Don't Make Me Someone You Can't Have
Don't Make Me Someone You Can't Have
pairing : dr. jack abbot x resident!reader (afab!reader)
summary : The fallout didn’t start the day of Pitt Fest—it started when you told Jack Abbot how you felt and he told you he didn’t want you. A week later, grief, jealousy, and everything unsaid ignite into something impossible to bury. (Lowkey inspired by Big Love by Fleetwood Mac—because obviously.)
warnings/content : trauma aftermath (mass casualty event), hospital setting, attending x resident dynamic, mutual pining, emotional repression, angst, jealousy, possessive behavior, verbal rejection, explicit sexual content (f!receiving, protected sex), semi-public/backseat sex, emotionally loaded dialogue, swearing
word count : 4,212
18+ ONLY, not beta read. Please read responsibly.
a/n : I am just so obsessed with Abbot, like oml I do not need a new hyperfixation at this point of the semester but here we are. Hope you guys enjoy this!
There’s blood on your forearms.
Not a lot—just the dried trace of a life you couldn’t save, stuck to your skin even after the first scrub. You’ve already changed out of your soiled gloves and gown. You sanitized twice. But still, you scrub again, because your hands won’t stop shaking and focusing on the motion keeps you upright.
The shooting at Pitt Fest has left the trauma bay soaked with the sound of screams you can’t forget. The floors were slick. Supplies ran out faster than anyone could track. You can still hear the rhythmic buzz of the trauma pager, the overhead call for more gurneys, the shrill monitor that never quieted until it did.
Your white coat is somewhere in the hallway—discarded and stained, a casualty of triage. There’s a bruise blossoming on your cheekbone, just beneath your eye. It’s from when the mother of the boy thrashed in panic, her elbow colliding with your face. You didn’t notice it at first, not until someone pointed it out with a grimace. Said it was turning purple, already swelling. Said you should ice it. You didn’t.
You press harder on your hands.
Jack Abbot hasn’t spoken to you since he snapped orders across the gurney three hours ago, voice razor-sharp, eyes like flint. He’d taken over compressions without blinking. His personal protection gear streaked in blood. His shoulders set like stone. His voice—steady, calm, cold.
You’d hesitated.
Just a second. Maybe less. But he’d seen it.
“You’re too shallow—switch out. Now.”
He hadn’t looked at you when he said it. Just stepped in, hands already moving, chest compressing with the precision of someone who’d done it a hundred times before. Because he has.
He moves like he did on the field. You’ve heard stories—Jack the soldier, desert heat in his lungs, fingers suturing flesh with a kind of brutal grace. You’ve seen glimpses of it before, but tonight? Tonight, it wasn’t a glimpse. It was a full transformation.
You backed away, stunned into silence. Not because he took over. But because of how he did it. Like you were a liability. Like you didn’t belong.
You told yourself it was adrenaline. It wasn’t.
The door creaks open behind you, and you don’t have to turn to know it’s him.
You keep your eyes on the mirror—don’t move, don’t breathe—until his reflection comes into focus beside yours.
His eyes go straight to your cheek.
The bruise.
His posture changes. Shoulders tense, mouth tightening. He doesn’t say anything, but the flicker of something behind his eyes is unmistakable. Not surprise. Not guilt.
Anger. Not at you—but at the fact that you’re hurt.
He doesn’t speak. Just leans against the counter. His eyes flick to your cheekbone again. The bruise is deeper now, ugly in the fluorescent light.
“You paused,” he says finally, voice low.
You dry your hands slowly. The paper towel crinkles between your fingers.
You turn, sharp. “I froze because I’ve never had to treat a gunshot wound in a fifteen-year-old while their mother screamed in my ear.”
You don’t stop.
“She was grabbing my sleeves, pulling at my hands, sobbing and shouting his name—over and over. She kept trying to touch his face. I could barely see where the blood was coming from. I wasn’t even sure where to start.”
Jack doesn’t flinch. “That’s what the job is.”
You laugh, and it sounds like it’s clawing its way out of your chest. “Don’t lecture me on what the job is, Jack. I’ve been here three years. I know what this place does to people.”
His jaw tightens. There’s something in his eyes—anger, maybe. Or guilt. You can’t tell with him. You never can.
He pushes off the counter.
“You think I don’t know what it does to people?”
You don’t answer. You can’t. Not when he steps closer, the air between you tight enough to snap.
“You think I wanted you in the bay?” he asks.
You blink. “What?”
Jack’s voice dips lower. “I saw your name on the call sheet. I almost pulled you off rotation.”
Your breath hitches. “You don’t get to do that.”
He’s close now—too close. He smells like hospital soap and something else beneath it—deep, expensive cologne that cuts through the sterile air. Teakwood. Mahogany. That warm, slightly spiced scent that always lingers a second too long after he leaves a room. Clean. Controlled. Intentionally chosen. Just like him.
“I don’t want to watch you fall apart,” he says.
Your heart slams. The words hit harder than they should, because they’re the first ones he’s offered that sound like anything real. Not just protocol. Not just war-worn discipline.
“I already have,” you whisper. “And you didn’t notice. Not when I told you how I felt. Not when you shut me down like it meant nothing. Like I meant nothing.”
He swallows hard. His posture stiffens.
“You didn’t even look at me after that,” you say, voice shaking. “I told you I had feelings for you, and you acted like I’d crossed some unspoken line. Like caring about you was a mistake I should be embarrassed by.”
Jack doesn’t say anything.
You shake your head, eyes burning. “For you, it’s easier to pretend this thing—whatever it is between us—doesn’t exist than admit you’re scared of something real.”
You don’t have to spell it out. You’ve seen the way he distances himself—the way he locks things down before anyone even gets close. You’ve felt it.
The silence now is a living thing. Loud. Brutal. The air is laced with too many unsaid things.
You can feel it—beneath the calm, beneath the scrub shirt and military precision—Jack is burning.
But he still doesn’t reach for you.
So you do what you always do.
You leave before he can stop you.
You don’t get far.
The trauma bay doors hiss shut behind you and the night air hits your face like a slap—cool, sharp, soaked in hospital exhaust and rain-soaked concrete. You pace once. Twice. You don’t cry.
You breathe. You think you might scream. Instead, you lean back against the cold exterior wall of the hospital and close your eyes. And there it is—the echo of his voice, thick with something too raw to name.
“I don’t want to watch you fall apart.”
But it wasn’t just tonight that gutted you. It started before. When you said too much and he gave you nothing.
It was three days ago. Late enough that the hospital had gone quiet—the kind of quiet where your thoughts get too loud, and nothing feels safe to admit.
You were both at the nurses’ station. Jack sat at one of the desktops, the screen glowing pale blue in front of him, his fingers motionless on the trackpad. You were across from him, one hand hovering over the keyboard, the other absently toying with a pen.
You’d been circling it for weeks—maybe longer. This thing between you. It wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. It lived in the quiet, in the unspoken, in the almosts. In the way your skin prickled when he entered a room. The way air shifted when he stood behind you—close, but never touching.
It was in the way his gaze found you during rounds, lingering just a heartbeat too long. The way his voice dipped when he said your name, soft and unreadable—like a secret slipping between his teeth. The way your breath caught when he brushed past you in the hallway, the fabric of his scrubs grazing yours, sending a bolt of something electric down your spine.
It was professional. It had to be. But it never felt neutral.
Every look felt like contact. Every silence, a dare.
The tension wasn’t dramatic. It didn’t need to be. It sat just under the surface—constant, quiet, undeniable. Like gravity. Like something pulling you toward him whether you wanted it or not.
But it wasn’t just you.
Jack watched you, too. Carefully. Deliberately. Like he was trying not to want you and failing anyway. He always looked away too slowly. Cleared his throat when your laugh caught him off guard. Said your name differently than everyone else—lower, rougher, like he was holding it in his mouth too long.
There were moments you caught him looking at you like he was already sorry for it.
Like he knew what it would cost if he gave in.
There were nights you couldn’t sleep without replaying the way his hand brushed yours, or the heat of his body behind you in the elevator, or the flicker of something in his eyes before he shut it down again.
You weren’t supposed to notice.
He wasn’t supposed to let you.
But you did.
And he did.
And both of you kept pretending it wasn’t real—even as it took up more and more space inside your chest.
You hadn’t planned to say anything. You hadn’t rehearsed it. It just… happened.
“I care about you,” you’d said, voice soft but steady. “I’m not trying to ruin anything. I just need you to know.”
Jack didn’t look up. Not at first. He just sat there, shoulders stiff, jaw set like someone had flipped a switch inside him. When he did meet your eyes, it wasn’t with warmth. It was with something colder. Sharper. Like he was bracing for impact.
“This can’t happen,” he’d said. Quiet. Controlled. Like he was reciting a rule he’d memorized a long time ago. “You’re a resident. I’m your attending. You know that.”
You’d nodded, tried to smile, tried to make it easy for him. Tried to act like it didn’t sting.
But he kept going.
“And even if you weren’t… it’s not a good idea.”
He hesitated. Just a second. But enough.
"You don’t know me," he added, eyes hard. "You think you do, but you don’t. You see what I let you see. And that version of me—that's not real."
And then, like he needed to twist the knife just to make sure it stuck :
“Whatever you think this is—I don’t want it. I don’t want you.”
You knew, even as he said it—he didn’t mean it. Not like that. But he wanted it to hurt. Needed it to. Like if he made you hate him, it would make walking away easier. That was the part that stayed with you.
You hadn’t cried then. Not in front of him. You nodded again, eyes dry, throat burning, and told him you understood. But you hadn’t said anything else. Didn’t argue. Didn’t ask him why.
And he hadn’t offered.
Not an apology. Not an explanation.
He hadn’t said a single word to you since—not until today, when his voice finally cut through the chaos to order you off the boy’s chest. Cold. Clinical. Like nothing had ever passed between you at all. Like you were just another resident.
But you’d felt it. In the way he walked into a room and wouldn’t look at you. In the way his voice would hitch when you brushed past. In the way his fists curled tight at his sides, like he wanted to reach for you but refused to let himself.
He was trying to be cold. Trying to keep the line drawn.
And still—still—he’d almost pulled you from trauma rotation tonight.
You open your eyes. The ache in your chest feels ancient. Familiar.
Big love. That’s what it was. The kind that never had a chance to grow, but still bloomed under your skin like it owned you.
And Jack? Jack let it die before it ever had the chance to live.
It’s been a week since Pitt Fest.
The hospital has started to settle into something like normal, but you haven’t. You still flinch when a trauma page comes over the comms. Still hear that mother’s voice, shrill and ragged. Still feel the ghost of Jack’s hand brushing yours when he took over compressions. That wasn’t the moment you broke, but it was the moment you knew you couldn’t pretend anymore.
So tonight, you go out. Against your better judgment.
Whitaker begged you. Santos threatened to show up at your apartment with a bottle of tequila. King and Mohan promised only one drink, just one, come on, you need it. Javadi was supposed to come too, but she bailed last minute—something about studying for boards and not wanting to get caught at another bar underage.
So now it’s the five of you crammed into a booth at this dive bar near the hospital in downtown Pittsburgh, the one with sticky floors and pool tables missing half the balls. The music is too loud, but the company is easy. Whitaker is doing some elaborate retelling of a patient who tried to fake a heart attack to get out of paying his copay. Mohan is crying from laughter. You’re sipping something sweet and strong and trying to let it all melt away.
It’s working.
Until you see him.
Jack.
He’s across the bar, half-shadowed under the neon sign, nursing a beer like he doesn’t want to be seen. But he’s not alone.
Robby’s with him. Of course he is.
They’re leaned in close, not talking much. Just sitting. Watching.
No—he’s watching.
You.
Your drink stills halfway to your mouth. Your stomach twists, not violently, but enough to knock the wind out of you. Jack doesn’t look away. Not immediately. Just holds your gaze like it hurts him. Like it should.
You force yourself to blink, to laugh at something Whitaker says. You pretend your hands aren’t shaking. You pretend you don’t feel your entire body tuning itself to the sound of his silence.
He rejected you. You know that.
But the way he’s looking at you now? It doesn’t feel like rejection.
It feels like longing.
And maybe that’s worse.
You down the rest of your drink in one go. It burns less than it should.
There’s a man at the bar. Mid-forties, maybe older. Salt-and-pepper beard. Expensive watch. He catches your glance and offers a smile that’s a little too polished, a little too practiced—but you return it anyway. Because he’s older. Because he’s sharp-eyed. Because he reminds you, in all the wrong ways, of someone else.
You excuse yourself from the table before anyone can stop you.
You take your drink, your heels, and your broken pride, and you slide onto the stool next to him.
Jack sees. Of course he does.
You make sure he does.
“Can I buy you another?” the man asks, nodding to your empty glass.
You smile. “Yeah. Why not?”
You laugh too easily. Let your shoulder brush his as he leans in. He says something you don’t hear because your pulse is thundering in your ears.
Across the bar, Jack’s jaw is tight. His hand clenches around his beer bottle, the label peeling beneath his thumb.
You tilt your head back and laugh again—this time louder, brighter, crueler.
Because if you’re going to hurt, you want him to feel it too.
And he does.
You can see it in the way he breaks eye contact first.
You can see it in the way Robby says something and Jack doesn’t respond.
You can see it in the way he stands up a minute later, like he can’t stand to watch anymore.
But he doesn’t leave.
He moves.
Across the bar. Slow, deliberate. Controlled rage in every step.
Robby calls after him, eyebrows lifted, confused—but Jack doesn’t answer.
He stops a foot away from you, the stranger mid-sentence, and you feel it before you even look up—heat rolling off of him like a storm about to break.
“Can I talk to you?” Jack says. Voice low. Measured. Barely held together.
You arch an eyebrow, take a long sip of your drink. “Busy.”
The man beside you glances between the two of you, sensing something sharp in the air. He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t need to.
Jack’s eyes are locked on yours. Not the stranger’s. Not anyone else’s.
“You need to come with me,” he says, lower now. “Now.”
And it’s not a command. It’s not even a plea. It’s desperation wrapped in control, fraying at the edges.
You consider refusing. You want to.
But you rise anyway.
And follow him out the door.
The air outside is colder than you expected. Or maybe that’s just him.
Jack doesn’t speak right away. He walks fast—toward the lot behind the bar, where his car is parked beneath a crooked streetlamp. When he finally stops, it’s with his back to you. One hand on his hip, the other raking through his hair. The kind of stillness that comes right before something breaks.
You follow, heart hammering. He turns.
“What the hell was that?”
Your arms fold across your chest. “You’ll have to be more specific.”
His eyes flash. “The guy. The flirting. You were trying to—”
“Trying to what?” you snap. “Move on? Isn’t that what you wanted?”
Jack exhales, sharp and uneven. “You don’t get it.”
“No, Jack. I really don’t. You said this couldn’t happen. You told me to forget it, forget you. And then you stare at me like that? Like you’ve got any right to be angry?”
“I’m not angry,” he bites out. “I’m—”
“Don’t lie to me.”
Silence stretches. You can hear the distant music from inside, laughter spilling through the front entrance. But here? It’s just you and him, and everything you haven’t said.
“I didn’t want to do that to you,” he says finally, voice frayed. “Push you away. I just… I didn’t know how else to make it stop.”
Your voice lowers. “Why would you want it to stop?”
He steps forward once. Close, but not touching. His hands stay at his sides like he’s afraid of what will happen if he reaches for you.
“Because it scares the shit out of me,” Jack says. “Because you matter more than you should. And because I don’t trust myself not to fuck that up.”
Your heart twists. “So instead you say things to make me hate you?”
“I thought if you hated me, it would be easier for both of us.”
You laugh—soft, bitter. “It’s not.”
His voice breaks. “I know.”
You look at him. Really look at him. There’s pain there—old and festering. The kind that has nothing to do with you and everything to do with whatever he’s been dragging behind him since the war, since before.
You take a breath. “So what now?”
Jack steps even closer. You can feel the heat of him again. His eyes drop to your mouth, then snap back up like he’s furious with himself for even looking.
“You came out here,” you say.
“I didn’t want to watch someone else touch you,” he admits.
“Then don’t make me someone you can’t have.”
There’s a beat.
And then he’s kissing you.
Rough. Desperate. Like he’s been holding it in for years and it’s finally breaking loose. You answer it without hesitation, fisting your hands in his shirt, dragging him down like you’re daring him to finally stop pretending.
He presses you back against the car, one hand braced beside your head, the other gripping your waist like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded. His mouth is on yours—hungry, ragged—like if he slows down, this will disappear.
“Back seat,” he growls. His voice scrapes through your chest.
He opens the rear door behind you, hand never leaving your hip, guiding you with him. You climb in first, crawling across the backseat with your heart in your throat. By the time you turn, he’s already sliding in after you, pulling the door shut behind him with a solid, final thud.
He grabs your face with both hands and kisses you again, harder this time, like his life depends on it. You climb into his lap, straddling him now, knees on either side of his thighs, your bodies pressed close and flushed with heat. He shoves your coat off your shoulders, pushes your shirt up. You tug his top over his head and toss it somewhere in the car.
“God,” he mutters, eyes raking over you. “You’ve been driving me insane.”
“Then do something about it.”
He does.
He unhooks your bra with one hand—like muscle memory—his mouth already on your chest, teeth and tongue working in tandem. His other hand splays across your lower back, holding you close as your hips grind down into his.
You’re panting. He’s shaking.
You reach between you, working open his belt, and feel him throb beneath the fabric. Jack shudders when your hand slips inside, groaning low into your skin.
“Wallet,” he mutters against your neck, voice breathless. “Inside pocket.”
You grab it. Your fingers move fast, practiced by adrenaline. You find the condom tucked there, tear it open, and hand it to him. His eyes meet yours as he rolls it on—slow, deliberate. Controlled, even now.
You brace yourself on his shoulders and lower down onto him, taking him inch by inch until he’s seated fully inside you.
The stretch burns in the best way. You gasp. He swears.
You don’t move. Not yet.
He kisses your jaw, your collarbone. Holds your hips steady with both hands like he’s savoring the feel of you. And when you start to move—hips rolling slow and deep—he leans his head back and groans your name like it’s the only word he knows.
“You feel—fuck, you feel like heaven,” he breathes.
You ride him hard, your rhythm building, mouths colliding again and again between moans. His grip bruises your thighs as he thrusts up to meet every movement, his control slipping with every second you stay on top of him.
Then suddenly—he shifts.
His arms wrap under your thighs, and in one smooth, powerful motion, he lifts you.
You gasp as he turns, guiding you onto your back across the seat. He stays inside you the whole time, never letting go, until your back hits the cool leather and he’s towering over you, braced between your legs.
“You okay?” he asks, breath ragged.
You nod, already whining for more.
Then he starts to move again—deep, relentless, rocking the car with every thrust.
He shifts, bracing one hand beneath your thigh to push your leg higher, opening you up to take him deeper. The angle hits something devastating—you cry out, fingers clutching at his shoulders.
Jack leans down, mouth hot at your neck, breath ragged.
“You’re mine,” he says, voice cracked and raw. “Say it.”
“Yours,” you gasp. “I’m yours, Jack.”
His hand slides down your side, gripping your hip for leverage—then slips between your bodies. His fingers find your clit and start to circle, firm and focused, his pace never faltering.
It sends you over the edge.
You break apart beneath him—back arching, thighs trembling, his name ripped from your mouth like a prayer you didn’t know you were saying.
You’re still shaking when he comes—groaning into your shoulder, his rhythm faltering as he buries himself deep one last time and lets go.
Afterward, you don’t speak right away.
You’re tangled together. His chest is against yours. His arms still hold you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he loosens his grip. Your heartbeat stutters beneath his palm. The windows are fogged, the car soaked in heat and the weight of everything that just happened.
You stroke a hand through the back of his hair, calming him more than you.
Finally, he shifts, settling beside you, your body still half-curled on top of him.
And quietly, you say:
“I followed you out because I thought you were going to leave again.”
He freezes.
You feel his breath catch against your shoulder.
“You left once,” you say. “After I told you how I felt. You didn’t look at me. Didn’t say anything. Just made it clear I’d imagined all of it. And tonight? I thought you were about to do it again.”
His voice is tight when he finally speaks.
“I almost did.”
You nod slowly. “Why didn’t you?”
Jack exhales hard. “Because I saw you with him, and I knew—if I walked away again, I wouldn’t just lose you. I’d be choosing to.”
He turns your face toward him.
“And I couldn’t live with that.”
You search his expression. His hand brushes a strand of hair from your face, and then settles on your cheek.
“I tried to kill it,” he says. “Tried to convince myself it wasn’t real. But it is. And it’s too big to ignore.”
“Big love,” you whisper.
He nods. “Yeah. The kind that burns everything else down.”
You press your forehead to his.
“I waited. Through all of it—every time you pretended you didn’t feel this, too.”
His eyes close. Like the truth hurts more than anything else tonight.
“I don’t know how to want you without wanting all of it,” he admits.
And you don’t need him to explain what all of it means.
The chaos. The risk. The weight.
You nod. “Good. Because I don’t want halfway.”
He leans in—presses a kiss to your cheek, then your lips, soft now. Careful.
And finally—finally—he says, “Then I won’t run anymore.”
You believe him.
But only because Big Love doesn’t let you run.
It lives. Loud. Messy. Permanent.
And tonight, in the heat of a parked car, Jack finally lets it have him.
