”

“Neither was I.”

That sits between you for a moment, heavy and unfinished.

You reach for your phone without thinking, just something to do with your hands.

It buzzes the second you unlock it.

“Welcome to Allegheny General. Your orientation begins Monday at 6:00 AM.”

You flinch.

Jack sees it. Of course he does.

“What?” he asks.

You hesitate. Then shrug, trying to pass it off.

“Work stuff.”

“What kind of work?”

You shoot him a look. “Since when do you care?”

“I’m just—surprised. You never said what you were doing back in Pittsburgh.”

You pause. The words come slow.

“I matched. Emergency medicine. It’s… a residency.”

His expression doesn’t change. Not exactly.

But something settles behind his eyes. Something heavy. Knowing.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters. “You really don't know.”

“Don't know what?”

“I work there,” he says.

The world tilts.

“What—”

“Attending. ER.”

You go still.

Dead still.

And he sees it hit you.

The blood draining from your face. The calculation behind your eyes. The memory of every line you just crossed tonight.

You start to speak. You don’t.

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t move.

He just looks at you.

Soft. Dangerous.

And then he leans in—not touching, not even brushing—but close enough for you to feel the heat of him against your skin.

“See you Monday, rookie.”

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.

Story 12: Chibs/Juice

Summary: Summary: Part of the Three: The Magic Number Series. Reader/OC x 2 of the Sons/Mayans. Purely smut with occasional plot/humor. 18+. Smut below the cut!

Chibs sat sipping whiskey with his eyes closed as he stroked his cock. The sounds of your whines and moans teasing him through the gag in your mouth. He smiled as he heard the sharp sound of a smack and a strangled sob come from you. Opening one eye he took in the sight on the bed. Your expression was one of cock drunkness as drool pooled around the gag and dripped down your chin and neck. Glistening in the light as your head was pulled back farther making you moan. Tears mixed with your makeup running down your face.

You were bound in an intricate display of ropes. Tits bouncing with each powerful thrust of the man behind you. Skin littered with love bites. Ass bouncing back and turning red and blue from Juices hand. Juices breathing was ragged and his thrust were getting sloppy as his release built up. “Chibs” he grunted as the men made eye contact.

“Aye Laddie. I’m ready for my next go” replied Chibs as he stood up and moved towards the bed. Juice came with another deep thrust and smack to your ass that triggered your own release.

“Kitten is soaked” laughed Chibs as he watched a mix of your arousal and their cum flow down your thighs as Juice pulled out of you. Juice planted a kiss to your forehead as he moved to sit in the chair that Chibs had just vacated.

You squirmed trying to get away as you let out desperate please as Chibs slid the tip of his cock through your messy folds. It was too much. Your body couldn’t take anymore.

“Shh, its okay kitten.” Soothed Chibs as he pressed kisses to your back as his hands kneaded your bruised ass cheeks while his cock rested between them. “Been so good for me and Juice. Such a good girl” he cooed as he kept up his gentle kisses and kneading. Feeling your body relax underneath him. “Going to let her rest a bit yeah.” He stated as he rose back up and raised your hip slightly before spreading your ass cheeks open.

“You have another hole we can use” he murmured before spitting on your ass hole and using one of his thumbs to work it in. You whined and you’re back arched at the intrusion. After a few minutes of Chibs loosening you up you felt his cock head start to push in slowly. “Shits just as tight as her pussy” grunted Chibs to Juice who was watching intently as his cock bobbed up and down. He barely gave you a moment once he was completely in before he was fucking you with abandon. His hands keeping you pressed firmly down in the bed as he used you.

Later

“Did so good” whispered Juice as he sat behind you in the tub washing your hair as Chibs fed you pieces of cheese and grapes from the side of  it. “Very good love. Just like always” agreed Chibs as you smiled at him.

Return to Masterlist

Tales of a Free Use Old Lady Masterlist

Summary: A tale of how an Outlaw Biker finally found and felt love with a woman who had never felt truly wanted and needed.

As always my stories are 18+. This particular series has darker themes so adding Dead Dove Do Not Eat. The Rules chapter gives you a idea of what all you might find in this series!

You can find the tag list here or let me know if you wish to be tagged!

1) The Rules :Read this to get an idea of content!

2) The Beginning -A jealous Tig makes his move in an unorthodox manner.

3) Next -Tig sends back Half-Sack to finally get his turn. While he is gone he announces his engagement to Juice and Chibs.

4)

break in the system

paring. jack abbot x wife/doctor!reader

warnings. age gap (jack late 40s, reader early 30s), hospital setting, descriptive child injury and recovery, no death, jack and reader are parents of a 6yo boy, no physical descriptors used for reader, reader has a sister, let me know if there's anything else!

notes. always in my dad!jack era, please feel free to send me idea like this I serious love them so much. please enjoy, this one is a nice hurt/comfort fic. as always please enjoy and any and all feedback is appreciated!

wc. 2400+

It was a rare, golden kind of morning. The kind you almost didn’t trust, because it was too smooth.

Jack had brewed coffee before either of you had to ask. You’d packed Mason’s favorite snacks while he sat sleepily at the kitchen island, rubbing his eyes and swinging his little feet under the stool. He was wearing his Spider-Man shirt today, matched with a pair of black shorts. His soft curls sticking up in every direction.

Your sister arrived just after sunrise, toting a canvas bag filled with activities and snacks and promising him a park trip and a stop for ice cream if he was good.

“You ready for a super fun day with Aunty?” she asked, ruffling Mason’s hair.

“Super tired is more like it,” Jack muttered around his coffee, but he kissed your cheek and then bent to kiss the top of Mason’s head too. “You be good, buddy.”

“I am good,” Mason answered, matter-of-fact.

You all laughed. It was one of those small, perfect family moments you didn’t think to savor until later.

At the hospital, the day passed in that rare, deceptively smooth rhythm. You took vitals, gave meds, reassessed post-op pain levels. Jack floated between trauma calls and consults, his voice calm and clinical when needed, still managing a wink when your paths crossed in the hallway. The familiarity of working alongside him was strangely comforting—a rhythm you’d both mastered through the years of shared chaos.

It was nearing noon when you finally took a breath. You leaned back in the break room, sipping lukewarm coffee, your phone resting silent on the table. You stared at the lock screen—Mason’s smiling face, missing front tooth, sunshine and freckles—without even realizing you were smiling at it.

Jack walked in and flopped down across from you, stretching his legs out with a groan. “Quiet today. I don’t trust it.”

“You never trust a quiet shift,” you replied with a soft laugh.

“Because quiet means it’s coming,” he said, tapping his temple like he could feel the shift in energy.

You shook your head, teasing, “Your trauma-sense tingling again?”

He was about to quip back when the trauma pager went off.

You both jumped—not dramatically, but instinctively, the way people do when muscle memory kicks in before thought.

Jack unclipped his pager and read aloud: "Level 1 peds trauma, ETA 2 minutes. Six-year-old male. Head trauma with LOC. Fall at park."

Your stomach dropped a full three inches. Jack went still beside you.

It wasn’t unusual. Kids came in hurt all the time.

But your brain was already moving ahead, shuffling information like puzzle pieces, trying to ignore how familiar it sounded.

Six-year-old. Male. Fall at the park. Level 1 trauma. Loss of consciousness.

It was just a coincidence.

Jack stood, voice a little tighter now. “Come on. Let’s go.”

You moved in practiced sync, already heading toward Trauma Bay 2, the air feeling a little thicker than it had ten minutes ago. You didn’t say it—not yet. Not even to each other.

You didn’t say anything.

Because you couldn’t. Not until you knew, and gut feelings didn’t count for the truth. 

And the moment the trauma doors slammed open and you saw the flash of a small Spider-Mant t-shirt beneath bloodied gauze and an oxygen mask—and suddenly your world tilted.

It was him.

The trauma bay erupted into controlled chaos the moment the gurney rolled through the doors.

You were at the foot of the bed, frozen for half a second before instinct kicked in. Jack was already moving forward, eyes locked on the little boy lying so still under the oxygen mask.

You didn’t even have to say his name.

The Spider-Man shirt. The Freckles. The curls matted with dried blood. It was Mason.

“Oh my god,” you whispered, barely audible, before your training took over like a switch flipping. But that voice—the parent voice—it never shut off. Not this time.

“Six-year-old male,” the medic rattled off, breathless but focused. “Fall from monkey bars, about six feet. Witnessed loss of consciousness, about two minutes. Regained briefly, then vomited twice. Unresponsive en route. GCS was 8, now trending to 6. Possible seizure activity reported by caregiver. No obvious long bone fractures. He was wearing a helmet for his bike earlier—removed at the park.”

You didn’t realize your hands were trembling until Jack grabbed your wrist gently. His voice was firm, steady—the voice of a trauma attending—but his eyes were glassy with panic barely held back.

