Dove & Captain Series Masterlist - Dr. Jack Abbot X Reader

night vision - chapter 1

michael robinavitch x f!reader

Summary: While dr. Frank Langdon is away while seeking treatment for his drug addiction, you're plucked from the loving arms of the night shift in order to replace him inside the crushing jaws of the day shift in the Pitt. Being a nocturnal creature with a closed-off personality, it's hard to adjust at first, especially when you're no longer working alongside your mentor (and father figure of sorts), dr. Jack Abbot. However, you slowly start to grow on the day shift's attending doctor, and it's up to Robby if he'll stay away from you to protect his heart, or if he'll give in to something that's bigger than a workplace crush.

Tags: the pitt spoilers!!!, female reader-insert; jewish!reader (fyi: anyone can be jewish, and I'm planning to write the reader without any physical descriptions other than wearing glasses), age gap (reader's in her mid-20's/early 30s), slow burn, angst, fluff, eventual smut (minors do not interact), smoking, reader did not outgrow her goth phase, this is a shameless self-insert bc I cannot stop thinking about this old man and his sad brown eyes, not beta read (we die like leah)

wordcount: fuck me if I know but this is long

A/N: this will be a multi-chapter fic, although it will take me awhile to update it since college does not allow me to live, i.e i should be studying but here I am, writing fanfiction. hope you enjoy it!!

Apparently, being yelled at and being told to fuck off worked for Frank Langdon.

Because when Robby showed up for work after his last shift at 7 a.m, he was ambushed by Gloria and nearly dragged to a meeting between them and Langdon in her office (or the ivory tower, how Robby likes to call it: far from the masses and looking down on the lowly peasants).

Here's your second chance. 30-day inpatient treatment program, followed by random urine tests, 50 to 60 a year, followed by mandatory NA meetings three to four times a week for the first three years.

Robby had a hard time looking in Frank's eyes, but the resident knew that, in time, Michael would forgive him. He had to.

"And who's gonna cover for him while he's in the program?" Robby sighed before asking Gloria, one hand around his backpack strap, the other shoved inside the pocket of his hoodie.

"I've already asked doctor Abbot to assign one of his senior residents to the day shift for the next thirty days." Gloria answered him somewhat nonchalantly. "She'll be here within the hour."

"Great. If there's nothing else, I have to get to work." Robby looked at Gloria and Frank and decided in the last second not to be that cruel with Langdon, stopping in his tracks before turning to his senior resident.

With a huff and a nod, he added, "Frank. I... hope you get the help you need. You're a great doctor, and this is how you don't lose your license. Get better, and your work will be waiting here for you."

Langdon looked beyond exhausted. Ashamed, sad, embarrassed, if the bags under his eyes were any indication; a diametrically opposite look on the doctor who was used to be so sure of himself. He only nodded in response, not trusting his voice not to break down if he answered Robby.

"Gloria."

"Robinavitch."

The driest goodbyes were exchanged between the physician and the chief medical officer, and the elevator trip way down to the Pitt was a long one. Robby mentally counted the night shift ED staff.

Shen, Ellis, Abbot, Walsh... who the fuck was supposed to cover for Langdon?

-

The day before, 3:57pm

You felt like throwing your phone against the wall when your ringtone woke you up from the most glorious nap you've had in a long time.

"Leave me alone, old man," you sleepily answered Jack's call.

"Is that the way to talk to to your boss?", he reprimanded you, but you could hear his smile on the other side of the phone.

"What do you need, Jack? Want me to come earlier?" You rubbed the sleep off your eyes, stifling a yawn. Otherwise, Jack would tease you forever.

"Actually, you're gonna take the night off. I just left a meeting with Gloria, and she needs someone to cover for one of the day shift senior residents for the next month."

Abbot could hear your unsatisfied groan.

"And it's gotta be me? Can't Shen or Parker do it?"

"You've been putting off day shifts for far too long and you know it."

"Uhhh, have I?"

"Cute. I'll see you at seven a.m. tomorrow. Rest as much as you can."

"See you tomorrow, then. Have a not so bad shift, Jack."

He hung up the phone, and your lack of further questions did not surprise him. You were notoriously known to avoid drama in your workplace like it was the plague, even though you weren't exactly antisocial. You frequently hung out with Ellis and Shen, co-workers that you actually were friends with, and Jack was something of a father figure to you since your first year as a resident in the Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Hospital.

Just like him, you sported a no-nonsense workstyle, keeping your head down and doing the best you can. Abbot helped you overcome your insecurities as an ER physician, and you did not grow to be a cocky or arrogant doctor throughout the years he took you under his wing, even if you were aloof sometimes. Jack saw in you that cold precision he valued so much, and it helped you shield your mind and spirit from the devastating effects of working in an emergency room.

However, not everyone shared the same opinion as Jack regarding you. Being so closed-off compared to what's expected of a person on a team that worked so closely together, some people saw you as distant and unapproachable.

But frankly? It didn't bother you at all. You maintained a mildly decent work-life balance by embracing the "icy" persona, and while wearing nothing but black clothes and thick eyeliner on your natural resting bitch-face, you were bound to be labeled as unpleasant. But you knew that the people who mattered to you didn't think of you like that. And absolutely no one could say you were rude or impolite.

Just... professional.

You rolled over to the other side of your bed with another groan, and set the alarm on your phone for 5 a.m instead of 5 p.m.

God, tomorrow would be such a fucking bitch of a day.

-

You felt like you were jet-lagged by the time you got to the Pitt. With your usual half-empty iced latte from Dunkin' Donuts in hand, you entered your workplace knowing your circadian cicle would descend its heavenly revenge on you after working the graveyard shift for almost a year, your AirPods blaring only God knows what in order to keep you awake.

You thought it was Black Sabbath, but couldn't know for sure.

Before greeting Jack, you made a beeline to the doctor's lounge and hid a couple of Red Bull cans in the back of the refrigerator, with your name labeled on them for good measure.

You barely made it to the nurses' station before being loudly surrounded by Parker and John.

"What the fuck happened to you?"

"We thought you were dead, man! Why didn't you answer the group chat?"

You cringed slightly at their approach, still half asleep, and turned off your AirPods before putting them away inside your pockets.

"I know. Abbot hates me and in order to prove it, he's demoting me to the day shift for a month", you said half-heartdly while replacing your sunglasses with your usual glasses.

"So you're the one covering for Langdon, huh?"

"Langdon?"

You made a face and your co-workers looked at each other while shrugging, clearly dissatisfied with your habit of keeping yourself out of the loop. You mostly remember Frank from your first year as a resident, immediately disliking him due to his boastful and cocky nature.

You didn't like guys who knew they were handsome.

"I don't even wanna know."

Across the nurses' station, your loud trio got Jack's attention. From his perspective, it looked like you were a kid begrudgingly going to another school across the country and your friends were sadly saying their goodbyes.

With an eyebrow raised, Abbot nodded his face in your direction, and Robby followed Jack when he approached you. Shen and Ellis nodded to you in a silent way of saying "we'll catch up with you later" before leaving you with the senior attendings.

Robby almost introduced himself to you before recalling your face.

"You're doctor, uhh..."

You gave him your last name with a grin, raising an eyebrow while looking at Jack, who almost laughed at your discomfort. Robby looked a bit sheepish for not remembering you, but you answered him in a way that conveyed no hard feelings through your tone.

However, you would remember that face even if you didn't see him for a year.

Shit, he's more gorgeous than you thought.

You schooled your countenance to the best of your abilities before focusing on Jack.

"I'll deny to anyone that I've said this, but she's one of my best residents, Robby. Take good care of her, alright?", he lightly slapped your shoulder a couple of times before making his way to the exit, and you playfully squinted your eyes while looking at him, slightly embarrassed by Abbot's praise.

Robby surprisingly raised his eyebrows for a moment before crossing his arms, studying you for a second.

Black scrubs, black shoes, black backpack, black eyeliner.

You followed your mentor with your face in order to watch him take his leave, refusing to let Robby embarrass you any further with his curious gaze.

"Talk to you later, Jack."

He nodded with another barely hidden grin on his face, and you shot a glare at him.

You were fucked and he knew it.

You stared back at Robby for a moment before he shook his face, sighing.

"I don't have to show you around, do I?"

You exhaled through your nose, shaking your head no with a short smile.

"Not really, no."

"Great. We have about twenty five patients waiting on triage."

You nodded once more and headed to the locker room to put your backpack away and finally get ready to work the goddamn day shift.

-

Robby didn't see you until 10 a.m, after you discharged your fifth patient, a 7 year-old boy with a nasty cut on his eyebrow. The kid sweetly waved you goodbye while you walked towards the nurses' station, looking for your next patient. You heard Dana's voice before you saw her.

"Robby, MI coming up, ETA two minutes. Hey— I know who you are!", her tone shifted from alert to agreeable, smiling after recognizing you.

"Mrs. Evans," you replied with a smile, slightly shy.

"Where have you been, kid?"

"Working the night shift."

"For how long?", she walked towards you and gave you a quick hug, taking you in for a moment.

"A year. What happened to you?", you frowned after noticing her black eye, the bruise starting to fade.

"Just another satisfied customer."

"Please tell me you pressed charges...?"

"He's already in jail. C'mon, we gotta go." Robby interrupted your little reunion with a slightly impatient tone, and you gave Dana a nod before following him to the ambulance bay.

You didn't seem to take his demeanor at face value; didn't even have time to dwell on it while the ambulance rolled in.

"Donald Jones, 67, his son called 911 after he passed out in his home. Son said he's taking enalapril. Complained of chest pain, lost consciousness about two minutes ago. BP is 151/100 palp, heart rate's 115, sat's 93, we already started a line on him," the paramedics presented the patient while pushing the gurney inside the ER, squeezing the ambu bag attached to a facemask.

"Mister Jones, can you hear me?", you asked your patient and when he didn't answer, you rubbed your closed fist against his chest, frowning when he didn't complain. "Dana, what's free?"

"Trauma two!"

"Get Javadi and Santos, Dana," Robby requested while entering Trauma Two.

"On my count, one, two, three..."

The four of you raised the patient and placed him on the bed, and while you were listening to his heart and lungs with your stethoscope, another nurse slapped the electrodes on mr. Jones' chest. You quickly put on a gown and a pair of gloves before assessing his eyes with your pocket flashlight.

"Pupils are equal and reactive..."

"What do you want, doctor?"

"12-lead ECG, CBC, coagulation profile, potassium and sodium levels, CK and troponin too. I need an E-FAST, I can barely hear his heartbeat."

"What are you thinking?"

"Positive Kussmaul sign, patient's on ACE inhibitors. Pericardial effusion due to right heart failure."

"Very well. Javadi, you're up. Hold the probe while she teaches you how to perform a pericardiocentesis."

You frowned again after finally noticed two med students around you, one looking far too excited, and the other like a deer caught in headlights.

"Okay, I need a periocardiocentesis kit—"

"Lost his pulse, V-tach! Sats are dropping to eighty-nine, eighty-five..."

Everyone in the room looked at the heart monitor after Princess' warning, and you went for the intubation kit before anyone could hand it to you.

"Santos, start compressions. Princess, charge to 200," Robby calmly ordered his staff around him, arms crossed while closely watching your performance. You carefully inserted the laryngoscope inside your patient's mouth and looked for the cords, the endotracheal tube already in your opposite hand.

"I can't see the cords. Need some cricoid pressure, please."

Robby approached Donald and placed his fingers around his throat in a way that you could finally see your patient's vocal cords. You easily passed the ET tube and inflated its cuff with a syringe, pulling the guide wire.

"I'm in. Bag him."

"Sats are coming up... ninety, ninety-one..." Another nurse squeezed the ambu bag while you returned to Javadi's side. You pulled her towards you after hearing Robby's "Clear!", preventing the med student from getting a nasty shock.

"Sinus rhythm."

"Okay...", you said to yourself while opening the periocardiocentesis tray, switching your nitrile gloves for sterile ones so fast that even Robby was surprised. Princess quicky rubbed a gauze drenched in antiseptic before you placed the sterile drape over the patient's chest.

"Javadi, right?", you quickly looked to the youngest med student next to you before focusing on the ultrasound screen.

"Y-yeah!"

"Okay, I'm going to insert the needle below the xiphoid process, directed to the left shoulder. Do you see it?"

"Yeah, I do."

"Great. I'm in the pericardial space, now...", you started to fill the syringe with the excessive fluid around the patient's heart, and his parameters steadily started to drop into normalcy.

"Did you get that?", you asked Javadi with a small smile, finally allowing yourself to breathe once the monitors were beeping less frequently.

She nodded her head in response, way less wide-eyed than when she entered Trauma Two.

"Ten of morphine, forty of Lasix, 1 microgram of dobutamine per kilogram per minute, and page Cardiology, please."

The other med student finally spoke.