More Posts from M14mags and Others
warning: pure angst (there will be a fluffy part 2 lol), not proofread, age gap (think 28 and 49), smut in part 2
summary: jack's insistence on pulling away from you finally caused you to break. that, combined with an unlucky day full of bad outcomes, had you visiting jack's favorite spot.
word count: 1.8k
part 2 (coming soon)
"you're in my spot."
the humorous quip had you scoffing to yourself, but you remained stuck to your spot, not bothering to turn around to find the man who had caused you to end up on that roof.
noting your silence, jack walked a few more steps, leaning on the rail as he looked at your back, pursing his lips at your silence. he took a moment to think about what to say next, being somewhat aware of your current mood and disfavor towards him at the moment.
he hummed, leaning closer, attempting to enter your sideview, but not even getting a bone thrown at him from you.
"you wanna talk, kid?," he tried, knowing you were a fuse about to blow up.
he knew what he'd done. was aware of why you where here, why you had been icing him out all week — hell, he was even aware of why you'd entered a request to switch shifts (information courtesy of michael robinavitch).
he'd fucked up. massively.
and even though he'd been aware of it even as he'd done it, he still thought it was for the best. looking out for you was something that came naturally to him, ever since the moment you'd transferred into the pitt as a second year resident.
you were a force to be reckoned with, that much he knew upon a first meeting. you'd overstayed way past your shift, insisting on finishing up a case you'd been on all day. that was when he came in, flouncing in with all his night-shift swag and immediately tapping robby out so he could take his place as attending for the night.
despite it being your first week there, you moved around the place with a practiced ease. this wasn't your first rodeo with emergency medicine, even opening up to jack about your past in healthcare as he taught you a procedure.
you ended up working a double shift that day, with jack unable to stop dragging you with him to even more procedures. he felt bad about it afterwards (maybe even a little flustered at how much he enjoyed working with you upon a first meeting), losing track of time and not realizing how overworked you'd already been.
and so you grew even closer. jack found himself trading his usual night shift and showing up whenever he predicted you'd be working. he had a flexible schedule, being allowed to clock in whenever extra hands were needed or simply switching shifts with robby and shen every so often.
his change in pace wasn't really questioned at first. jack was a workaholic through and through, so it wasn't out of character for him to be found working at odd hours of the day. the one difference to be found was his newfound habit to gravitate towards you, quietly insistent on being the one to drag you along with him for cases he thought you'd find interesting, keeping you close and teaching you everything he knew.
it was when others took notice of this that jack began to have problems. problems with himself, mainly.
it started with a passing comment from dana. something about how his 'work wife' had arrived earlier and was waiting for him. that received a chuckle from him and a furrowed brow towards dana.
that wasn't so bad. mel had earned the title of langdon's protege as soon as he came back from rehab and no one really batted an eye. the same could be said about robby and whitaker. you weren't an exception, so jack didn't think too much of it.
but then came a comment from santos, who'd raised her hand and stepped forward with excitement in her eyes at the opportunity of intubating a patient, claiming garcia had crowned her the best of the newcomers. but she was interrupted by jack, who immediately reached out to you with a scalpel in hand, almost as if it were second nature to him to entrust you with it.
santos had responded to this with a scoff, muttering something complaint about him favoring you every time. her comment got a whispered 'yeah' from whitaker and even an awkward nod from mohan, making you falter in confidence as you followed jack's directions.
what had broken the camel's back, though, was when even robby made a comment on your attachment to each other a week prior.
upon his arrival, jack began looking around, steps slow as he walked into the ER. the place was pretty quiet for an emergency room, so it was easy for jack to become distracted, not realizing what he was looking for until he was snapped out of his distracted state by someone clearing their throat in front of him.
looking up, he found a smug robby leaning against the nurse's station, not speaking up until jack snapped with a 'what?'
"looking for her, huh?" robby asked, taking a few steps towards abbot.
"what- who?" but jack knew who.
robby slapped an arm across jack's shoulders, pulling him in as they walked together further into the ER, leaning in closer before speaking.
"you have a crush on her or something, man? its- it's fine if you do, i mean, who am i to judge? i'm with heather, so-"
but jack cut him off, a little snappier than he ever liked to be, specially with robby.
"that's nonsense, robby. i- nevermind, i'm going to go check if mohan's got anything for me," he pulled away abruptly, speeding up his movements as he disappeared from robby's view.
it was a rare emotion to arise within jack, but he felt mortified at the implication. but it was mostly out of denial. that much he realized.
it had never been his intention to get so close, to form any sort of reputation with you.
he cared too much about you, about your talent, your future, you, to do this. not once had he stopped to analyze his feelings towards you, to think of why he gravitated towards you so much, but now that robby had snapped his bubble, it all made sense.
immediately, he pushed it all down. he put on a cold front, denying himself even a single moment to think about what this all meant. not once did he allow himself to stop and think about his feelings for you. this wasn't supposed to happen, so he wouldn't let it even begin.
he began pulling away from you after that, ignoring any mention of you brought up by either robby or dana. he started to turn to other residents, earning a pair of wide eyes from santos when he stretched his hand past you and in her direction to hand her the scalpel.
he'd even stopped approaching you altogether, no longer making casual conversation with you or purposely clocking in at the same hours as you — which had no effect at first, as you'd tried matching your shifts to his too, a realization that made him feel like an even bigger asshole at shutting you down so abruptly.
it had all been done in silence.
your relationship had formed through an unspoken compatibility, growing almost instantly into a mutual infatuation with one another, never assumed as anything more than platonic, but silently working its way towards more than that. the end of your 'relationship' had also been silent, with him pulling away without a single word, leading you to eventually do the same, both with apprehension and regret.
jack could tell that he had hurt you from that very first time he walked past you in the halls, opting to go straight into work rather than even say good morning to you. and his cold behavior only continued to expand. you gave up trying after a week, beginning to avoid him in return and looking to other attendings for guidance rather than him.
and it could've ended there, had jack abbot not been a huge hypocrite.
because the moment you began to pull away, the second you gave him his own treatment in return, jack came crawling back.
he tried to be subtle about it, asking you leading questions about cases and even checking in on you after harsh outcomes. he extended an olive branch, hoping that you could at least go back to cordialities, but you weren't receptive to him anymore. and he really couldn't blame you.
after two weeks of you freezing him out, he couldn't handle it anymore — nor could he handle robby and collins' looks of pity any time you'd walk past him without even a glance.
so when he saw you heading upstairs, taking those stairs that always led him to a dangerous flirtation with life and death, he followed behind you without thinking twice.
"kid, please," he spoke up again after no response from you.
"what, now you wanna talk?" you scoffed in a tone he'd never heard from you.
you were known to be assertive, sure, but you were sunshine while he was a storm. specially with him, always smiles and blushy cheeks any time he'd praise your hard work an intellect — and sometimes even when he merely looked at you.
"kid, listen-"
"no"
you turned to him abruptly, which was when he finally saw the glossiness of your eyes. your lips were plumper than usual, as if you'd been licking them a lot. the tip of your nose was slightly swollen, with a sniffle only confirming his suspicions — you'd been crying.
you'd lost someone today. it had taken a long battle, one that you ended up losing. but jack knew your tears weren't solely about that. he made up a good percentage of that equation.
"you don't get to choose when i'm of use to you," you continued, pointedly, "you can't fucking play with my emotions like this."
his jaw clenched and unclenched, admittedly shocked by you snapping so suddenly. though he knew it was a long time coming.
"kid, i- i never meant to."
you laughed ironically, looking down at the floor and shaking your head in disbelief, "you knew what was happening. you- you knew how i felt. there's no way you didn't," you paused, swallowing vile before looking at him with some hesitation, "and i knew how you felt too."
he went to speak, only to be interrupted by you.
"you were just a fucking coward."
it stung more than he wanted to admit.
"so, no, doctor abbot, we are not friends, we are barely even colleagues. you don't get to come 'check up on me' when it's convenient to you. stay out of my way and i'll stay out of yours," you leaned down, surpassing the railing and making it to his side, "that's what you wanted, isn't it?"
your eyes were full of bitterness, eyeing him with anger he'd never imagined from you.
he had no chance to respond before you walked away, leaving him alone on the roof, the place he frequented the most before ever meeting you.
aaahh hi hello! :)
first thing, i just wanted to say how much i love the way you write for jack and robby. you capture their personalities so well! reading your works are an absolute treat. <3
second, would it be possible to request something for robby? he finds out that his wife was in a really bad accident on her way to work, so she's rushed to the hospital and admitted to their icu?
tysm, and keep up the amazing work!
And You Came Back to Me
content/warning : Serious car accident, medical trauma, cardiac arrest, emergency resuscitation, hospitalization/ICU setting, emotional distress, PTSD symptoms, brief combat/military reference, grief response, partner fear, sibling care, recovery from near-death experience. Heavy emotional themes including flashbacks, guilt, and the fragility of healing.
word count : 3,791
a/n ; Wrote this as an exploration of what happens in the quiet after chaos—the weight of routine, the people who stay, and the small ways grief and love show up at once.
He should’ve kissed you longer.
That’s the first thing that slams through Robby’s chest when the officer says your name.
Not doctor. Not sir. Just: “Mr. Robinavitch, your wife’s been in a serious accident.”
It doesn’t register—not fully. Not until the next words hit him like shrapnel:
“She was unconscious at the scene. EMS is transporting her to Allegheny General now.”
And suddenly, time snaps backward—throws him hard against the wall of the morning. Back to the kitchen. To the quiet hum of NPR on the radio. To the faint smell of burnt toast from the toaster—because you always forget about it halfway through brushing your teeth. He’s told you a hundred times to stop using the “max crisp” setting. You always say, “It’s faster.”
Back to the sound of your heels on the tile as you rushed in—already dressed, hair still damp and twisted into that messy bun you always called “professional enough.”
“Shit,” you muttered, digging through your purse. “I’m running late. Can you zip me up?”
He should’ve stopped what he was doing.
Should’ve set down the mug. Turned fully toward you. Looked at you the way he used to—like you were something he still couldn’t quite believe was real.
But he was distracted. Reading the news. Checking an overnight lab update. Half-listening to McKay complain in the group chat about last night’s board decision.
So instead, he reached out automatically. Took hold of the zipper. Pulled it up the back of your dress like he’s done a hundred times before.
A quiet, familiar ritual.
“Thanks, babe,” you said, glancing over your shoulder with a soft smile.
He leaned in, kissed the back of your neck, right where your hair curled against your skin.
“You look beautiful,” he said. Distracted. Sincere, but distracted.
“You always say that.”
“Because it’s always true.”
You laughed and turned away to grab your keys.
He should’ve stopped you. Should’ve wrapped his arms around your waist, rested his chin on your shoulder, whispered something dumb and tender and marriage-soft like Don’t go to work. Stay home. Let’s be irresponsible. Should’ve asked about the dream you mumbled in your sleep. Should’ve paid attention when you said, “I might take the highway if traffic’s clear—I’m too late for the long route.”
You hated the highway. Said it made you feel like one wrong move could ruin everything. Said the backroads felt safer—winding, tree-lined, steady. He teased you for it. Called you dramatic. But he always agreed.
Take the long way. What’s ten more minutes if it means peace of mind?
And this morning—God—he hadn’t even thought to remind you.
“You driving in or Ubering?” he asked, eyes still on his phone.
“Driving. Highway if I have to. Don’t yell.”
“Just… text me when you get there.”
“I always do.”
You smiled.
He didn’t look up.
You walked out the door.
Now a stranger is telling him you were rear-ended at 70 miles per hour, spun into a guardrail, crushed on the driver’s side. That EMS pulled you from the wreckage with the jaws of life. That you weren’t responsive. That you lost a lot of blood.
That they’re bringing you in.
To him.
To his ER. His trauma bay. His staff.
And you might not survive the trip.
He should’ve kissed you longer.
He should’ve kissed you like it was the last time.
Because maybe—it was.
He drops the phone in the stairwell.
He’s moving before his mind catches up—down the steps, through the ER corridor, and straight into the trauma bay. The doors slam open so hard they shake on their hinges.
“Where is she?” His voice breaks as it rips out of his throat.
Dana’s the first to reach him. She’s just stepped off the elevator—chart in one hand, coffee in the other.
“She just came in,” she says immediately. “Langdon’s leading. Mateo is on the vent. Santos and Javadi are in the room—”
“Where is she?”
The way he says it this time—it’s not procedural. It’s not about who’s on what. It’s you. There’s a tremor in his voice now, something raw enough to cut through Dana’s usual calm.
She steps in his path.
“Robby,” she says gently—too gently. She never uses that voice. Not with him.
“She coded in the rig.”
He flinches like she slapped him. The hallway tilts.
“They got her back,” Dana rushes to add, because the look in his eyes unravels something in her. “But it’s bad. She’s not—she’s not conscious.”
He doesn’t stop to respond.
Robby just shrugs off Dana’s hand and barrels toward Trauma One, like his body’s moving on instinct—like it never forgot how to find you.
And then he sees you.
You’re nearly lost in the swarm of bodies around you, but he’d know you anywhere—even battered and broken, even with your hair soaked through and clinging to your face in tangled strands. One of your feet is bare. Your dress—that dress, the blue one you joked made you look like a lawyer even though you worked in nonprofit, the one he remembers zipping up hours ago—has been sliced clean down the center. Blood saturates the fabric, blooming across it like ink in water, until there’s barely any blue left at all.
Mateo is squeezing the ambu bag. Javadi’s covered in sweat, glove smeared in something dark. Langdon is barking orders like his throat is full of glass.
Robby freezes in the doorway.
Langdon doesn’t even look at him. Just shouts, “Get him out of here!”
Dana’s behind him again. This time, she doesn’t touch him. Just steps into his line of vision and holds it.
“You know better. Let them work.”
“That’s my wife. That’s Jack’s sister.”
Santos’ voice breaks—just barely. “She’s got internal bleeding. If we can’t stabilize her, we’re opening the chest.”
And there it is.
Robby’s hand slams against the doorframe. He backs away without realizing he’s doing it.
He ends up in Observation 2.
He doesn’t remember walking there. Doesn’t know how long he stands in the dark before someone—maybe Perlah—sets a bottle of water beside him. He doesn’t touch it.
He’s never felt like this before. Like the air is too thick. Like he’s breathing cement.
Jack shows up ten minutes later. Not in scrubs—he’s in a weather-beaten field jacket and dark jeans, the kind of outfit that’s survived its fair share of long nights. There’s rain slicking his shoulders, water dripping from the cuffs like he didn’t bother with an umbrella. Or didn’t care.
“They told me,” Jack says, low.
Robby doesn’t move.
“I came as soon as—”
“She took the fucking highway.”
Jack is quiet.
“She never takes the highway. I—I always tell her to take 51. She hates the on-ramps. Says they make her feel like she’s gonna die. She said it, Jack. She said it.”
Jack nods, slowly, but his posture is all wrong—too still, too rigid. Like he’s holding something in. His jaw is locked, eyes fixed somewhere over Robby’s shoulder like if he looks at him directly, he’ll break.
“Yeah,” he finally says, voice rough and frayed. “She told me that too. Said the on-ramps made her feel like the road would disappear underneath her. When we were kids, she’d make me walk the long way to school just to avoid the underpass near 18th. Three extra blocks. Every morning.”
He exhales, sharp and uneven. “She’d hold my sleeve like she thought the wind might carry her off if she let go.”
The pause that follows isn’t empty. It’s full—tight with every year Jack spent being the big brother. Every time he covered for you. Every scraped knee, every school project, every time he stood between you and the door while your parents screamed.
Robby sinks down against the wall. His voice is hollow. “She asked me to zip up her dress this morning.” He swallows hard. “I didn’t even look at her. Not really. I was reading emails. I kissed her neck and said, ‘Text me when you get there.’”
Jack doesn’t answer. Doesn’t offer reassurance or statistics or hope. He just lowers himself to the floor beside Robby, head bowed like he’s praying to no one in particular.
“You love her,” he says, and there’s no bitterness in it. Just something steady. “You take care of her in a way I never could. You know how to make her feel safe when it’s quiet. How to be soft when she won’t ask for it. I’ve spent my whole life guarding her from the world, and now…”
He trails off, staring at the floor.
“You’re the part of her world I trust the most.”
Robby closes his eyes. His shoulders shake, once.
“I don’t know how to be okay if she doesn’t wake up.”
Jack reaches out, sets a hand firm and grounding on Robby’s shoulder—steady, like he’s done for you a hundred times before.
“Then it’s a good thing you won’t have to be,” Jack says. “Because she’s too damn stubborn to leave either of us.”
And for the first time since the call, Robby lets himself breathe.
The updates come like clockwork.
“She’s holding.”
“We’ve got the bleeding under control.”
“She’s going up to the ICU now. Sedated. Ventilated.”
Robby follows the bed upstairs like a shadow. No one stops him. Not even Langdon, who looks like he’s aged ten years in a single shift.
They set you up in 312A.
You’re pale. Still. Your wedding ring sits in a plastic cup on the tray beside your bed.
He takes your hand.
“Hey,” he whispers. “I’m here. You’re okay. You’re safe.”
You don’t move.
He leans forward, pressing his forehead to your arm. His voice catches.
“Baby, please. Please come back.”
And then—he talks.
About the cat—how she followed you to the door that morning, meowing like she knew something was wrong. How you paused, scooped her up, kissed the top of her head, and whispered, “Hold down the fort, okay? Back before dinner.” Then blew her a kiss like you always did, keys already in hand.
About the coffee mug still sitting in the sink. The one with the chipped handle and the faded red lettering from that anniversary trip to Vermont—the kind of mug that never matched anything else but somehow became your favorite. You used it every morning, even when there were clean ones on the shelf. He used to tease you for it. Then he stopped.
About the basket of laundry half-folded on the couch. A pair of your socks tucked inside one of his. Your blouse still soft from the dryer, draped across the armrest like you might come back and finish putting things away. Like you’d walk in and complain that he always left the fitted sheets for you to deal with.
About the dress you pulled from the closet the night before—how you held it up in the mirror and said, “If this still fits, maybe I’ll wear it next weekend. The red one. You like this one.” And how he didn’t say anything. Just looked at you like you’d already won the room.
It’s those things.
The little ones.
The ones that never get written down or photographed.
The pieces of a life you don’t realize you’re building until everything goes quiet.
“You can’t leave me yet,” he murmurs, voice rough. “I haven’t seen you hold our kid yet. I haven’t told you enough times that you saved my life just by saying yes.”
Day Two
He doesn’t sleep.
Javadi comes by. Says nothing. Just looks through the glass and nods. Collins leaves coffee on the table without a word.
He doesn’t leave your side.
Jack shows up again late that night. Sits with him in the dark.
Neither of them speak. Not until Robby, voice shredded and barely audible, says, “I can’t lose her, Jack.”
Jack just nods. “You won’t.”
“I always figured I’d go first,” Jack says quietly, like the words slipped past his guard. “She’s always been the brave one. Ran toward things I would've flinched from. I was the one who hung back—scanned the exits, counted the risks.”
His jaw clenches. He stares at the floor like he’s trying to make sense of it all from the grain of the tile.
“But when I saw her in that trauma bay…” His voice falters, and he has to force the next words out. “Even in combat, I never felt fear like that. Never felt that kind of helpless.”
Robby doesn’t speak at first. Just sits with it, like the silence might soften the blow.
Then, quietly:
“She told me once she felt safest when she was with the two of us. Like the world couldn’t touch her.”
Jack exhales, slow and uneven. His eyes drift toward the bed—toward where you lie, still and silent beneath the tangle of wires and monitors. Still unmoving. Still too quiet.
Like if he looks long enough, maybe something in you will stir. Maybe you’ll meet his gaze and say his name like it means something.
“She better wake up,” he murmurs. “Because she still owes me twenty bucks. And I’m not letting her off the hook just because she got hit by a truck.”
Day Three.
The room is still. Quiet in a way that feels deliberate—like the air itself is holding its breath. Pale morning light creeps in through the ICU blinds, catching on the sharp corners of machines and the softer curve of your shoulder beneath the hospital blanket. Everything hums: the ventilator, the heart monitor, the sound of plastic tubing shifting slightly when you exhale.
Jack arrives before sunrise.
He doesn’t announce himself. Doesn’t knock. Just moves through the doorway like someone crossing into sacred ground. He sets a cup of black coffee on the counter for Robby—no cream, two sugars, just the way you always made it for him—and then takes the same spot by the wall he’s stood in every day since you were brought in.
Robby hasn’t slept. He’s still in yesterday’s clothes, eyes ringed with exhaustion. His hand hasn’t left yours all night.
They don’t talk for a while. Don’t need to. Jack watches you breathe. Robby counts each rise and fall of your chest like he’s tethered to it.
The moment happens quietly.
Just after nine.
Your fingers twitch. Small. Involuntary, maybe—but real.
Robby jolts forward. “Jack.”
Jack is at his side in an instant, already reaching, already watching. “Do it again,” he whispers, knuckles white where they grip the bed rail. “C’mon, kid. Come back to us.”
And then you do.
Your hand tightens around Robby’s. Weak. Barely there. But deliberate.
Robby exhales like he’s been underwater for days. A strangled sound escapes him—half sob, half stunned relief—and he bows his head to your hand like it’s the only thing anchoring him to the world.
Jack grips the back of Robby’s chair with one hand, the other dragging down his face. His mouth is tight. His eyes wet. But his voice, when it comes, is steady in the way only older brothers can manage.