“You can’t be in here,” he said lowly, eyes flicking toward the doors.

You shook your head. “I’m fine. I can help.”

“No—you’re his mom right now. Go.” His jaw tightened. “Please.”

The please hit you harder than anything else. You backed away, your legs feeling like they weren’t fully connected to your body anymore, your heart hammering as the rest of the team swarmed your baby.

Jack turned to the team. “Let’s move. What’s his pressure?”

“Ninety over fifty-six. Pulse 142.”

“Get a stat head CT. I want neuro and peds trauma paged now. Two large-bore IVs, hang NS bolus. Let’s get a collar on until we clear his c-spine.”

You backed into the wall of the trauma bay, peering through what felt like glass separating you from your husband and son. Your hands pressed flat against the cold surface as you watched your husband slip into a version of himself that didn’t exist at home. Dr. Abbot. Commanding. Composed. Making rapid decisions while your son—your Mason—lay still under fluorescent lights.

Your sister appeared moments later through the open door, eyes red, cheeks tear-streaked.

“I’m so sorry—he was fine, he was running—he always runs ahead—he just slipped—he hit the back of his head—he was okay for a minute but then—”

You pulled her into a tight hug, holding on for dear life. “It’s okay. You did the right thing. You got him here.”

Inside the bay, Jack’s voice cut through the buzz: “GCS is still six. Pupils reactive but sluggish. No external bleeding beyond scalp laceration. Let’s move now—CT and labs.”

As they wheeled Mason away, Jack followed, casting one last look back toward you through the window. His jaw was tight, but his eyes broke in that second.

You nodded once, already following down the hall toward radiology.

The hardest thing you’d ever done was not run in there and scoop your son into your arms.

But right now, Mason didn’t need his mom, he needed doctors. 

The CT suite was silent except for the rhythmic click and hum of the scanner. You stood just outside the control room glass, arms wrapped tight around yourself, watching Jack through the sterile glow.

He hadn’t left Mason’s side. Not for a second.

The techs were gentle, fast, and professional. Jack kept one hand near Mason’s foot the whole time, the other tucked against the side rail, whispering barely audible reassurances—things like, “You’re okay, buddy. Almost done. I’m right here.”

Even though Mason couldn’t hear him.

Even though your baby hadn’t opened his eyes once.

The scan ended. The attending radiologist had already been called down—an older, calm-voiced man you trusted completely. He pulled up the images, and when Jack joined him at the monitors, you followed, swallowing hard.

“There,” the radiologist pointed. “Linear parietal skull fracture, left side. No depression. He’s lucky.”

You exhaled shakily, but it wasn’t over.

“Contusion here,” he continued, circling the left temporal lobe. “Localized cerebral edema. No midline shift, no herniation. Small subgaleal hematoma along the occiput—probably from the initial impact. No signs of active intracranial bleeding.”

Jack nodded, arms crossed tightly over his sturdy chest, voice strained. “What about seizure risk?”

“Moderate. The contusion is sitting near cortical tissue. If he did seize en route, it’s not unexpected. You’ll want continuous EEG. We’ll monitor ICP closely for the next 48 hours. Neurosurgery should take a look, but this is non-operative for now.”

Your breath caught. Non-operative. You clung to the word like a rope in the dark.

“He’s stable enough to go up?” Jack asked.

“PICU? Absolutely. Intubate if his GCS drops again. Start seizure prophylaxis—Keppra, likely.” and with that it ended, short and sweet and not enough all at the same time. 

The elevator ride up to the PICU felt like moving through water. You were allowed to ride alongside the bed this time, one hand brushing Mason’s tiny fingers. 

They felt too cold. Too still.

His face looked smaller without his usual noise, his bursts of energy, the chatter. They’d cleaned most of the blood from his hair, but you could still see dried streaks clinging to his ear. His lips were parted slightly beneath the oxygen mask, his lashes damp against his cheeks.

In the PICU room, monitors beeped quietly, soft and steady. A nurse worked quickly and calmly—hooking up IV lines, starting the EEG leads, dimming the lights. Another brought in the seizure meds. Jack stood in the corner, arms limp at his sides now, adrenaline draining from his face.

The door closed.

And finally, the room went quiet.

You sat beside the bed and took Mason’s hand fully in yours. It was so small inside your palm. Always had been. But now it felt weightless, like something you couldn’t quite hold onto.

“I can’t do this,” you whispered.

Jack didn’t respond at first. Then he moved behind you, his hand finding your shoulder. His voice broke when he spoke.

“Yes, you can. Because he needs us to. He’s going to wake up. He is.”

You leaned into him, tears slipping silently down your face as you looked at your son—your entire world—wrapped in wires and machines, and not moving.

You didn’t sleep that night.

Neither did Jack.

Still you took turns sitting by the bed, staring at the monitors, willing the numbers to stay steady. Hoping for a flicker of movement. A twitch of fingers. A shift in those long eyelashes. And in the quiet, with Jack’s hand around yours and Mason’s resting between you both, you whispered promises neither of you had made out loud before:

We’re never working the same shift again. Not if it means risking this.

The room truly felt like a time capsule. Hours passed in a haze of fluorescent lights, rhythmic monitor beeps, the gentle hiss of oxygen.

It was day two.

Mason hadn’t opened his eyes.

His vitals were holding steady. The cerebral edema hadn’t worsened. The neurosurgeons were cautiously optimistic, calling his fracture “clean,” and the contusion “contained.” The EEG hadn’t shown any additional seizure activity overnight, and the Keppra seemed to be doing its job. His pupils were still sluggish, but reactive. He was breathing on his own. Everything was textbook.

But textbooks didn’t prepare you for how still a six-year-old could look when the light left his eyes.

You were in the chair again, your fingers curled gently around his. You’d barely moved all day, afraid that if you stepped away, you’d miss something. Jack was sitting on the couch now, head leaned back against the wall, one foot bouncing anxiously. He hadn’t left the both of you beyond grabbing the spare sets of clothes out of his truck. 

The lights were dimmed, the machines soft and steady. You rubbed slow, soothing circles across the back of Mason’s hand, whispering to him like he was just dozing after a long day.

“Hey, lovebug,” you said quietly. “It’s okay to wake up now. Daddy’s here. I’m here. You’re safe.”

You leaned in close, brushing your lips against his knuckles, careful of any swelling.

“I know your head hurts. I know you’re tired. But you’re okay. You’re safe.”

Jack stirred at the sound of your voice, rubbing a hand down his face. He moved beside you, placing a palm lightly on Mason’s ankle.

As if he heard you both.

Mason’s fingers twitched.

It was so small you almost thought you imagined it.

You straightened slowly, eyes locked on his face.

Then his eyelids fluttered.

“Mason?” you whispered.

Jack stood up so fast the chair he had moved too scraped against the floor.

Mason’s eyes opened—barely. Just enough to see the soft hazel underneath. He blinked slowly, unfocused, then squeezed them shut against the light.

“Hey, baby,” you said gently, leaning close again. “It’s okay. You’re safe.”

He let out a faint, croaky sound—half breath, half mumble.

Jack stepped forward, his voice catching. “Hey, bud. It’s Daddy. Can you squeeze Mommy’s hand for me?”

Another pause.

Then—your fingers were squeezed, weak but there. Real.

Tears slid down your cheeks as you pressed his hand to your face. “There you are,” you whispered.

Mason blinked again, this time managing to squint up at the two blurry figures hovering over him. His lips parted. His voice was hoarse, barely a whisper.

“My head hurts.”

You choked on a sob, letting out a shaky laugh. “I bet it does, sweetheart. But you’re okay. You’re okay.”

Jack cleared his throat, crouching beside the bed now, brushing hair gently away from Mason’s forehead. “We’re gonna take really good care of you, buddy. You scared us.”

Mason looked at you, then at Jack, and then murmured, “Did I miss the ice cream?”

You both laughed—quiet, breathless, full of relief.

“No,” you said. “Aunty owes you extra scoops now.”

He gave a tiny smile, then drifted again, eyelids heavy, but this time… it was just sleep.

Not unconsciousness. Not seizure. Not silence.

Just rest.

The next day brought sunlight through the tall PICU windows, soft and golden, catching in the folds of Mason’s blanket. He was propped up slightly now, still sleepy and sore, but undeniably there. Awake. Talking a little more. Asking small, simple things like “What day is it?” and “Can I have ice cream now?”

You and Jack stayed close, moving slower now, the urgency replaced by the kind of stillness that only comes after a storm.

There were still scans ahead. Neuro checks. Days of rest already planned in advance. But for now, Mason’s vitals were steady. His headache was easing. The swelling in his brain was beginning to go down. And his eyes—when they looked at you—were full of that quiet spark again.