"That will always be a cool procedure."

You agreed, deeply inhaling through your nose in order to calm your own heart. You removed your sterile gloves and aimed them at the trash can, stepping aside so that the nurses could wrap up yo collective work.

"Med student too?"

"Intern, actually. Trinity Santos."

You shook her hand and introduced yourself to her, checking your patient's vitals once more with your stethoscope. While counting his heart rate, you remembered Jack mentioning to you over post-shift breakfast yesterday that an intern named Santos placed a REBOA on a patient without supervision after the PittFest mass-shooting.

"Heartbeat's better—"

"Cardiology will be here in thirty minutes."

Robby's voice almost scared you, the man finally saying something after staying on the sidelines watching you.

"That's fast," you sarcastically quipped, rubbing your arm against your slightly sweated forehead before readjusting your glasses on your face.

"Javadi, Santos, keep an eye on him. Let's see if his son is outside."

The two young women quickly replied to Robby while you left Trauma Two with him.

"Robby, this man's son is here." Dana informed your attending while he turned to you, acknowledging the nurse with his head.

"Good job back there."

"Thank you, doctor Robinavitch."

"You can—"

"Hey, is my dad okay?!", a younger version of your patient almost ran into you, and you were about to explain his dad's status to him before Robby cut you off.

"You dad most likely had a heart attack, but he's stable for now. We're waiting for Cardiology, and you'll be able to see him in a few minutes."

"Oh, thank God. Thank you so much, doctor."

"Excuse me, doctor Robinavitch."

"Uh, sure."

He eyed you warily for a moment while you made your way to the nurses' station, having a long sip from your water bottle. At first, you did seem aloof, but his own behavior didn't seem to faze you even a little bit: you weren't getting cocky over the praise, nor resentful for not taking credit for saving that man's life.

Michael crossed his arms, deep in thought. He could see why Abbot thought you were one of his best residents only a few hours into the shift. However, he wasn't ready to confess to himself that the way you carried yourself peaked his interest in a worrying manner.

That, and he should be ashamed of himself for ogling a young woman half his age like a creep.

"You kicked him in the shins or something?", Dana asked you while you were filing your last patient's chart.

"What?"

"Robby. He's staring at you like you kicked a puppy."

You looked over your shoulder and Robby suddenly made a beeline to another resident after hearing his name being called.

If you were a tad more arrogant, you would've thought he was staring at you.

"I think that's just his face," you dismissed her in your usual tone.

Dana stifled a laugh and focused again on the screen in front of her.

While Mel presented her patient, only one thought crossed Robby's mind.

He was fucked and he knows it.

First meetings

Pairing: Jack Abbot x female! intern! reader

Warnings: cursing, sexual content is described (not explicit), one night stand, medical inaccuracies, Jack Abbot being soft (I guess), mentions of vomiting (I promise no one is pregnant)

!MDNI 18+ content!

Summary: Meeting Jack Abbot twice for the first time was not on her bucket list, especially not after how their unoffical first meeting ended.

A/N: Heyy so, this was something else I wanted to write for Abbot. I am currently thinking about writing a second part for this, but I am not sure yet. I think it would be interesting, depending on how this is recieved I might write a second part :) Also the first part of this fic is more like looking back at the events that took place, again Jack might be a bit ooc, so please forgive me

She had met Jack Abbot in a bar for the very first time. It was one of those dimly lit, smelling like beer and wood, kind of bar, the kind of bar that served cheap drinks and was frequented by people that wanted to get drunk and have a good time. Just having finished med school, still waiting until her residency program would start. Her friends had wanted to celebrate, she had wanted to as well, there was a reason to after all. It had taken some convincing, especially since her friends had been rather insistent on an outfit she would never have chosen for herself.

Spotting the older man from across the bar had almost been like a moment of total clearness, like someone had flipped a switch in her mind. The wavy, salt and pepper hair, the beautiful features, the man had caught her attention without even trying. He had been staring into his glass, like he was miles away in a completely different plane of reality, maybe that was what had drawn her to him, or maybe it was that this man looked like he had stepped straight out of a painting.

Putting on her best smile she had sauntered over to him, trying to appear as confident as possible. As she did that she internally thanked her friends for the beautiful outfit she was now in. She bought him a drink before she even introduced herself, that had earned her a raised brow at first, then a slight smile. He had told her his name, his first name only back then. The first thing he had asked her then was how old she was. She had told him the truth, twenty six, he had been uncertain, but the moment she started chattering about the beauty of devotion to one‘s beliefs he seemed to have leaned back and given her a chance. Talking for hours with him she felt like something clicked between them, something was extremely right when they talked. At some point his hand had found her thigh, they began facing each other and their conversation flowed on. She felt guilty about having abandoned her friends, but the moment she glanced back towards where they were sitting one of them gave her a thumbs up. All of them looked in her direction and the thumbs up and happy smiles only grew more and more in the group.

The talking for almost four hours had landed her at his place, a hot mouth on hers before the door was even closed properly. None of the surfaces of his apartment had been left unused, except for the kitchen counter, though she had gotten that more than she probably should. At the end of the night her legs were shaking violently and the warm blanket wrapped around her, the warmth of him more comforting than it probably should be. For a man his age, she had joked while they laid in bed together after many rounds of very good sex, he had an impressive stamina. After that comment he had snorted and eaten her out like a man starved. Laying there with him she had looked at him, his face looked more relaxed then, his eyes on her face as she gently brushed his cheek with her knuckles.

“I wish I could freeze this moment in time,” she had whispered and he had smiled at that, simply kissing her, though he had never returned the sentiment verbally, but she had felt it through the kiss.

The next morning they had eaten breakfast together, it was nothing fancy, just some toast and cheese, but it had felt just right as they drank from his old beaten up coffee mugs, while chatting about this and that. She had given him her number and left around noon that day, the tension between them still crackling like it had the night before. Not sure if she should expect a call or not and if she should just move on with her life as she arrived at her own apartment.

——————————-

The dark blue scrubs hung loosely on her body, the elastic in the pants keeping them from falling, the only things that were keeping her from going insane over the fabric were the compression socks and the thermo undershift she was wearing. A stethoscope wrapped around her neck she stepped into the ED of the PTMC. It was busy, people running around, the voices of patients filling the room with a mixture of low groans and moans, but also light giggles from medication, staff was standing together, chattering away as she moved across the room.

This was her first day of residency, well her official first day of residency would have been last week, but she had been throwing up the entire weekend, as well as in the entirety of the day of her official first day, so she had called the admin staff and called in sick. The worst thing about that being that that day had been the day of the Pitt Fest shooting, she had felt guilty, but then decided that feeling guilty would not get her anywhere and her having to vomit constantly wouldn‘t have been helpful in any case.

As she walked towards the nurses‘ desk she saw an older man standing in front of a computer, hunched over slightly, black framed glasses resting on his nose, a dark hoodie thrown over his scrubs, he looked weirdly familiar, but she couldn‘t place his face. His dark hair was styled upwards and the beard had some white hairs in it, though the wrinkles around his eyes were deep, he looked about six or so years older than Jack, she shook her head, she had to stop thinking about him, it had almost been a month since she had seen him.

„Excuse me?“ she asked carefully, stepping towards him, not wanting to startle the man. He looked up from the desktop, his dark eyes glimmering in the white light of the ED. “Dr. Robinavitch?” she tilted her head to the side.

“Yes, that is me,” he laughed slightly as he smiled at her. Quickly she gave him her name and his face lit up.

“Ah, yes! It is good to see you back on your feet.” he looked over at the nurse in the nurses’ station, blonde hair and she could see she had a black eye.

“Thank you,” she laughed nervously.

“So this is our charge nurse, Dana, the most important person you are going to meet today,” he looked around, seeing a group of three women and one man coming their way, he waved them towards them. Quickly she introduced herself to them. She learned that the young woman with the dark hair and clear eyes was Trinity Santos, an intern. Melissa or rather Mel King, an R2, with the most adorable smile and charming optimism. Victoria Javadi, who seemed to suffer from imposter syndrome more than anything else and such an inviting personality that it almost made her want to cry, she was an MS3. Dennis Whitaker, who looked like he wanted to sink into the floor and seemed to be a bit awkward, though it was rather endearing, an MS4.

Dr. Robinavitch or rather Dr. Robby, how he was also called, sent you along with Dr. Heather Collins for most of the day. She was a nice woman with whom she got along rather well. Since she was an R1 she still needed guidance in certain areas and was mostly supervised by someone, not all the time thought.

The day turned out to be rather eventful and gruelling in its own way, she had been spit on, shouted at, a patient had smeared poop in her hair, a worried parent had accidentally elbowed her in the stomach, the hit and run victim she had helped treat had died, a toddler that had somehow gotten the child safety cover off the outlet had put a fork in it and shocked himself was in a coma, a patient had slapped her ass as she was trying to treat his head injury, she had nearly peed her pants because she did not get the chance to go to the bathroom, Santos was incredibly annoying, another patient had asked her if she would suck him off if he paid her the right amount and the list only went on the later it was, another patient died from internal bleeding from multiple stab wounds, no chance for lunch or a drink in between cases. Glancing at her watch she saw that it was already past eight, meaning that theoretically her shift was over, but apparently things kept coming her way and all hands were needed.

From what Santos had told her, the senior attending from night shift was already there, but she had yet to see the man. Trinity had told her that he was an incredible teacher, someone that was worth working with. Since the night shift was already there she also met Dr. Ellis and Dr. Shen and their charge nurse Brigit.

As she made her way towards the nurses’ station she felt herself beginning to sway, the fact that she had not had a single sip of water since she had eaten breakfast that morning or the fact that she had not eaten anything in over twelve hours explained the dizziness. She also hadn’t sat down in the same amount of time. Stumbling slightly she felt herself loose her footing on the floor of the ED she reached out for something to hold onto while she prepared to hit the ground. She felt two strong hands on her arm and hip pulling her upright before she was able to fall, the feeling of hitting a strong chest made her breath in sharply.

Turning her head to face her saviour she practically let out a screech as she saw Jack holding her tightly.

“Holy shit!” she practically shouted. It was not because of his great reflexes nor was it because she was glad she hadn’t fallen, no that was because she was face to face with Jack again. Some faces turned their way as he supported her to get her to sit down somewhere and she did, taking a seat on one of the chairs she stared at him, with her mouth slightly agape as he looked at her with a raised eyebrow. She heard Princess and Perlah mutter something between them in Tagalog, knowing that it was probably the gossip mill already beginning to move. Before Jack could ask her anything Mel was already hurrying to the nurses’ station.

“Are you alright? I saw you almost falling!” Mel came over to her, looking extremely worried.

“Yeah, everything alright,” she continued staring at Jack, her mind going through all kinds of emotions going through her mind at this moment. “Just a bit dizzy,” she snapped her gaze away from Jack who let out a huff.

“Dr. King, get her something to eat and drink, if you don’t mind, then go home, your shift ended over an hour ago,” Jack spoke softly to Mel, who nodded and headed off. He looked at her for a long moment and shook his head. She could hear the discussion between Princess and Perlah intensifying, though she did not understand what they were saying.

“Dr. Jack Abbot,” he held out his hand to her, just like he had done in the bar a month ago, a shiver ran down her spine as she took it, shaking it carefully introducing herself with her full name this time as well. Suddenly it was like whiplash hit her and she knew where she had seen Dr. Robby before, she had seen him in one of the photos in Jack’s apartment.

Mel reappeared with two granola bars and a cup of water in her hand, setting it down.

“Thanks, Mel,” she smiled at the woman. “See you tomorrow,” Mel told her goodbye as well and disappeared, she knew that she still needed to pick up her sister.

“Eat, drink, go home, you need to be here at seven tomorrow,” his voice was firm, but not unkind. She snorted, defiant and angry at him, hell he could have at least told her that the one night stand was supposed to stay exactly that. She wanted to tell him to go fuck off.

“Thanks, but I will be fine,” as she got up from the chair her dizziness came back knocking the wind out of her and she swayed again, sitting back down she grumbled while opening the granola bar, practically inhaling the two bars and drinking the cup of water in one gulp.

“There happy,” she sounded more snappy than she intended and she heard one of the night shift nurses gasp slightly, that would definitely be thrown into the gossip mill.

“Yes,” Jack gave her a pointed look, the kind of look that said ‘if you do that one more time you are going to be in big trouble’. “Now, go home,”

Not letting him tell her that twice she shot out of the chair and made her way towards the lockers, the dizziness wasn’t gone completely, but the bars and the water had helped. She saw Perlah and Princess in the hallway, both of them giving her suspicious looks. This was going to be interesting.

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

have some sexy shawn scenes from reckless

God I hate to be that person but ughhhhhh I love that jack fic where they find out reader is pregnant and I'm CRAVING a second part to that (if you're u to of course). Like, how it'd be during her pregnancy, him being sweet but also worried and protective. Omg I need more soft jack w a baby on the way!!!!!