“She’s fighting.”
The nurses rush in. Langdon appears within minutes. Orders are called out. Sedation is reduced. The ventilator settings are dialed down. But Robby doesn’t move—not from your side, not from your hand.
The change is slow. But it’s there.
Color returning to your cheeks. Lashes twitching. A soft wrinkle between your brows like you’re dreaming, or hurting, or both.
When your eyes finally open, it’s dusk.
They’re glassy. Unfocused.
But they find him.
“Hey, baby.” His voice cracks. “You with me?”
You can’t speak. Not yet. But your eyes do the work.
Then—your fingers tighten in his again.
Jack moves to your side, each step careful. Measured. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t trust his voice not to crack the quiet wide open.
And for a second, something flickers across your face. Recognition. A tear.
It rolls down your cheek and Robby catches it with a shaking hand.
He kisses your fingers. Your knuckles. Your wrist.
“You came back to me.”
Jack looks at you, jaw tight, throat working. Then he mutters, almost to himself, “Damn right she did.”
He doesn’t say more.
He doesn’t have to.
You’re awake.
And they’re both there.
That’s everything.
Three Weeks Later.
The apartment smells like lavender and laundry detergent. Your favorite blanket is folded over the back of the couch, and someone—probably Jack—restocked the kitchen with your exact tea and oatmeal brand, like muscle memory. There are flowers on the table, half-wilted, and a stack of unopened get-well cards beside them that you haven’t yet had the energy to read.
You’re home. And you’re alive.
But nothing feels normal yet.
You’re thinner than you were. Your ribs ache when you turn too fast, and your hands shake when you try to open pill bottles. But you walk. You breathe on your own. You wake up in your own bed next to Robby instead of tangled in ICU tubing.
And Robby—Robby hasn’t let you out of his sight.
He tries to be subtle. Tries to hover without hovering. You catch the way his hand twitches when you lean down to pick something up. The way he stays awake two hours after you’ve fallen asleep, just to make sure your breathing stays steady.
“I’m not going to break,” you tell him one morning, finding him standing in the hallway just outside the bathroom door.
He doesn’t smile. Just steps forward and cups your cheek like it’s second nature—like his hand was always meant to rest there.
“You did,” he says, voice low and frayed at the edges. “You almost died. And I stood there and watched it happen.”
His thumb brushes against your skin, gentle. Reverent.
“So yeah,” he murmurs, eyes locked on yours. “I’m sorry, but I’m gonna be careful with you for a while. You don’t get to scare me like that and expect me to walk away unchanged.”
You don’t argue. Just press your forehead to his and breathe with him.
Jack visits like clockwork. Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays. He always calls ahead, even though you stopped asking him to. He comes with practical things—groceries, multivitamins, takeout from that one Thai place you craved when nothing else would stay down.
He never makes a scene of it. Just moves through your kitchen like it’s routine. Like you didn’t code in the back of an ambulance while he was somewhere else—driving home, bone-tired and still smelling like antiseptic, unaware that your heart had stopped without him there to catch it.
He acts like nothing’s changed. Like you didn’t almost leave him without warning. But the way he watches you when you walk across the room says everything.
“You gonna let me in, or am I just supposed to enjoy the doorframe?” he jokes the first time you’re strong enough to answer it yourself.
“You gonna keep looking at me like I’ve got a ticking clock strapped to my chest?” you fire back.
Jack shrugs. Steps inside. Kisses the top of your head. “You’re still annoying. Good. I was worried.”
That night, you all end up in the living room—curled into Robby’s side on the couch, a blanket tucked around your legs, while Jack settles into the armchair nearby. His prosthetic leans against the side of the chair, balanced carefully where he left it, like it belongs there.
He sits back, one socked foot up, the other leg stretched out and relaxed. Comfortable in a way he rarely lets himself be.
The TV plays some half-watched game on mute, casting flickering light across the room, but no one’s really paying attention. The silence between you feels lived-in, not awkward. Familiar. But still edged with something tender. Like you’re all waiting to exhale at the same time.
The kind of night that feels quiet on purpose.
The kind that says: We’re still here.
“I think I scared you both more than I scared myself,” you murmur, eyes still on the screen.
“You scared the shit out of me,” Jack says, voice low. Honest. Not sharp, not teasing—just stripped down. Like it costs him something to say it out loud.
Robby’s grip around your waist tightens almost instinctively, like he can still feel the echo of that moment—the call, the drive, the trauma bay. His fingers curl against your side, anchoring himself to something warm and alive.
“You don’t get to do that again,” he says, barely above a whisper. “Ever.”
You turn your head then, eyes flicking between them—one sitting too still, the other holding on too tightly. And for the first time all day, you let yourself feel the full shape of what almost happened. What almost broke you.
“I didn’t say this earlier,” Jack says, softer now, voice rough around the edges. “But I meant it. Back at the hospital. You have him. You’re not doing this alone.”
You don’t look at him right away. Just nod, slow, like the words are settling into a place they hadn’t quite reached before. Your eyes sting, but you don’t blink them away.
“I know I’m not,” you murmur.
And you do.
Even on the days it’s hard to feel it.
Healing isn’t linear. Some days you get through without tears, almost like nothing ever happened. Other days, it hits you sideways—over coffee, in the shower, folding laundry—and you’re crying without knowing why.
You haven’t driven yet. Not because you can’t—because you don’t want to.
And everyone understands that.
Robby never asks. He just grabs the keys and opens your door first. Jack doesn’t comment, doesn’t tease—he just takes the driver’s seat without question when it’s his turn.
Even Dana understood. One Saturday, she showed up with oversized sunglasses and a tote bag full of snacks, knocked twice, and said, “Girls’ day. Non-negotiable. Collins is already in the car.”
And sure enough, Collins was in the passenger seat, sipping an iced tea and pretending not to be amused. Dana took the wheel, flipped the radio to something from the nineties, and announced you were starting with pedicures and ending with overpriced appetizers—“and maybe a shoe sale if we’re feeling emotional.”
But tonight, the air is still. Your body is tired, but not heavy. There’s a blanket over your legs, the low hum of the dishwasher in the next room, and two people who never let go—even when you tried to disappear.
You close your eyes.
And for the first time in weeks, you don’t brace for the fall.
Lean On Me (Part 4/7)
Pairing: Dr Michael 'Robby" Robinavitch x younger! Langdon's little sister! reader
Things heat up over breakfast but it takes a turn for the worst during your shift.
Warnings: casual drinking, mentions of work in a strip club, general lack of clothing in the workplace slow burn
(I know nothing about working in a strip club, so this is all based off media representations, sorry for any mistakes)
Part three / part five
taglist: @dayswithoutcoffee, @hagarsays, @4ishere, @omgbrianab
“I have two days off.” Michael announced as you both settled into your booth, the waitress already there filling your mugs with coffee. She didn’t even need to ask for your orders, you and Michael had been coming here every day for over two weeks now, and every day it was two cups of coffee and a large stack of pancakes to share.
You didn’t even really love pancakes, not enough to eat them every day but somehow it had become you and Michaels thing. Two coffees, six pancakes and two forks. With the last bite shared between you both.
It was sweet, domestic, and really fucking weird, if you admitted it to yourself.
Somehow in such a short amount of time, Michael had become your closest friend and confidant.
“I’m jealous, what is on the agenda?”
“Sleep, grocery shop and clean my place. I don’t remember the last time I gave it more than a quick hoover.”
“Oh now I really am jealous!”
Michael laughed and dug into the pancakes, a peaceful silence falling between you both as you sipped your overly sweetened coffee. Your crush on the doctor hadn’t calmed down as the days went on and you got to know him better. Instead it was getting worse with every passing moment between the two of you.
Some days you can’t stop yourself staring into his big brown eyes, with their crinkled crows feets and soft eyelashes. His hair, receding with age, but full and salted with greys at the temple that he didn’t hide with dye or a cut, made him just look more distinguished. But the way when flustered he ran his long fingers through his hair, it was enough to make you squeeze your thighs together each time, and for you to hold yourself back from running your own fingers through the hair.
Not to mention the spark you get with every accidental touch, from a slight tap on your lower back as you enter the diner, fingers grazing together as he passes you a fork or the sugar bowl. Everytime it feels like he hesitates, holding on for just a millisecond longer than he should.
Or maybe you're emotionally wrung out and it's been a while since anyone has shown you even a little bit of affection and you don’t know how to deal with kindness.
“I also have a bachelor party tonight.”
“You do not sound that excited.”
“It's for a colleague, Dr Shen, and I’m not really sure what has been planned and the planner of the event scares me a little.”
You laugh and can’t help but love as a little tinge of pink colours his cheeks, Michael Robinavitch blushing is going to be a core memory.
“Who's planning it?”
“Jack.”
“Isn’t he like your best friend or something?”
“Which is why I know to be scared, it could either be whiskeys and steak at a fancy dinner or strippers at a seedy club and no food in sight.”
A seedy club your voice gets stuck in your throat and you can’t hear anything else he’s saying. There are over fifty strip clubs in Pittsburgh city centre and they range from fancy to seedy with yours falling somewhere just above the middle. There was no way in all of Pittsburgh strip clubs he would end up at yours.
You were not that unlucky.
“What one are you hoping for?”
“Whiskey, steaks and in bed by eleven?” he said hopefully, “because I think I'm too old for strip clubs.”
You laugh and pull the pancakes away from him and grab a mouthful, smiling as the syrup coats your lips. You may or may not have taken a little longer to lick the sweet sugar from your bottom lip.
“You’re not that old,” you croon a little, your voice dropping an octave, and you scream at yourself WHAT ARE YOU DOING?
Michael stared at you through hooded lids, suddenly finding the table incredibly fascinating.
“I’m old enough to be your father.” he practically whispered.
“But you’re not.” you say, the air suddenly thick between you both, “And-” you swallow trying to find the right words, “Maybe I need someone more mature, wise-”
“Sweetheart-” he purrs, interrupting your nervous and desperate ranting. How did a conversation about whiskey and steaks get this in two sentences, you can’t keep a grin off your lips and your coffee and pancakes long forgotten as you slide your hands innocently across the worn vinyl table.
“Doctor Robinavitch.” You drag out each syllable, and you watch as he tries to catch himself, his own fingers now edging towards yours. Fingertips touching, slowly and carefully.
“Fuck-” You whisper as he leans further in. You can’t breathe and you can’t speak as you both now sat at the edge of your respective seats, hands clasped over the table and then suddenly you felt it, his foot breaching under the table and just touching yours.
It's so PC, so high school, and yet the touch was enough to almost send you over the line.
“More coffee?” The old sour faced waitress asked, breaking the tension.
You both jump in your seats, hands now pulled back in laps, feet securely under your own chairs.
“No thank you.” you both mutter, unable to look at her.
You both quickly make excuses to leave, he mumbles something about grocery shopping and you respond saying you had to go home and walk Dog.
Normally your breakfasts end with a hug and a reminder to see the other person the next day, but after whatever had just happened inside that diner you couldn’t bring yourself to do anything but give an awkward wave and rush towards the bus stop.
You could still feel the touch of him on your hands as you tried to rub the feeling away but it lingered long after the bus lurched away from the stop.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
You can’t get Michael Robinavitch out of your head as the night passes and you are stuck working the floor.
Everytime you get a moment to yourself, your mind wanders to his touch, the way his foot grazed yours under the table, the purr in his voice as he says ‘Sweetheart’. It pulls you in, distracting you as you handle another evening being ogled and objectified.
Your heels stuck to the vinyl, and someone had turned the heating up to an uncomfortable level causing your body glitter to run slightly as you rushed from table to table.
It was a Wednesday night and back in the day that had meant a slow and easy night but your creep of a boss had decided that Wednesday nights was now ‘Wings Night’, where as long as you kept buying drinks, and dances, you got a free bucket of wings.
So you walked, swaying slightly to the music, from one end of the club to another, off loading beers, whiskeys and internalising every cringe as slightly greasy fingers tipped you.
“Another one here sweetheart.” bellowed a patron, whose eyes never lifted higher than your chest, his fingers slick with the sauce of a chicken wing sliding instead of snapping for your attention.
You almost roll your eyes at the nickname, from Michaels lips it could bring you to your knees, from this pathetic man it took everything not to knee him in his unmentionables.
You knew that it was part of the job, along with the tiny pleated skirt and black bra that covered nothing but your nipples, but after over ten years of the same job you did start to think that maybe you had been someone awful in a past life.
You gather the tables empty glasses and confirm they wish for another round of the same.
More lewd comments are thrown your way and you smile in return, big and broad like you had learnt when you started.
“Another round for table seven please Joe!” you call to the bartender, Joe was an older guy who was a bartender slash bouncer and the loveliest man you had ever known. In his late fifties he had seen and done it all, and was always more than happy to dole out advice or protect the girls on and off the stage.
“You doing okay?”
“Always!”
“Liar!” you both laugh and turn as another group of men wander into the dark club. You shrug your shoulders back and plaster a smile on your face and take a step.
Then stop.
Amongst the seven or so men stood one slightly taller than the rest, with his hands in his pocket and stunning brown eyes that seemed to glow against the glistering stage lights.
Michael.
In your club.
Your tray clangs to the floor as you lose all decorum, rushing behind the bar and ducking.
You can’t breathe.
What is he doing here?
“You doing okay?” Joe asked, not moving from his spot, tea towel in hand as he wiped a glass.
“Please tell me that group didn’t just walk into my section?” You prayed, there were only three of you on the floor tonight. Half the girls who had been rostered on called in sick, most likely because they didn’t want to spend half of the next morning washing wing sauce off their uniform.
“Want me to lie?”
“Fuck!” you hiss and close your eyes.
You seriously must have been a truly horrible person in your former life.
“Is there a problem?” Suddenly Joe was before you, squatting down as his knees creaked.
You laugh dryly and take ten deep breaths, each one causing Joe to frown further.
“The tall one is my brother's boss.”
“That’s awkward but-”
“Who I had the most sexually charged breakfast with this morning, and if the waitress hadn’t come over, I probably would have mounted him on top of our pancakes.”
Joe's frown disappeared and his brows shot up, “Well that's a pickle but-”
“He also thinks I work at an office supply store.”
“This is not an office supply store.”
“Oh really?” you cringe up at him but he's just smiling.
“Everyone deals with this at one point or another. At least he’s just a crush and not your husband.”
He holds up his hand and forces you to your feet. There is no good option here, you could either stay behind the bar for a moment longer, and have your creep boss find you and berate you for wasting time in front of every patron in the club, or you go out there with your head held high and take their drinks orders.
Michael looked awkward at the glance you had seen so maybe he will be too busy looking at the floor or making excuses to leave to notice you.
Wishful thinking or delusional, you can't decide which as you straighten your skirt, holster up your bra and give Joe a kiss on the cheek.
You got this you mutter as you place table sevens drinks on your tray.
You let Michael and his group settle at a table close to the stage, most of them immediately distracted by Cherry dancing to an 80s classic, her lycra outfit reminiscent of a time most of the table would have been in high school or college.
You cringe a little, it's a subtle reminder of the age gap you had been trying to ignore. You hadn’t even been born until the 90s, your parents hadn’t even known each other in the 80s!
Distracted you place drinks in front of the wrong men, each one swapping and changing, laughing at you as you just smile through the fumble.
“Sorry guys!” You say as more notes are slipped under the waistband of your skirt.
You take just a moment to remove the notes, placing them in the pouch you kept inside your bra, nestled in the flimsy fabric was almost four hundred dollars of slightly sticky notes.
Your club was good enough that it was discouraged to tip in ones or twos, instead the minimum tip is ‘suggested’ to be tens or higher and with the slightly nicer atmosphere and ‘classy’ dancing, this meant it was mostly adhered to.
Someone at Michaels table waves you down, he has a kind face, older like Michael with salt and pepper curls cut short. Military, you clock almost immediately. They are easy to recognise in places like this, you can’t put into words why but they are.
It’s Jack Abbot you guess, knowing him only from your brother and Michaels stories.
It takes only ten steps to get from table seven to their table, you lean over a spare chair at their table, smiling as the men, predictably, look south before looking at your face. You don't look at Michael purposely smiling only at Dr Abbot and the man that must be the Bachelor.
He looked wrecked, his shirt half open and his eyes just a little glazed over.
“I think some water for you.” you purr, some people have a retail voice or their corporate voice, you had what could only be described as a ‘slutty’ voice.
The bachelor nodded, unable to look at anything in particular. Everyone else at the table was doing okay, a few reddened cheeks but everyone was pretty much sober.
“I’ll bring over some wings, and maybe chips, let's put something in your stomach.” You say before turning to Jack, “And for the table?”
Jack smiles, looking you in your eyes, which is a rarity in your line of work, “What whiskeys do you have?”
You laugh, gently swatting him on the shoulder, “You’re in a strip club honey, we got a bottle with the word Whiskey on it and that's about it.”
“Fancy stuff?”
“It will do the job.” Both of you laugh and you lift your head up.
Suddenly your stomach is in your throat. Brown eyes meet yours and they are alight with something you can’t quite describe.
Michael is staring at you, his hands white knuckling the table as he ignores any and all attempts of his friends trying to talk to him. The air that had been sickly warm was now freezing, you look away quickly, unable to catch his eye.
“I’ll be right back with your wings and whiskey!” you chirp, your work voice long gone as you try to shrink away.
Of course he would look up at you, you had to be an idiot to think he wouldn’t look up when a waitress spoke with him, no matter the location.
You can’t get away fast enough as your heels stick to the floor.
You could feel his eyes on you as you walked away, burning a hole into your back.
“I think Dr Bossman wants to eat you.” Joe says as he gathers the glasses and Whiskey, “He hasn’t blinked since you walked up.”
You throw a cautionary look behind you, everyone at the table was chatting amongst themselves, except for Michael who was just staring straight at you.
You try to give him an encouraging smile but it falters as he stands up, his chair creaking and his friends looking at him with confusion.
You rush to tell Joe the table's order, your voice getting lost as you continue to look back at Michael whose face has now gone a particular shade of red.
It was Jack who noticed the looks between the two of you. He looks from you back to Michael and then back to you, like he was watching a game of tennis before he is laughing to himself.
It takes Michael no time to move around his table and to get to you. Before you can even greet him with any kind of sound other than a squeak, his hand is tight around your forearm and he's pulling you towards the door marked ‘Staff- No Entry’.
don't leave me here without you | one
yeah yeah fuck me, jack abbot x f!doctor!reader
dr abbot finds your resume and thinks you are leaving the pitt - absolute disgusting and pathetic behaviour ensues, its all very endearing.
~~~
from the office of the author: DOn't even LOOK at me, I'm embarrassed. the pitt consumes my every waking thought so I'm going to make that everyone else's problem :)
this is my very first fic!!! it is a work of fiction!!!!! i do not know anything about being a doctor!!!!!! inaccuracies are none of my damn business!!!!!!!!!!
i can’t help but love the emotional constipation of jack and robby in this show, and i was feeling inspired by jack, so this is my attempt at unpacking a bit of it. reader is indeed reader, but i have formed a bit of a character in my head, so pls forgive me she does get a last name late in the piece. hope you enjoy!!!!! maybe more soon!!!!! <3
warnings: cussing, jack being pathetic, snooping based behaviours, mentions of loss of bodily function/traumatic injuries, mentions of war, mentions of covid, a spider may or not be guilty of a crime, miscommunication i fear, bad grammar from yours truely, bit o' angst
word count: 2.1k
Dr. Jack Abbot thought he was doing a very fine job not staring at you all shift long, thank you very much. It had gotten harder since you’d changed the way you’d done your hair, letting the blonde grow out. When the lights hit the top of your two fastidiously tied french braids it set the crown of your head on fire, like the sun itself sat behind you in some kind of imitation of a halo. angel indeed. You’d pierced your left ear again, yet another little golden hoop in the soft shell of cartilage at the very top. Every now and then, he would see you reach for it, as if to scratch an itch, but catch yourself before you could touch the still healing wound. The smallest, prettiest crease would form between your eyebrows, and your hand would curl into a tight fist of frustration. You were going to be the absolute death of him.
The last trauma had been difficult; damage to the neck not only making finding an airway close to impossible, but suggested a grim future for the patients ability to move as he once did. Walking was now in question. Fucking e-scooters, they were starting to offer up more victims than motorbikes. It had been an excruciating emotional dance to explain to the teenager’s recently widowed mother, that her 15 year old’s life would now be dramatically different, that she was going to have to take on a new burden. The quiet, contained grief in her eyes, not breaking contact with his, was just about all he could take for this shift.
It was easy then, to justify a little bit of gratuitous selfishness in front of the board; the easiest place to catch a glimpse of you. This shift you’d remained calm and switched on, as you always were, but something was clearly scratching at your mind. Standing dutifully behind Jack as he spoke to the mother, gently answering her questions, offering sincere condolences, introducing her to Kiara had all been done with perfect form. but when it was done, you had all but fled back to the nurses’ station, logging onto one of the computers at break neck speed.
This is where you now sat, chin resting on your linked fingers, eyes in a predatory narrow. Without meaning to, without really realising it was happening, Jack let himself drift slowly around the desk. On his journey closer to you he let his hands fall into nonchalant, non-suspicious motion. Adjusting the cord of the landline, running his finger over some forms to see if they needed his signature, flicking on a tablet to consider the chart on it. He didn’t really have the time to think too hard about it, but some small voice in the back of his head told him he looked like a fucking idiot. Jesus Christ, he’d committed now.