That afternoon, you sat beside him in the recliner, Mason tucked against your chest in hospital-issue pajamas, his IV carefully taped and his fingers curled around your shirt. Jack was across the room, dozing lightly on the couch, arms crossed, head tilted, exhaustion finally catching up with him.

Mason’s voice came soft against your collarbone.

“Mommy?”

You tilted your head down. “Yeah, baby?”

“Will you stay here when I sleep?”

You smiled, kissing the top of his head.

“Of course, baby. Daddy and I both will.”

And with his breathing deepening, his small body warm against yours, and Jack snoring softly in the corner, you finally let yourself close your eyes.

Not out of fear.

Because—for the first time in days—you knew everything was going to be okay.

mercvry-glow 2025

You Know Where You Are 1/3

Not all fics have adult content, but this blog is 18+. Dr. Michael "Robby" Robinavitch x f!Musician!Reader Angst/Established Relationship Part II | Part III

The Pitt Playlist located here The Pitt Masterlist

Synopsis: Dr. Robby's Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day started before he even made it to PTMC. He was supposed to go to Pittfest to support his girlfriend's band with Jake, but decided to flake and give his ticket to Jake's girlfriend. You are less than thrilled with his lack of communication. Word Count: 965 Content Warning: Arguing; Reader is in her 30's A/N: This will be a three-parter.

“Why is an alarm going off?” You grumbled into Robby’s warm chest as the jingle from his phone repeated itself. Robby groaned as he reached over to the nightstand to turn it off. He was silent for a few beats, his other hand coming up to rub your back gently. “Mikey?”

“I’m goin’ in today.” He mumbled into the crown of your head. 

“You’re what?” Sitting up in a hurry, you pushed yourself off him, but kept your eyes pinpointed on his. Michael was looking anywhere else in the room but at you. “No. No, Mike! You said you weren’t going to do this.”

“I know.” He responded gently, his eyes breaking from yours. 

“You know.” Scoffing, you started to get off the bed, but was stopped by his hand gently grabbing your thigh, squeezing it in a way that told you he did not want this to get blown into an argument. Not today. “What about Jake? You can’t just ditch him.”

“Giving him my pass for his girlfriend. They’ll have a blast and apparently she’s a huge fan of you guys.” He tried to soften the blow. All it did was build the irritation that was growing inside of you. 

“And me?” Your question hung in the air.

“I’m sorry.” 

“Absolutely not.” Gently prying his hand off your leg, you stood and threw on some random clothes he had in the second drawer that housed various t-shirts, jeans and leggings that you’d left over time. “Genuinely don’t know what I was expecting.” You muttered under your breath as you pulled a t-shirt over your head.  

“What’s that supposed to mean?” He had the nerve to sound indignant.

“It means that I am a very reasonable person who rolls with the punches when it comes to you, but god forbid something on my end -pre planned well in advance, mind you- is important to me and it gets thrown by the wayside.”

“Today is-” You held up your hand to stop him. 

“-I know what today is.” Your voice took on a somber tone. “And I am so incredibly sorry that you have to carry this with you, Mike. I am. I love you and I support you wholeheartedly, but you obviously knew you were going to do this well before this morning and you chose not to tell me. A heads up is all that I’m asking for here.”

“Had I known missing this set was going to be a huge deal-”

“It’s not about the set!” Your voice rose. “I don’t care about the set, Mike! My life is set after set. I cared about spending time with you and Jake. The set is an hour out of my day. Both of us are stupidly busy people with demanding careers who don’t get to see a whole lot of each other outside of some quick takeout and going to bed -if we’re even in the same state!” It wasn’t meant to be a jab, but Robby felt it all the same. 

“You’ve never had a problem with me having to cancel for work.” His voice was starting to get an irritated tone to it, one that you knew he knew he was wrong, but was doubling down. 

“That’s not what this is!” You snapped, “I’m not mad because you get called in to work, Mike! You did this on purpose. They didn’t call you in, you are choosing to go in on a day that you already arranged to have off for no other reason than you won’t communicate!” He winced -you don’t communicate was repeated like a broken record through just about every failed relationship he had. “I don’t understand how you don’t see why I’m frustrated with this and, quite frankly, it’s pissing me off even more than I was to begin with because I can’t tell if you know what you’re doing or if this is just a defensive reflex!”

Grabbing your phone off the nightstand on your side, you sighed when you saw how early it actually was. Deciding that removing yourself from Mike’s townhouse was the best option so you could cool off without figuratively ripping his head from his body, you grabbed your purse off his dresser. 

“Where are you going?” Mike stood from the bed, pajama pants hanging low in his hips. There was clear panic in his eyes, but he couldn’t navigate himself out of the hole he had dug himself. 

“Back to my place.” You didn’t bother to untie your sneakers as you shoved your feet into them, pulling roughly until they popped on. 

“Come on,” He said your name softly, “-please just get back into bed-”

“Why?” You snapped, “You’re getting ready for work and I don’t have a reason to be here right now.” Mike winced, then inhaled deeply before nodding -not to agree with you, but to process the words that you just said to him. 

“You don’t need a reason to be here.” He was nearly begging. You bit your bottom lip to keep yourself from going off the deep end. 

“Fine, I don’t want to be here.” You ground out. And truthfully, you didn’t. Anger was a rarity coming from you -life happens- but this wasn’t “life happens”. This was “Robby happens” and when Robby happens...you shook your head. 

“You coming back here tonight?” He knew it was a long shot, but he asked anyway. 

“You know, Mike…” You shrugged, exasperated, arms swinging out from your sides, “-probably not.” Done with the conversation you left the bedroom, angry that this was how the day -a day that was supposed to be fun and a distraction from the shit Mike deals with- started in a fiery blaze. 

“Don’t-” Not bothering to hear his response as you fled through the townhouse, you let the door slam closed behind you. 

Part II

Please reblog, like and/or comment :)

✨Bleeding Knuckles ✨

Pairing: Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x YN "Fire" Gibbs

Summary: Rooster meets Gibbs' daughter at the boxing gym. She's ferocious, strong and she's a boxer, but she is in pain. And Rooster relates to it. Now he is here, and he won't let anything hurt you anymore., not even yourself.

Words: 940 (Blurb - Boxer!Reader and NCIS crossover)

Pls reblog if you like the idea, so that I know if ppl wants to know the whole angsty but fluff story behind my idea

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It all started with Bradley counting every time it hurt. This is what Carole had taught her son to help him cope with life's disillusion. Grievance, anger, mourning... Bradley had experienced them all, and they all left a scar deep within his soul. This is why he had started boxing - to evacuate all the negative and brutal turmoil his soul was undergoing. Since then, he kept boxing as a tradition but also as a way to work out during his free time. For sure, he worked a lot and could not go to the boxing gym as much as he wanted, but today Maverick granted him a leave. After weeks of harsh training, Rooster could relieve the stress that had accumulated within. Each blow against the punching bag felt like a sweet release.

One punch for the excruciating training.

One punch for Hangman, just because he is a dick.

One punch for his ex, who had just broken up with him weeks ago.

He was about to throw another punch at the poor hanging bag when the sound of a girl grunting in pain snapped him out of his thought. Rooster stopped and swept the room with his warm hazel eyes. There he saw her ... It was Leroy Gibbs' daughter - oh, he had only caught sight of her once, but he had found her so attractive that he could not forget her beautiful face.

The girl was hitting her punching ball as if her life depended on it. She was staring at it, her brows frowned, and her wet, shining lips were curled up as a wild feline hissing at his enemy. She threw a brutal punch, so brutal that the chain from which the punching bag was hanging produced a loud jiggling sound. No one quite noticed her, for the place was almost empty and the few men training here were packed together at the weight section, at the other end of the gym. Rooster took off his thick red boxing gloves, far too busy observing her to keep it up with his training. He ran one of his hands through his sweaty blonde curls, some of them sticking to his temples and forehead.

"Fuuuuuuck you!"

You growled, louder. The violence with which your first hit the bag was so ferocious that the skin on your knuckles -already damaged by one full hour of enraged boxing- broke open. Bradley thought you would stop beating that poor punching bag now that you wounded yourself, but you kept hitting it again and again. Blinded by a destructive rage, your body seemed desensitized to pain. Self-control broke down, you were a wild fire.

If at first the pilot had been intrigued and amused by your determination, he grew worried. Rooster easily recognized the sparkle of hatred that was shining in your teary and infuriated eyes, for he had the same look years ago. He clenched his jaw as he noticed you smearing your blood all over the punching ball with your wounded knuckles - he was torn between conflicting feelings. Somehow, your problems were your business, not his. His life was already busy enough and, to be true, he had his own mishaps to deal with. But, his inner voice reminded him of the time he had been like her - lost, filled with rage and sadness. He would have loved someone to take care of him. Or just someone to tell him that everything will be fine, at least. Rooster sighed and walked towards you.