The Camouflage Onesie

part two of he begins to notice (read this first!)

content warnings: pregnancy, medical references, nausea/morning sickness, sexual content (explicit but consensual), body image changes, hormonal shifts, domestic intimacy, emotional vulnerability, labor and delivery scene, emotionally intense partner support, and high emotional/physical dependency within a marriage. yeah. pregnancy

word count : 5,735

WEEK 5

The test turned positive on a Sunday. By Monday morning, the entire medicine cabinet had been rearranged like it was a trauma cart.

Your moisturizer had been nudged over to make room for prescription-grade prenatals, a bottle of magnesium, a DHA complex, and—of all things—two individually labeled pill sorters with day-of-the-week dividers. One pink. One clear. Yours and Jack's, apparently.

You found him in the kitchen at 6:42 a.m., already in scrubs. He was calmly cutting the crusts off toast while listening to NPR and making a second cup of coffee for himself.

When he turned, he gave you a long once-over—not in a critical way, but diagnostic. Like he was scanning you for vitals only he could see.

“You’re flushed,” he said. “And your pupils are dilated. You feel dizzy yet?”

You furrowed your brow. “No?”

“Good. You’re hydrating better than I thought.”

You blinked. “Jack, I haven’t even said good morning.”

He walked over and handed you a glass of room-temp water. “I’m loving you with medically sourced precision.”

You stared at the glass. “This isn’t cold.”

“Cold water upsets your stomach. Lukewarm helps with early bloat.”

“Jack.”

“I know what I’m doing.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Do you?”

He tilted his head. “I’ve watched septic patients stabilize faster than accountants facing a positive Clearblue. I know exactly what this is.”

You pressed your hands to your face and groaned. “You’re not going to hover this much every week, are you?”

Jack leaned down, brushing a kiss over your shoulder. “No. Some weeks I’ll hover more.”

“I made your appointment already,” he said, voice casual. “Friday. Dr. Patel. 3:40.”

You blinked. “You didn’t even ask me.”

“She owes me a favor,” Jack said. “Got her niece into ortho during the peak of the shortage last year. Trust me—she’ll take care of you.”

You frowned, stunned. “How did you even pull that off so fast?”

Jack raised an eyebrow. “Sweetheart. I’m an ER doctor. I have connections. I can get my wife seen before the week’s out.”

Your eyes welled up suddenly—caught off guard by how steady he was, how sure. You were still half-floating in disbelief. Jack was already ten steps ahead, clearing the path.

WEEK 6

You learned very quickly that pregnancy was a full-time job—and Jack approached it with quiet precision.

The first time you dry-heaved over the kitchen sink, he didn’t rush in with a solution. He didn’t lecture or hover. He just stepped into the room, leaned against the counter, and waited until you looked up.

“Still thinking about that leftover pasta?” he asked softly.

You made a face. “Don’t say the word pasta.”

He crossed the kitchen, wordless, and pulled open a drawer. Out came a wrapped ginger chew. Then he disappeared down the hall.

When he returned, he had your cardigan in one hand and a bottle of lemon water in the other.

You blinked at him. “What are you doing?”

Jack handed you the water first. “You always run cold when you’re nauseous. But I know you’ll refuse a blanket if you’re flushed.”

You stared.

He draped the cardigan over your shoulders.

“You okay?”

You nodded slowly. “I think so.”

“Okay,” he said. “Let me know when you want toast.”

You half-laughed, half-cried, wiping your eyes on your sleeve. “You don’t have to be this gentle every second.”

Jack leaned in. “I’m not being gentle. I’m being exact. There’s a difference.”

Later that night, you sat curled up on the couch, still wrapped in the cardigan, while Jack quietly swapped your usual diffuser oil with something new.

“Peppermint,” he said when you asked. “Helps with queasiness.”

You raised an eyebrow. “And the bin next to the couch?”

“Let’s call it contingency planning.”

You smirked. “You’re really building systems around me, huh?”

Jack looked at you—soft, certain. “No. I’m building them for you.”

He moved across the room and brushed your hair back off your forehead, thumb pausing at your temple like he could smooth out whatever discomfort lingered there.

“You’re not the patient,” he murmured. “You’re the constant. And I’m going to do whatever it takes to keep the ground steady under your feet.”

You didn’t have a clever reply.

You just pulled him onto the couch beside you and tucked yourself into his chest—grateful beyond words that this was who you got to build a life with.

WEEK 9

Jack was folding laundry on the bed when you walked into the room barefoot, carrying a bowl of cereal and wearing his old college sweatshirt.

You caught his glance. “What?”

He shook his head, smiled a little. “Just thinking you wear my clothes better than I ever did.”

You rolled your eyes, but your smile gave you away. He set a towel down. Reached for your bowl as you sat on the edge of the bed.

“I got it,” you said.

“I know,” he murmured, holding it anyway while you shifted the pillow behind your back. Once you were settled, he handed it back.

You took a bite, then glanced at the basket of half-folded laundry.

“You know that’s mostly my stuff, right?”

Jack looked at the pile. “It’s ours. Who else is gonna fold your seven thousand pairs of fuzzy socks?”

You laughed into your spoon.

He leaned against the dresser and just looked at you for a second. Not in a way that made you self-conscious—just soft. Familiar.

“You’re quieter this week,” he said.

You shrugged. “I’m tired.”

He nodded. “Want to go somewhere this weekend? Just us?”

“Like where?”

“Nowhere big. Just—out of the house. We could rent a cabin. Lay around. Sleep until noon. Let you pretend I’m not watching you nap like it’s my full-time job.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You do that now?”

“Not always. Just when you start snoring like a golden retriever pup.”

“Jack.”

He grinned, walked over, and kissed your temple.

“Alright, no trips. But at least let me cook something tonight. Something warm.”

You sighed. “You already do too much.”

He looked at you seriously then, crouched a little so you were eye-level.

“I don’t keep score,” he said. “I’m your husband. You’re growing our kid. If all I have to do is make dinner and fold socks, I’m getting off easy.”

WEEK 14

By week fourteen, the second trimester hit like an exhale.

You weren’t queasy every morning anymore. Your appetite returned. You could brush your teeth without gagging. And Jack, for the first time in weeks, actually relaxed enough to sit through an entire episode of something without checking on you mid-scene.

You were curled on the couch together—your head in his lap—when he slid his hand beneath your shirt and rested it on the soft curve of your stomach.

You raised an eyebrow. “You’re subtle.”

“I’m consistent.”

You snorted. “You’re clingy.”

His thumb brushed just under your ribs. “I’m memorizing.”

You shifted slightly, tucking your feet closer. “You already know everything about me.”

Jack looked down at you, the corners of his mouth twitching. “I know the before. This part? This is new.”

He went quiet, and you could feel the shift in him—something deeper, more reverent than before.

“I’ve seen pregnancy before,” he said. “But I’ve never… watched it happen to someone I come home to.”

You turned your head to look up at him. “You okay?”

Jack nodded slowly. “I just keep thinking… you’re building someone I haven’t met yet. And I already know I’d give my life for them.”

Your throat tightened. You reached for his hand where it rested on your stomach, lacing your fingers through his.

“We’re doing okay, right?”

Jack bent down, kissed your forehead. “You’re doing better than okay.”

You smiled. “We’re a good team.”

“The best,” he said. “Even if you keep stealing all the pillows.”

You laughed. “You sleep like a corpse. You don’t need them.”

He grinned. “You’re getting cocky now that the nausea’s eased.”

“You’ll miss her when she’s gone.”

“No, I’ll just be glad to have you back.”

You rolled your eyes. “You have me.”

Jack kissed you again. Longer this time.

“Yeah,” he whispered. “I do.”

WEEK 15

It started with the baby books.

Not the ones you bought. The ones Jack picked up—three of them, stacked neatly on the nightstand one morning after a grocery run you hadn’t joined him on.

You noticed them after your shower. He was still in the kitchen, loading the dishwasher, humming something that definitely wasn’t in tune. But the titles made you pause.

“‘What to Expect for Dads,’” you read aloud, holding the top one up when he walked in. “You going soft on me?”

Jack raised an eyebrow. “Hardly. Just figured if you’re doing the building, I can at least read the manual.”

You smirked, flipping through a page. “You’re the manual.”

“I’m the triage guy. I don’t have maternal instincts. I have protocols.”

You leaned back against the headboard. “You’re being humble, but you’re gonna ace this.”

He shrugged, crossing the room to sit on the edge of the bed. “I just want to know what’s coming. I’ve done newborn shifts. I’ve handed babies to people shaking so hard they could barely hold them. But this? This isn’t a shift. This is us.”

You touched his arm. “You’ve already done more than I can even keep track of.”

Jack looked at you for a long moment. Then placed his hand over yours. “I don’t want to just be useful. I want to be good. For both of you.”

You didn’t know what to say.

So you leaned forward and kissed him—gentle, deep. His hand slid to your stomach as naturally as breathing.

You pulled back just enough to whisper, “You already are.”

That night, when he thought you were asleep, he cracked open the book again.

And stayed up past midnight reading about swaddling, latch cues, and the difference between Braxton Hicks and the real thing.

WEEK 16

Jack stood in the doorway of your office for almost a full minute before saying anything.

You looked up from your laptop, eyebrows raised. “What?”

He didn’t move. Just scanned the room—your desk, the bookshelf, the little armchair in the corner that you never actually used.

Then, finally: “Is our house big enough for this?”

You blinked. “For what?”

He gestured vaguely toward your belly, then the room. “All of it. A baby. Crib. Noise. Diapers. More laundry. Less sleep.”

You smiled gently. “I thought we were turning this room into the nursery.”

“We are,” he said quickly. “I just… I keep running scenarios in my head. And this place felt huge when it was just us.”

You closed your laptop. “Jack.”

He looked at you.

“We’ll figure it out. We already are.”

He crossed the room, leaned against your desk. “I’m not trying to panic.”

“I know.”

“I just keep thinking about how everything’s going to change. I want to make sure we still feel like us once it does.”

You stood and wrapped your arms around his waist, head resting against his chest. “We will. You think too far ahead sometimes.”

“That’s my job,” he murmured.

“And mine is reminding you that it’s okay to not solve everything all at once.”

He kissed the top of your head. “I know. I just want it to be enough.”

WEEK 19

Jack was unusually quiet on the drive to the anatomy scan.

Not anxious. Just focused in a way that told you his brain had been working overtime since the moment he woke up. His hand rested on your thigh at every red light, thumb tracing small circles against the fabric of your leggings.

“You good?” you asked, turning down the radio.

He glanced over, nodded once. “Just running through the checklist in my head.”

You smiled gently. “You’re not at work, babe.”

“I know. But I’ve never seen one of these as a husband.”

You reached over and laced your fingers through his. “You don’t have to be perfect today. You just have to be here.”

He gave you a look. “I am here. That’s the problem. I’m so here I can’t think about anything else.”

The waiting room was dim, quiet, and smelled vaguely like lemon disinfectant. Jack sat beside you, legs spread in his usual posture, one hand on your knee. His thumb tapped once. Then again. Then stopped.

The tech was warm, professional. She dimmed the lights. Asked if you wanted to know the sex. You said yes before Jack could answer.

You held your breath as the screen lit up in shades of blue and gray.

“Everything’s looking healthy,” the tech said. “Strong spine, great heartbeat, long legs.”

Jack tightened his grip on your hand.

“And it looks like you’re having a girl.”

You exhaled all at once. Then laughed. Or maybe cried. It blurred together.

Jack didn’t say anything right away. Just stared at the monitor, jaw tense, eyes glassy.

You turned to look at him. “Jack.”

He blinked. “Yeah.”

“You okay?”

He nodded slowly. “Yeah, I just—” He swallowed. “She’s real.”

The rest of the appointment was a haze—measurements, murmurs of “good growth,” the gentle swipe of gel off your stomach. Jack didn’t let go of your hand the entire time.

That night, you came out of the bathroom in an old t-shirt and found him standing at the dresser, staring down at something small in his hand.

You stepped closer. “What’s that?”

He held it up without looking—one of the newborn onesies you’d bought weeks ago in a moment of cautious optimism. Light yellow. Soft cotton.

“You think she’ll fit in this?” he asked.

You smiled. “They’re tiny, Jack. That’s kind of the whole point.”

He nodded but didn’t move.

You wrapped your arms around him from behind. “You’re allowed to feel everything. It’s a big day.”

He turned, wrapped his arms around you carefully. “I think I was more afraid of not feeling it.”

You pressed your forehead to his. “You’re allowed to be happy.”

“I am,” he said, voice rough. “I just keep thinking about how I’m going to keep her safe. How I’m going to teach her to breathe through chaos. How I’ll probably mess it up a hundred times.”