To get a decent angle of your screen he would have to step back a little from the desk, making it pretty damn obvious he was snooping. If it was only a glance, just a few seconds, he should be in the clear. Mindful not to get to close (you seemed to have eyes in the back of your head when it came to him, probably since he was your attending), he took one last scan of the room to check no one was clocking every last shuffle he was taking.
Pursing his lips with arms crossed tightly across his chest, he stepped back swiftly, eyes flicking down your screen. The majority of it was taken up by a word document, your name is bold letters across the top. Underneath was a jumble of dot points, places and years and accolades and societies—a resume?
A resume…your resume. You were leaving?
His heart went somersaulting into his stomach, bouncing off his ribs on the way down.
When had you decided this? Where were you going? When were you going to tell him?
Jack felt anger and grief and confusion and jealousy all at once in his veins like some kind of poisonous cocktail. What was he, some kind of teenager? What had he ever done to deserve an explanation from you? You, who was so wonderful and so clever and so funny and so so beautiful. You who had only ever weathered his grumpiness and sour expressions and poorly timed criticism with grace and patience. You who’d never figured out how to be a pessimist, who never let the bad days win. The thought of your absence was more painful than he could have ever expected — it scared him goddamn shitless.
“Dr Abbot?”
Dr Ellis had materialised out of nothing on the other side of the desk, one eyebrow cocked. Jack nearly tripped over his own feet to get away from you and the scalding sensation of shame burning across his face, “Ya?”
“Uh, can I get your eyes on a case in South 15? We’ve got a 10 year old, lethargic, sweaty, confused. Her parents are insistent she hasn’t ingested anything.”
Your head snapped up, finally divorced from whatever hypnotic pull the resume had on you.
“Does she have control over her extremities, fingers?”
Ellis frowned, “She was moving them a lot, almost obsessively. I figured if might just be a reaction to the confusion and being in a strange place.”
You stood in one fluid motion, hands quick to grab a pair of gloves, feet quick to dance around the station to get to Ellis’ side.
“Mind if I join? I think we need to look for a spider bite. Funnel-weavers are usually—”
And with that the pair of you were gone, walking shoulder to shoulder into the fray like soldiers in arms, conversing in low, practised tones. Ready to tackle whatever the inside of that room held; the scariness of having to diagnose quickly, the stress of terrified parents breathing down your neck. It didn’t matter how bitter-of-heart Jack had become after all the years of carnage, there was still a part of him that sang at the sight of a well-oiled team. It was selfish, he considered, to believe your leaving would effect just him. Every last doctor, nurse, support worker, radiologist, technician, transport aide, frequent flyer and desk clerk would mourn your loss. Perhaps the endearing Mel King most of all. She had taken to your cheerful demeanour and calm teaching style like someone drowning does to oxygen. In the time Langdon had been a voluntary inpatient, you had been a much needed rock in the stormy wake of that revelation. Another loss could send her off kilter again, and the ER needed her…badly.
So where exactly were you planning to run off to? Surely you wouldn’t go overseas again, not after what had brought you home the last time...
Morality was telling him to just walk away, to busy himself in some problem that likely was currently yearning for his help.
They hadn’t reached out had they? Could they convince you to go back?
He wished Bridget would just call for him, that Shen would bustle in with all his careful questions. But wishing would not make it so. And he had fought so long, all his life. The older he became, the easier it was to just surrender. To drift. The computer was about to fall asleep, locking it to the world. One swift movement of the mouse sealed his fate. He was a shameless snoop, a betrayer of privacy - your privacy.
It couldn’t be denied, the resume was impressive. Very, very impressive. How many graduating honours could one 30 something year old have? And the places you’d been, you’d practised - how many names could you possibly stack next to each other? Some of them he hadn’t even seen with his eyes, even after all the time in the camouflage pants that chaffed like you wouldn’t believe. You’d seen the very worst Covid had served up in Mexico City and Rio, you had been at the very front in Ukraine, in Afghanistan, traipsed all the way across North Africa and South America and just about every island in Indonesia. Pittsburgh, even with its fair share of tragedy, felt so foreign on the page next to all the adventure and danger. It would be easy to think that you had simply become bored, and wished once again to go somewhere that you could stem the flow of blood. Jack thought the blue beret would match the new blonde hair quite nicely.
“Dr Abbot?”
He froze. That voice. How long had he been staring at the carefully typed words, wishing they would reveal an answer?
There was no way, no way at all that he could gracefully and silently retreat from this one. He was elbow deep in the cookie jar, no better than a child, spited at not being told the grown up’s secret. He looked behind himself with humiliating slowness, feeling infinitely small and ashamed. The small crease between your brows had deepened into a valley he could not dig himself out of.
“Dr James.” He said, his voice sounding all together too loud and too far away, “If you are walking away from a computer in any circumstance other than a complete emergency, you must log off, there is confidential information of patients that must be protected from wandering eyes.”
“Wandering eyes?” You let a laugh escape, entirely hollow.
And then, with more steel then he had ever heard, “Can I speak with you privately for a minute?”
“Fine.” He said, straightening with an angry click from his back. Too old for all this high school shit. You made a point to lean past him, and log off with a few aggressively passive aggressive snaps of the keys.
He trailed behind your long, mechanical strides, deeply unsettled by the stiff set of your shoulders. Maybe you’d developed the ability to be negative in the time to took to stomp from the nurses’ station to the family room door, which you promptly shoulder charged open. Once it was safely closed behind both doctors, you whirled on him.
“What the hell were you doing looking at that?”
“Like I said, you need to log off—”
“Bullshit, Jack!” You looked wild, eyes impossibly wide, “There was no reason for your face to be 2 inches from the screen to log me out. Or have your eyes completely given out since the start of shift?”
If there was no way to dodge the bullet, he may as well try swallowing it, “What exactly do you plan on doing with that document? You gonna flee the country again? Run from all us sorry fucks here in the Pitt?”
You recoiled, like the venom in his words had actually struck your skin. Jack watched them sink in, the sizzle of their marks.
You shook your head once, looking down at your sneakers, the 10-year-too-old linoleum floors.
“I can’t believe you. I cannot believe you.” The words were pulled straight from your chest at the end of meat hooks.
Jack opened his mouth to strike again, but your gaze shot upwards and locked onto his. The attacks died on his tongue.
“All I have done since I set foot in here was try and get close to you Jack Abbot. I have offered you my full attention, my utter respect and confidence and trust, all my effort, all my energy, everything I have.” You took an incredulous step backwards, unsteadied by your own words and the weight of them now sitting between you, “There is nothing I wouldn’t do for you, I would ride right on back into all the shit and misery all over again if that is what you asked of me.”
Something that looked frighteningly like a tear slipped down your cheek and off your chin.
“And what do you offer in return? You push and push and push me away.” The words wobbled now, exhausted from the revelation.
“What right do you have,” You gasped, “to now act betrayed about this? To declare you’ve always cared? Like its me that’s hurting you?!”
Killshot.
Jack’s mouth pressed into a hard line, a terrible burning spreading through the back of his eyes, a horrible pressure on his chest. All that time he had been pretending not to look at you, you had been staring straight through him into his very soul. Seeing every ugly inch of his insides. He wanted to run, he wanted to throw up, he wanted to fall to his knees and beg for forgiveness at your feet.
Bridget rapped sharply on the door of the window, her face grave, “Car pileup on the highway, multiple traumas, 4 minutes out.”
By the time he turned back to you, your face had been schooled back into cool neutrality, a deep breath filling your lungs. Before Jack could reach out and touch you, you were gone, like you were never even there.
~~~~~
um, so yeah I guess? more soon! x
The Charming Sister
Yes another OUAT fic, The reader is Charming's sister and becomes a princess when he is a prince. But when her father wants to make an arranged marriage which she doesn't want so she runs away. When running through the woods she encounters Rumplestiltskin and makes a deal with him. What is the deal and how will she handle the curse being cast?
1 - Shepherd Princess
2 - Dealing Dearie
3 - Child Friend
4 - Changing Times
5 - Henry's Theories
6 - One Apple = Multiple Victims
7 - Kiss of the Heart
8 - Magical Storybrooke
9 - Realm Mission
10 - Memory Red Line
11 - Unlikely Pair
12 - Charming's Advice
13 - Bandit Guidance
14 - Brother's Permission
@fanficismydrug @misskitty1912-blog @lover-of-books-and-tea
Comments really appreciated ❤️
When the Sun Hits
summary: What begins as a hospital-wide power outage leaves you trapped in a supply closet with your emotionally unavailable attending. But when the lights come back on, what lingers between you can’t be shut off so easily. genre/notes: forced proximity, slow burn, panic attack + trauma comfort, domestic fluff, my fave kind of intimacy, mutual pining, humor/crack, soft!Jack that can't flirt for shit, idiots in love but neither of them will admit it, you discover you have a praise kink in the most inconvenient of ways warnings: references to trauma, depiction of a panic attack, mentions of grief and burnout, implied but not explicit smut, praise kink word count: ~ 7.1k a/n: down bad for whipped Jack Abbot
You had just turned to ask Jack if he could grab another tray of 32 French chest tubes when the lights cut out.
One second, the supply closet was bathed in its usual flickering overhead light—and the next, everything dropped into darkness. Sharp. Sudden.
You froze, one hand on the bin. Jack swore behind you.
"Shit," he muttered, somewhere just inside the door. The backup emergency lights flickered red from the hallway, but barely touched the cramped space around you.
Then the intercom crackled overhead: Code Yellow. Facility-wide outage. All staff remain on current floors. Secure all medications and patients.
The door clicked shut behind him.
Automatic lock.
You turned just as Jack tried the handle. It didn’t budge.
He sighed. "Well. That’s one way to guarantee a five-minute break."
You looked at him sharply, but he was already scanning the room, looking for anything useful, keeping his voice light.
"Guess we’re stuck for a bit," he added.
You didn’t respond. You couldn’t. The air felt too tight in your lungs, too warm all of a sudden.
Because now, the supply closet didn’t just feel small.
It felt like it was closing in.
It had been a normal day.
Or as normal as anything ever was around here—high-pressure shifts balanced by the strange rhythm you and Jack had settled into over the past few years. You worked together well—efficient, quick to anticipate each other's needs, almost telepathic during traumas. Partners in crime, someone had once joked. Probably Robby.
You’d learned how to read his silences—the kind that weren’t dismissive but deliberate, like he was giving you space without needing to say it aloud. He’d learned how to decode your muttered curses and side glances, how to step in behind you without crowding, how to let his shoulder bump yours during charting when words failed you both.
There was a kind of ease between you, a rhythm that didn’t require explanation. He’d hand you tools before you asked for them. You’d finish his sentences when he gave consults. Even in chaos, your partnership felt oddly... quiet. Intimate, in a way that crept in slowly, like warmth from a mug clasped between two hands after a long shift.
When you were paired on trauma, nurses and med students stopped asking who was lead. They knew you moved as one.
People had started to notice—how the two of you always seemed to stay overtime on the same days, how Jack would make dry, cutting jokes around others but soften them just enough when talking to you. Robby, in particular, teased him about it relentlessly.
"Jack, blink twice if this is you flirting," he’d once called across the ER after Jack mumbled, "Great work Dr. L/N," while watching you tie off a flawless stitch or nailing a differential.
Jack huffed. "It’s efficient. She's efficient."
"God, you’re hopeless," Robby laughed.
"She’s my best resident," Jack shot back, like it explained everything. Like it wasn’t a deflection.
You snorted into your coffee. "You say that like it’s not the fifth time this week."
Jack, without missing a beat: "That’s because it’s true. I value consistency."
He was awful at flirting—stiff and dry and chronically understated—but you’d grown to read the fondness buried in the flat delivery.
Like the morning he handed you your favorite protein bar without a word and then said, as you blinked at him, "Don’t faint. You’ll ruin my numbers."
Or the time he stood outside your call room after a brutal night shift, coffee in hand, and muttered, "You deserve a nap, but I guess you’ll have to settle for caffeine and my sparkling company."
He always made sure to loop you in on the interesting cases—"Figure it’s good for your development," he’d say. But then linger just a little too long after rounds, just to hear your thoughts.
And when you were quiet too long, when something in you withdrew, he never asked outright. Just gave you space—and a clipboard he’d pre-filled, or a shift swap you hadn’t requested, or the gentlest, "You good?" when you passed each other by the scrub sinks.
And now, here you were. Trapped in a closet with the man who rarely made jokes—and never blushed—except when you were around.
Now, you were stuck. Together.
The air felt thin but simultaneously stuffed to the brim.
Jack turned on his penlight, sweeping the beam across the room. "We’re fine," he said, calm and certain. "Generator will kick in soon."
You nodded. Tried to match his steadiness. Failed.
The closet was small. Smaller than it had ever felt before.
The walls crept in.
You didn’t notice the way your hands started to shake until he said your name.
Your vision tunneled. The room blurred at the edges, corners shrinking in like someone was folding the walls inward. The air felt heavy, every breath catching at the top of your throat before it could sink deep enough to matter. It felt like someone had filled your veins with liquid lead, your entire body suddenly weighing too much to hold upright. You staggered back a step, hand scrambling blindly for something to anchor you—shelf, handle, Jack. Your heart was pounding—loud, ragged, out of sync with time itself.
You tried to swallow. Couldn’t.
Sweat prickled your scalp. Your fingers tingled, every nerve on fire. Your knees gave out beneath you, and you crumbled to the floor—head buried between your knees, hands clasped behind your neck, trying to fold yourself into a singularity. Anything to disappear. Anything to slip away from this moment and the way it pressed in on all sides. There was no exit. No sound but your own spiraling thoughts and the slow, careful way Jack said your name again.
You blinked. Your eyes wouldn’t focus.
"Hey," Jack coaxed, his voice cutting through the static—low and steady, somehow still distant. His full attention was on you now, gaze locked in, unmoving. "Breathe."
You couldn’t.
It hit like a wave—sharp and silent, rising in your chest like pressure, no space, no air, no exit.
Jack’s hands found your shoulders. "I’ve got you. You’re okay. Stay with me, yeah?"
He crouched in front of you, grounding you with steady pressure and careful, deliberate calm. His hands—firm, callused, the kind that had seen years of split-second decisions and endless sutures—gripped your upper arms with a touch that was impossibly gentle. Like he could mold you back into yourself with his palms alone. His thumbs brushed lightly, not demanding, just present. Just there.
"Can you breathe with me?" he asked. "In for four. Okay? One, two, three…"
You tried. You really did.
Your chest still felt locked, ribs tight around panic like a vice, but his voice—low and even—threaded through the chaos.
"Out for four," he murmured, exhaling slowly, deliberately, like the sound alone could show your body how to follow. "Good. Just like that."
The faint light dimmed between you, casting his face in half-shadow. He was close now—close enough for you to catch the scent of antiseptic and something warm underneath, something that reminded you of winter nights and clean laundry.
"You’re here," he said again, softer this time. "You’re safe. Nothing’s coming. You’ve got space."
You reached out blindly, fingers finding the edge of his sleeve and clutching it like a lifeline.
"Good girl," Jack said softly, instinctively, like it slipped out without permission.
Your brain short-circuited. Of all things, in all moments—that was what hooked your attention. You let out a strangled little laugh, shaky and almost hysterical. "Fucking hell," you murmured, pressing your face into your arm. "Why is that what got me breathing again?"
Jack blinked, startled for a second—then let out the smallest huff of relief, like he was holding back a smirk. "Hey, if it works, I’ll say it again," he said, a thread of warmth sneaking into his voice.
You groaned, half-burying your face in your elbow. "Please don’t."
He was still crouched in front of you, his tone gentler now, teasing on purpose, like he was giving you something else to hold onto. "Admit it—you just wanted to hear me say something nice for once."
"Jack," you warned, half-laughing, half-crying.
"You’re doing great," he said quietly, real again. "You’re okay. I’ve got you."
And eventually—one shaky inhale at a time—your lungs obeyed.
When the power came back on, you stood side-by-side in the wash of fluorescent light, blinking against it.
You were still trembling faintly, your breaths shallow but more even now. Jack didn’t step away. Not right away.
"Feeling better?" he asked, voice low, steady.
You nodded, not trusting your voice.
Jack stood slowly, offering a hand. You took it, letting him pull you up. His grip lingered just a second longer than necessary.
Then he tried, awkwardly, to lighten the mood. "If calling you a good girl was really all it took, then I’ve been severely underutilizing my motivational toolkit."
You let out a startled laugh, breath catching mid-sound. "Jesus, don’t start."
He gave you a crooked smile—relieved, even if the corners of it were still tight with concern. "Whatever works, right? Next time I’ll try it with more enthusiasm."
"Next time?" Your eyes widened like saucers—absolutely flabbergasted, half-tempted to dissolve into laughter or hit him with the nearest supply tray.
He shrugged, another smug grin threatening to cross his lips. "Just saying. If you’re going to unravel in a closet, might as well do it with someone who knows where to find the defibrillator."
You rolled your eyes but didn’t let go of his hand until the light flickered again.
Only then did you both step apart.
You didn’t say much.
He didn’t ask you to.
You’d made it as far as the locker room before the adrenaline crash hit. You rinsed your face, changed into sweats, and shoved your scrubs into your bag with trembling fingers. Jack had walked you out of the department without a word, just a hand hovering near your lower back.
"Thanks," you said quietly, as you scanned out. "For earlier."
Jack shook his head, like it was nothing. "You don’t need to thank me."
"Still," you said. "Just… please don’t mention it to anyone?"
He looked over at you, mouth twitching at the corner. "Mention what?"
That made you laugh—brief, breathless. "Right."
You parted ways near the waiting room, sharing your usual post-shift goodbyes.
Or so you thought.
Jack had been about to leave when he saw you—doubling back through the double doors, slipping through the staff-only entrance and back into the ER.
His brow furrowed.
He hesitated, then turned to follow.
The corridor was quiet. Most of the day shift hadn’t arrived yet, and the call room hallway echoed faintly under his footsteps. He paused outside the on-call room and knocked once, gently. When there was no response, he eased the door open.
The room was cramped and windowless, just enough space for a narrow bunk bed and a scuffed metal chair in the corner. The mattress dipped in the middle, the kind of sag that never quite let you forget your own weight. The attached bathroom offered a stall that barely passed for a shower—low pressure, eternally lukewarm, and loud enough to make you question whether it was working or crying for help. It felt more like a last resort than a place to rest.
Your bag was on the bed. Half-unpacked. Toothbrush laid out. Socks tucked into the corner. Like you were staying in a hotel. Like you’d been staying here.
He was still standing there when the bathroom door cracked open and you stepped out—hair damp, towel knotted tightly around your torso.
You both froze.
Your eyes widened. Jack’s went comically wide before he spun around on instinct, shielding his eyes like it was second nature. "Shit—sorry, I didn’t—"
"What are you doing here?" you asked at the exact same time he blurted, "What are you doing here?"
The silence that followed was deafening.
Jack cleared his throat, ears bright red. "I… saw you come back in. Just wanted to check."
You were still standing in place like a deer in headlights, towel clutched in a death grip.
Jack rubbed the back of his neck, eyes very pointedly still on the wall, as if the peeling paint had suddenly become the most fascinating thing he'd ever seen.
Fingers clenched around the edge of the towel, embarrassment prickled across your chest like static. "One second," you murmured, disappearing back into the bathroom before either of you could say anything more.
A minute later, the door creaked open and you stepped out again—now wrapped in an oversized hoodie and soft, baggy sweatpants that made you look small, almost swallowed whole by comfort. Jack’s brain did something deeply inconvenient at the sight.
You lingered in the doorway, sleeves tugged down over your hands, damp hair framing your face. "You can look now," you said, voice softer this time.
Jack didn’t move at first. He shifted his weight, cleared his throat in a way that sounded more like a stall tactic than anything physiological. Only after a beat did he finally turn, cautiously, eyes flicking up to meet yours.
He caught himself staring. Made a mental note not to think about it later. Failed almost immediately.
A breath left your lungs, quieter than the room deserved. You crossed to the bunk and sat down on the edge, fingers fidgeting with the seam of your sweatpants. "You can sit, if you want," you said, barely above a whisper.
The mattress shifted a second later as Jack lowered himself beside you, careful, slow—like he wasn’t sure how close he was allowed to get. His knee brushed yours. He didn’t move it. You didn't pull away.
Your eyes fluttered shut, a long exhale dragging out of you like it had been caught behind your ribs all night. "I’ve been staying here," you said finally. "Not every night. Just... enough of them."
You looked over at him, then down at your hands. "It’s not about work. I just... I didn’t want to go back to an empty place and hear it echo. Didn’t want to hear myself think. Breathe. This place—at least there’s always noise. Even if it’s bad, it’s something."
That made him pause.
"I don’t want to be alone..." you added, quieter.
Jack was quiet for a moment, then nodded once, slow. "Why didn’t you tell me?" he asked, voice quieter than before. "You know I’m always here for you."
You looked down at your lap. "I didn’t want to be a burden."
Your fingers twitched, and before you realized it, you’d started picking at a loose thread along your cuff. Jack’s hands came up gently, catching yours before you could do more than graze your skin. He held them between his palms—warm, steady. Soothing.
His thumbs brushed over your knuckles. "You never have to earn being cared about," he said softly. "Not with me."