"I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!"

You hissed through your teeth. Sweat burning your eyes, blood dripping from your hands, you growled again and punched the bag with all your remaining strength, the movement directly coming from your whole shoulder. Yet, your knuckles never met the smooth surface of the bag, for someone had grabbed your elbow and forced you to stop. Surprised, you turned and glared at the man who was holding your arm firmly.

"Hey, calm down girl." Bradley's deep voice was candy-coated with an indescribable softness. It was the first pet name that came to his head

"Leave me alone!" You hissed again, showing your teeth.

"I know you are angry but you are bleeding."

His words pulled you out of your blinding hatred. You blinked several times, chasing away the beads of sweat that had formed on your eyelashes. Then, your eyes looked where Rooster's irises of honey pools were staring at. Red and warm blood was oozing from slits on each of your knuckles. As soon as your brain realized it was your hand, an unpleasant tingling pain blossomed at their spot. You winced, then looked at the tall blonde and curly man that was in front of you. Rooster gently released your arm.

"Nevermind." You chased away his hand with a hasty movement and turned around, back to him. You really did not want to talk at the moment.

Rooster hesitated: should he leave you? He shook his head. Something had attracted him, something that he had seen in your eyes. Your pain and his were similar. This sole observation was enough to convince him he was taking the right decision. No matter what happened, he would be there for you.

"Are you sure you're good?"

Six words.

One deep yet caring voice.

It was all it took for tears of anger to overflow.

Rooster gently pressed one of his large, warm, and calloused hands on your shoulder. Looking at you with concern, the pilot's fingers closed around your clavicle to anchor his presence. He was there, and he wanted you to feel it.

"There, it's okay."

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Don't ask me what I'm doing. Can't be productive today so I wanted to write a little blurb with reader as an angry brawler girl, a good boxer, and Gibb's daughter.

That You Are - 1

Pairing: Dr. Jack Abbot x OC

Rating: Explicit/Mature - 18+ only! Minors DNI

Warnings: sex worker!oc, non-explicit discussions of sexual assault and a physical assault, vague descriptions of sex work and injuries, Langdon is straight up mean to her, other people judge her for her line of work, some insults, Abbot is highkey a simp for her, mention of Abbot being a widower. This fic is in part inspired by Pretty Woman which will become more relevant later. Smut in later chapters to come 💕

✨ this is a companion to Residuals by @eureka-its-zico but can be read on its own. Jenn's character Dr. Fullerton is featured in this ✨

word count: 5.3k

Author's Note: listen. i didn't intend to write this but Jenn got in my head and now here we are. i don't think this will be too many chapters, but it also was never supposed to be more than a one-shot so we see how that turned out. lmk your thoughts and if you want to be on the taglist 🖤

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She hates the way she can’t force herself to leave the waiting room. The only doctor she’s ever seen there who didn’t treat her like garbage was part of the night shift, and she’s pretty sure that he's long since gone. All she can do now is hope it’s not him who gets saddled with her. He has a way of making her feel worse than a client ever could.

But her face hurts, and she can’t bring herself to stumble back out onto the street without the pill. She knows too many girls who lost everything relying on birth control alone — she won’t let that be her.

Hopefully the nurses won’t ask too many questions, or the doctor believes her when she says the bruises are a few days old; she knows they look bad. She isn’t immune to the stares she’s been getting for the last few hours; mothers with disdain in their eyes as they shield their children’s gaze, the leering stares from men, the pitying looks from girls who think they know the fear she’s been living through. In a way, she's grateful for them. They think she’s just another party girl who trusted the wrong guy on a night out, and in a way they’re right. But while this would be the worst night of their lives, for her it’s just another day late she’ll be on rent.

So she ignores the looks, ignores the pain radiating from underneath her skin, ignores the way her pleasers dig into her toes and have long since gone numb, ignores the black dots that dance in the edges of her vision, and focuses on her rapidly dying phone battery and the crooning in her headphone that she wishes could tune out the man complaining to anyone who would listen about his treatment thus far, or lack thereof.

“Kat Thomas?” The intake nurse calls out, eyes scanning over the waiting room teeming with people, all suffering in different ways. She tries not to flinch at the pity in the intake nurse’s gaze when they make eye contact; she knows she’s seen this nurse before, and her stomach drops. She knows he is an inevitability now — she knows she’s a fool for hoping to see someone else, anyone else. 

She holds her head high as she walks toward the doors and the ER nurse who's waiting for her and away from prying eyes, but the click of her heels on the linoleum draws eyes like flame draws a moth, and she regrets ever sitting in the far corner. By the time she reaches the door, a hush has settled on the waiting room and she can feel the discontent stirring.

“So you’ll take some junkie whore but you won’t see me?” A man calls out, and the rage in his voice makes her toe catch on the waxed linoleum. She can see in perfect detail in her mind the way she’s going to be sent sprawling on the floor when her ankle wavers the same moment the nausea hits. But hands under her elbows stop her descent before it can begin.

The ER nurse who caught her has curly brown hair and a softness in his eyes she doesn’t see on many people; he knows what she is, but he doesn’t care. In fact, there’s something she can almost recognize as rage in his eyes when he looks away from her, eyes locking on someone behind her — undoubtedly the man who just called her a whore for all of Pittsburgh to hear — before they slide back to meet her gaze. 

“Do you need a wheelchair?” He asks, voice soft. The words die in her throat as she shakes her head before straightening out and pulling her limbs from his grasp. He withdraws without a fight, the small smile on his mouth unwavering as she steps away, toward another nurse standing at the door who wears another tight smile trying to hide pity, and she retreats into the all too familiar bustle of the emergency department.

She can hear his voice again, hard and stern, when the door closes, but the words are muffled by both the plexiglass and the chaos of it all that’s been kept out of view by the waiting room. She wonders if people would complain so much if they could see just how busy it is back here as she follows the nurse back to a room, and she can’t help but scan the faces of every doctor she can find who’s wearing black scrubs. There are four faces she doesn’t know, five really when she sees a woman in black scrubs disappear into a bathroom. But none of them are the one she's dreading, and for a moment she lets herself hope. 

The nurse gives her a pitying smile again when they enter the room and gestures to the gurney and the folded hospital gown that’s waiting for her. It almost makes her embarrassed when she realizes the gown will cover more of her than the dress she’s wearing, but she swallows it and gives the nurse a half-smile-half-grimace. 

The nurse turns to leave, and the words come out of her without her permission. “I know it’s a long shot,” she rasps, ignoring the way her throat burns and the way it coincides with the downturn of the nurse's mouth, “but is Dr. Abbot here?”

“I'm sorry, but no. He usually works the night shift, and left a few hours ago,” the nurse says softly. “Someone will be by in a minute to check on you,” she trails off, ducking her head to look at the tablet in her hands as she turns, clearly eager to leave if the speed the privacy curtain closes is any indication.

The moment the nurse is gone, she lets herself deflate. Stripping the dress off her body hurts; emotionally and physically. Her joints pull, her skin is raw, and it feels like every nerve ending is on fire. But the state of her dress just makes her sad; the glittery mesh is torn in multiple places, and the white satin is flecked in blood. The whole thing is going to have to go. 

Just looking at it makes her feel sick, but she refuses to think about the man who did this to her. She puts the concept of him out of her head and slips the hospital gown on. It chafes the bruises on her throat but she ignores it in favor of tossing her ruined clothing and the holographic platforms on the chair in the corner and making herself comfortable on the gurney. She wouldn't be surprised if it was hours before someone saw her. 

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If Jack is honest with himself (which he tries to be most of the time) it wasn't the vet patient dying that fucked him up this morning; it started way before that. It had been calling the time of death at 2:39 am on a Jane Doe who had been attacked and all but bled to death in the ambulance on the way in. Because when the call had come through 14 minutes before he had to call it and Bridget told him about the inbound sex worker found on the street, his throat felt like it was closing. Because he knew it could have been her. Because when they rolled her in on the gurney, black hair spread out like ink on the white sheets, blood spilling from her slashed throat, face bruised and swollen so bad she was nearly unrecognizable, he couldn't breathe. 

But then he saw it — more the lack of it — Jane Doe didn’t have a tattoo. She had a tattoo of a mermaid in the dead center of her left forearm, a beautiful thing he always wanted to ask her about but never got the chance. The realization it wasn't her had the vice of fear loosening its grip from his chest. 

He worked hard to save the girl (even though she wasn't her) and he probably let the effort go on longer than he should have, but the inevitability of her death couldn't be changed. He tried to let go after; let go of the panic that had invaded his senses, let go of the questions lingering in his mind. 

But the unease had stuck to him like a fly trap through the rest of the shift. It might not have been her, but damn well could have been. 