“You’re not going to mess it up.”

He looked at you. “You really think that?”

“I married you, didn’t I?”

Jack smiled for real then. “You’ve always been the smarter one.”

You rolled your eyes. “But you’re the one who’s going to end up wrapped around her finger.”

He kissed your temple. “That part was inevitable.”

WEEK 25

Jack convinced you to finally start looking at houses.

You’d been reluctant—emotionally attached to the place you’d built your early marriage in, skeptical about change when everything in your life already felt like it was shifting—but Jack had waited. Quietly. Patiently.

And then one morning, while you were brushing your teeth, he leaned in behind you, kissed your shoulder, and said, “You deserve a bigger closet.”

That was how it started.

Now, you were standing in a half-empty living room with sun pouring through tall windows and a sold sign posted out front.

Jack had just gotten off the phone with your realtor. “It’s official,” he said, sliding his phone into his back pocket. “Inspection cleared. We close in three weeks.”

You blinked. “We really bought a house.”

He walked over, wrapped his arms around your waist from behind, rested his chin on your shoulder. “Correction: we bought your dream closet.”

You laughed. “You think you’re funny.”

“I know I am. Also, there’s a window bench in the nursery. You don’t even have to try to make it Pinterest-worthy.”

You leaned into him, eyes scanning the bare walls. “I can already picture her here.”

Jack pressed a kiss to your neck. “I already do. I see her trying to climb that windowsill. Leaving fingerprints on every square inch of the fridge. Falling asleep on the stairs with a book she couldn’t finish.”

Your throat tightened.

You turned in his arms. “You really love it?”

He looked at you seriously. “I love what it gives you. I love that it lets you breathe. And yeah—I love that it’s ours.”

Later that night, back in your current house, you sat on the floor with your laptop open, scrolling through registry links and bookmarking soft pink paint samples. Jack handed you a cup of tea, then lowered himself on the couch beside you with a quiet grunt.

“Is it weird that I already want to be moved?” you asked.

He shook his head. “No. It’s called nesting. I read about it in that chapter you skipped.”

You shot him a look. “You’re the worst.”

“I’m the one folding swaddles while you build spreadsheets. This is our love language.”

You leaned into him, content. “Yeah. I guess it is.”

WEEK 27

You’d been on your feet all day—organizing documents, boxing up odds and ends, making lists of what needed to be moved and what could be donated. Jack told you to slow down three separate times, each time gentler than the last.

But now, at 8:43 p.m., you were barefoot in the kitchen, half bent over a drawer of mismatched utensils, when he walked in, tossed a dish towel on the counter, and said, “Okay. That’s it.”

You looked up. “What?”

Jack didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t have to. He crossed the room, took the spatula from your hand, and gently nudged you toward a chair. “Sit. Let me take over.”

You blinked at him. “I’m fine.”

“You’re stubborn.”

You folded your arms. “Same thing.”

Jack crouched in front of you, resting his forearms on your knees. “You’ve done enough today. Let me be the husband who makes you sit down and drink something cold while I finish sorting forks from tongs.”

You softened, your fingers drifting to his hair. “I know you’re right. I just feel useless when I’m not doing something.”

“You’re 27 weeks pregnant,” Jack said, voice warm. “You made a person and folded three boxes of bath towels. That’s two more miracles than anyone else managed today.”

You exhaled and leaned back.

Later, when you were curled on the couch with a glass of iced water and your feet propped on a pillow, Jack settled next to you and tugged a blanket over both of you.

“House is gonna feel real soon,” he said.

You nodded. “She’s going to be born there.”

Jack’s arm slid around your shoulders. “We’ll bring her home to that nursery. Hang that weird mobile you picked that I still don’t understand.”

“You said it was ‘avant-garde.’”

“I was being polite.”

You smiled, tired and full. “We’re really doing it, huh?”

“We are.”

You rested your head on his chest. Jack’s hand drifted instinctively to your belly, and stayed there.

“Hey,” you said after a minute. “Thanks for making me sit.”

Jack kissed the top of your head. “Thanks for letting me.”

WEEK 30

You caught him standing in the doorway of the nursery around 9:00 p.m., arms folded, shoulder braced against the frame like he was keeping watch.

The room was nearly done. Diapers in bins. Chair assembled. Books on shelves. But Jack wasn’t looking at any of that. He was staring at the window, like he was imagining the light that would come through it in the early mornings.

You leaned against the opposite side of the doorway, watching him.

“What’s going on in that head?” you asked.

He glanced over at you. “Just thinking.”

“Dangerous.”

Jack cracked half a smile but didn’t move. “I keep picturing her. Not just baby-her. Grown-up her.”

You walked toward him. “What version?”

He tilted his head. “Seventeen. Wants to borrow the car. Has someone texting her who I probably don’t like.”

You laughed. “You’re already dreading a boyfriend?”

“I’m already dreading anyone who gets to be in her world without knowing what it cost us to build it.”

That stopped you.

Jack finally looked at you then—really looked. “She’s not even born yet and I already know I’d lay down in traffic for her. And I know how fast people can break things they don’t understand.”

You rested your hands on his chest. “You’re not going to be scary.”

Jack raised an eyebrow.

“Well. You’ll look scary. Army vet. ER attending. Perpetual scowl. Built like you bench-press refrigerators for fun.”

He snorted. “Thanks.”

“But you’ll love her in a way no one will mistake for anything but devotion.”

Jack leaned down, pressed his forehead to yours.

“I’m not good at soft,” he murmured.

“You’re good at us,” you whispered. “That’s all she’ll need.”

He pulled you into his arms then, one hand resting flat against the curve of your belly. “She’s gonna hate me when I make her come home early.”

“She’s gonna roll her eyes when you insist on meeting everyone she ever texts.”

Jack grinned. “Damn right.”

You laughed into his shirt. “You’re so screwed.”

“I know.”

But he held you a little tighter. Didn’t say anything else. Just stood there in the dim nursery, one arm wrapped around the two of you, as if holding his whole world in place.

WEEK 32

You’d read the pregnancy forums. The blog posts. The articles with vaguely medical sources claiming the third trimester came with a spike in libido. You thought you’d be too sore, too tired. Too preoccupied.

What you hadn’t expected was the absolute onslaught.

It was like your body had one setting: Jack. Crave him. Need him. Get him here, now, fast.

He’d just gotten home from a late shift, dropped his keys in the bowl by the front door, and disappeared into the shower while you laid in bed attempting to not whine out loud. That resolve lasted six minutes.

When he walked into the bedroom, towel low around his hips, water dripping down his chest, you didn’t even mean to say it:

“I’m gonna die.”

Jack froze.

He crossed the room in seconds. “What is it? Where’s the pain?”

You were already on your back, one hand pressed to your belly, the other covering your eyes.

“Not pain,” you groaned. “Just hormones. God, Jack—this is insane.”

He crouched beside you. “You need to describe what’s happening.”

You peeked at him from under your hand. “I need you. I need you.”

Jack stilled. Blinked. Then dropped his forehead to your shoulder with a long exhale.

“Christ. You scared the hell out of me.”

“I’m sorry,” you mumbled, laughing into your wrist. “I just—I’m desperate. I thought it would go away. It’s not going away.”

He lifted his head. Smiled. “Desperate, huh?”

“You’re not helping.”

“I think I am.”

Jack kissed your temple, then your cheek, then hovered over your lips. “You sure you’re good?”

You reached for him. “No. I’m feral.”

He didn’t waste another second.

What followed wasn’t frantic—it was focused. Jack stripped you with efficiency and reverence, lips brushing every newly sensitive part of you. Your belly. Your hips. Your breasts. He murmured to you the whole time—gentle things, grounding things.

“You’re beautiful like this,” he said, kissing the swell of your stomach. “You’ve been patient. Let me take care of you.”

“Please,” you whispered. “I feel insane.”

“I know. I’ve got you.”

He slid inside you slow, controlled, the way he always did when he wanted to make it last. But tonight, there was something more behind it—urgency without rush, intention without pressure.

You clawed at his shoulders, moaning into his neck. “Jack, Jack—”

“Right here.”

“I missed you today.”

“I missed you too. I always do.”

You wrapped your arms around his neck, legs tightening around his waist. The angle shifted, and everything inside you splintered.

“Oh—God—don’t stop—”

Jack groaned, teeth catching your jawline. “You feel so good, sweetheart. So damn good.”

He guided you through it, one hand braced behind your head, the other cradling your hip like you’d break without it. When you came, it was with his name on your lips and tears at the corners of your eyes.

He followed seconds later, low and deep and steady, body shaking over yours.

Afterward, he didn’t move. Just curled around you, one arm anchored under your shoulders, the other stroking your belly in long, soothing sweeps.

“Still dying?” he asked eventually.

You huffed a laugh. “Little bit.”

Jack smiled into your shoulder. “Guess I’ll keep checking your vitals.”

He pulled back just enough to kiss your chest, then your stomach, whispering something you couldn’t hear but felt down to your bones.

When you shifted against him, needy again already, he looked up with a low laugh. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Jack,” you breathed, “I’m not done.”

And Jack—predictable, capable, ready-for-anything Jack—just grinned.

“I never am with you.”

The second round was slower. Deeper. You rode his thigh first, panting against his neck, clinging to his shoulders while he whispered filth in your ear—soft, low things no one else would ever hear from him. He touched you like he already knew exactly what you’d need next week, next month, next year.

And when you collapsed against him again, trembling and sore and finally, finally full in every sense of the word—he kissed your forehead and said, “You’re everything.”

“I love you,” you whispered.

Jack tucked your hair behind your ear and kissed your cheek.

“Good,” he murmured. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”

WEEK 35

The third trimester had turned your body into a full-time performance art piece. You were a living exhibit on discomfort, hydration, Braxton Hicks, and the high-stakes negotiation of shoe-tying. You’d stopped fighting the afternoon naps, started rotating three stretchy outfits on a loop, and made peace with the fact that gravity was no longer your friend.

Jack had adjusted too.

Without comment, he now drove you to every appointment. Without asking, he refilled your water before bed. Without blinking, he gave up half his side of the bathroom counter for the ever-expanding line of belly oils, cooling balms, and half-used jars of snacks.

But tonight?

Tonight he came home to find you crying at the kitchen table over a broken zipper on the diaper bag.

“Sweetheart.”

You looked up, cheeks blotchy. “It broke. It broke, Jack. And it was the only one I liked.”

“Hey, hey—breathe.”

You sniffled. “It had compartments. It had mesh.”

Jack took the bag gently from your hands, and examined the zipper like it was a patient in trauma.

“Looks jammed,” he said. “Not broken.”

You stared at him. “You don’t know that.”

He looked up. “I do.”

He walked over to the toolbox without fanfare, and returned two minutes later with a small pair of pliers. Thirty seconds after that, the zipper slid closed like nothing had happened.

You burst into tears again.

Jack set the bag down and pulled you into his arms. “Hormones?”

You nodded into his chest. “I love you so much.”

He smiled against your hair. “You want to take a bath?”

You sniffed. “Will you sit on the floor with me?”

“I’ll bring the towel and everything.”

Which is how twenty minutes later you were in the tub, steam curling around the mirror, your swollen belly just breaching the surface, while Jack sat on the floor, reading your baby book aloud like it was scripture.

“She’s the size of a honeydew,” he said, tapping the page. “Still gaining half a pound a week. Lungs developing. Rapid brain growth.”

You hummed. “She’s been moving a lot today.”

He smiled, reached over, and rested a palm over your belly. “She likes the sound of your voice.”

“She likes pizza. She tolerates me.”

Jack leaned over and kissed your temple. “She already loves you.”

You sighed, settling deeper into the water. “She’s going to love you more.”

Jack’s voice went quiet. “That’s not possible.”

You looked over.

He was watching you like he was memorizing the moment. Like he knew it wouldn’t last forever and wanted to hold every second of it.

“She’s got the best of you already,” he murmured.

You shook your head. “You’re the one who’s been steady through everything. She’s gonna know that.”

He kissed your hand. “She’s gonna know we did it together.”

And you believed him.

Even through the tears, the discomfort, the slow shuffle from couch to fridge to bed—you believed him.

WEEK 36

Jack came home with a basket.

Not from the store. Not from a delivery service. From the hospital. Carried under one arm like it was made of glass.

You were on the couch, half-watching a cooking show, half-rubbing the spot where the baby had been kicking for the last ten minutes straight. Jack came in, dropped his keys, and didn’t say anything at first.

He just set the basket on the coffee table and said, “Robby made me promise I wouldn’t forget to give this to you tonight.”

You blinked. “What?”

Jack gestured toward it. “It’s from the ER.”