A few moments passed in silence. He still hadn’t let go of your hand.
Then, quietly, Jack reached into his pocket.
And handed you a key.
"I have a spare room," he said, voice low. "No expectations. No questions. Just… if you need it."
You stared at the key. Then at him.
He still didn’t look away, even as his voice gentled. "Don’t sleep here. Not if it hurts."
You took the key.
Not right away—but you did. Slipped it into the front pocket of your hoodie like it might vanish otherwise, like the metal might burn a hole through the fabric if you held it too long.
Jack didn’t press. Didn’t ask for promises.
He stood to leave and paused in the doorway.
"I’ll leave the light on," he said. "Just in case."
You didn’t answer right away. Just nodded, barely, and stared at the key in your lap long after the door shut behind him.
The call room was quiet after he left.
Too quiet.
You stared at the key until your fingers itched, then tucked it beneath your pillow like it needed protecting—from you, from the space, from the hollow echo of loneliness that filled the room once Jack was gone.
You didn’t sleep that night. Not really.
And two days later—after another long shift, after you’d showered in the same miserable excuse for plumbing, after you’d sat cross-legged on the cot trying to convince yourself to just go home—you took the key out of your pocket.
You didn’t text him.
You just went.
The last time you'd been to his place was different. Less quiet. More raw.
It was the night after a shift that left the entire ER shell-shocked. You'd both ended up at Jack’s apartment with takeout containers and too much to drink. You’d lost a kid—ten years old, blunt trauma, thirty-eight minutes of resuscitation, and it still wasn’t enough. Jack had lost a veteran. OD. The kind of case that stuck to his ribs.
He’d handed you a beer without a word. The two of you had sat on opposite ends of his couch, silence stretching between you like a third presence until you broke it with a hoarse, "I keep hearing his mother scream."
Jack didn’t look away. "I keep thinking I should’ve caught it sooner."
The conversation didn’t get lighter. But it got easier.
At some point, you’d both ended up sitting on the floor, backs against the couch, knees bent and shoulders almost brushing.
He told you about Iraq. About the first time he held pressure on someone’s chest and knew it wouldn’t matter.
You told him about your first code as an intern and the way it rewired something you’ve never quite gotten back.
He didn’t touch you. Didn’t need to. Just passed you another drink and said, "I’m glad you were there today."
And for a while, it was enough—being there, even if neither of you knew how to say why.
You’d gotten absolutely wasted that night. The kind of drunk that swung from giggles to tears and back again. Somewhere between your third drink and fourth emotional whiplash, you started dancing around his living room barefoot, music crackling from his ancient Bluetooth speaker. Tears for Fears was playing—Everybody Wants to Rule the World—and you twirled with your arms raised like the only way to survive grief was to outpace it.
Jack watched from the floor, amused. Smiling to himself. Maybe a little enamored.
You beckoned him up with exaggerated jazz hands. "C’mon, dance with me."
He shook his head, raising both palms. "No one needs to see that."
You marched over, grabbed his hands, and tugged hard enough to get him upright. He stumbled, laughing under his breath, and let you spin him like a carousel horse. It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t even really dancing. But it was you—vivid and loud and alive—and something in him ached with the sight of it.
He didn’t say anything that night.
But the way he looked at you said enough.
You were still holding his hands from the dance, your breathing slowing, your laughter softening into something tender. The overhead light had gone dim, the playlist shifting into quieter melodies, but you didn’t let go. Your fingers stayed laced behind his neck, your forehead nearly resting against his chest.
Jack’s palms found your waist—not possessive, just steady. Grounding. His thumbs pressed gently against your sides, and for a moment, you swayed in place like the world wasn’t full of ghosts. You were sobering up, but not rushing. Not running.
You hadn’t meant for the dance to turn into this. But he didn’t step away.
Didn’t look away either.
Just held you, as if the act itself might keep you both tethered to something real.
You woke the next morning to the sound of soft clinking—metal against ceramic, a pan being set down gently on the stovetop.
The smell of coffee drifted in first. Then eggs. Something buttery. Your head pounded—dull, insistent—but your body felt warm under the blanket someone had pulled up around your shoulders during the night.
Padding quietly down the hall, you peeked into the kitchen.
Jack stood at the stove, hair ever so slightly tousled from sleep, wearing the same faded t-shirt and a pair of plaid pajama pants that made your chest ache with something you couldn’t name. He hadn’t seen you yet—was humming under his breath, absently stirring a pan with practiced rhythm.
You leaned against the doorframe.
"Are you seriously making breakfast?"
He turned, eyes crinkling. "You say that like it’s not a medically necessary intervention."
You snorted, stepping in. "You’re using a cast iron. I didn’t even know you owned one."
"Don’t tell Robby. He thinks I survive on rage and vending machine coffee."
You slid onto one of the stools, blinking blearily against the light. Jack set a mug in front of you without being asked—just the way you liked it. Just like always.
"You were a menace last night," he said lightly, pouring eggs into the pan.
You groaned, cupping your hands around the mug. "Oh god. Please don’t recap."
He grinned. "No promises. But the dance moves were impressive. You almost took me out during that one twirl."
"That’s because you wouldn’t dance with me!"
"I was trying to protect my knees."
You laughed, head tipping back slightly. Jack just watched you, eyes soft, like the sound of it made something settle inside him.
And for a moment, the silence that settled between you wasn’t hollow at all.
It was full.
If only tonight's circumstances were different.
Jack opened the door in sweatpants and a black v-neck that looked older than his medical degree. He blinked when he saw you—then smiled, just a little. Not wide. Not obvious. But real. The kind of expression that said he hadn’t realized how much he’d wanted to see you until you were there.
He said nothing.
After a slow smile: "Didn’t expect to see you again so soon," he said lightly, trying to break the ice. "Unless you’re here to critique my towel-folding technique."
Lifting your hand slowly, the key warm against your skin, you tilted your head with a deadpan expression. "Wouldn’t dream of it," you said, tone dry—almost too dry—but not quite hiding the twitch of a smile. Jack’s mouth quirked at the corner.
Then you held the key out fully, and he stepped aside without a word.
"Spare room’s on the left," he said. “Bathroom’s across from it. The towels are clean. I think."
You smiled, a little helplessly. "Thanks."
Jack’s voice was soft behind you. "That was a joke, by the way. The towel thing."
You turned slightly. "What?"
He shrugged, almost sheepish. "Trying to lighten the mood," he said, rubbing the back of his neck and looking anywhere but at you. "Make it... easier. Or, y'know. Less weird. That was the goal."
The admission caught you off guard. Jack Abbot had a tendency to ramble when he was nervous, and this was definitely that.
You didn’t say anything right away, but your smile—this time—was a little steadier. A little sweeter.
"Careful, Jack," you murmured, feigning seriousness. "If you keep being charming, I might start expecting it."
He looked like he wanted to say something else. His mouth opened, then closed again as he rubbed the back of his neck, clearly debating whether to double down or play it cool.
"Guess I’ll go work on my stand-up material," he mumbled, half under his breath.
You bit back a laugh.
He ran a hand through his hair again—classic stall tactic—then finally nodded and disappeared into the kitchen.
The room he offered you was small, clearly unused, but tidy in a way that suggested recent care. A folded towel sat at the foot of the bed. A new toothbrush—still in its packaging—rested on the nightstand. The faint scent of cedar lingered in the air, mixing with the soft clean trace of his detergent. The air had that faint freshness of a recently opened window, and the corners were free of dust. Someone had aired it out. Someone had taken the time to make space—room that hadn’t existed before, cleared just enough to let another person in.
You set your bag down and sat on the edge of the bed, fingers brushing over the blanket. Everything felt soft. Considered. You stared at the corner of the room like it might give you answers.
It didn’t.
But it didn’t feel like a hospital either.
You took your time in the shower, letting the heat soak into your skin until the mirror fogged over and your thoughts slowed just enough to feel manageable. Jack's body wash smelled different on you—deeper, warmer somehow—and the scent clung faintly to your skin as you pulled on the softest clothes you had packed: shorts and an oversized shirt you barely remembered grabbing.
When you stepped out of the guest room, damp hair still clinging to your neck, the smell of garlic and something gently sizzling greeted you first. Jack was in the kitchen, stirring a pot with practiced ease, the kind of domestic ease that tugged at something inside you.
He turned when he heard your footsteps—and froze for a beat too long.
His eyes swept over you and caught on your hair, your shirt, the visible curve of your collarbone, the quietness about you that hadn't been there earlier. He blinked, clearly trying to recover, and failed miserably.
"Hey," you said gently, brushing some damp strands behind your ear. "Need help with anything?"
Jack cleared his throat—once, then again—and turned back to the stove, ears visibly reddening. "I think I’m good," he said. "Unless you want to make sure I don’t burn the rice."
You crossed the room and leaned against the counter next to him, still slightly flushed yourself. The scent of his soap clung to your sleeves, and Jack caught a trace of it on the air. He said nothing—but stirred a little slower. A little more carefully.
"Your apartment’s just as nice as I remembered," you said, soft and genuine, fingers brushing the edge of the countertop.
Jack glanced over at you, a flicker of something warm behind his eyes. "You mean the sterile surfaces and suspiciously outdated spice rack?"
You gave him a knowing smile. "I mean the parts that feel like you."
That stopped him for a second. His stirring slowed to a halt. He looked back down at the pot, a faint smile ghosting over his lips.
"Careful," he murmured, voice low. "If you keep saying things like that, I might start thinking you actually like me."
You nudged his elbow gently. "I might. Don’t let it go to your head."
He smiled to himself, the kind of expression that didn't need to be seen to be felt. And in the soft space between those words, something settled. Easier. Closer.
Dinner was simple—pan-seared salmon, rice, roasted vegetables. Nothing fancy, but everything assembled with care. Jack Abbot, it turned out, could cook.
You said so after the first bite—and let out a soft, involuntary moan. Jack froze mid-chew, raised a brow, and gave you a look.
"Wow," he said dryly, lips twitching. "Should I be offended or flattered?"
You flushed, laughing as you covered your mouth with your napkin. "Don't tell me you're jealous of a piece of salmon?"
He grinned. "I’m a man of many talents," he said dryly, passing you the pepper mill. "Just don’t ask me to bake."
You smiled over your glass of water, a little more relaxed now. "No offense, but I didn’t exactly have ‘culinary savant’ on my Jack Abbot bingo card."
He shot you a look. "What was on the card?"
You hummed, pretending to think. "Chronic insomniac. Secret softie. Closet hoarder of protein bars. Dad joke connoisseur."
Jack snorted, setting down his fork. "You’re lucky the salmon’s good or I’d be deeply offended."
You grinned. "So you admit it."
And he did—not in words, but in the way his gaze lingered a moment too long across the table. In the way he refilled your glass as soon as it dipped below halfway. In the quiet, sheepish curve of his smile when you caught him looking. In the way his laugh lost its usual edge and softened, like maybe—just maybe—he could get used to this.
After dinner, you moved to the sink before Jack could protest. He tried, weakly, something about guests and hospitality, but you waved him off and started rinsing plates.
Jack came up behind you, handing over dishes one by one as you scrubbed and loaded them into the dishwasher to dry. His presence was warm at your back, the occasional graze of his hand or arm sending tiny shivers up your spine. The silence between you was companionable, laced with unspoken things neither of you quite knew how to name.
"You’re seriously not gonna let me help?" he asked, bumping your hip with his.
"This is letting you help," you shot back. "You’re the designated passer."
"Such a glamorous title," he murmured, his voice low near your ear. "Do I get a badge?"
You glanced at him over your shoulder, a smile tugging at your lips. "Only if you survive the suds.
Jack leaned in just as you turned back to the sink, and for a moment, your arms brushed, your shoulders aligned. His gaze lingered on you again—your profile, your damp hair starting to curl at the edges, the stretch of your hoodie down your back.
You glanced back at him, close enough now to kiss, breath caught halfway between surprise and anticipation when—
Jack dipped his finger into the soap bubbles and tapped the tip of your nose.
You blinked, stunned. "Did you just—"
Jack held your wide-eyed gaze a beat longer, then said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world, "Nice look, Bubbles."
And the dam broke. You laughed, bright and unguarded, flicking water in his direction.
He dodged each droplet as best he could with a grin, triumphant. "I stand by my methods."
You scooped a pile of bubbles into your hand with deliberate menace.
Jack immediately backed away, holding both palms up like he was under arrest. "No. No no no—"
You grinned, nodding slowly with mock gravity. The chase ensued. He darted around the counter, nearly tripping on the rug as you chased after him, suds in hand and laughter trailing like a siren’s call. He was fast—but you were relentless.
"Truce!" he yelped, dropping to his knees in front of you, hands held high in mock surrender.
You smirked, one brow raised. "Hmm. I don’t know… this feels like a trap."
Jack looked up at you with wide, pleading eyes. "Mercy. Have mercy. I’ll do whatever you want—just don’t soap me."
You hummed, pretending to consider it. "Anything?"
"Within reason. And dignity. Maybe."
You tilted your head, letting the moment draw out. Jack watched you carefully, breath held, the corners of his mouth twitching.
"I mean…" he started. "If praise is your thing, you’re doing a fantastic job intimidating me right now."
Your mouth parted, stunned. "Did you just—"
Jack smirked, sensing an opening. "You excel at it. Really. Top tier menace."
You laughed, nearly doubling over. "Oh my god. You’re the worst." The bubbles had dissipated by now, leaving you with only damp hands.
"And yet, here you are," he said, still kneeling, still grinning.
You shook your head, stray droplets slipping from your hand, your laughter easing into something softer. "Get up, you idiot."
But Jack didn’t—not right away. Still on his knees, he shifted closer, hands resting lightly on your knees. His touch was featherlight, reverent, thumbs brushing along the curve where your thigh met fabric.
"I mean it," he said, voice quieter now, almost solemn. "You terrify me."
Your breath caught.
"In the best way," he added, gaze lifting. "You walk into a trauma bay like you own it. You fight like hell for your patients. You get under my skin without even trying."
His hands slid up slowly, still gentle, still hesitant, like waiting for permission. "Sometimes I think the only thing I believe in anymore is you."
Your heart thudded. Your hands, still damp, twitched against your sides.
"You deserve to be worshipped," he murmured, and that was when your knees nearly buckled.
The joke was long forgotten. The laughter faded. All that was left was the way Jack looked at you now—like he wasn’t afraid of the quiet anymore.
His hands had made a slow, reverent climb to your bare skin, thumbs sweeping small, anchoring circles into your skin. You felt the heat of him everywhere, your body taut with anticipation, nerves stretched thin. He didn’t rush. Just looked up at you, drinking in every unsteady breath, every flicker of hesitation in your gaze.
"You’re shaking," he murmured, voice low, hoarse. "You want to stop?"
You shook your head—barely—and he nodded like he understood something sacred.
"I want you to feel good," he said softly, leaning in to press the lightest kiss to your thigh, just below the hem of your shirt. "I want to take my time with you. If you’ll let me?"
The question lodged in your chest like a plea. You couldn’t speak, only nodded, and his hands flexed slightly in response.
Jack stood first, rising fluidly, eyes never leaving yours. As he straightened, your hands found his hair, fingers threading through the soft strands at the base of his neck. That was all it took—the smallest pull, the softest touch—and the space between you collapsed.
Not in chaos, not in desperation, but in something careful. Like reverence wrapped in desire. Like he’d been waiting for this, quietly, for longer than he dared admit.
And when his lips met yours, it was a live wire.
Deep. Soft. Unapologetically tender.
But it didn’t stay chaste. Jack’s hands found your hips, drawing you closer, fitting your bodies together like a secret only the two of you knew how to keep. His tongue brushed yours in a slow, exploratory sweep, and you gasped against his mouth, fingers fisting in the back of his shirt.
The kiss turned hungry, molten—slow-burning restraint giving way to a need you both had held too tightly for too long. Jack’s hand slid beneath the hem of your shirt, tracing the curve of your spine, and you arched into him, a quiet gasp slipping free.
"Tell me if you want me to stop," he murmured between kisses, voice thick, reverent.
You pulled back just enough to whisper, "Don’t you dare."
That was all he needed.
And when he kissed you again, it was like promise and prayer and everything you hadn’t let yourself want until now.
His hands moved with aching care—one sliding up your spine to cradle the back of your neck, the other splaying wide at your waist, pulling you flush against him. The heat between you was slow and encompassing, more smolder than spark, until it wasn’t—until it ignited all at once.
Jack walked you backward until your hips bumped the counter, and he pressed into the space you gave him, forehead resting against yours. "You undo me," he whispered, breath trembling against your lips. "Every single time."
You were already breathless, clinging to his shirt, heart pounding in your throat.
His mouth found yours again, deeper this time, hands exploring—confident now, reverent, like he was learning every part of you for the first time and never wanted to forget. You moaned softly into the kiss, and Jack cursed under his breath, low and ragged, like the sound had torn through his composure.
And then there was no more space. No more distance. Just heat, and hunger, and the slow unraveling of restraint as Jack lifted you gently onto the counter, your knees parting for him, his name spilling from your lips like a secret.
You kissed like the world was ending. Like this was your only chance to get it right. He needed to feel you pressed against him to believe it wasn’t just a dream.
The kiss deepened, urgent and breathless, until Jack was devouring every sound you made, like he could live off the way you whimpered into his mouth. He groaned low in his throat when your nails scraped lightly down his back, your body arching into his hands like instinct.
He touched you like a man memorizing, devout and thorough—hands mapping the curve of your waist, mouth dragging heat across your throat. He tasted sweat and shampoo and you, and that alone nearly undid him. You felt the tension coil in his spine, the restraint he was holding like a dam, every movement deliberate.
"God," he rasped, lips at your ear, "you have no idea what you do to me."
And when you gasped again, hips shifting, he exhaled a shaky breath like he was trying not to fall apart just from the sound.
"You smell like my soap," he murmured with a rough chuckle, nosing along your jaw. "But you still taste like you."
You whimpered, and he kissed you again—harder now, letting the hunger break through, swallowing your reaction like a man starved.
He praised you in murmured fragments, over and over, voice low and wrecked.
Beautiful.
Brave.
So fucking good.
Mine.
Each word making your skin feel like it was glowing beneath his hands.
And when he finally took you to bed, it wasn’t rushed or careless—it was everything he hadn’t said before now, every ounce of feeling poured into his mouth on your skin, every whispered breath of worship like he was praying into the hollow of your throat.
Jack kissed you like he needed to memorize the taste of every sound you made, like your skin was the answer to every question he’d never asked out loud. His hands roamed slowly, confidently, with that same quiet focus he wore in trauma bays—except now it was all for you. Every inch of you. His mouth lingered at your collarbone, your ribs, the soft curve of your stomach—pressing his devotion into the places you tried to hide.
You felt undone by how gently he worshipped you, how much he wanted—not just your body, but your breath, your closeness, your everything. He murmured praise against your skin like it was sacred, like you were something holy in his arms.
And when he finally moved over you, hands braced on either side of your head, eyes searching yours like he was asking permission one more time—you nodded.
He exhaled like it hurt to hold back. Then gave you everything.
Later, tangled in blankets and the afterglow, Jack pulled you closer without a word. One hand splayed wide against your back, the other curled around your fingers like he wasn’t ready to let you go—not now, maybe not ever. You buried your face into the crook of his neck, breathing in the warmth of him, the scent of skin and comfort and safety.
"I’m gonna need you to stop making that noise when you taste food," he murmured eventually, voice sleep-thick and amused.
You huffed a laugh into his shoulder. "Or what?"
"I’ll marry you on the spot. No warning. Just a salmon fillet and a ring pop."
Your laughter shook the bed.
Jack smirked, the ghost of a tease already forming. "If I’d known praise got you going, I’d have started ages ago."
You swatted at his chest, heat blooming across your cheeks. "Don’t you dare weaponize this."
He grinned into your hair, voice low and wrecked and entirely too fond. "Too late. I’m gonna ruin you with kindness."
You huffed, hiding your face in his shoulder.
Jack chuckled and pulled you closer, murmuring, "You make blushing look really good, by the way."
You were never going to live this down. And maybe, just maybe, you didn’t want to.
Because Jack Abbot being a secret softie had officially made its triumphant return to your bingo card—and if you were being honest, it had probably been the center square since day one.
"You know," you murmured against his chest, lips curving into a grin, "for someone who acts so stoic at work, you sure have a lot of secrets."
Jack stirred slightly, arm tightening around your waist. "Yeah? Like what?"
You propped yourself up on one elbow, counting off on your fingers. "Secret softie. Great cook. Total sex god."
Jack groaned into your shoulder, bashful. "Jesus."
"I'm just saying," you teased. "If there’s a hidden talent for needlepoint or poetry, now would be the time to confess."
He lifted his head, eyes heavy with sleep and amusement. "I used to write really bad song lyrics in middle school. That count?"
You laughed, light and easy, your fingers tracing idle circles on his chest. "God, I bet they were terrible."
Jack smirked. "You’ll never know."
"I’ll find them," you said with mock determination. "I’ll unearth them. Just wait."
He kissed your forehead, chuckling softly. "I’m terrified."
And he was—just not of you. Only of how much he wanted this to last.
Jack smiled into your hair, pressing a kiss to your temple. "You're incredible, you know that?"
You shook your head, bashful, eyes cast toward the sheets—but Jack didn’t let it slide. His hand curled tighter around yours, his voice still soft but firm. "Hey. I meant that. You are."