Losing the vet had just taken him out at the already shaky knees. And he held it together until he knew Robby was about to show up for his shift. Only then did he retreat to the roof. Only then did he let himself feel it all the way. 

He knew he wasn't going to jump, not when he had so many unresolved parts. Because more than anything, Jack craves the completion, to get the full image, the satisfaction of all the pieces coming together; it doesn't matter if the outcome is bad, it just needs to be done. And she is unresolved. 

So the first thing he does when he walks out of the hospital is call his therapist. Jack talks as he walks through the park, his therapist listens, and when they're done talking, Jack gets in his truck and drives home; the police scanner stays on low. 

He started listening to the scanner years ago, wanting to be prepared for anything. Prepared to come in on his day off. Prepared to go in early if he's needed. But it's only recently that he really listens for something. Any mention of a Jane Doe that fits her description, Jack has to see. Has to know if it's her. And thankfully it hasn't been yet. 

But he’s afraid it will be soon. His therapist, Walter, keeps telling him to talk to her the next time she comes into the ER. But he also knows he shouldn't, for any number of reasons. 

In fact, he has a list of reasons, detailing exactly why he should not speak to her or seek her out for any reason:

1. She's way too young for him, probably with baggage he hasn't the first idea how to deal with

She's younger than he has any right to even look at, younger than he thinks he could ever be comfortable with. And he knows her line of work isn't something people go into easily or with a lot of other options. The thought of her forced into that life unravels something in him that he thought he left in the desert overseas.

2. He's a grown man, with a lot of baggage he still isn't quite sure he knows how to deal with

Jack knows the life he’s lived hasn't been easy; tours and medic training and losing a foot and losing his bride days after she walked down the aisle to marry him. All probably before she was even old enough to drive. Maybe even before she hit puberty.

3. She's a patient (sometimes) and he's her doctor (sometimes)

These go hand in hand, because there are lines he told himself he wouldn't cross, lines he knows he shouldn't cross. And the biggest one was taking advantage of someone who he was duty bound to. Worst of all, it's a position he's seen lesser men take advantage of many times, and Jack has always enjoyed making those men regret it.

4. She could ruin him 

Despite all the things that he knows about himself to be true — he's standoffish, borderline suicidal, a workaholic, not quite cold but definitely not warm — the one thing he can't deny is that he’s never been able to do something in half measures. Jack can't do casual, not anymore; he tried after his wife died. He told himself that he couldn't commit to someone again, but the emptiness the one-night stands left haunted him. And he swore off flings after the last one left him bitter and hollow. 

5. He would happily let her ruin him if she wanted to

He feels like Odysseus tied to the mast of his ship when it comes to her. And he convinces himself that he’s resisted her pull until the next time she ends up waiting in a patient bay for him. He desperately wants to know her, wants to be pulled into her orbit, wants any part of her she'll give him. And he knows himself; he is already too attached to her. Because he doesn't even know her name (she always comes in with a different one) but it doesn't matter to him. 

And he knows he should tell someone, Ellis maybe, or Robby. But he also knows he won't, because he needs to see her. He needs to know she's alright. Because he knows it's a dangerous world out there, especially for a girl in her line of work. Because he’s already lost himself to her. Because the day he goes to ID a Jane Doe and it's her, he's going to shatter. 

So he drives home listening to the police scanner and recites his list while he packs away the anxiety and the emotions from the shift and starts ticking off the items on his day off list: he sleeps, he goes grocery shopping, he picks up his package from the post office, he picks up a new book from the library. And he hopes he doesn’t hear about her through the police scanner.

-----

The sound of the curtain being pulling back is what startles her out of her half aware doze; it isn't like anyone can get much sleep in the ER. But the loss of time still confuses her; he must have hit her harder than she remembered. Actually, now that she thinks about it, she can't really remember what happened other than the pain and the fear. But the memories around it — how he got her alone and how she got away from him — are what's missing. The more she thinks about it, the less she can remember even getting to this side of town. PTMC should have been an hour walk at least, and she can't remember making that walk at all.

But she puts that aside as she braces herself for him;  the condescending remarks, the accusations, and the threats of getting her arrested for prostitution. She’s taken every insult, every intimidation, every reproach and doesn't say a word. He'll never know what it means to live the life she does and how vastly different it will always be from his world; if not for the fact that he is a man, but also for the choices and opportunities that have been handed to him at every turn. 

She tries not to let his words stick too much, but sometimes she can't help but hear his voice in her head, sneering and snide as he walks out the door, gloves snapping, “I can't wait for the day you show up in the morgue instead of my ER.”

It was what she heard rattling in her head when she was losing consciousness under violent hands a few hours ago.

But the relief swamps her all at once when two female doctors walk in, neither of whom she'd ever seen before. One looked younger than her, by five years at least; her eyes widened and she fought to stifle the gasp that tore through her throat when she walked in. The other was the one who disappeared into the bathroom when the nurse walked her through the ER; she was confident, but not cocky, and despite the kind smile on her face, her eyes betrayed her pity.

She didn't want their pity, she was sick of it. For a second, her rage burns bright and hot, but it gets smothered instantly by shame. What right did she have to be angry at them? They could pity her all they liked, maybe she deserves it. She’s broken enough for it today. 

“Good morning, Kat. I'm Dr. Fullerton,” the doctor with the kind smile says. “I have a student doctor here with me. Is it okay if she comes in with us?”

She gets tired of watching the shock compound on the student doctor’s face and she turns away from their stares before agreeing half heartedly.

Moving her head was evidently the wrong move as the ringing in her ears comes back just then, and she can barely hear Dr. Fullerton’s question, but she’s been through this enough times to know what the question was. 

“I need Plan B,” she mumbles back. She doesn't really care anymore if that's not the answer to the question she asked, only that the sharp ringing starts to subside. Only now the bright, fluorescent lights are making her feel like her head is being bounced off the pavement again. 

She hears the muffled sound of satisfaction and agreement, before the wave of pain passes, and Dr. Fullerton’s voice now comes back, “—did you get your injuries?”

That's the question that always makes her cringe; they're never interested in how it actually happened. And even when they are, all it means is that cops are soon to follow. They don't need to know that some guy who was supposed to pay her decided he wanted to get his pleasure for free, and didn't like it when she said no. 

She flicks her gaze up to meet Dr. Fullerton’s eyes, pity now stowed away. She doesn't bother looking at the student doctor — she knows exactly what she'll find there. The shrug she gives gets no response, and she finds she can't look this doctor in the eyes and lie. So she looks away, down to her beaten up hands and says, “Took a nasty fall down some stairs.”

“That's one hell of a staircase,” the student doctor fires back, and if it were any other time she would have laughed out loud.

But her ribs scream even as she huffs out the mirthless chuckle, “You're not wrong.”

Dr. Fullerton looks distraught for a second before schooling her expression into something neutral. "Do you mind if I examine some of them? I'm worried about your right eye, especially. It's swelling up pretty good."

The thought of missing a shift sends her reeling. She needs the money, badly. Ivan took her rent money saying she never paid him out for last weekend. If she doesn't have the money by the end of the week, she'll lose her apartment, and being on the street is the one thing she really doesn't need right now. 

"Is that going to take a long time? I-I kind of need to get back to work…” she hopes they understand, hopes they see the urgency in her eyes.

Dr. Fullerton looks nauseous as she stares into the middle distance just above her head. It makes her nervous more than it makes her comforted by someone's care; if Dr. Fullerton wants to keep her there, to try and save her from this, she's dooming her to a life worse than what she has now. 

It takes a moment for the doctor to find her words before speaking. "It depends if the exam findings indicate anything that appears worrisome. Your wellbeing is important and I'm going to treat it as such."

The simple way Dr. Fullerton says it shocks her all the way to her bones. It's maybe the nicest thing she's heard from a doctor in a while — definitely the nicest from anyone on day shift regardless of the hospital. 

But as she watches the doctor’s slow, methodical movements and feels all at once like the feral cat she feeds sometimes outside her apartment. Skittish, wary, ready to strike out and escape. She supposes the image does fit as the doctor's hands move toward her face and she cringes away, expecting the pain.

"I'm going to apply a little pressure," Dr. Fullerton says, pushing her thumbs against her cheekbone first before moving them up towards her nose.

The gasp that escapes her is involuntary but cuts through the silence of the room like a knife, followed by a hiss of pain that makes Dr. Fullerton pull away.

Dr. Fullerton looks actually aggrieved as she sits back in her chair, small frown set on her lips. "I'm going to order a CT to rule out any facial fractures. Have you felt dizzy at all? Any bouts of nausea or vomiting since you...fell?"