Inside: a soft blanket. A framed photo of the team crowded around a whiteboard that read “Baby Abbot ETA: T-minus 4 weeks.” A pair of hand-knitted booties labeled “Perlah Originals.” A stack of index cards, each one handwritten—Dana’s in looping cursive, Collins’s in all caps, Princess’s with hearts dotting the i’s. Robby’s simply read: Your kid already has better taste in music than Jack. Congrats.

You turned one of the index cards over, reading Dana’s note about how you were going to be the kind of mom who made her daughter feel safe and loved in the same breath.

“I didn’t know they even noticed me,” you whispered.

Jack rubbed slow circles against your bump. “They notice what matters to me.”

You looked at him.

He shrugged. “You’re my wife. You’re not just around. You’re part of everything.”

The baby kicked again. Hard enough to make you gasp.

Jack smiled, leaned in, and kissed the place she’d just moved. “She agrees.”

WEEK 38

You’d read about nesting, but you thought it would look more like baking muffins at midnight—not following Jack from room to room like his gravitational pull physically outweighed yours.

He didn’t seem to mind. He’d brush his hand down your back every time you passed, help you off the couch like you were recovering from surgery, and kiss your temple every time he walked by.

By Thursday, the baby bag was packed and parked by the front door. You’d zipped it, unzipped it, and re-packed it twice just to check. And when Jack got home that evening, he nodded at it, then set something down beside it with a quiet thunk.

You glanced over. “What’s that?”

“My go-bag,” he said simply.

You raised an eyebrow.

Jack nudged it with the toe of his boot. “Army-issued. Carried this thing through two deployments and six different states. Thought it’d be fitting to bring it into the delivery room.”

You blinked. “You packed already?”

He nodded, unzipped the top, and tilted the bag open for you to see: a clean shirt, a hand towel, a toothbrush, a few protein bars, and a worn, dog-eared paperback you recognized instantly.

“That one?” you said, surprised. “You always said you hated it.”

“I did,” he admitted, zipping the bag shut again. “But it’s your favorite. I read your notes in the margins when I miss you on long shifts.”

You crossed the room and leaned into him. “You’re something else.”

WEEK 40

You woke up at 2:57 a.m. with a tight, rolling wave of pressure low in your spine. It wrapped around your middle like a band and didn’t let go.

Jack was already shifting beside you. Years in the Army meant he didn’t sleep deeply—not when he was home, not when you were pregnant.

“You okay?” he asked, groggy but alert.

You exhaled shakily. “It’s time.”

He sat up immediately. “How far apart?”

“Six minutes.”

“Let’s move.”

By the time you got in the car, the contractions were coming faster—steadier. Jack didn’t speed, but he gripped the steering wheel like the world depended on it.

You were wheeled in through the ER doors—because of course you were going into labor at the hospital where Jack worked. Princess met you at triage with a knowing smile.

“She’s in three,” Princess said. “Perlah’s setting it up now.”

You were halfway into the room when Jack froze.

He turned to Collins at the desk. “Patel?”

“Stuck behind a pileup on 376,” Collins said. “She’s trying to reroute.”

Jack muttered something under his breath and scanned the monitors. “Where’s Robby?”

“Down in trauma. He’s finishing up a round.”

Jack didn’t wait. He left you in Princess’s care and went straight for the trauma bay.

Robby was wiping his hands on a towel when Jack stepped in. Hoodie half-zipped. Scrubs wrinkled. Wide awake.

“She’s in labor?”

“She’s in active labor,” Jack said. “And Patel’s not gonna make it, but—”

“You want me in the room,” Robby finished.

“I need you in the room.”

Robby dropped the towel. “Done.”

When Robby stepped into your room, you exhaled like someone had lifted a weight off your chest.

“Hey, doc,” you muttered through a contraction.

“You’re in good hands,” Robby said, glancing between you and Jack. “You’ve got half the ER out there whispering about it.”

“Tell them if they bring me chocolate, they can stay,” you joked.

Perlah dimmed the lights. Princess wiped sweat from your forehead. Robby took your vitals himself and kept your eyes steady with his.

Hours blurred together. Jack never left your side.

“You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

“You’re doing perfect.”

“She’s almost here.”

Then everything started to move faster. Robby gave a nod to Princess and Perlah.

“One more push,” he said. “You’ve got this.”

Jack leaned close, his forehead against yours. “Come on, sweetheart. Right here. You’ve got her.”

And then—

A cry. Loud. Full. Brand new.

“She’s here,” Robby said quietly.

Jack didn’t move at first. Just watched. His eyes were wet. His hand covered his mouth.

Princess handed her to you, swaddled and squirming. Jack kissed your forehead and brushed a tear off your cheek.

“She’s perfect,” he whispered. “You did it.”

Later, after they’d cleaned up and the room was quiet, you watched Jack walk over to the bassinet. He held up a camouflage onesie.

“Oh my God,” you said. “Seriously?”

He looked over, completely straight-faced. “This is important.”

“You’re impossible.”

He kissed you once, then again. And held her like he’d waited his whole life.

Three

Note: This has been an idea for a lot of characters and it just...really fits Jack I think. There is also a version coming for Robby.

Warnings: Angst, Fem!Reader, regular trauma related violence, gun violence, death, established relationship, no beta.

Summary: You and Jack have your own silent way to communicate the love you have for each other which comes in handy after you're injured at Pitt Fest.

It was subtle the way that it started, a way for Jack and yourself to say 'I love you' without saying it. As the only ward clerk allowed at Central, because you were the only truly trusted one, you had grown close to Jack, ensuring that orders, be it medication or imaging, or even admissions, were entered correctly into the Epic system for the night shift team, taking some of the load off of the nurses and at the same time, making sure that all records were accurate, particularly for the billing side of things, lest Gloria have an aneurysm if something was missed that could have been billed for. Day shift had an equivalent of you, but they were new and not as trusted. It was not uncommon for Robby to stay late just to ask you to ensure that his final orders for the night were followed.

Because of this a relationship with Jack grew, the stoic, former soldier, but still a soldier at heart, cracking a small smile here and there. You would bring him coffee to start the night (while also being the official brewer of coffee for the staff lounge), ground him when he lost patients, and eventually you found yourself grabbing breakfast with him most mornings. About 6 months into the job, Jesse collects his winnings on the running bet of when you would finally admit that you were together. There was no big revelation. One night, you were both off (somehow you just happened to be on the same shift schedule as Jack, something that was not lost on you) sitting in the living room of your small apartment watching movies. You were always at your place and not his because yours was 'homey' according to him. You had been leaning on the arm of the couch, legs covered by a blanket and his head in your lap, your fingers carding through his greying hair.

You had looked down at him to find him staring at you. "My lease is up in a month, I have to decide if I'm signing again or not." You had mumbled. The corner of his mouth quirked, "Yeah?" You simply nodded. "You should move into my place, add some personality, and no rent." He had replied. "You think so? Your room or the spare?" You asked with a raised brow.

"Mine of course."

You moved in ten days later and never left. One year later, you were married. That was three years ago.

—

The first 'I love you' came after the anniversary of his wife's death, after you'd lived with him three months. He had understandably had a bad day, thankfully it was not a workday for him and he could take it easy. He saw his therapist, showed up back at home and cornered you in the kitchen where you had been preparing dinner for the two of you. Backing you into the counter, he wrapped his arms around you, kissing your forehead and holding you close before whispering a soft "I love you." You're not ashamed to say you cried a little before telling him that you did in fact love him too.

At work, you kept things professional. Anyone not new, knew that you were together, knew that you lived in the same house and knew that Jack was incredibly protective, but they also knew that they were the ultimate professionals, with only subtle changes. If he was hanging out by your workstation, asking you to add orders, a hand would be on your shoulder, or your waist if he was sitting, and if they were really paying attention...they would see the three soft taps or squeezes that you would leave on one another. Always three. Your silent way of saying I love you. It was integrated into everyday life, even at home when watching TV.

Dana had witnessed it once as she was coming into work one morning. The shift had been hard, four patients had been lost, and one had been only a couple of months old. Jack had retreated to the lounge, attempting to escape everything without heading to the roof, he didn't think that he was at that point yet. You had followed closely, standing in front of him, trying to ground him with soft words. Dana had walked in to put her lunch in the fridge as you'd raised a hand to his chest, tapping three times on his chest just over his heart. He'd pulled you close then, arms wrapping around you, tapping your hip three times in response as you stood quietly. Dana had decided that her lunch could go in the fridge later.

—

The morning of Pitt Fest, you were excited. Both you and Jack had the night off, Jack wouldn't be going, but he'd gotten yourself and your best friends passes for your anniversary. You were dead tired but chugged a can of Monster while packing another for the road. After getting yourself ready you kissed him goodbye, gave him three quick taps on the chest and made your way out the door where Christy and Samantha were waiting for you in Christy's car. Jack showered and went to bed for the day. 30 minutes after leaving you were coffeed up, energized and ready to party. Jack was out cold, his police scanner on for white noise in the background. Every so often you sent Jack a text, knowing he'd have it on do not disturb unless it was a phone call from yourself or the hospital. You sent updates, photos and videos. Jack finally started responding around 3:30 pm, finally giving up on sleep after briefly waking at 2. A simple thumbs up emoji was sent in response to everything you had sent. You sent back a heart, chugged another Monster and went back to the music, running into Jake and his girlfriend Leah briefly around 4.

It was just after 5:30 when things went sideways. You and your friends were close to the stage, listening to a lesser-known local band, but one that you knew well when you heard the first pops of what you thought were firecrackers...they could have been pyrotechnics, but this band didn't have the budget for that. Your head tilted, the band didn't stop so everything had to be, okay? Right?

Wrong, you were so very wrong. One moment you had turned to Christy, intending to ask if she'd heard the pops, and the next thing you knew your face was covered in blood and half of Christy's was...no longer there. Screams erupted as you dropped to the ground, grabbing Samantha by the hand and pulling her flat. Some people were running, some were taking cover, but you knew you couldn't stay where you were.

"What the actual fuck?!" You heard Samantha say. "What the fuck is happening? Y/N. We have to get Christy; we can't leave Christy!" Samantha was panicking, so were you, but working in the Emergency Department had trained you to stay calm, or as calm as you could, but this was different. You shook your head. "We can't help Christy." You said, pulling Samantha with you as you carefully maneuvered closer to the stage, intending to go under it for cover, staying low as you went.

"What the fuck do you mean we can't help Christy?" You sighed, turning slightly but not stopping as people dropped around you. You didn't speak again until yourself and Samantha were under the stage, others following your example. You turned to fully look at Samantha, pale, her eyes wide, clear signs of shock. "Sammy, I need you to focus. Christy is dead, okay, very, very dead." The fact that your best friend since childhood was gone had set in but you couldn't let yourself fall apart, you could do that later when you were safe at home in Jack's arms.

You quickly realized that you couldn't stay where you were, despite being covered from above, the sides of the stage were open, and it would be easy to shoot underneath it. You crawled to the other side of the stage, slowly, listening as the gunshots continued, getting closer and closer to the stage. Every so often you looked behind you to make sure Samantha was still following, she was. When you got to the edge of the stage you realized that there was a new problem. The closest exit was the entrance to the venue...which was on the other side of the field. The rest of the area was contained with a chain-link fence, you could climb it, but that would leave you exposed. No matter what you did, to get out you needed to leave your cover and make a run for it. Taking a deep breath, you pulled your phone from your pocket, shooting off a quick text to Jack, not having time to call him.

Shooter at Pitt Fest. I'm trying. I love you.

—

Jack had been staring at the ceiling, having not moved from the bed, when the police scanner went off. 'All units, multiple reports of shots fired at Pitt Fest, unknown number of suspects, unknown number of casualties.'

For a moment Jack's heart stopped and his blood froze. You were there. You and your friends. You, who had begged him to come along but he hadn't wanted any part of the crowds, noise and well...all of it. You were there. He was not. He shook it off, and steeled himself, slipping into combat mode, grabbing his phone and his go bag before rushing to his truck. He checked his phone to see if you'd messaged him, you hadn't, and he hesitated over the call button, only stopping because he knew your phone would not be on silent and a ringing phone could make you a target. He was out of the driveway barrelling towards PTMC in less than two minutes.

30 minutes later he received your text, he was elbow deep in a patient trying to save them.

—

Mel was taking half a second to breathe in the ambulance bay, ready for her next patient with Shen, seemingly unflappable, by her side as the next load of cars came in. As the SUV pulled to a screeching halt in front of her, Shen was by her side, swinging the door open as a Samantha immediately jumped out, blood all over her and pressing her sweater into your chest. Mel had no idea who you were, it was her first day, she just needed to triage you and get you inside, Shen however, froze. Mel noticed and her eyes widened. "No, I don't like that face. Dr. Shen?"

Shen quickly assessed you. "Fuck, she's a red..." He turned to Mel. "Help me get her in there and do NOT let Abbot have this one." Mel cocked her head to the side. "Why can't Dr. Abbot have her?"