When you didn’t answer right away, he leaned in a little closer, his thumb brushing along your wrist. "I need you to hear it. And believe it. You’re—extraordinary."
The earnestness in his voice left you no room to hide. Slowly, your eyes lifted to meet his.
Jack held your gaze like a promise. "Say okay."
"Okay," you whispered, cheeks burning.
He smiled again, slower this time, and kissed your temple once more. "Good girl."
You didn’t answer—just smiled you were on cloud nine and squeezed his hand a little tighter.
Outside, the city was quiet. Inside, you drifted in and out of sleep wrapped in warm limbs and steadier breath, heart finally quiet for the first time in days. Jack’s hand never left yours, his thumb tracing lazy, grounding circles over your knuckles like he needed the reassurance just as much as you did.
Your limbs were tangled with his beneath the softened hush of early morning, the sheets kicked messily down to the foot of the bed. Skin to skin, steady breathing, fingers still loosely clasped where they had found each other in the dark. He shifted just enough to press a kiss to your shoulder, murmured something you didn’t quite catch—but it didn’t matter. The weight of the night had passed. What remained was warmth. Stillness. Something whole.
You fell asleep like that, curled into each other without pretense. Closer than you'd ever planned, safer than you thought possible. And for the first time in what felt like ages, the quiet wasn’t heavy.
It was home.
Masterlist
The Pitt
On Call
Characters - Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x OFC , Michael “Robby” Robinavitch, Frank Langdon, Dana Evans, Jack Abbot Summary - Rose Reilly is a surgical resident specializing in trauma medicine under Drs Robinavitch and Abbot. A series of scenes involving Robby and Rose. Tags: Angst, Mutual Trauma, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Tension, , Sex, Mutual Pining, Suicidal Ideation, Comfort/Hurt, Where the comfort also hurts One Two Three Four Five Six Seven Spotify playlist
Happily Never After Pt. 1
Summary: A marriage proposal from Prince Loki is every princess's dream come true, except for yours.
Pairing: Asgard Loki x F. Reader
Warnings: Smut. Minors DNI. 18+ ONLY. Loss of Virginity.
W/C: 3.4K
A/N: This will be two parts!
See My Masterlist Here
"Married to Prince Loki?!" You shriek. It was the most absurd thing you had ever heard. "Stop being dramatic, dear. You two are very close. Since Prince Thor is already promised, this is the best match we could secure. Your father and I thought you would be happy considering he is your friend, and not a stranger."
"We used to be close! That was ages ago! I loathe him, mother. This is unfair. I would rather marry a stranger." You protest, wiping your sweaty palms on your long gown as you pace the room. "Why do you hate him? We just visited them last week." She tries to reason with you.
"You said yourself he was your best friend. Do you not recall the tears you shed when your father forbid you from spending time with him unchaperoned?" She pours herself more tea, waiting for your reply. "Yes, well he was my best friend. He's a different person now. I barely know him." You look out of your window, the palace in clear view of your own estate.
Your father was king of a neighboring realm, when the ogres attacked, forcing your family to seek safety in Asgard. You were welcomed with open arms. Frigga and your mother became fast friends. Odin relied on your father's knowledge of the other realms' customs, so he became valuable to him. Frigga invited your mother for tea every day. She insisted your mother bring you along since she had two boys close to your age you could play with.
Thor was older, more focused on playing rough with the other boys. He never paid attention to you. Loki was only a year older than you. You often found him reading under a tree instead of playing. He didn't notice you at first until you insisted the older boys let you play. Volstagg accidentally knocked you to the ground.
When Loki heard you crying, he stood up for you even though Volstagg towered over all of you. He was an unusually large child. Loki brought you to his favorite hiding place. Deep in the woods behind the palace there was a treehouse. He explained that he often came there for solace. It was built for Odin thousands of years ago when he was a child.
Thor didn't like to play there because it was too far from the palace. He thought he would get in trouble. One evening, Loki lost track of time and fell asleep in the treehouse. When he was finally found, Frigga had the place cleaned up, so it wouldn't be dangerous. Ever since that day, you and Loki were inseparable. You used the treehouse as a secret lair for you two to spend time alone.
The other children didn't play with you. They only played with Loki because they were scared of Odin. You understood each other completely. You would make up stories and put on one person plays to share your creativity. You grew up together. It went from playing as children, to hiding out in the tree house after mandatory appearances at balls. You despised when your father wanted you to meet other royals. He would force you to dance with their sons. After two dances, you and Loki would slip away to your private place.
You would laugh about the cheesy things they said to impress you. You would never forget the first time your heart skipped a beat. You were laughing about the visiting prince who told you your gown was lovely. It was the most hideous shade of lime green the seamstress could find. You had requested it that way, so you could hide your beauty. You wiped tears of laughter from the corners of your eyes as you told Loki your reasoning for the unpleasing color.
"You should have known you couldn't hide beauty like yours even in that atrocious gown." His sentiment made you blush, your heart stopped beating as he held your gaze. His eyes lingered on your lips for a few seconds too long. You were sure he was going to kiss you. You closed your eyes in anticipation, feeling his face draw closer to yours. Then you were interrupted by Thor bellowing down below. Your father was looking for you.
You wouldn't be allowed out of his sight if he caught you out there. When you got home, you wrote everything down in your diary. How Loki had made you feel beautiful for the first time in your life, how you wished Thor and your father would have waited moments longer. The next day your father called you into his study, your diary in hand. Oh, how you wished the floor would open up and swallow you whole.
"I forbid you to see him ever again." Your father's stern words instantly made you cry. Loki was everything to you. You couldn't lose him. You told him it was just a silly crush. That what you had written was just a fantasy you made up. He finally believed your lies, but now you couldn't be with him unless you were chaperoned.
Hundreds of years went by, you were as close as ever. You still found your way around the chaperones. You would sneak out at night meeting at the treehouse. You would stay up half the night together laughing as you did when you were children. He would have you back in your bed before sunrise. You always thought it was unfair that you had to be chaperoned, but Loki could do as he pleased.
Then came your first heartbreak. A visiting prince had met you at one of Frigga's balls. He immediately asked your father to court you. You were devastated. You didn't want to be courted. You were happy with your life. But your father couldn't wait to marry you off. But the more time you spent with the prince, the more you liked him. He had dark hair and blue eyes, sometimes you pretended he was Loki.
But he wasn't and there was your whole problem. No one would compare to Loki. But if you had to marry someone, at least the prince was nice. The prince would often find you with Loki going on strolls through the gardens, eating, and reading in silence. One evening, he visited your estate. He said he wanted to end this courtship. You couldn't think of anything you did wrong. He explained that he was certain your affection lied elsewhere, and he wanted to be the only man in his future bride's life. You didn't understand what he had meant, but you thanked him. You were free once again.
Then the latest scandal sheet was delivered by your maid. It mentioned how you and the prince were getting close. You rolled your eyes, thankful that was over. But when you reached the last paragraph, your whole world shattered. Prince Loki had been seen at the brothel three times this week. Not only that, but he had been caught with an unnamed maid in his mother's garden.
It wasn't uncommon for royalty to fuck around like whores, but this truly wounded you. You cried for a week after it came out. Your mother thought you were upset over the prince ending your courtship, so she explained there would be other princes. You didn't visit Loki for three months after the scandal sheet came out.
Another one hundred years passed, and you had grown used to Loki's womanizing. You were at the market, Loki carrying your basket filled with trinkets, winking at the unsuspecting maidens. He made note of the ones he wanted to bed later. You rolled your eyes, as you handed your coins to the shopkeeper, peeling the orange you just purchased.
"Really Loki, can you go one minute without finding four new lovers?" You joked. "Jealous?" He smirked. "Of course not, don't be ridiculous." "The only reason you are not overcome with jealousy is because you do not know what I am capable of carnally." The bite of orange you had just taken lodged down your throat causing you to choke. Loki smiled, pleased with himself.
"Of course, I wouldn't know that, or care to find out. You shouldn't speak of such things so loudly. What if someone heard you?" You looked around, your maid, Greta had her eyes on the ground pretending she wasn't listening. Loki walked over to her, dropping a few coins into her hand, and whispering to her. You watch as she goes to the next vender looking at the silks.
Loki grabs your arm, leading you behind a tent. "Aren't you curious? Your parents keep you in the dark, only for the bumbling fool you end up marrying to spill his seed in a matter of minutes." You would be like the other princesses, not knowing what to expect on your wedding night, if it wasn't for Loki. He had told you all about the act some hundred years ago, so you would know what to expect. You were thankful for that, at least.
But now, when he was looking at you like that, and speaking of such things, you wished you didn't know. "You won't experience pleasure with them. They just want to produce an heir, and once that's taken care of, he will get a mistress. I don't want that for you. I hope that you find a love match, but that is highly unlikely considering your father allows anyone with a title to court you."
You consider Loki's words as he leans in, his breath tickling your ear. "Let me show you what you are missing. I'll make it good for you. You deserve to experience mind blowing sex at least once in your life." He was the devil himself; you were sure of it. He was so tempting. You knew he was experienced, and women threw themselves all over him everywhere you went. He had to be good at it.
"I - I'm not sure. I would be ruined if anyone found out. My father would kill you.” You whisper, just in case someone was listening. "That's not a problem, I would just marry you before your reputation took a hit." He smiles as if what he said wasn't crazy. "Loki, I couldn't ask you to do that. To be honest, I am frightened. Not of you, but of the act itself. It doesn't sound like it would be pleasurable. Oh, but it must be if every eligible maiden in the kingdom lets you have your way with them."
You continue your ranting until Loki grabs your hand. "I would be gentle with you. We could start slowly. We would only do what you are comfortable with." You agreed to meet him at the treehouse that night. When you're back in your chambers you call Greta in to question her.
"Greta, have you had sex before?" She gasps, looking everywhere but at you. "My lady, that is not appropriate." You sit on your bed, gesturing for her to sit beside you. "Oh, spare me, we have known each other since we were girls. So out with it." You fold your arms across your chest waiting for her to answer.
"Yes, there was one man." She answers, her cheeks turning red. "Greta! Who was it?" She smiles, "Bart, the baker's son. We had a lovely couple of months together, but then he married the butcher's daughter. You see, men are fickle creatures. They use you until they find someone else. So be warned, my lady, keep your heart out of it. Men can have sex without emotions, and us women, well we often times end up heartbroken."
Greta's words repeated in your head all afternoon. You had known Loki for centuries, so you didn't think he would hurt you. But you were tempted to turn around, go back to your chambers and pretend like none of this ever happened. Luckily, he was in the treehouse waiting for you, so you couldn't leave now.
"It has been brought to my attention that men will do this with anyone, so I know it will mean nothing to you. And apparently, it will mean everything to me. I just don't want to regret this." You confide in Loki. "My darling girl, this will mean everything to me too. You are far too precious to me for it to mean nothing. We don't have to do anything if that is what you wish."
"I think you are right. I deserve to feel pleasure, and I trust you. I'm just nervous." Loki cups your face in his hands, bringing himself closer to you. It was so similar to that night when you were teenagers, your stomach erupts in butterflies. You never imagined the cute, gangly boy you knew so long ago would grow into the devilishly handsome man before you.
He kisses you, and it is exactly how you had always imagined. It was as if no time had passed between the moment when he almost kissed you centuries ago and now. You felt exactly the same. When he finally breaks the kiss, you look at him with wide eyes. If just his kiss could make you feel like this, you were in trouble.
Loki sat you down on the old mat you used to read on as children. It had fresh linen on it. Loki must have put it on before your arrival. He pressed kisses to your neck, sharp teeth nipping at your exposed skin. He had you sit up so he could undo your dress, nimble fingers working quickly on your corset until all your clothing was sat aside. You were bare for the first time in front of a man, but you were not ashamed. You should have attempted to cover yourself, but when Loki looked at you like you were a priceless painting, you felt no need to.
Loki took his time kissing every part of you. He toyed with your nipples, and you felt yourself growing wet. When he lowered his head to take one between his lips, you finally understood why all those maidens would jump at his beck and call. He kissed his way down your stomach, nipping your upper thigh. He spread your legs apart, pleased with your arousal dripping down your thighs.
"May I?" He asks, pink tongue poking out to lick his bottom lip. You aren't sure what he is asking, but he knows what he is doing, so you give your consent. His tongue envelops you, sliding from your slit to your most sensitive part. "Loki!" You shout, as he continues exploring you. His tongue flicks your clit as your hands weave through his messy locks.
You never imagined it would be like this. And you suppose if it wasn't for Loki, you would never know. He slips a long finger inside you as he continues licking you, He stretches you, placing another finger inside. You jolt at the intrusion, his fingers curling to caress your walls. You feel like you are about to explode.
"Loki, I feel so wonderful." You tell him. His lips suction around your clit, tugging while his fingers work their magic. Stars explode behind your eyes as your first orgasm rips through you. Loki waits until you finish writhing on his face before coming up for air. He wipes your arousal off his face with the back of his hand.
You think that has to be the most attractive thing you have ever seen. But you are proven wrong when Loki undresses. He has filled out since the last time you saw him shirtless, when you were swimming as teenagers. He drops his trousers, hard cock springing free. You gasp when you see the size of him. You were beyond thankful he told you about the differences between men and women so long ago. What a surprise this would be if he hadn't.
"You still have time to change your mind, love. Just say the word and I will stop." He stalks toward you, lowering himself to the mat. "Please do not stop." You say breathlessly. Loki chuckles, settling between your thighs. "This will hurt, but only for a moment. Tell me when you are ready for me to move."
Loki sinks into you, pressure and pain causing you to cry out. "I'm so sorry. I can't help it. It will feel better soon, I promise." You grit your teeth as Loki bottoms out. He stills inside you, waiting for you to give him permission to move. You take a minute, adjusting to his size, before you tell him you are alright.
Loki slowly removes himself before filling you completely again. After a few thrusts, it starts to feel good. "Faster, Loki, please." You beg, clawing at his back as he ravishes you. His hand comes down between your joined bodies, skilled fingers swirling against your clit. The feeling you had earlier comes back full force, another orgasm sending you soaring. Loki pulls out, finishing on the fresh linen on the mat. You lay there, breathing heavily, looking at Loki. He truly is beautiful. "Shall we go again?" He asks, his signature smirk returning.
Loki laid with you three more times before the sun rose. He walked you back to your estate, making sure you made it inside safely before walking back to the palace. The next day, you were excited to see Loki. You secretly hoped you would spend the day in the treehouse.
"Mary was looking for you." Fandral tells Loki, raising his eyebrows suggestively. "Well, you can tell her I never wish to see her again. She is of no use to me anymore." They laugh in unison, walking away as you round the corner. "Has someone finally caught your eye?" Fandral smiles. "Actually, I plan on asking the princess to marry me." Loki shocks Fandral who places a hand over his heart.
"Did you hear that, Greta?" You ask your maid, unwanted tears filling your eyes. "Yes, my lady." She answers. "Repeat what you heard please."
"Prince Loki said "You can tell her I never wish to see her again. She is of no use to me anymore." She looks at you with pity. "That's what I heard too. Oh, Greta." You collapse into her arms, sobbing. "Let's go home, my lady. We mustn't let the prince see that he has hurt you."
From that moment on, things were very different between you and Loki. He demanded to know why you avoided him now and why you never had a kind word for him. You never answered because he knew what he had done. He just didn't know you heard him talking about you. That was five months ago. Now, Odin was ordering him to marry and they had chosen you of all people.
If this happened before you would be ecstatic. Now, it makes you sick thinking about being alone with him. You had no choice. Your father had been trying to marry you off for centuries, and you always got out of your courtships somehow. You suspected Loki had a hand in it. But now that he wanted to marry you, there was no getting out of it.
You were expected at the palace by noon tomorrow. You paced the floor so many times, your footprints were probably embedded into the floor. Then you had the perfect idea. You would run away.
The next day everyone awaited your arrival. Your mother and father sat with Frigga and Odin having tea while they waited. Thor patted Loki on the back. "Finally, brother. Everyone saw this coming. I am very happy for you." Loki brought his cup to his lips, when a timid knock on the door interrupted them. He jumps up, rushing to let you inside. Instead of you, he is greeted by Greta. "Forgive the intrusion, your highness. It's the princess she ran away." Greta hands Loki the letter you left.
She sniffles, worried about you. While he reads the note, your father and Odin start planning on sending knights to find you. Frigga comforts your mother. "What does it say?" Thor asks, peeking over Loki's shoulder.
Greta, I cannot marry that pompous ass. I would rather live amongst the pigs. Do not bother looking for me, because you will never find me. Tell mother and father I love them dearly. Thank you Greta, for everything. I wish I could have taken you with me. All my love.
"No need to create a search team, father. I will find her myself." Loki states, leaving the room.
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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)
Residuals Pt. 4
Ongoing Series
Synopsis: You and Robby spent seven long years together until the day it ended. You’ve done your best to create space; to become invisible. You can’t miss what you don’t see. Unfortunately, the universe (Gloria and the Board of Directors) seemed to have missed the memo.
Pairing: Michael ‘Robby’ Robinavitch x Reader
Genre: Established previous relationship, slight age gap (by about 15 years give or take), a little bit of tension mixed in with a little bit of hate yearning, cause she’s a saucy angsty fic ok
A/N: First, I read an article on burns to try and make this as accurate as possible, (article here by the NIH) but it’s still not terribly accurate. So, please, I tried lol. Secondly, I’m still screaming at the amount of love you guys have shown this series. Truly, I appreciate it more than y’all know. Thirdly, enter in a little extra dash of drama by Gloria (who redeemed herself in ep.12 but we ain’t there yet) and ya girl is just having a rough-ass day. Fourthly, yeah…she’s a thick chapter. Hopefully, it's still good because I’ve edited it as much as I can. As always, I hope you all enjoy. Thank you for the support and for being here. Much Love, Jenn
Warnings: Mentions of death, language
Words: 10k +
Previous I Next
Whitaker proved to be an adept student. He followed directions well and answered whatever questions you threw his way about proper wound care at home and possible infection risks around the burned areas. When you’d finished with the first patient, you ensured he knew to return to the emergency room immediately if they experienced any new or persistent discomfort, like pain or tenderness in the area, increased warmth, discoloration, or advanced swelling.
“If the infection is invasive and takes hold of the wound, what is the main course of treatment, Dr. Whitaker?”
“We would contact surgery.”
“Correct. Why?”
“The need for surgery would be based on the high concentration of the bacteria levels found present in the wound.”
“We’d check for signs of possible sepsis and a full check-up to narrow down if it's gram-negative or positive bacteria, which tells us further about our treatment plan. What is the chief cause of burn wound infections?”
“Staphylococcus Aureus - MRSA.”
“How would we verify the patient had MRSA or any other type of possible bacterial infection?”
“By taking a sample from the area for testing -“
“You guys aren’t about to cut me up or anything, are you?”
The sudden input from the patient caused a nervous tick from Whitaker. It halted his hands from finishing the last few loops around with the gauze. The patients' eyes darted nervously from you to Whitaker and back again. You gave your best reassuring smile while making sure the dressing was secured on his chest and shoulder.
“Well, Kyle, the faster we get you out of here, you take the antibiotics I prescribe you, and make sure you keep your burns dressed and away from exposure to possible germs, then no. We won’t be ‘cutting you up’ today.”
“Okay. Cool. Because that sounds really uncool.”
Dilaudid truly did wonders for conversations. You’d have to make sure the discharge papers were clear on his care and warning signs to look out for. Plus, add extra emphasis on trying to make sure not to share any items in the frat house bathroom.
In truth, it wasn’t him, but his fellow frat boy neighbor in four that had you worried. So far, he showed no obvious signs of infection, but once the adrenaline of the moment wore off he noticeably seemed to slip into shock at having half his face, eyelashes, and eyebrow singed off. Not enough shock, however, to keep from asking if he’d make a handsome Harvey Dent for Halloween.
The burns to his neck and chest indicate to you he was closer to the fire pit than his buddy Whitaker currently patched up. You’d ordered blood work, x-rays, and a culture swab on two-face and his friend just to rule out any surprises.
You did your full assessment, asked questions, and directed Whitaker the best you could. You wanted to be the good mentor like Adamson and Singh had been for you. A good mentor like Robby was too. You would never admit it out loud but a small piece of you wanted Robby to see how capable you were. A silent bid to prove he could trust you with his interns and medical students. Between Robby, Abbot, and the previous attendings you knew you could teach.
It wasn’t a hidden thing that you’d both meet here during your residency. Yes, it was Adamson’s circus, but Robby thrived under Adamson’s direction and the insanity the Pitt offered. He was funny, charismatic, incredibly smart, and showed a level of empathy that bordered on worrisome at times. A tidal wave of grief encapsulated him and carried him under if he wasn’t careful. Robby was exactly the physician any patient should want taking care of them when they arrived in the ED.
And hell, you weren’t blind. Anyone with eyes could see that Robby was handsome. Painstakingly, stupidly, egregiously, fucking handsome. It was fucking criminal.
Robby taught you so much in the time you’d spent here and you knew he probably still could but that would mean being around him. The two of you standing closer than you’d been in years was proving to be a dangerous thing. He’d fallen back into the habit of stealing touches and you’d fallen back into the habit of shamelessly teasing him with things he’d usually make you pay for later trapped between his body and whatever surface in your house.