She almost laughs; of course she has. The room hasn't stopped spinning since the first slap. Every blow that followed only made it worse. It reminded her of learning ballet as a little girl and getting dizzy when she lost her spot in a turn. But she also knows that telling them means more time in the ER, and she doesn't know if she can afford that. Especially not when she doesn't really know what time it is anymore.

"No,” she says dismissively, but as soon as the lie passes her lips her head throbs and her conviction wavers for a second, “I mean… I get a little dizzy but it's okay. Is the CT going to take a long time?"

Dr. Fullerton looks actually distraught by the idea of her not getting a CT scan and she decides she can try to wait it out as long as possible. But over her shoulder, she sees the one person she's been desperate to avoid since walking into PTMC.

"I'm super curious what your name is today? Val? Eva?" Dr. Langdon’s words land like a slap and she recoils as if he had as well. He leans against the doorframe, arms over his chest with a smug smile and she can feel the threat in his stance. He wants her to know he's caught her and he’s going to make her suffer for it.

"What are you doing?" Dr. Fullerton snaps, voice full of what she can only identify as rage and indignation. 

But he isn't phased, he just juts his chin towards her and smiles passively at Dr. Fullerton like he’s about to open her eyes to some unseen truth. And she hates how nervous it makes her. "She's a frequent flyer and has been flagged at multiple other hospitals for drug seeking."

But Dr. Fullerton’s mouth purses in disgust as she glares at Dr. Langdon over her shoulder. "Can I speak with you for a minute?" The doctor’s voice is clipped and angry, and it sends a sick satisfaction curling in her gut. Especially when she sees how it makes him sweat and watches the confidence die in his eyes. 

“I'll be right back, Kat, alright?" Dr. Fullerton says, and everyone in the room jumps when she snaps the gloves off her hands; the sound still makes her flinch as Dr. Langdon’s words echo in her head. 

"Okay,” she chokes out, ignoring the metallic shing of the curtain and the hiss of the door closing. 

The student doctor shifts back and forth from her toes to her heels, looking at anything but her. The girl is pretty in an innocent sort of way, and she knows with near certainty that this doctor has never met someone like her before. 

“So, is this your first day?” She asks, trying to break the tension.

“Oh! Uh, yes. It is. I don't think Dr. Fullerton said it but I'm Dr. Javadi,” she says back with a smile, holding her hand out for a shake. She can't help the wry smile that sneaks on her face as Dr. Javadi starts to second guess her attempted pleasantries.

She reaches out to shake the hand offered politely; her grandparents would have rolled in their graves if she snubbed the poor girl's handshake. “If it's not too rude, how old are you?”

Dr. Javadi’s eyes widen in alarm before she cringes and admits, “I’m actually 20.” The look on her face must have betrayed her surprise because Dr. Javadi is quick to follow with, “I swear I finished med school, I am a real doctor. I just-I had a lot of—”

“That’s awesome,” she manages to breathe out, which stops Dr. Javadi in her tracks. 

“Wait, really? You think it's cool that I'm a huge nerd who finished med school like 4 years before everyone else?” The doctor chokes out and she smiles.

“Yeah, it's really fucking cool,” she laughs, “I’m older than you and I don't even have my—”

The door hissing open draws her attention away from Dr. Javadi and onto Dr. Fullerton, who's bustling in the room so quickly she almost stumbles into another doctor's back. For a second, she's happy it's not Dr. Langdon.

But that's immediately overshadowed by fear. She's seen this doctor before, not as a patient but around. Dr. Langdon pointed him out to her once, the warning in his tone was clear but the words were lost in the haze of pain from her fractured collarbone. 

His eyes go wide as he scans her, and just for a second she sees shock and horror. But he shutters it quickly and steps aside to let Dr. Fullerton back into the room.

She can't deny how scared she is; he’stall and broad, hair salt and peppering at the temples. But his presence looms and steals the words from her mouth in response to Dr. Javadi.

She's instantly back to feeling like a cornered animal, and she knows she probably looks like it to the doctors in the room as well when all three of the doctors softened their postures.

Dr. Fullerton gives her a soft smile, "Kat, this our senior physician, Dr. Robby. I asked for his help during our assessment."

Her eyes cut back to Dr. Robby warily, "Hi," she deadpanned cautiously. She couldn't tell if they were preparing to kick her out or follow through with Dr. Langdon's threat to send her to jail. 

Dr. Robby gives her a small smile, tight but lacking pity. "It's just like Dr. Fullerton said; I'm just here to check on you. I also want to apologize on behalf of my resident earlier if anything he said upset you. That's not how we operate here."

It would have been funny if she wasn't so afraid he was lying; Dr. Langdon had been threatening her for months, ever since the first time she'd come in. She waits for the catch, for the caveat, for the hint of a lie. But he simply stares at her, waiting for permission. She nods, but hesitation lingers in her mind.

He approaches her like the scared animal she feels like, hands outstretched toward her. "Can you tell me how this happened?" He asks, gently taking her face in his hands presses on her cheekbones, just as Dr. Fullerton had. 

The pressure makes her vision swim and her eyes water and she forces out the words, "I took a nasty fall down some stairs." It barely tastes like a lie when her face feels like it's on fire, pressure moving closer to her nose and forcing a tear to track down her face. 

She winces, and surprisingly he stops, but his hands stay hovering slightly over her skin. "Does it hurt when I apply pressure?"

"Yes," she spits out, willing him to stop with her mind. 

"On a scale of 1 through 10," he asks, and she fights the urge to snarl at him.

"It hurts but I'll live,” she grits through her teeth, staring him in the eyes.

She barely notices his hands fully leaving her face, fighting against the tears gathering in her lashes, when he takes her arm in his hand, lifting and prodding.

The medical jargon starts flowing between the doctors in the room and she feels like a doll on a shelf; it's a familiar feeling for her. She lays back on the gurney when he directs her to, and lets him press on her stomach.

She finally zones back into the conversation when Dr. Robby starts "—a CT also for chest and abdomen along with an x-ray."

"Why?" Dr. Fullerton and Dr. Javadi ask at the same time. 

Dr. Robby gives her a sympathetic smile and moves his hands and presses on a spot that makes her groan in pain.

"That hurts, ya know," she gasps. 

Dr. Robby gives her a wry smile, "I know. You're sure you fell down a flight of stairs?"

Defiance rises in her chest and tastes like ash in her mouth as she snaps, "You calling me a liar?"

She stares him down, all the judgement and vitriol and pity filling her like acid. He wants to paint her as a victim, but she's a fucking person and she doesn't have time for this.

"Not calling you a liar," Dr. Fullerton cuts in, voice soft and pleading. "Your injuries unfortunately don't seem to be from falling and landing on concrete."

She almost feels bad for snapping at Dr. Fullerton but Dr. Robby's tone and condescending doubt override her sense, "I fell."

His humourless chuckle makes her want to scream and the disapproving smile that plays on his face fills her with rage. "It's okay if that's how you want to play this," Robby says gently, but the disbelief in his tone bristles. When she doesn't back down, he crosses his arms in front of his chest defensively, shoulders curling inward as he shrugs. "We won't force you to share more than you're ready to, but we just want to make sure you're safe."

Safe, a hilarious concept for her. Especially after she's received more threats from PTMC doctors than any other hospital in the city. "I'm good. Great even" She deadpans, not backing down from his stare.

He sighs and nods, "Okay. Well, you're in good hands with Dr. Fullerton. She's one of our best."

Dr. Fullerton nearly runs out of the room after him when he leaves without a look back in her direction but she stops and looks back, eyes focused on Dr. Javadi who's been doing her best impression of a decorative plant for the last 5 minutes.

"Can you put in the orders for the CT, x-ray Robby suggested, and a urine analysis? Give her tylenol with codeine for pain. If her UA comes back negative for pregnancy, go ahead and put in for Plan B," Dr. Fullerton instructs and barely sees Dr. Javadi's nod before tossing a hasty, “I’ll be right back,” over her shoulder as she passes through the door, following after Dr. Robby. 

She and Dr. Javadi sit in silence, letting the moment pass, but she can't help but mumble, "I bet they used to date."

The startled laugh claws out of Dr. Javadi’s throat, but the panicked, half coherent protest just solidifies her opinion. While the young doctor has clearly never considered the idea before, she can always tell. Maybe it's just the line of work she's in that gives her the hint, but the signs that those two were lovers are hard to miss. 

“Well, anyway, I'm gonna get you a cup for the UA—I mean the urine analysis—and then get you lined up for CT and x-ray. I'll be back in a minute,” Dr. Javadi smiles nervously. 

“Wait,” she calls out, and Dr. Javadi stops in her tracks, eyes wide. “Can you tell me the time?”

“Oh, god, yeah, uh it's…” she trails off, pulling up her sleeve to look at her watch, her expensive watch, “Almost 11am.”