Shen took a breath. "She works here; she's one of us. Most importantly? She's his wife."

He did not stop Samantha from following.

—

Jack had barely looked up when Shen came in with the next victim, he was busy with his own patient, it registered in his brain that the patient was being handed off to Robby, which meant they were in good hands. It was Robby shouting "fuck" that got his attention. His head lifted and when he looked at Robby, the older man was doing chest compressions, but his eyes were on Jack. Jack felt a pit settle in his gut, and then he spotted Samantha. He knew. Immediately he turned to Mohan. "Take over, now!"

Heart hammering in his chest he didn't give Mohan a moment to argue before he was rushing over to Robby, Samantha spotting him and wrapping her arms around him for a second. "I-I'm s-sorry Jack. Its m-my fault, s-she was covering m-me when she was hit...Christy's dead. Fuck, I'm sorry." Samantha was spiralling, internally so was he, he could only hear the blood in his ears. No man's land. You were hit in no man's land.

Robby wouldn't let him help, couldn't let him help. Not just for ethical reasons but if you died and Jack was working on you, well...Jack wouldn't survive that. Jack likely wouldn't survive either way, but at least if it was Robby, Jack wouldn't hate himself. Not as much. Jack watched as they were able to stabilize you just enough to send you off to surgery, Jack following close behind with Robby hot on his heels. They stopped the gurney at the OR doors, just long enough for Jack to lean down, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, his hand squeezing yours three times, even though you couldn't respond.

"Don't you fucking leave me, I can't go through this again."

Jack went back to work with the promise from Garcia that as soon as there was an update, he would have it. This was a MASH unit and there was no time to stop.

—

It's hours later when the darkness starts to fade from your consciousness. You're on your back, and part of you panics when you realize that the discomfort in your throat is from being intubated, the instinct to fight the machine helping you breathe running rampant. You reached up, grabbing for the offending tube and ignoring the pain you were suddenly feeling. You barely register the scrapping of a chair being moved as a shadow moved into your view, grabbing for your hand to stop you.

"Hey! Hey, no, none of that baby, you need that right now." You froze, unable to fight the strong grip he had on you. Your eyes focused, and there was your Jack, staring down at you, looking exhausted and like he'd aged about 30 years. His hair looked like he hadn't stopped running his hands through it. He leaned over you, letting go of your hand when he realized that you were relaxing a bit, his hand moving to tuck some of your hair out of your face and behind your ear.

"You're okay, scared the fuck out of me, but you're okay." His voice was gruff, tired and soft all the same time, cracking a bit near the end like he was holding back tears. "My therapist is going to have a field day." He said with a bitter chuckle.

You reached up as best you could, tracing your fingers over his face wearily. You felt the tears fall before you could stop them, and brought your hand to his chest, just over his heart and tapped him three times. You watched Jack's lip tremble a bit as he reached for your hand, clearing his throat.

"I know." He squeezed your hand gently three times.

I love you.

Day After Tomorrow - Part Two

read part one here!

a/n: here is part two, i hope u enjoy!! the next part will be the last part. i'm having a lot of fun writing these, thanks for all the likes and reblogs on the first part!!!

content warnings: age gap between jack and reader, reader spills hot coffee on herself but it's nothing serious, lots of me repeating phrases i think lol, that's all!

Today, you woke up with a mission. You would not go to work tired. You would be prepared this time. Prepared for Jack Abbot. You wake up at 2:30 A.M. this time, and you get ready like it’s a regular hour of the day. You still don’t know if he’ll even come in. Yesterday, you spiraled when you allowed your brain to think. If he doesn’t come in, you also thought of a million excuses for him. It doesn’t have to be because of you! It could be that he is piled up with emergencies, he’s stuck in surgery, maybe the time got away from him. 

You get to work and try to slow yourself down. You’re anxious, pacing around. You know if you finish all your tasks early, you’ll just be waiting around for him. You count the money in the drawer three times. You clean every spot on the espresso machine twice. You brew the coffee with exact precision. You fix your hair more times than you can count.

You look at the clock on the wall. 4:00 A.M. You glance at the door and remind yourself to look away. You are trying so hard to not be disappointed. You don’t want to put your hopes and dreams into this man. You didn’t know him. But God, you wanted to. You had replayed the conversation in your head until you could mark it down to the minute it happened. You thought the way he looked at you before he left. How he seemed like he didn’t want to drag his eyes away.

You sigh and shake your head, opting to make yourself another London fog, hoping the drink will summon him. You try to distract yourself, but there really is nothing else to do. You don’t get any customers this early, Jack was the only one. Since your coworkers were in the back, you had no one to talk to. You check the clock again, 4:10. You sigh, trying not to feel disappointed.

But then, it comes. The bell on the door rings. It feels like Gabriel’s horn just blew. He walks in. You smile, and think maybe you shouldn’t. You wanted to be cool today, but you couldn’t help it. He actually came.

“It’s nice to know you’re a man of your word.” you say as he walks over to the counter.

“Course I am,” he says. Jack smiles too, a small one, but it’s a smile.

“Do you just want another coffee?”

“Yeah, I do. And your number, if that’s not overstepping.”

You blank. The lack of sleep catches up to you in three seconds, tops. Your brain falters, you try to remember how to form a sentence, “Yes.”

He deadpans, “Yes, it’s overstepping?”

“No!” you basically yell. You clear your throat, try again, “No, not overstepping. Yes, I’d like to give you my number.”

“Jesus,” he grumbles, shaking his head, laughing a bit, “Had me scared there.”

“Sorry, it’s early.”

“Right, yeah,” you can tell he doesn’t believe you for a second. You can tell he knows you're nervous. 

You decide you don’t want to be perceived anymore, and turn around to pour his coffee. But your hands are shaking. The pot slips a little, meaning you pour some of the freshly brewed, very hot coffee, on the hand that was stabilizing the cup.

“God, ouch!” you say.

Jack looks like he wants to jump over the counter. “Let me see.”

You turn around slowly, holding your hand. You decide to trust the doctor and let him take a look.

When he touches your hand, it’s like the burn amplifies, and your face feels as hot as the dark brown liquid that you just spilt everywhere. “I’m used to it, I’ll be fine.”

He lets out a sigh and shoots you a look that says, let me check it over thoroughly. You wonder how long he’ll spend touching you, you don’t know if you want it to end. 

He has your injured hand flat in one of his, while the other is slowly flipping your hand over, softly touching everywhere the coffee spilt. He gives your hand two, small pats, and lets go slowly.

“Yeah, it’ll be fine. Cool water if the burning feeling doesn’t go away.” 

You nod, bewildered, awestruck. You stand there like an idiot before remembering that he still needs his coffee. You pour the old cup out into the sink beside you, and throw it in the trash. You get him a new one since the coffee had spilled on the outside of the cup too. You pour the new one extra carefully, making sure to not spill it again. Although, you kind of wish you could, if it meant that Jack would touch you again.

“Will you let me pay today?” he says, a bit exasperated.

“You just gave me a free examination, obviously this is a fair trade.” 

He scoffs. Throws a five in the tip jar, just like he did last time.

You hold out the cup to him, he takes it, letting his fingers brush yours as he does.

“And the other part?” he asks. “I don’t see your number on here.”

“You know, we do have cellphones now. You could take yours out and I’ll give you it. Or do you want me to write it on a napkin for you?”

He laughs again. Just like the ones you’ve been thinking about from two days ago. “Old fashioned, remember?”

He sets the coffee on the counter and grabs his phone out of his back pocket. It’s an iPhone with a matte black case. He taps around on it for a second and then hands it to you. You put your number in, and your name in the first name spot. He watches you with intensity. You don’t even see him, but you can feel it. Can feel his dark eyes watching you. You glance up and meet them. You don’t break eye contact as you hand the phone back. 

He looks down at the information and then shuts his phone off, putting it back into his pocket.

You decide that you’re done being nonchalant. “I’m glad you came back.”

Jack nods, “I am too.”

You figure that you’ll need to get to know him a little bit better for him to give you a little bit more than that. He remains his mysterious self, but you’re glad you got a little bit of verbal reassurance. 

You smile, laugh, shake your head and look down. “You know, for a second I thought I had just imagined you, because you came and went so fast.”

“That’s one way to tell me I’m the man of your dreams.” he smiles smugly.

Your face gets hot again. This time, you can’t make eye contact.

“Very smooth,” you try to joke, but your voice sounds rough. Your throat is getting a bit dry from the flirting.

Jack laughs, you keep count in your head of how many times this makes. You wonder if you’ll ever stop doing that. “Listen, I do have to get back today. But I'll text you with plans, okay?”

“Okay, yeah,” you say, looking up at him now. You didn’t want to miss any more chances to see him.

“Okay, see you. And be careful with that coffee!” he points at you, eyes quickly looking down at your hand.

“Will do, Doc.” 

He looks crushed. His brows furrow, and he swipes his palm down his face. you want to understand why this name always seems to get to him, but you can't come up with any reasons in your head. He leaves the same way he did before. Backwards, slowly inching towards the door. Once he leaves. You look at the door for at least a minute, wishing he’d come back. When you finally tear your aways away from the metal entrance, you realize he left his cup of coffee on the counter, and didn’t even take a sip out of it.  You almost can’t believe it. He really did just come here for you this time, not because he needed any extra caffeine.  

You spend the rest of your shift about the way you spent the one before: out of it. You checked your phone more times than you care to admit, and googled what time night shift doctors got off. You were done trying to convince yourself to not spiral about it, because it was real, and it was happening. A doctor was going to text you and make plans for a date, and that was all that mattered in your mind at this moment. 

Your shift was long, and busy, but this time, the crowds of people couldn’t drag Jack away from your mind. Every customer you served, you thought about him. You imagined his face there instead, thinking about him being at the end of the long line. You got an order for a small black coffee and you peered around the cafe, trying to see if he came back.

When your shift ends, you check your phone again, and this time, there’s a text from an unknown number. 

Does Friday at 6pm sound good?

The Worst Kinda Day: Donnie Donahue x Reader (NSFW)

Tagging: @kmc1989

It’s been a day. The worst kinda day and somehow Donnie is still standing, still managing to put one foot in front of the other despite the exhaustion that envelops his bones when he enters into the apartment.

Gregory Porter plays from the Alexa in the bedroom, serenading him over the sound of running water from the shower you’re taking. He sheds his clothes with every step, his jacket, his t-shirt, his jeans until he’s standing gloriously naked on the opposite side of the glass listening to your perfectly pitched voice, the one he fell in love with before he even laid eyes on you.

It’s an age old story, man walks into a bar, falls in love with that first song.

Three years down the line he marries the singer and they live happily ever after.

That’s the way it’s supposed to go but his love story it nearly ended tonight because some asshole decided to shoot up Pittfest while you were on stage. He’s lucky you weren’t hurt, that you aren’t dead.

That’s the thought he takes into the shower with him after he removes his glasses.

How he can’t imagine a world without you in it.

You smile when he steps inside the wet room with you, the hot water soaking his aching muscles as he steps under the stream, his hands coming to rest on your waist, his mouth claiming yours.

There are no words in this moment only the intense want that comes with almost losing the one you love.

Your hand wraps around his cock guiding it to just the right place and  he moans into your mouth as he breeches you, filling you slowly. Your fingers chase up his back, cupping the nape of his neck keeping him close and he pulls out and thrusts again, harder this time, faster. You bite his lower lip in response, signalling you’re in the mood to play a little rough and he gets the message loud and clear.

His palms rove over your skin as he drives into you. Grasping, squeezing, kneading all the right places until your tightening around his dick, gripping him so tight he sees stars as he comes in hot white spurts, pumping them deep.

“I was so fucking worried about you.” He whispers, his forehead coming to rest upon yours. “When people started flooding in I thought…”

He trails off unable to say anything else as your hands caress his shoulders, sweeping over the broad muscles.

“I’m ok.” You promise him, your thumb tracing over his bearded jaw. “Nothing happened to me, I’m right here.”

“I know, the whole thing just fucked me up a bit.” He admits, his mouth ghosting over yours. “It’s better now I’ve seen you for myself.”

“Well I think it’ll be even better once you get yourself onto that bed so I can use that massage oil on your shoulders, help you relieve a little tension…” You have that look in your eyes, the one that gets him hard all over again because the massaging always leads to slick hands somewhere else, to burying himself deep within that perfect pussy.

“Go get it warmed up.” He smiles, slapping your ass lightly as you reach for your towel. “I’ll be finished up in here in a sec.”

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Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

No Man's Land

Jack Abbot x f!Reader

5.1k || All my content is 18+ MDNI || C.W.: mentions of blood, mentions of guns and shootings, mentions of death/dying/coding, CPR, anxiety about partner's safety, Jack's traumatized, reader's traumatized, mentions of dissociation and compartmentalization, poor description of medical events, potentially incorrect medical descriptions/knowledge, very very light smut, angst, age gap kind of implied with Jack but not explicitly referenced, no use of y/n or related, not proofread, no beta, I think that's all but if I missed any please (nicely) let me know.