It was a dangerous game neither of you realized you were playing, and both of you were losing fast. Instead of having your focus one hundred percent on the patients and being back in the ED for the first time in years, your focus repeatedly returned where it shouldn’t. At first, you could lie to yourself and say you were simply scanning the hallways and nursing stations to make sure you didn’t see him. Of course, that’s what you wanted to believe; to coast through this shift without any additional emotional trauma following you home.
It was fucking impossible.
You could continue to lie to yourself all you wanted, but the truth was blatantly clear. Your eyes didn’t comb over the hallways and desks in hopes of not finding him. You didn’t quickly peer into rooms in anticipation that he wouldn’t be in one. You wanted to see him just as much as you denied that you didn’t.
The day you left, you made sure to do it while Robby was working because you knew, that if he’d been home and asked you to stay, you would’ve. And if he didn’t fight for you - never uttered a singular word of pleading to keep you from leaving, you weren’t sure you could survive it.
So now you found yourself hopelessly looking for him in all the places you swore you’d never go again. You may have chosen to leave, but it never meant you stopped loving him. The fact you were still in love with him made seeing the lost look in his eyes sting harder. You watched as he spoke to the parents of the kid who overdosed with no possible hope of waking up again, and you wanted to go to him. It was the shattering look of grief that made you forget how to move. Robby knew what was coming better than anyone else did.
How many times was Robby the one in charge of giving the heartbreaking news that loved ones weren’t coming home? Shouldering the burden of listening to the breakdown of their world and being the pillar of strength and comfort while families struggled to rearrange?
You hadn’t realized the black hole of anxiety was leading you down a rabbit hole until the sound of Whitaker calling out, “Dr. Fullerton,” at your side left you practically jumping out of your skin.
Shit. How long had you been zoned out? Hopefully, you hadn’t said anything weird. Or incriminating.
“Sorry,” he swiftly followed up. “I was trying to ask where we were off to next, but, uh, you seemed a little…preoccupied.”
“Oh, yeah, no sorry. You can go back to the red zone. I’m just going to help McKay up in triage.”
“Did I do something wrong?”
“What? No, not at all. You’ll have more of a chance to learn with Langdon and Collins.” What you actually meant was to see more if that was what he was into. “Also, maybe check on your last patient I pulled you away from earlier.”
“Oh, yeah, of course.” You watched him take your advice and, in real time, get ready to dispute it. “Why am I checking back in with Mr. Milton?”
What should you tell him? In the Pitt, it was easy to be thrown from one patient to the next - forgetting their faces and names as the minutes blurred into hours. Easy to forget they were waiting on test results that needed to be read by you and needed a treatment plan discussed and planned by you. Major issues could present as something small, something easily missable until further testing exposed the truth of the situation. If you went just the smallest amount of time without checking the results, without popping your head in for a visual, well, it wasn’t hard to imagine how sometimes those major issues finally presented themselves and everything got much, much worse.
“Look, Whitaker. As much as the powers constantly stress about getting people in and out quickly like this is a drive-thru, we have an obligation to each patient to give them the best care we can. It means staying on top of orders and checking in regularly. Trust me, Whitaker, things can change quickly down here.”
“Okay, yeah. That makes perfect sense. Thanks, Dr. Fullerton.”
“You bet. See you around, Whitaker.”
He gave you an awkward wave and didn’t move right away. It wasn’t until you turned away from him that you heard him shuffle on his feet. A part of you was curious if you glanced behind you he’d still be standing there, deciding where to go.
All that mattered to you was that you currently needed a new patient. It didn’t matter what the chief complaint was. Ideally, for the all-seeing eye of admin, quick and easy ones would look better. At this rate, you were positive your Press Ganey score was dipping. You were seeing patients at the speed of an R3; two patients per hour and they were after fast and loose results. But you wanted something with the capability to keep you occupied for hours. Preferably something that would require so much of your attention it would force you out of your head.
Yeah, that would be good. It was too damn early still to be spiraling into a midlife crisis just because you had to work with your ex. An ex, you realized, who was wearing the damn navy blue hoodie you’d bought him on his last fishing trip to Canonsburg.
No. No. Nope. You weren’t supposed to be thinking about him or stupid hoodies or the gold chain of his necklace that used to drag over your collarbone. How your fingers curled around the thin chain, using it like a lead, to bring him down on top of you on the couch. Absolutely not - you were at work and he was your ex. He was your ex and you shouldn’t fucking care how you could still tell after all these months he was sleeping like shit.
You were almost back to Dana’s station, the monitor looming overhead like a beacon to salvation when you noticed Whitaker walking in tandem beside you. You cocked a brow in question that Whitaker rushed to answer.
“The board is this way, so…”
Right. You knew that.
“I was trying to talk to you but I think you were in deep thought or something. Again.”
Or something. God. That was twice. Twice your head was everywhere else but where it needed to be, which was at work. You should’ve fought harder when Gloria came to reassign you, but none of this should’ve mattered.
You were a damn good doctor. You’d trained under the best, learned from the best, and kept progressively learning and didn’t stop. You spent years of your life on this because helping people was your passion. It shouldn’t matter where you were placed if you were down here to help for days, months, or years.
Yet, in the matter of an hour, your mind waded into memories that were better off left for dead with your eyes searching for someone you shouldn’t.
You didn’t know how to answer him. “Sorry, I should remember where everything is but find myself stuck daydreaming about the past and looking for signs where I shouldn’t and sexually fantasizing about your attending”, didn’t seem appropriate to tell a med student. So, you ended with a weak, “Sorry about that,” which passed for understanding. It made you feel like an ass, but you didn’t trust yourself to speak.
You came to a stop just a few feet from Dana’s desk. Her back turned to you as she went through folders preparing patient's charts for transfer upstairs. Her eyes shifted up at the board and over to a newer resident you hadn’t met yet.
Her gaze was fixed on the monitor; eyes scanning rapidly down the chart as if there was a code that needed cracking. You knew that look. It was a shared one you’d no doubt mirrored only an hour ago.
“What do you need, Fullerton?”
Your head swiveled back to Dana and found her now facing you, her glasses removed, and waiting for your answer.
“How’d you know it was me?”
“Are you kidding?” The question fell out of her in a chuckle. “You’re the only one I know who goes around taping on every damn surface when they’re thinking. You act like my five-year-old grandson, just less noisy. Barely.”
“That’s offensive,” you pointed out.
“For who? You or my grandson.”
You felt the first crack in your defenses tug at the corners of your mouth. If you weren’t careful, Dana’s whip-smart comments were going to make you fold back into a routine you hadn’t been a part of in a while. It wasn’t just you who was slipping at this point, and you clocked the moment Dana began to realize it too.
She was supposed to be upset with you - grumpy, mean remarks only. You were supposed to take them and dish them back so you could comfortably stay in your bubbles of denial and anger. The denial of what, exactly, was achingly easy to see.
You both missed each other. More than either of you were willing to admit.
Your reply sat cocked and loaded on your tongue when you remembered what transpired half an hour before. As much as you missed one another, you had to be careful with what you shared around her. It was obvious, whatever the ‘It’ may be, Robby would magically seem to find out.
“Any quick ones up here? It’s only 8:30, and Robby’s already on my case for being too slow. I can usually at least make it to lunch before he starts hounding me.”
Your attention swiveled back towards the resident. Her gaze fixed on the board before glancing between Dana and you. Hopefully, her question wasn’t meant for you to answer. You weren’t very good at picking off the board either.
“Cut him a little slack today, ok? It’s the anniversary of Dr. Adamson’s death.”
Of course, Dana would cover for him. Intercept all incoming rapports of Robby being prickly and sometimes downright mean to bury them under the rug of understanding.
Yes, it was the anniversary of Adamson’s death. It always would be. Grief wasn’t easy. It was messy and unrelenting in the moments it chose for sights, smells, and touch to materialize memories that recalled moments you wouldn’t get the chance to share with them again. A constant reminder of all that we lost. Time didn’t seal up that cavern their loss created; it just became more manageable over time.
Robby never coped. Never allowed himself to grieve, heal, and thrive in the good memories he did have. The doubts and guilt haunted him every day in every step, every decision, he made. He housed it inside him like a ghoul in a cemetery feasting on the remains of who he was before Adamson’s death - before the pandemic.
“That’s sad. But it’s still no reason to take it out on me. I’m just saying.”
You liked her. She got it. You wanted to properly introduce yourself. By the look on Dana’s face, you need to do it quickly before she breaks out into a lecture. Luck wasn’t on your side because Whitaker beat you to the punch.
You didn’t want to eavesdrop on their conversation but you also didn’t want to go back to having a conversation with Dana, either. It left you the only option of staring back up at the beloved board. You’d just decided on 7 North when Dr. Collins walked by, her hands digging in the glovebox on the wall to retrieve a pair. Her eyes were on Whitaker and yours were on her.
It wasn’t a secret that Robby and Heather had dated. Well, maybe to those in the Pitt, and not including Perlah or Princess because they suspiciously seemed to be psychic. Or just really loved to gossip. No, you’d learned about them when a friend spotted Robby and Heather out on a date. You’d only assumed it was a date because she repeatedly kept using the word cozy.
And why should you have cared? It’d been almost a year since you’d left. You chose to leave and that meant making him free to date and find new love or whatever. You didn’t have a right to lay claim to him just because he’d been yours. And Heather? She was gorgeous. She was fucking brilliant, with a beautiful smile, and it suddenly made you feel uncharacteristically subconscious.
Whether it’d been a date or they just seemed cozy (it was a damn date) you shouldn’t have felt jealous. You were fine. It was perfectly fine and healthy for people to seek out relationships and companionship. It was normal and you were fine. You weren’t any saint either. You’d dated someone briefly and, if you were honest with yourself, you could’ve stayed in that relationship. It was nice and easy. Simple. But you didn’t love him and you weren’t sure if you ever could.
The problem of loving Robby - still being in love with Robby - was that he stood witness to your most intimate memories of love. There were stories woven into your bones that bore witness to the man he was and how he loved you. They were told in joy and tragedy, laughter and sadness. When Nathan kissed you, the earth kept spinning. He didn’t taste of bourbon or smell of leather and sandalwood. He didn’t spend time in the backyard sanding down tables or staining decks. He didn’t wear glasses that somehow slid minute by minute inch down his nose until he subconsciously tilted his head back to see.
In the end, you left because of one glaring fact: Nathan would never be - could never be - Robby.
Dr. Collins told Whitaker to come with her for a teaching experience - an unconscious unhoused man was being brought in. Whitaker quickly moved to follow her lead in grabbing a pair of gloves just in time for the paramedics to wheel in the gurney. Said man was very much unconscious and appeared very much unhoused.
Your time playing the gawking bystander had come to an end and you needed to get to 7 North. You pushed away from the counter when you were stopped by the resident from earlier barreling into your line of sight.
“Dr. Fullerton? I’m Dr. Samira Mohan - R3. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Dr. Mohan stuck out her hand and you accepted it warmly. Besides the obvious annoyance from Robby hounding her existence, it seemed Dr. Mohan was friendly. She held a kind air about her that reminded you of Robby - only now that kindness held an edge of grumpiness because his empathy was playing an overwhelming game. By the sleepless bags under his eyes, you could tell he was losing.
You wanted to point the probability of this out to her, maybe offer her a consultation for Robby’s apparent hard-ass demeanor, but quickly shoved it off.
“It’s nice to meet you, as well, Dr. Mohan.”
“Would it be okay if I could confer with you later?” Dr. Mohan’s eyes shifted to where Dana stood only inches away. “In private?”
You weren’t sure if you should be flattered or wanting to run for the hills. Dana’s eyes practically bore into the back of your head, waiting to hear your answer. You knew no matter what you chose to say this was getting back to Robby.
Fuck it.
“Of course, Dr. Mohan. I’ll come and find you after my next patient.”
“Thank you. I look forward to speaking with you.”
She cut a cautious glance over her shoulder and turned on her heel towards the south hallway. It must have been nice to make an easy exit. It was definitely something you were down to try but Dana stood closer to the counter, her glasses down the bridge of her nose, and accused you with a look of being a troublemaker. Your only defense was a shrug.
“What?”
“What the hell was that about?”
Your brows converged together as you shrugged again.
“How am I supposed to know, Dana? I haven’t even talked to her yet.”
“Talked to who about what?”
Fucking kill me.
What was with today? Were you unknowingly walking around with a ‘Kick Me,’ sign written by life? You’d gone over two years without ever running into Robby and within an hour in a half, you couldn’t seem to avoid him.
And why was he standing so fucking close again?
You didn’t need to glance over to your left to know he was close. The heat of his body, the nudge of his elbow against your arm informed you at breakneck speed you were close. Too fucking close, Michael.
“Mohan seems to want to speak with Fullerton. In private.”
“You couldn’t just wait for me to answer, Dana?”
The words rose up your throat like bile, acidic with its irritation. You couldn’t help it. You didn’t need this shit. You didn’t know what Dr. Mohan wanted but the cryptic way she asked wasn’t doing you any favors. It was at this moment you finally chose to look in Robby’s direction. He was leaning into his elbow that rested on the counter. Even with his body slightly slouched the height difference was substantial causing you to crane to look up at him.
The problem with this? He was close enough that your temporal lobe was overloaded with thousands of memories of his thumb gliding across your lips. Large hands taking hold of your neck and tilting you back at just the right angle for his lips to claim yours.
When you were no longer held hostage to the sensory manipulation your brain concocted, you prayed to whoever was listening that you didn’t look as lovestruck as you felt. By the dark glint in Robby’s eyes, you were doing a piss poor job at being Switzerland.
“What? So you can conveniently disappear by the end of the shift without any context or explanation? No, thanks. Been there. Done that. Not a fan of the outcome.”
“This bipolar verbal assault is getting real tiring, Dana,” you huffed.
“Alright. Alright, enough!” Robby cut in. “I expect this behavior from patients, not my staff. Now, Dr. Fullerton, what did Dr. Mohan want to discuss with you?”
“Jesus Christ,” you sighed, “I have no fucking clue, okay? She just asked if she could speak in private and seeing as how she did ask for it to be private, I don’t see why you need to know.”
“Ugh,” a dry huff of what might have passed for a laugh - a cough maybe? - exited his lips. His brow was drawn tight while he looked at you. No doubt wondering where you’d gained the audacity. “Because this is my emergency department. I’m in charge of the entire thing and I think I need to be aware of what is going on with my staff.”
“Well, maybe if you stopped acting like an ass to said staff they wouldn’t be seeking outside counsel.”
A mirthless laugh exploded from between his lips. The sound carried part of the disbelief his eyes showed while he took you in. He was no longer leaning against the counter but had his arms crossed against his chest. You weren’t sure if he was looking at you like he wanted to throttle you or found you unbelievable. Neither option would make you a winner if you guessed right.
“You gotta be fucking kidding me,” he grumbled under his breath. “Are you a fucking counselor all of a sudden?”
“And what if I was? I would ask if you’d require my services, but we both know you’re allergic to seeking help.”
You should’ve stopped while you were ahead. You were bringing up personal shit - inviting a possible fucking mess to happen - and yet you couldn’t help yourself. You kept poking the proverbial bear and damn it, you weren’t exactly sure you felt bad about doing it. Were you so desperate for a reaction from him - after all this time? What the hell was it going to prove?
You watched the storm of emotions roll in. The deep set of his forehead and the dark clouds that zapped all residual warmth from his eyes. You weren’t sure if Robby was even aware he’d taken a step towards you, jaw flexing, and body slowly seeping into whatever free space you had left.
Whatever words he would’ve said died in the aftermath of hearing shouts a few rooms down. It jarred you both out of your staring contest and sent him into action. One minute he was standing in front of you, the next, he was running to see what the commotion was.
The second Robby was removed from your space, you took a deep breath in. Why did it feel like you were in a constant state of fight or flight? Your answer came in a set of blue eyes who homed in on you the moment Robby was gone.
“When’s your next smoke break?”
“Who says I still smoke?”
“Dana, be serious. The day you quit smoking is the day hell freezes over. So - when?”
She regarded you for a moment. The scale in her mind no doubt weighed if this was going to be worth her time or possibly ruining her nicotine break.
“I usually take it around 9:30. Why? You suddenly have the urge to open up?”
“Do you want to talk or not?.”
She could bitch, make jokes, and moan and groan all she wanted. You knew offering up a chance to talk would be all Dana would need to agree. Was it something you honestly wanted to do? Not really. Were you willing to do it so that at least you had one less person hounding you the rest of your shift?
Abso-fucking-lutely.
“Ah, what the hell. I’ll see you on break kid.”
A sigh of relief eased through you and you prayed Dana hadn’t noticed. You didn’t think she’d agree but, now that she had, you had a tiny ounce of hope this day wasn’t going to be so much of a shit show.
“What was all that screaming about?”
You knew the question wasn’t directed at you. Robby must have made his return and the soft laughter wasn’t what you expected to hear.
“We seem to have involuntarily just admitted rats,” he replied.
“You’re kidding?” Dana scoffed.
“If only I was. Whitaker was saying it was about three or four of them.”
“And on that note,” you drummed your hands on the counter, “I am going to 7 North.”
It wasn’t until you went to take a step forward you noticed the weight on your left foot. A weight that felt like something was sitting directly on it. You looked down just in time to watch a rat - a damn rat - scurry off your foot to run around the edge of the nursing station.
What you did next wasn’t your proudest moment. You even used to pride yourself on being rational when it came to rodents. The shout that clawed its way from the depths of your stomach proved you wrong at lightning speed.
You felt your body jump backward and collide with Robby. His hands were on your hips to steady you. You were bouncing back and forth on your heels, eyes scanning the area to make sure no further surprises snuck up on you. Your arms were bunched up at your sides and you were trying to talk yourself down from sweeping the remaining area with your leg. Just for good measure.
It was the feeling of his hands on your waist, the soft sound of his chuckle touching your hair that brought you careening back down to earth. Robby was close. Not like last time when your arms touched - closer than when he followed behind you into Allan's room. Even through your scrubs, you could feel the scorching heat of his palms spreading like wildfire through the fabric that sent your heart racing.
He should’ve let go by now. The threat of you possibly knocking him over or you both tripping and falling was over. He could let go. He could just let go, but Robby’s hands were holding you firmly in place with neither of you willing to move. You refused to look behind you - afraid of what he might see if you did.
You were afraid of what you might see if you dared to look too.
Slowly, you took a step forward, disengaging his hands from you. The sensation of loss was instant and you almost stepped back into him. Your body and mind were at war between desire and being rational. Fuck being rational. There was nothing rational about the way your heart brutalized your ribs. The need to ask stupid fucking questions that no longer mattered. The consuming way your body craved for him to wrap his large hand around your throat, whispering words of filth into your ear.
You had to get away before you made a mistake.
“Sorry about that. I’m going to just, ugh, go do my rounds now.”
You didn’t turn around while you softly spoke. You may have been delusional at times, but you weren’t crazy. If you looked back and Robby’s eyes gave away any hint of emotion - anything that sparked that dying ember of hope inside you - you would crumble.
You should’ve fought harder to stay upstairs in family medicine or threatened Gloria with firing you. You were safer there. Now, you were rushing off to remember what patient room you were going to with Robby’s cologne clinging to your skin.
You were a pain in the ass. But you were his pain in the ass.
Used to be, his mind reminded him.
Could still be, came his stupid heart's reply.
Robby used to love it when you challenged him; called him out on his bullshit. You weren’t afraid to stand in the current of his disapproval or to openly have a debate, especially when you could see he was missing something. You challenged each other to be open-minded to change, because it happened so fast, and to accept that being wrong wasn’t failure but a moment to grow and learn.
When you both stopped being open with one another, and being honest with yourselves, was when the challenging energy took a turn. Everything felt like a confrontation. Even in moments when the constructive criticism came from colleagues - from you - it felt like an attack he had to defend against.
Robby saw it in you too. The small hints of walls slowly being built to keep the inquiries at bay. When your responses become short and brief or not at all.
Now, before nine o’clock, you were in the Pitt not only wreaking havoc on his already fragile mental state but accusing him of…what? When you’d thrown the counselor's comment at him, Robby wanted to rage. How many times was it the main part of your arguments near the end of your relationship that he needed to talk to somebody? Anybody. How many times did he deny it?
You’d thrown it in from the sidelines and it jarred him so much, Robby felt disoriented. For the briefest moment, Robby forgot that you were no longer together. His mind reflexively thought you were arguing about the same old tired thing. He’d taken a step toward you and wanted to ask, “And what about you?”
You who wasn’t as honest and open with yourself just like him. There were things left unsaid between the two of you - the things that eventually buried the hatchet too far in to safely remove.
What about all the times he’d found you in the bathroom sitting against the tub crying in the middle of the night? Your panic attacks and OCD tendencies that started after…
Every time Robby reached out to be there for you, your response was always the same.
“It’s nothing, Michael.” “I’m fine.” “I said I don’t want to talk about it.”
Sure, Robby wasn’t open and was guarded in his own right but neither were you. Where he used to read the transcript of your emotions so delicately on your face, you’d closed yourself off to him and he no longer knew how to get in.
An angry shout from down the South hallway thankfully tore his attention back to reality. His feet were already moving him robotically forward where he could see Olson entering Central 15.
“Whoa, whoa what is going on?”
Robby directed the question specifically to one of his many team members in the room. Thankfully, Kiara started to explain or, more appropriately attempted to explain but he couldn’t fucking think through all the damn shouting.