She gives the doctor a smile and turns away, giving the out she knows is needed. She decides to wait for the scans, hopefully they don't make her wait too long to take the pill. But as long as she can get out by 4, she can make it.

-----

taglist is open!

F!Reader x Dr. Jack Abbot! <3 little oneshot

Sum: you answer a small newspaper ad, which leads to you living with the one and only, Dr. Jack Abbot.

Cw: “and they were roommates” trope ish? Younger female reader, age gap relationship, roommates, Jack has night terrors, widow Jack Abbot, fluff. Your a ghost writer of smut bc that’s my favorite c: MDNI not proofread

The house was too empty. Too quite. Too much for one person to take care of. It was supposed their dream home, but his late-wife never got to see it.

Never got to be carried through the threshold, never got to have morning coffee with him at the book nook, or enjoy the fire pit.

His therapist says he finds comfort in the dark but also in the barren. Never giving life to the home that was supposed to be theirs, even years later.

So when she suggests a roommate, Abbot quite literally doesn’t know what to do with that. There was plenty of room, sure, but did he really want that?

Looking around, he knows he could use someone’s help. It’s too much house, too suffocating on days like this.

Sighing, he reaches for the local pitts area newspaper for the add space number. It’s old school, almost dead but if anyone’s gonna live here with him, they should at least know what a newspaper is.

Looking for a quiet roommate. 49, Male. Looking for someone to help manage an old house for less rent. I work night shifts. No loud parties or gatherings. Contact at *********

——

Meeting you felt like a twist of fate. Some people had responded sure, but none he took seriously until he heard your soft voice over the phone.

New to the city, a writer by trade, so you assured him quite days and help around the house. You mostly worked from home and he had at least 20 years on you.

But god were you charming, he thinks swallowing as he helps you move in your small boxes.

“Dr. Abbot? Is there anything I should do or not touch?.” You asks as you settle another box on the kitchen counter. You didn’t have much but it was enough to fill the small guest room across his.

You were so grateful to have found the ad, you quite literally shook calling him. The house was perfect, yet empty, you note. Must be because he works night shifts, you think taking every thing in. It doesn’t help the good doctor is wildly attractive.

“Jus’ need some help talking care of this old thing during the day, cleaning and stuff if you don’t mind kid. Just.. just stay away from the closet at the end of the hall upstairs” he tells you, a far away look in his eyes for a moment before a little smirk graces his handsome face.

“Oh and no fires if you can help it. Firefighters are my enemy,” making you giggle.

“Sir yes sir!” You say while giving him a little salute, making him laugh. After helping you move, you’ll be honest, you rarely see him at first.

You hear him come home and leave, saying “goodbye” and “welcome home” when you catch him but never getting to really know eachother, with the both of you focused on work. You were just two roommates, trying to survive.

——

That was, until you started leaving him leftovers, feeling bad there was never much in the fridge for him. That small decisions led you to start a breakfast routine together. You shared little tired laughs and always fought on who did the dishes after.

Until you started packing lunches for him, after quickly making yourself dinner. The first time he noticed you left him food to take, his heart thumped in ways he hadn’t felt in years.

Until you started working in the living room, the little book nook becoming your spot. He’d sometimes find you passed out on it, curled up like a cute rabbit. On those days, you’d always wake up covered by a soft blanket, smelling suspiciously like a certain doctor.

Until you started leaving fresh flowers in the living room, which make him still and smile looking at them. One day, there was a small bottle of aroma massage oil next to them and a little note saying “to help with the pain!,” in your curly writing. He carries that little bottle and note with him everywhere.

Until the house started looking and feeling more like a home

Until he had his first night terror in years.

——

It started with whimpers. Fear reached you as you shot up, thunder and raining muddling the sounds coming from the end of the hall.

You gently crept out of your room to stand in front of his closed door, stalling before turning the knob. You’d never gone in his room before, not even to clean.

You see Abbot sweating in his sleep, tossing and turning. He looks like his in pain and it’s killing you inside.

Slowly you make your way to him, gently sitting before rubbing small circles on his chest to soothe him. Little hums and shushes come out of you, as you go to rest against his headboard.

You try not to think about how firm him chest is, the little salt and pepper curls that match his hair or the scars that litter his body.

It’s takes time but you feel his body relax back into a peaceful sleep, as it reaches you too. Your soft snores fill the room, as you fall asleep next to the man you haven’t been able to stop thinking about.

——

He’s confused at first. Waking up to you curled softly against him, face nuzzled against his chest. He’s alarmed, body tensing unsure of what to do. A small part of him wants to go back to bed, pull you closer and sleep and another wants to run. His tense body wakes you up and the part that wants to run, shushes, looking at your sleepy face and tussled hair.

Your eyes widen as you realize you fell asleep against him.

“I’m so sorry! You.. you were having a nightmare and I came to check and I’m sorry I didn’t mean to fall asleep here”

You look away, unable to make eye contact in shame as he swallows heavily.

His arms stop you from leaving as he tells you it’s okay. “I’m sorry I get.. from the war. I get nightmares sometimes. Thank you.. for helping me”

You couldn’t help but smile carefully. “It’s okay, I’m here for you”

——

Things changed at a rapid pace from there with Abbot, now Jack.

You were both each others closest companion. You spent his off days together, continued your shared meals and learned more than you dreamed of.

From his deployments, his late wife, his love of pineapple pizza and more.

Giggling you can’t help but recall when his red tinted cheeks when he learned about your job as a ghost writer for small smut books. It became natural, to seek eachother out, and one way or another, you always ended up in his bed.

Snuggled asleep in his arms, the two of you refused to say anything about this new tradition. The fear of breaking the comfort it brings stops you both.

Your pillows and blankets join the bed, and the room becomes more and more “our room” then his.

——

Robby can’t help but notice a small pep in Abbots step. How he suddenly comes in with well packed food and how his eyes looked brighter. Suspicion runs deep, as he wonders what changed for him.

“Getting more sleep brother?” He asks, watching Abbot get ready to leave.

Abbot can’t help but smirk “something like that”

——

The warm months great you as you and Jack settle closer into each others hearts.

He ponders, if he should ask. Ask what this is as he watches you plant flowers in his garden. His home is beautiful now, he thinks, like you.

“I think, I think we should have a house warming party.”

You can’t help but laugh as you glance up at him from the flower beds, “Can it be a housewarming if you’ve been here for years?”

“Never had or wanted one before. Seems like we should change that sweetheart”

Jack walks over steadily to you, kneeling to kiss you on your forehead.

You understand, and agree completely.

——

The backyard is bustling with new life. The flowers you planted being ‘oohed’ and ‘ahhed’ at, as you’re introduced to all of Jacks friends and coworkers.

You find yourself particularly drawn to Mel and Langdon, giggling up a storm with the two of them.

Jack can’t help but watch you from the corner of his eyes, not quite focused on his conversation with Dana and Robby.

“So” Robby inturpts his thoughts of you. “How long have you been dating her?”

Jacks eyes brows raise, a crinkle settling into his forehead.

He shrugs, trying to appear nonchalant. “We’re just roommates”

Dana and Robby can’t help but share a tired and concerned look.

“Jack, she lives with you. Cooks for you. Decorates your home and entertains your friends for you. If I had roommates like that I’d probably have more kids ” Dana says, trying to get a better answer from him.

“She’s young, we don’t want to see you hurt brother,”but Jack shrugs off both if their worries again, taking a sip of his beer.

A small smile appears on his face as he watches you mingle, knowing he didn’t have to worry about you or the ring in his nightstand.

The Crimson Glow: Chapter 1

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

You had long given up on meeting your soulmates. At 33, you felt like you'd miss the window. Pathetic off white pink strings, that had only darkened twice, were your only claim to them. That was until you started your across-state journey from Philly to P-burgh. Feeling brash after a recent breakup you threw caution to the wind and applied for a job across your home state. To your surprise, you were hired. With the encouragement of your close friends and brother, you committed to the new experience. For once, you were excited for adventure, that was until your strings began to darken.

CW: none? I guess cursing? If you see something please let me know 💛

A/N: While this chapter does not include smut there will be some in future chapters; it's a slow burn. Smut chapters will be labeled

Taglist: @nocturnalrorobin (also the requester of this prompt ^-^)

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

It would be an understatement to say that you’ve grown pessimistic when it comes to your soulmates. I mean fuck you were in your early thirties and your soul link of red strings had only changed from a pale pink twice in your life before going back to the default light pink. Yes, strings plural. You were part of the 2% of Americans who are estimated to have more than one soulmate. Despite this occurring in 1 in 50 people, your parents were from a generation where those who had more than one soulmate were ostracized. In turn, they had trained you since you were able to talk to only refer to one string. It had been ingrained in you to the extent that even now, as an adult, you had only told less than five people outside of your family about having two soulmates. Two of which were close friends, and the other two were past long-term relationships. Fuck what you wouldn’t give for a quote of your first words, or a countdown timer. Anything other than this off-white string that had been hanging over your head since childhood.