Summary: This is my Pitt-Fest-But-Not fic. Development of your relationship through vignettes of the past and conversations between Jack, Dana and Robby. There's a shooting where you work. Jack is at the ED when the dispatch comes in and is terrified when he can't get in touch with you.

A.N.: If my Robby reads like John Carter I'm sorry, except that a little bit I'm not. I feel like I'm struggling with my Jack characterization but can't tell if that's just me hating everything I do. This is my take on one of my fave tropes where reader is in mortal danger. I needed a physical location that could be associated with reader and settled on a courthouse, but what it is reader does there is not described. Probably (definitely?) needs a part two. If you get the nickname, thank you, I feel seen. If you don't I explain it at the end. This is absolutely something I would call him, in part to fuck with people who know his real name. I would love to know if you enjoyed and to hear any thoughts you'd like to share.

“He has a girlfriend,” Robby smirks at Dana. 

She blinks at him. “I’m sorry, I thought we’re talking about Jack Abbot.”

“Oh we fucking are.” Robby stifles his smirk and forces his lips to remain closed and as neutral as possible. 

“You’re shitting me.” Dana’s incredulous look breaks Robby a bit and he starts to laugh, tries to turn it into a cough when both he and Dana look up to find Jack staring at them as he takes his snow dusted beanie off. He gives Robby a ‘really?’ look even though he knew Robby would rat him out to Dana the second Robby had dragged it out of him. 

Dana looks back at Robby. “Who? How did they meet?”

Robby holds up his hands. “You now officially know as much as I do about her.” Dana makes a noise of vague discontent but knows Jack well enough to know Robby is telling the truth. That’s all that’s been revealed. 

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

“It’s not worth it,” you whisper. Jack blinks and looks around, unsure if you’re talking to him. He has no idea who you are, has never seen you before in his life but it appears that you are in fact whispering to him in the middle of this bookstore. 

He raises his eyebrows. “It’s not?”

You shake your head, give him an almost conspiratorial smile. “No, he must have gotten a new ghost writer. It’s really bad in comparison to his other stuff. Save your time and money. I’ll give you a summary right now for free if you’re that curious.”

Jack smiles to himself a little bit as he sets the book back on the shelf. There’s something about you, your smile, the way you just randomly spoke to him. He’s drawn to you. An alarm goes off in some part of his brain telling him to ignore it, ignore you, he could get hurt. He pretends to weigh his options as he turns to face you fully. “How about for a cup of coffee?”

Your brows furrow in confusion for a moment. There’s simply no way this unfairly attractive man is asking to buy you a cup of coffee. “The summary?” You clarify. “That I’d give for free. You want it to cost a cup of coffee instead?” You let out a nervous laugh and some part of his heart aches because you’re so adorable. “I just want to make sure I understand before I potentially make an even bigger fool of myself.” 

“Yep.” He can’t help but laugh a little. “You give me the summary over coffee. Actually, you know what? You’re going to have to give me a recommendation too because now I’m going to have nothing to read.” He clicks his tongue at you. 

“Well,” you laugh out, all breathy as you try to pull yourself together. “You drive a hard bargain but I think I’m willing to accept those terms…” you glance at his name badge, “Dr. Abbot.” You give him a full smile and Jack knows then and there he’s totally fucked in the best of ways. 

“Jack.” He smiles at you as you both begin walking towards the café. “Call me Jack.”

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

Everything quiet enough after handoff, Robby walks out with Jack into the morning sun that does little to warm the breeze pulling leaves off the trees. “Any chance you can cover a shift on Saturday night?” Robby is asking, yes, but he knows it’s not really a question, Jack is always willing to work.

“Can’t.” Jack says simply, shrugging his shoulders. “Sorry.” There’s an expectant silence that hangs between the two as they keep walking.

“Care to elaborate?” Robby finally asks.

“No.” Jack turns and smirks at him. “It’s none of your and Dana’s business.”

“Ha!” Robby laughs. “So it’s her, it’s about her! The ever elusive girlfriend. Will we ever get to meet her? Or does she not want to meet us? Is she real?” Jack stops walking and gives Robby one of his looks. “Holy shit, is it someone here?”

Jack snorts at that. “No it’s not someone here. She’s not even in the medical field.” He sighs, half longing and half resignation of some kind. “She’s honestly dying to meet you guys, especially you and Dana, but I’m trying to protect her from this hellhole. It’s hard with schedules too, to find a time.”

“That’s such fucking bullshit,” Robby laughs. “Are you afraid to truly commit? Think bringing her here will make it too real?” 

It’s a valid question but one that Jack nevertheless resents. “No, actually, if you must fucking know Saturday is our one year anniversary. We have plans. So you’ll have to find someone else to cover. But I’ll bring her around soon,” he laughs through his nose to himself at your stubbornness, “if I don’t she’s liable to just show up one of-”

“A year?” Robby laughs, incredulous. “A fucking year? How the hell did you hide it for three months before I dragged it out of you?”

Jack ignores him. “Also, I’m moving to days. It’s better for us.” He’s so nonchalant about it, just states it like he’s saying the sky is blue, like it’s not going to make Robby’s eyes widen and mouth drop open like it does.

“I don’t,” Robby huffs a laugh, “I don’t even know where to fucking begin.”

“Then don’t.” Jack smirks, starts to walk again while Robby stays frozen, running a hand through his hair. “Go do some actual work.”

“I thought you found comfort in the darkness?” Robby yells after him. 

Jack slows and turns around but keeps walking backwards, one hand holding the strap of his backpack to keep it over his shoulder. He glances down at his phone and the photo of you that is now his wallpaper. He smiles to himself a little, yells back. “Guess I find it somewhere else now.”

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

You giggle, honest to god giggle and Jack could lose his damn mind as he nibbles at your collarbone. “You know if my anatomy class had been this fun, I might have become a doctor too.” 

You’re laying on your back in bed as Jack kisses your sweat slicked skin all over as you both come down from your last round. He’s taken to 'teaching you anatomy' like this, identifying different parts of the human body with his mouth.

“Hmm,” Jack hums against you. “I’m glad it wasn’t then. Fuck doctors.” He starts to kiss down your chest. 

“That has become quite the favorite pastime of mine, yes,” you smirk. “Fucking one specific doctor, actually.” 

“Getting fucked by one specific doctor more like it,” he murmurs into your sternum. He kisses laterally, lips hitting your breast and moving towards your nipple. 

“I think we’ve established what those are,” you moan softly as he takes your nipple into his mouth. You let your hands run through his salt and pepper curls that you adore so much. 

“Can never be too thorough.” You giggle at him again and can feel him smile against you. “But fine, you want something new?” You nod, let your nails scratch gently at his scalp. 

“Nipple,” he kisses your nipple and then down your torso to right above your belly button, “to navel is no man’s land.” He continues to lavish kisses on the soft skin of your stomach before looking up at you when you don’t respond. 

“I can’t tell if you’re fucking with me or not.” You eye him with mock suspicion. 

He laughs and it’s your favorite sound in the whole world, you swear. Well maybe second, only behind hearing him tell you that he loves you. 

“I’m not. Nipple to navel is no man’s land. It’s a real thing. It’s one of the worst places to get shot or stabbed because there’s so many organs that could be hit and the place we’d expect to get hit would depend on whether the person was breathing in or out at the time, whether their lungs were inflated or deflated. And we generally have no way of knowing. It can be difficult to get clear imaging.” He starts kissing lower, down below your belly button, rubbing his stubble along your skin to tease you as he gets lower and lower. “It’s never a good time. Lots of poor outcomes.”

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

It’s supposed to be his day off and yet Jack finds himself staring at the board and running a hand over his face. “It’s still so fucking weird seeing you here during the day and it not meaning something catastrophic has happened.” 

Jack turns to look at Dana. “I’ve been working days for a month now and it’s my day off.”

“You can go, we’re fine for now,” Robby nods at Jack. “Thanks for the brief assistance brother.”

“No, no,” Dana interjects, “he’s not allowed to leave until we nail down a time to meet his girl.” 

Robby raises his eyebrows and starts to tilt his head and open his mouth to agree with Dana. A dispatch comes through before anyone can say anything else and Dana grabs it, pinning Jack down with her eyes, daring him to leave before discussing meeting you. 

“Saved by the bell,” Jack huffs, taking his stethoscope off and starting to walk away. 

“Shooting at a courthouse,” Dana relays to Robby, “not a mass cas, just a few people, two a little iffy, one they’re already doing CPR on, a few caught in the race to get out. Two dead on the scene.”

It takes a few seconds for Dana’s words to truly register with Jack, but when they do his hearing fades to only a sharp ringing in his ear. This wasn’t happening. This wasn’t fucking happening to him again. He’d been so reticent at the beginning of your relationship, waited so long to give in and define it and hand his heart over to you, terrified he’d lose you because of himself and who he was, his imperfections, his past, his trauma, his PTSD, his baggage, as he thought of it. He feels so stupid now, in the moment, not having worried about how he could lose you from a random act of violence, that in the moments he can’t be there to protect you somebody could come in and rip you from him. Just like that. With the pull of a trigger. 

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

“You know, I can confidently say this is the most unique date I’ve ever been on,” you tease Jack. 

“Hey,” he pants, “me teaching you CPR is a great date.” 

“It would be better if you took your shirt off,” you whisper and wink at him before letting your eyes linger on his arm. 

“If I did that you’d be so distracted you’d learn nothing,” he smirks at you, sweat glistening on his skin just a little. Just enough to drive you nearly feral for him. 

 “I think I’ve got the compressions part down, but I may need more help learning the mouth to mouth part.”

He rolls his eyes at you. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You fucking love it,” you shoot back at him, leaning into his space and bumping him with your shoulder. 

He can’t help but kiss you. “Yes,” the word is muffled against your lips, “yes I do.” He gives you a firmer kiss this time before he pulls away. “But really. You should know how to do it, just in case. It will help you feel in control in the moment if the need for it ever arises. You’ll know what to do.”

You bite your lip and smile at him. 

“What?” He eyes you with suspicion. 

You shrug. “Nothing, I just love you so much. Sometimes it overwhelms me, how much I love you.”

He can see it in your eyes, how much you love him, can almost feel it physically squeezing him like a tight hug. He’s really not sure what he ever did to deserve you or your love. “I love you too, Doll.”

“I love you more, Peter.” Your face pulls up into that usual self-satisfied and silly grin you get sometimes when you call him that nickname. It’s a recent thing. You’re calling him it more and more though, it’s becoming a natural way of referring to him. From anyone else he would hate it, hearing it between another couple would make him roll his eyes. But from you? He loves it more than you’ll ever truly know. 

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

Jack spins around.

“Jack you can still go, we’ve got it covered.” Robby looks at Jack for a minute and then meets Dana’s eyes as she looks to him after taking her own look at Jack. 

“What courthouse?” Jack asks. It’s quiet, controlled and clipped and almost missable in the chaos of the ED. He’s not looking at either of them, staring past them at a wall with a chest heaving more and more by the second as his face grows paler. 

He tries to keep it together. Dana will say the name and it won’t be your courthouse and he’ll go straight to your actual courthouse, grab you, take you home and never let you leave. A perfectly reasonable reaction, he thinks.

“Jack-”

“What fucking courthouse?” It’s louder this time, almost enough to pause the chaos of the ED. 

Jack’s voice drips with what sounds like rage to most of those who hear him but is unmistakably fear to Dana and Robby. 

Neither of them have ever seen Jack like this, this scared, struggling this hard to keep it together, truly raising his voice for anything other than to quiet down an unruly patient. His eyes find Dana’s and they’re glassier than she’s ever seen them, the intensity of his gaze making it painfully clear he’s hanging on every word and the wrong ones will shatter him. 

She swallows and opens her mouth and Jack knows what she’s about to say before she even says it. And she does. The name of your courthouse. 

“I’ll triage.” He says it before Dana has even finished, the words hollow and breathless and commanding all at once. He spins and starts off to the bay doors with nothing more. He obviously knows from the report Dana gave that they won’t need triage. He just needed to get out of there and try to create an excuse to stay in the ambulance bay. He knows Robby won’t let him, that Robby and Dana already know you’re at that courthouse, could be a victim. 

Robby and Dana share another look, So you work at a courthouse. This courthouse. “Fuck,” Dana mutters, “I really hope we don’t end up meeting her today.”

Jack’s hand dives in his pocket as he strides to the ambulance bay. He already knows in his heart that there’s not going to be a text from you saying that you’re okay. He hasn’t felt his phone buzz. He never even kept his phone on him until you. 