“Ok, ok, okay ENOUGH!” Robby couldn’t believe he was already raising his voice. Yelling at grown-ass adults like they were children. “This is a hospital. This isn’t ‘ The Jerry Springer Show’.” Although it was really, really starting to fucking feel like it with the morning he was having. “Ma’am, nobody’s trying to take your child. So why don’t you stay here with him while your husband talks to our social worker outside and straightens all this out?”
“Well, I don’t want him speaking for me and my son.”
It was clear by the wavering of her voice, that this was a tough spot for the mom to be in. Robby could sympathize but what he couldn’t sympathize with was starting a miniature war zone in one of his rooms.
“Well, it is either you or him. Your son is not leaving, but you can be escorted out and even arrested if you refuse to cooperate. Nobody wants that. So you tell us. What do you want to do?”
Robby knew the answer before she replied. There wasn’t a doubt in his mind that this mother didn’t fiercely love her son. Whatever situation the husband did to get them in this position was unfortunate, but the only option they had now was to press forward.
“I’m staying with my son.”
“Ok, great. You do that. Are we all on the same page here?”
The last question he sent out was rhetorical. A feeler to see if anyone else was confused about what was about to happen and if further clarification was needed. God, Robby sincerely hoped it’d all been made crystal clear what the only two real options were; the only choice being to cooperate.
“You okay?”
Robby could see Langdon was shaken up. It could be a lot dealing with a combative patient - harder when it was a parent just trying to make the right choices for their child. You were always the best at coming in and soothing cases like this one. Somehow able to give relief and comfort while giving the most gut-wrenching news of a parent's life while calmly explaining the next steps. You were able to keep people from feeling lost in the bad news and prepare them for the onslaught of change.
Robby waited until Langdon confirmed he and Dr. King were good before he walked out of the room. Regarding parents with kids, Robby almost forgot Teresa asked to speak with him about David.
Central 12 was just a few steps away from Langdon’s patient. It was close to being comfortable but too close to give Robby time to think. He felt out of his element here because he was running out of options. He wanted to help Teresa, because, while she did this to help her son, she knowingly put her own life at risk to get him the help he needed.
But isn’t that what parents did?
At times, they blindly waded into the fire if it meant that their child would be safe.
All Robby could do was watch and listen while he told her about how he left. While he followed up her questions with his own and did his best to try and ward off the sick feeling burying itself inside his gut.
“Do you think David would hurt anyone?”
Even allowing the question to come out of his mouth made a rush of nausea swell back behind his tongue. He didn’t want to ask it. Nobody wants to ask any parent if they think their child - a fucking child - could be capable of harming another human being.
Robby carried his thoughts on the reasons why young men are more prone to violence these days. With idiotic podcast hosts spewing their hatred for women who were goal-oriented and not focused on babying them like their mothers. Boys who were told to bottle up their emotions: “Don’t share your feelings. Don’t get caught crying,” unless you want to be told that you were weak. There was so much bullshit in the world for kids to have to contend with these days that Robby didn’t find it surprising a lot of them were overloaded - overwhelmed by a constant flurry from the world to be someone different than who they are.
Robby had plenty of talks with Jake about these things. He found it easy to lean into him with the both of them connecting during shared trips and quiet nights at the house. Robby made sure his stepson knew that Robby would always be a safe place for him to land. When the world got too crazy and if he couldn’t tell his mom Janey, Robby would be there.
Because that’s what parents do - willingly walk through fire if it meant their kid would be okay.
“The nasal swab came back negative for COVID, RSV, and Flu - which is a good thing.”
“Then what’s wrong? What about her eyes?”
The her in question was a three-year-old named Jasmine who was vocally letting you both know that she was not in a good mood, which was very fair. Nobody liked being sick. The only issue with her actively voicing her bad mood was that any high octave screams were soon followed up by a violent cough.
The moment you stepped inside the room you’d been worried about RSV, especially because of her age. Lungs sounded clear with slight wheezing indicated in the upper left lobe. Thankfully, all major possible viruses came back negative. The unfortunate thing was that this specific viral infection just meant mom was going to have to ride it out.
“It’s still a viral infection. The conjunctivitis, since it started coming from both eyes this morning, it’s from the infection and sinus blockage. The whites of her eyes aren’t red in any way. The best thing to do is apply a compress every few hours on the eyes to help with drainage, saline drops, or spray on the nose to help clear up the congestion and suction as often as you can. Over-the-counter cough medicine is fine unless you need a prescription?”
“No, no, it’s okay. We have some at home. So, she’s okay?”
“Yes, perfectly fine. I just recommend having her sleep elevated to help with drainage and if you have a humidifier, use it. Follow up with her pediatrician in two to three days or come back to the ER if any new or persistent symptoms occur.”
“Thank you so much, doctor.”
“You’re so welcome. Make sure to wait for a nurse before leaving. I hope you feel better, Jasmine.”
You gave them both a wave before exiting out of the quiet of the room and back into the noise. The nurse assigned to the room came over and held out a tablet and pen for you to take. Quickly, you scribbled a signature down, because doctors were notoriously known for sketchy penmanship, and began to walk towards a nursing station.
Technically, you did have a second option you could take before throwing yourself into the next patient room. Dr. Mohan asked to speak with you. She didn’t necessarily give a time or a preference. It was more focused on secrecy, which you found a little odd. This was Pittsburgh Medical Trauma Center - it was a rare thing to have a private conversation here. You were curious to find out what it was Mohan wanted, a bigger part of you wasn’t ready for the headache of Robby undoubtedly finding out later. The worst option: is if you were the one who had to tell him to be the advocate for his resident.
The scent of his cologne still held tight to the fabric of your scrubs. Slowly, it was beginning to fade but if you leaned in close enough to your right shoulder you could almost get a hint of -
“Dr. Fullerton.”
You were a millisecond away from calling out, “I wasn’t doing anything!”. Was it too early in the shift to consider a name change?
Glancing over your shoulder, you find Gloria making her way towards you. Each step in your direction sent your fight or flight raging back into gear because fuck no. Between Gloria and Robby, the two of them were about to have you so damn stressed out there was a high chance for premature balding to occur.
“Oh no. I’ve had enough surprises from you today.”
“I just wanted to have a chat - “
“And definitely enough of those,” you shot back.
You weren’t exactly sure why you kept moving. If previous experiences told you anything, it was that she would follow you until you stopped on your own or she got you into a corner. At least stopping to face her was a choice compared to being cornered with no way out.
Resigning to your fate, you took in a big meditative breath through your nose and turned around.
“What can I help you with, Gloria?”
Your voice was so monotone you sounded like a robot.
“I’m glad you’ve decided to stop running and actually talk to me like an adult.”
“I’m sorry, Gloria. You brought me down here to assist in decreasing triage wait times and that is what I am doing. Stopping to have a chat with you will reflect poorly on my scores.”
“Cute,” She bit back. The smile on her face was too harsh to be genuine. “Well, it’s funny you mention scores. I’ve been keeping an eye on the numbers and the system is showing barely any signs of process or improvement. Can you explain why that is?”
The simplest answer you could’ve given her came with one name, one word, and one human being. Robby. Robby was your fucking problem; the bane of your existence.
Gloria shoved you down here not knowing all the variables that could hinder productivity. There were moments of clarity where your brilliance shined through and in a matter of seconds it evaporated again. Realistically, it was your fault. Your inability to control your stupid fucking emotions - you didn’t need to react every time you saw him.
How could you not react when Robby did exactly the same?
You weren’t stupid. You’d spent years, months, days, and hours with him. Every minute is accounted for in conversations and touch. It wasn’t insanity (although the jury was still out on that one) that made you believe - to fucking notice - Robby was affected too.
But no way in hell were you divulging any of your innermost thought demons to Gloria.
“Look around, Gloria,” you said, arms opening up to motion around the Central rooms. “There are no beds available. You ask for solid care, for good patient satisfaction scores and that requires multiple factors. To be a good doctor you have to listen to the patient's chief complaint that they’ve been waiting almost eight hours to tell you.”
“I am well aware of the current wait times in triage, Dr. Fullerton.”
“Oh, that’s awesome. Problem solved then because once we assess them and decide they need monitoring and tests to ascertain the issue, it’s only another three to six-hour wait. Maybe longer if it’s life-threatening. Not to mention if any trauma patients come rolling through the red zone adding another twenty-five to fifty minutes on their time.”
“I don’t see what any of this has to do with not having any beds. Not every situation in triage necessarily requires a bed to be seen.”
“Gloria, your precious Press Ganey scores are going to stay low if a patient doesn’t get back to a room. You can make beds available by sending people upstairs or how about removing the deceased guy in nineteen who’s been posted here since before I arrived?”
“Robby is in charge of contacting the coroner's office about picking up the deceased.”
“And yet, the body is still here,” you pondered. “I know Robby, Gloria. He wouldn’t knowingly leave someone’s loved one here if it didn’t mean the coroner is backed up, which means our morgue must house him until then. And why are you complaining to me like I'm attending here? Robby is the attending - “
“I’m well aware of that - “
“You keep saying you’re well aware, Gloria but the fact is it feels like you’re not. It’s easy to come down here making demands but the reality is without the proper staffing and moving boarders out of the emergency department to free up space the numbers will never fucking change. Sending one doctor down here isn’t going to change shit.”
“Are you just about done, Dr. Fullerton?” She did a dramatic pause to allow you time to cut in. “The board and its administration are well aware of the pressures that staff face down here in the emergency department - that all hospitals are currently facing shortages. The fact of the matter is studies show close to seventy-five percent of ER visits are non-life threatening, which means more than half of those patients could be fairly seen in triage without needing a room.”
You could feel your mouth opening; primed for a response that Gloria was not going to let you detonate. Her hand waved to warn you not to cut her off.
“I don't want to hear any more about boarding or staffing. I want to see the results, Dr. Fullerton. It’s already bad enough that there are rats inside.”
“To be fair, they piggybacked on an unconscious unhoused man, so,” you shrugged. If looks could kill, you’d have dropped dead right then and there. “Not helpful?”
“No. Not helpful,” she confirmed. “I do, however, have a proposition for you.”
You sucked in a sharp breath through your teeth. The earlier annoyance at seeing Gloria twice in less than two hours of your shift changed course. Dread ice cold and paralyzing coiled in the pit of your stomach. You didn’t like where this was going.
“Is there a pass option?”
“This is an offer from myself and the administration. So, no, there isn’t a ‘pass option.’ How would you like to be considered for an attending position?”
“No.”
The word barreled out of you without thinking. You didn’t need to think about this proposition Gloria, the administration, or whoever was trying to dangle in front of you. It was any doctor's dream to become an attending at a facility - it made you the doctor.
You didn’t want it like this.
“You didn’t even hear the terms.”
“I don’t need to hear them to know that you’re trying to be sneaky.”
“Robby is failing to meet standards -“
“Robby is a fucking good physician.” You fumed. “He’s one of the best physicians in trauma medicine you have here outside of Abbot.”
“No one is disputing that, Dr. Fullerton. The board is open to having you both down here during the morning shift, maybe even making a swing shift for you to help between shifts.”
You raked your hands over your face scrubbing hard to try and cut off a mirthless laugh that came out in patches between your fingers.
“No - you want me to be a Judas. It’ll be a swing shift until you can get whatever data you need to confirm whatever fucked up plan you’re making.”
“Dr. Fullerton -“
“No!” You didn’t mean to shout the word at her. Or maybe you had. Whatever it was, it surprised you both. You should be quieter - don’t draw attention but your heart was thrashing wildly. Your hand swiped through the air to cut her off before she could attempt to continue. You didn’t want to fucking hear it. “Robby is a damn fine physician and to try and - I don’t fucking know, get rid of him because he doesn’t kiss the boards or your ass is fucking stupid. I don’t know half of what Robby or Abbot knows. I’m not them and it would be beyond idiotic to lose him.”
“Your opinion will be taken into consideration and I’ll dismiss your…outburst, for now, because of the current situation. But make no mistake, Dr. Fullerton this will move forward with, or without, you.”
You wondered if any natural disasters were named Gloria. It seemed possible since she came and created an instant upheaval of your day, completely devastating it in a matter of minutes and once she was done simply went about her day like nothing happened.
She left you to deal with the aftermath. The rushing thoughts with a million questions - thousands of things you should’ve said to defend Robby. There were dozens of ways you could prove her wrong about him - that he fucking cared about his patients and was such a damn good doctor, phenomenal at times, that to equate all that he was and all that he did down to a simple metric of numbers was fucking ridiculous.
All the sound in the room began to drown out around you. Somewhere in the background of the hum you heard a shout for help. It could be Code Blue. It could be anything. You tried to get your body to react, but the hurricane of anxiety was sweeping in fast and you were running out of air.
You needed to sit. You had to act normal because the last thing you needed was Princess or Dana or fucking anybody else coming over to speak with you. Your hands used the counter like a rope to pull you along to the nearest computer. You quickly sat down and swiped your credentials to enter the computer, quickly clicking on anything just to appear busy.
“How are you holding up today?”
The last person you expected to see at that very moment was Heather Collins. What did you expect? This was an emergency room and doctors worked inside of it. She offered up a close-lipped smile that matched the kindness in her eyes. She was genuinely wanting to know how you were doing and for the first time, you hated the question because you couldn’t answer it.
Not truthfully, anyway. Who was ever truthful in answering that specific question?
So, you painted on a grin that more than likely resembled a grimace and prayed you didn’t look as tired as you felt.
“It’s been…an adjustment.”
“What’s taking adjusting?”
Good god, this man was fucking everywhere.
Robby came into view as he moved across the station to get to the opposite computer. The question was thrown out carelessly; he didn’t expect a response. He was pulling out his glasses and sliding them over his nose, his full focus on the screen. Test results thankfully took priority over your response.
You were quickly forgotten by Collin’s who walked over to where Robby read the test results. She waited until he removed his glasses and stood to his full height.
“Please don’t tell me you are going to intubate that poor old man?”
“It’s what the family wants.”
“So what? They want to torture him?”
“I explained all that.”
It was painfully obvious this was a case you knew nothing about. By the sound of it, you were willing to bet five dollars that it was one of the elderly patients from a home who came in a little after 7:30 that morning. It meant it wasn’t your case. You didn’t need to know the information and you could continue counting down backward from ten while you reminded yourself that no, you weren’t Judas and -
“Dr. Fullerton, if a family came in -“
Fucking hell, you needed to stop zoning out. You brought your attention back to the two of them, wondering what you missed.
“You don’t need to ask her,” Robby interjected.
Collins continued like he’d never spoken.
“And they had durable power over an elderly family member who had a pre-existing DNR. His family wants to intubate. It’s not what he wants. Whose choice do you honor?”
“What are you doing?”
A singular brow of hers arched in defiance.
“Asking for a second opinion.”
“I didn’t ask for one.”
They continued to bicker about the decision Robby made to not fight for a dying man’s wishes. You would’ve told Collins to let it go because once Robby’s mind was made up, it was like talking to a wall. Maybe she already knew that.
God, what fucking twilight zone episode were you stuck in? You actively wanted the floor to open up and swallow you whole. Your eyes darted to the time on the bottom of the screen and you had to fight to keep your forehead from landing with a thud on the keyboard. It was only 9 o’clock. There were ten more hours of this day and you needed it to be over.
Robby released a sigh that reflected how exhausted you felt. It wasn’t a physical exhaustion but one of the soul; a weariness that vines grew thorns and were beginning to tear you slowly open. You could feel your legs wanting to shift out of the chair and go to him. The urge was so strong your hands scrunched into fists to keep from moving - to quell the urge because he wasn’t yours anymore and you weren’t his.
“Shit.”
“What?”
Robby’s best magic trick? Deflecting. Whenever he wanted the current conversation to end, and didn't like where it was heading, he diverted it completely into something else. Anything else that kept him from having to continue down a conversation he wanted no part of. You knew that trick all too well.
“I got to go tell those parents their 18-year-old son is brain-dead.”
“You want me to go with you?”
It should’ve been you offering to go with him. A comfort to the harbinger of bad news because it was never easy to give it. Never easy to stand in the storm of grief and simply be a bystander while their world ends in a matter of words.
What did it matter who went with him? Who offered? At the end of the day, a family was forever going to be encapsulated by a loss too many people unfortunately knew.
Vaguely, you caught the end of their argument. Robby wanted to perform an apnea test and a cerebral perfusion study. Dr. Collins didn’t agree. It offered the family false hope but Robby was right - maybe it did offer a false sense of hope, but with each test completed and results read off it was a graceful way to ease a family into acceptance. It gave them the time to process and grieve and come to the very heavy realization their son wouldn’t be going home with them.
“They need time to process before they can accept what’s happening.”
“You ever consider taking that advice? Physician, heal thyself.”
Dear floor, please fucking open up wide so you can just swan dive right on in. Thanks a bunch.
Heather knew. She fucking knew about the wall of grief - of acceptance - Robby himself was unable to accept. The King of dishing out advice left and right but unyielding in taking it. Suddenly, all the cool reserve of not caring about them dating evaporated in a crushing wave of heartbreak you shouldn’t have felt in the first place.
Did he tell her about you? Did he share with her about…about what happened? Was he able to open up to her in ways he stopped doing with you? Their relationship was gone, but the respect and care were still there.
The irritation came off him in waves. You should’ve told her Robby’s least favorite thing is being told to take his own advice. Or to heal for that matter. Oh, and to also maybe seek therapy. All three of those would turn his mood sour and aggravate him to peak levels at hyper speed.
He shoved his hands down into his hoodie. His head swiveling between Collins and probably anywhere else in the ED.
“Don’t you have patients?”
There it was. The dismissal. The, in not so many words, “I’m done talking to you about this and everything else,” so he could make a quick exit. The magician's last trick before his temper was lost.
Don’t look up. Do not look up. Don’t fucking do it.
You didn’t need to look up. There wasn’t any reason to do so. You weren’t on their radar the last half of their conversation. You were just a bystander to a miniature car crash. The issue with crashes? Everyone who drove by couldn’t stop themselves from looking.
The itch between your shoulder blades was your first warning sign. The weight of his gaze was bearing down on you. You didn’t have to react to it but it was a reflex to look up for him. To search for him in every crowded room and find yourself wishing he was there when he wasn’t.
Your eyes found he was still looking at you. An in-house debate flashed across his features. If it was whether or not to come to you, you hope he chose not to. You just need a few moments of space. It was too much. You’d run from him and now he was just here all the time and -
“Why are you looking at puppies? You getting a dog?”
“What?”
For the first time since you’d opened the computer, you realized whoever was on it last left it open to an ad for a puppy.
“Oh, no. This wasn’t me. Hey, earlier did someone shout a Code Blue?”
You could also perform your own magical change of subjects. Robby took a moment to answer before giving a curt nod.
“Whittaker’s patient that’d been placed in the hall. If you heard it, why didn’t you go assist? All hands on deck for a code, you know that.”
God, was he chastising you right now? A flood of irritation rippled over your skin. You wanted to snap at him. You weren’t a med student. But he was frustratingly right - you’d heard it and instead of running you’d kept yourself here.
And Whitaker. It was his first patient of the day. He’d been so excited that he’d done good. He’d gotten praise from Dr. Robby about his work up and Whitaker wouldn’t shut up about it. It meant something to him.
“I’ll go see if they need someone to switch.”
You went to get up but Robby was too close. If you got up from the chair you would bump straight into his chest.
“You okay?”
The sudden care behind the question jarred you. How did he expect you to answer? There was no way you could be honest with him - not at that second. He was supposed to go break the worst news a parent could ever receive and he was worried about you. He should be worried for himself. You could warn him about Gloria but what good would it do if he thought you might possibly be in on it with her? Your sudden reappearance, while inconvenient, hadn’t raised suspicion like an ulterior motive waited in the wings just yet.
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m good. You?”
“Never better.”
His smile held every worn line of fatigue that signaled his lack of sleep. His attempt at strength in a moment he refused to seek outside help. You found the same words Dr. Collins asked moments before crawling their way up your throat before you swallowed them back down. He wouldn’t change his mind and agree just because it was you.
You wanted to be there because whether he voiced it or not, this kid whose family was seconds away from being told was gone wasn’t that much older than Jake. A single accident of taking non-prescribed Xanax ended his life. Jake was a good kid. You wanted to reach out and take his hand and tell him Jake would never - Jake was different.
Jake was still a kid.
Robby didn’t wait for you to reply before he headed towards the room. You kept telling yourself to get up and move. Go find Whitaker and the team performing cpr on his patient and do your part. Between everything that’s happened this morning: being forced down with Robby, seeing Robby, Dr. Mohan requesting to speak with you, Gloria’s ultimatum and now the news this young kid didn’t make it you were officially mentally exhausted.
You needed to move but by the time your legs finally lifted out of the seat, Robby told them. The mother’s wail of agony resounded through the room and rose in octaves. The soul-wrenching loss of her child, her baby, turned the Pitt into a mausoleum of mourning. Her cries followed you down the hallway until you reached the curtain where Whitaker and others were on their third round of Epi, and you could see the continued despair evident in the room.
It was barely 9 AM and you already wanted to fucking go home.
As always, thank you so much for reading! Reblogs and comments are always appreciated <3
Tag list: @whatdoesntkillyoumakesyoustrange @travelingmypassion @jupiter-sky @catsgoogander @rosiepoise88 @It-jakeseresin @blackpopcorn @celmentine111002 @dcgoddess
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