You knew that you could only be mad at fate to a certain extent. You had chosen to be career driven and bet on sure things rather than chasing after strings that had been stagnant for almost your whole life. In a way, you wish you could be as carefree as your twin brother. Benjamin, ever the romantic, took what was supposed to be a gap year from undergrad to grad school to find his mate. He headed east to Europe and backpacked across the entire continent before finding his soulmate, now husband, in Sicily. He ended up settling in London with his soulmate, Dante, eleven years ago and never looked back. Your parents’ reaction to his “lifestyle choices” was the final nail in the coffin before you both went no contact. You were the only thing left trying him to the US. You visited him at least once a year and talked regularly. You always wished you could be as carefree as he was. Despite your own situation, you were beyond happy for your brother. If not a bit envious, which led you to now, you pulled off at a rest station off of Route 76 on the verge of a panic attack.

You had just passed Harrisburg, two hours into your journey west from Philadelphia to Pittsburgh. For the first time ever both your strings were red, overlapped and darkening as you got closer to Pittsburgh. You didn’t know what to do or how to process this new information. Your strings had been overlapped for about two years now, and you had dealt with and accepted the fact that your soulmates had most likely found each other.  No, it was the darkening that threw you for a loop. This had only happened twice, the first time the string had gone from off-white to red only to turn back light pink within a few hours. That same string, pointing east across the Atlantic, had briefly turned black to grey back to light pink. You’d never forget that day one of your soulmates had almost died. Your sting had gone black for a minute and 57 seconds.

You shook your head, dismissing that thought; you were already stressed as it was.

You don’t know how Benji and your friend, a Pittsburgh native, had convinced you to take life by the reins and be impulsive. Between your recent breakup and a job opportunity across the state, you had made the improbable choice. You quit your job and got an apartment on the other side of the state. You regret it now, dread building in your gut. You weren’t spontaneous, no, you were practical and thorough. You didn’t take these kinds of risks.

Fuck, you felt like you were going to throw up. You quickly exited your maps app. Your thumb was over your brother’s contact info when your call screen suddenly took over displaying an incoming call from him. You picked up before the first ring had ended.

“You’re okay,” Ben’s voice rang out before you even had the chance to greet him. The wails of your nephew faint in the background.

“I-” You started, voice shaky, you paused before taking a breath.

“It’s okay,” he said once again, voice level.

“They’re red Ben, like properly red, like the ones in the movies.” You responded, you somehow managed to get the words out evenly, before taking another deep breath.

“Sis, that’s a good thing,” he responded, smile clear in his voice.

“No, I don’t know what to do,” you sighed, pressing your forehead flush with the top of the steering wheel, “I always know what to do Ben.”

“It’s okay to not know what’s to come, most people don’t know what’s going to happen before they meet their soulmate. You just have to lean on fate for a bit before going back to being a know-it-all,” he joked, hoping to lighten your mood.

“Okay,” you sighed, breathing going back to normal. “But what if I’m not what they’re expecting?”

“Then they’ll be pleasantly surprised,” He responded,

“What if it’s a bad time? Or if I meet them before making it to Pittsburgh?” You ask.

“There’s no perfect time to meet your mates, and if you meet them before Pittsburgh, you’ll figure it out. Like you always do.” He said comfortingly,

“What if-what if they don’t want me?” you said, finally voicing your deepest concern.

“Sis,” he replied softly, his voice just loud enough to register on his phone’s mic.

“I’m just-Fuck, I’m a mess, I start at my new job in less than two days, my apartment isn’t set up, and I definitely needed to do a everything shower this morning, but gaslighted myself into not washing my hair.” You sighed, “Just,” you breathed, “What if I’m not good enough?” Your voice wavered.

“Hey, watch your tone, I know you’re not bad mouthing my sister. Not the one that put herself through college, a master’s program, and a licensing process to become an art therapist. Not the woman who devotes everything to her patients within boundaries. Not the one who worked pro bono at a grief summer camp because of a staffing shortage. Or on top of everything is an amazing artist. Cuz she’s an empathetic badass, who is way too smart to say any of that shit.” Ben responded.

“Ben,” you said, sniffled, eyes watering.

“You’re going to be okay. They are lucky to be blessed with your presence and happy to meet you. If not, I’ll fuck them up.”

You let out a wet laugh, a single tear escaping each of your eyes as you blinked.

“Thanks,” you sniffled, a soft smile on your lips.

“No problem. What are big brothers for?” he asked, jokingly.

“Just cuz you cut in line does not make you older.” You responded to a lifelong debate with an eyeroll he’d never see, “Sorry for falling apart on you.”

“Sis, I’m sleep training a five-month-old, who is on what I hope is the tail end of colic. You were a much-needed break.”

“Tell Atlas his auntie loves him.” You said, taking one last deep breath. The weight gone from your chest.

“I will.” You could hear the softness in his voice shift, Atlas most likely finally calming down for Dante in the other room, “If you need anything, feel free to call.”

“I will, love you,” you reply.

“Love you too,” he responded before you clicked off the call.

You took a deep breath; you plugged your phone back into its charging port and clicked on maps and cued up a hip-hop mix. You shifted from park to drive and merged back onto I-76. You took one last stop two hours in, but it just made you more tired. You white knuckled it until you got to the parking garage adjacent to your building. Your strings continued to darken, color plateaued when you drove into the city’s limits. They weren’t overlapping anymore. On was pointing up, something you’d never seen before, and the other was pointing off to the right as you face your apartment building. You texted Ben and your friend who lived in the city that you got in safely. You unloaded your backpack and a single suitcase that held all your valuables. For the first time, you found yourself liking the annoying squeaks of its broken wheel. It was something familiar.

After you locked your car, the next half hour was a blur. You signed the final paperwork at the office and got your keys. You boarded the elevator and clicked on the tenth floor.

Your breath caught in your throat as the red string that was pointing upward started to move laterally down, while the other started to point down. The above one kept moving downward until it was back to the height of your palm. Was this it? Were you about to meet your soulmate? Despite bitching about not meeting them for the better part of thirty years you felt wildly unprepared. The ding of your floor snapped you out of your daze.

Were they living on the same floor as you?

You shook your head, turning left as the building manager had directed you. You slowly made your way down the hall; your suitcase’s broken wheel squeaking was the only noise. Your head snapped down as you passed the last apartment on the right before yours. The string was bright crimson, bolder than you had ever seen before. As you walked on, the string went through you, through the wall into that apartment.

You paused. But then there was nothing? Maybe they were asleep? It was four in the afternoon, but you weren’t really one to judge; you always loved a good nap. That or maybe they worked nights? After waiting for a beat, you slowly walked down to your apartment door, keeping an eye on the door as you opened yours.

Maybe this was okay? While you were desperate to meet them, you also had just completed an over five-hour drive, and you felt and you’re sure, looked like hot garbage. You gave yourself no time to take in the apartment before crossing through the sea of reusable boxes to your bedroom. You quickly tossed your backpack on the sheetless mattress resting on a built bed frame. You pulled out the lounge wear you packed along with a towel and washcloth from one of the totes before rushing to the bathroom. If you were gonna meet them today you were gonna have clean hair god dammit. You turned on the water as you stripped, your string remaining solitary to the one spot in your neighbor’s apartment. You unpacked your toiletries onto the shower’s ledges before jumping in. Your nerves got to you again, loitering in the shower as long as you could justify. After drying off, you did your full extended post-shower routine; eyes never straying far from the solitaire string.

While you tried to start to unpack, you couldn’t help but stare at the string. Should you just go and knock on their door? Before you could scheme any further, your stomach grumbled. It was already five and you hadn’t eaten since the last rest stop. Maybe going to grab something to eat wasn’t the worst idea ever. It’d get you out of your current impasse of staring at a wall. You picked a well-rated Thai restaurant around the corner, ordering way too much for a single person. The entire trip lasted about a half-hour, but it was a nice break. You got some fresh air and were able to stretch your legs as you took in the neighborhood. When you got back to the lobby, your other string started to darken quickly, like it was speeding towards you. You debated waiting for it or going back upstairs so that you could all be together. You opted for the latter and retreated back to your apartment. The string on your floor remained still, only starting to move as you closed your door.

Your heart began to hammer in your chest as you placed the food down on your kitchen counter. You were about to check in with Ben before a loud knock sounded off. Hesitantly, you approached the door, strings bright red, almost glowing. They formed a “V” shape as you wrapped your hand around the door.

This was it

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A/N: Thanks for taking the time to read! I am in the last month of my semester, so I don't have an update schedule as of now. Will hopefully be more consistent after mid-May. Hope you're doing well whenever you are 💛