Even though he knew he wouldn’t have any messages, waking his phone and seeing none hits him like a freight train all the same, right in the chest. It threatens to bring him to his knees, make him sick, but he can’t. He sets it all aside. If you do come out of one of the ambulances he can hear in the distance you’re going to need him at his best. But what if you’re one of the two people dead at the scene? He has to shove that out of his mind too, can’t give into the complete panic that threatens to consume him. 

Disassociate. Compartmentalize. Do the job. ABC. Assess. Stabilize. Repeat.

His fingers fly across his phone automatically, calling you having become so routine. He prefers it so much to texting, hearing your voice, communicating more directly. “Call me,” he starts, “the second you get this message. Or fucking text me,” his voice breaks, “please. Fucking please.” He hangs up and calls again, knowing he’ll get your voicemail again but trying anyway because it’s all he can do. 

He’s helpless, powerless, he can’t do anything to try and save you and that threatens to swallow him whole. 

Your voicemail recording telling people to leave a message plays again and all Jack can wonder is if this is all he’ll have left of your voice in his life. Your voice on your mailbox, maybe some voicemails you’ve left him, videos, voice memos you’ve sent. All distorted by recording, not your real voice. He can’t remember what your real voice sounds like all of the sudden. What your laugh sounds like, how you sound when you’re sleepy or in the throes of pleasure or telling him you love him. God, did he even tell you he loved you the last time he saw you, when he said goodbye? 

“I need you to call me,” he says into the phone again, pauses. “I love you.” He takes a ragged breath in and speaks through his teeth. “I love you so fucking much, so you have to be okay and you have to fucking call me.”

He sends a series of texts asking you to call him or text him or call the hospital or do anything to let him know you’re okay, asking if you are okay, asking where you are as though you’re going to respond. He already knows you’re in the back of one of those ambulances because of fucking course you are, because he’s not allowed to have anything good in his life apparently. How could he be so stupid to think differently?  

“Hey, we don’t need triage for this. The numbers are controlled.” Robby walks out to stand next to Jack in the ambulance bay. “If you want to stay you can, but you can’t wait out here to see who shows up, you have to-”

“Yeah, yeah, jump on the first patient that pulls up, I know, I got it,” he interrupts Robby. 

There’s a silence as Robby passes him a gown and ties for him before he does the same for Robby. 

“Jack, if she’s in one you cannot-”

“Like fuck I can’t.” It’s just a statement. Cool and collected and a projection of indifference. It scares Robby more than if Jack had yelled. 

“No, actually brother, you can’t. I’m telling you right now. You’re not working on her. We don’t work on family, on significant others, and you would tell me the exact same thing. It’s too risky, you’ll be too clouded.” Robby watches Jack’s jaw clench and roll as he stares out at the street. 

He wants to argue that of course he’ll be clear, he’ll be focusing on saving you, he’ll have never been so clear in his life. But part of him knows that seeing you like that on his trauma table, your blood all over the table and him and his hands might make him freeze.

“Fine.” Jack whispers. “But if she’s,” Jack has to pause and take a shuddery breath. “If she’s gone or really going and it’s inevitable you have to let me in. You have to let me try to save her. You have to let me code her, Michael.”

He can taste the rising bile in his throat just at having to talk about coding you.

The first ambulance pulls up before Robby can respond and Jack’s on it so fast Robby’s surprised Jack doesn’t get smacked in the face by the door opening. 

It’s not you. It’s someone who is very much not you and is clearly one of the iffy ones. 

Disassociate. Compartmentalize. Do the job. ABC. Assess. Stabilize. Repeat.

Jack forces himself to go emotionally numb as he listens to the paramedic rattle off vitals and history, trying so very hard to focus on this, something he can do, even if it’s not for you. By the time they hit trauma one Jack’s fine and in full swing, running it like he would any other trauma. Nobody on the team in the room with him suspects anything is amiss.  

He hates the way he can’t see the other’s who come in, that he has to stay with this patient until they’re stable and can’t go looking for you. He chastises himself for not having brought you here before or at least having you meet Dana and Robby. They don’t even know what you look like, couldn’t identify you.

“Jack!” He glances at Dana who stands at the door as he preps for the chest tube. “What’s her name?”

He yells your name at her, impassive and stoic as he reaches for the scalpel, ignoring the looks everyone throws each other at the slightest tremor in his voice.

“I’ll look for her.” Dana promises. He doesn’t respond. He can’t. He’ll fall apart. 

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

The restaurant you’re at has to be the fanciest place you’ve ever been to. It’s the hottest place in the city and you have no idea how Jack snagged reservations here for dinner to finish out celebrating your one year anniversary. 

The lighting and low hum of other patrons talking to each other and glasses and silverware and plates tinkling is cinematic. You feel like the main character. But then that’s always how Jack makes you feel. 

“I got you something.” He pulls out a wrapped rectangular object. 

You click your tongue and tsk at him. “We said we’d do them at home! I didn’t bring yours!”

“I know. I have something for you at home too.” His eyes sparkle in the flickering candle light, a little smirk pulling up. “I didn’t mean for it to be a double entendre, but both are true.” You snort a laugh at him and take the gift from him. “Open it.” He’s still smiling, eyes still sparkling,  but there’s something there. He’s nervous. It makes you even more curious. 

You carefully unwrap the object until it reveals itself as a hardcover book. That same one Jack had in his hand a year ago and that you told him was bad and gave him a summary of over coffee. 

“Oh, Jack,” you say softly, eyes getting a little watery. It’s so perfect. So sweet and sentimental. The book that brought you together, that gave you each other. It’s almost like a physical representation of the foundation of your relationship in a way. 

“You have to open it,” he instructs you in a whisper.

You raise an eyebrow but do as he says. 

‘Move in with me?’ is written on the blank first page. 

You look between the page and Jack. “Is this?” You look back at the page and then up at him again. “Are you really asking…?”

He nods. “Move in with me. Or move somewhere with me, we can get our own place, it doesn’t have to be my apartment. We basically live together anyway at this point. Let’s just make it official, yeah? Wherever you want, you can decorate however you want. Just as long as it’s our place.”

You bring a hand to your mouth for a second before using your napkin to dab at the inner corners of your eyes to stop the tears from falling and look back at him. 

“You’re a romantic, Jack Abbot,” you hum all dreamily. 

“You better not tell anyone. Can’t have you ruining my street cred.” He smirks, but his expression and the way he fidgets show he’s still anxious. “So?”

You realize then you never actually answered him. Sniffling a little laugh and letting a few tears fall you give him his answer, voice thick and full of emotion. “Yeah, I think I’m willing to accept those terms. I’d love to move in with you… Peter.”

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

He hears you counting to yourself before he sees you. “One, two…”

It’s not loud, just said in a normal voice, softer if anything because of how you’re panting, but Jack is so on edge and so desperate to find you he’d subconsciously been listening closely to his surroundings, military training kicking in. His head snaps to you and he doesn’t even know what to think when he sees you being rolled in on top of a gurney, performing CPR that would rival the quality of his own. 

“Why is she..?” He hears Robby question the paramedic as you roll in. 

“She was performing them just as well as we could and it was better to just scoop and run,” the paramedic explains. “She must have had one hell of an instructor.”

“Peter!” You yell, without looking up, not sure if he’s still here. You’re so used to it by now that the nickname is just what comes out of your mouth as you look for him. He’d texted you to let you know he was going in for a bit.  

Jack could sob and the entire team in the room with him can feel a crushing tension shatter. Maybe he does get a little teary just from the sheer relief. He tells himself it’s sweat in his eyes.

“Yeah Doll?” He yells back, not giving a fuck about everyone hearing him call you Doll, and you calling him Peter, knowing full well he’s going to have so much explaining to do about this entire situation, the confusion in the room palpable. 

“I’m okay!” This time he does laugh to himself. 

“Yeah I’d say so,” he mutters, smiling. He’s still anxious to see you, get his own eyes on you, feel you with his own hands. 

It’s only about thirty more seconds before his patient is stable enough and he can rip his gloves and gown off and start putting fresh gloves on as he walks into the trauma room you’d been wheeled into. Normally he’d yell out for someone to talk to him or ask what they’ve got but not this time. This time he doesn’t even care about who’s on the table, only the person who came off it. Only you. 

You’re standing to the side now, watching Robby and the rest of the team work, impassive as pink tears stream down your face from the dried blood on it. You’re just so fucking overwhelmed by everything and now that you’re not doing CPR everything that’s happened is hitting you at once. 

Jack says your name as he moves to you, needs his hands on you. 

“Are you hurt? Were you hit?” He rushes out. His voice brings you back and you look up at him with wide, terrified eyes. He goes to look you over but you latch onto him, hugging him tightly, shaking a bit. 

“I’m fine, I’m okay, I’m, I’m sorry,” you start to rattle off, fisting at his scrub top and clinging to him like he’s the only thing keeping you tethered to reality. In the moment he might just be. 

He hugs you back just as hard, kisses the top of your head. He doesn’t care who sees right now, all he cares about is you. “It’s okay, you have nothing to apologize for. I’m just so fucking glad you’re okay. I thought… I thought you were…” He doesn’t have to finish, you know what he means. “I can’t fucking lose you. I love you way the fuck too much.”

You’ve been so wrapped up in each other neither of you have noticed that Robby’s patient, the one you were doing CPR on, has started to code again. “Abbot, need you here!”

You let him go, nod at him. “Go on,” you whisper, “I’ll be right here. I’m okay. I love you more.” Jack nods at you and walks over, jumping in and assisting Robby.

It’s once you’re out of Jack’s arms, away from his warm body and more grounded in reality that you notice how cold you are, how you’re swaying because he was supporting you far more than you realized, how lightheaded you are, how your abdomen and chest really fucking hurt. You chalk it up to the adrenaline wearing off and being sore from the chest compressions you just did. 

On the other side of the room an instrument tray gets knocked over, metal hitting the floor in a loud clang. It startles you, makes you jump and twist quickly to see what it was, if it was another gun, another shot. You feel something almost tearing, a sharp pain across your abdomen and lower chest, a feeling of sticky warmth against your shirt.

You sway a little, start to realize how much worse the pain is now. It’s bad enough that you can’t even make noise to express the pain. There’s no air in your lungs, you swear. You realize your lightheadedness is now much, much worse, that you’re shivering from how cold you are. Or are you just shaking? You can’t tell. It doesn’t make sense. The room isn’t even that cold. You shouldn’t be so cold. Not unless.

You pull your shirt up slowly and look down and run your hand over your skin and sure enough, there’s a bullet hole seeping blood, about half way between your nipple line and belly button, skin now covered in a dark bruise. 

You cough a little, it’s quiet. It starts feeling like there’s water in your lungs. Like you can’t get any oxygen in even though you’re in a room full of it. The metallic taste in your mouth is what manages to seep into what’s left of your consciousness next. You cough again, into your hand, and feel something wet hit your skin. Blood. 

It hits you. You’re drowning in your own blood. That’s why it feels like you can’t breathe. You’ve been shot. In a bad place, one of the worst places, Jack had told you that night. You get scared, feel your heart pounding. It feels like you’re dying. You don’t want to die, don’t want to leave Jack. You’d just finished moving into your new place together, were going to spend all weekend unpacking and painting and getting furniture where you wanted it. You were going to make your home.

Time. You were supposed to have more time together.

“Hey, Jack,” you slur softly, struggling to keep yourself standing. Luckily he hears you. Your use of his first name and the slur to your voice has him panicking again already. Time slows as he turns around to take you in, eyes going from your face and the blood coating your teeth and trickling from your mouth as you try and smile reassuringly at him, down to your torso where you’re still holding your shirt up just enough for him and everyone else in the room to see the bullet hole and bruising marring your skin. “I think, I think I’m not good, it’s not good.” Your vision tunnels so fast you can just barely see Jack’s expression of sheer abject unadulterated horror and panic as you get out your last words. “Nipples to navel… no man’s land.”

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

Peter. Peter Rabbit by Beatrix Potter. Yes, I worked in a bookstore through college.

Free Fallin' (jack abbot x f!reader)

18+ account - minors do not interact

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

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

Or simply…

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

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

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

Jack Abbot Masterlist

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was a very handsome man.

He was painfully good looking.

He stepped into view, his eyes kind and professional.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Happy Birthday!"

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

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

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

"Thanks. Love you."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Economics. Specifically, game theory."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Jack," he replied quietly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He was so attentive.

It was making you feel crazy inside. And horny.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You rolled your eyes. "Support is overrated."

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

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

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

Fuck… why did you say that?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Naomi."

Jack nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

One Week Later

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

One voice drifted over the murmur of footsteps.

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

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

Your heart still skipped a beat.

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

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

One corner of his mouth lifted. "Anatomy,"

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

The grin that stretched across your face was massive.

There was just something about him.

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

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

Maybe foam beds weren’t so bad after all.

dividers by @saradika-graphics

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

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