I Watch To Many Shows

this song and dance: Steve’s been hanging out at the local diner to flirt with the cute new waitress who just moved to town. But she knows how this song and dance goes: boy meets girl, boy flirts with girl, girl flirts back, boy asks girl on date, girl lets it slip that she’s got a kid at home, and the song comes to an abrupt end. Steve, though, dances to a different tune. ☀️

home base: you introduce Steve to Lucy for the first time ☀️

name changes and prime real estate: you & Lucy meet The Party ☀️

thank God for Mr. Clarke: Steve loses Lucy at the supermarket ~🌪☀️

Rock n' Roll babe: Eddie is invited to one of Lucy's infamous tea parties 🌈

When Joyce found out that the entire Party was going to be in town for Thanksgiving, she wasted no time in inviting everyone over for dinner. Everyone included Steve and his new little family.

And while Lucy has met Robin a number of times, it turns out that she can be quite the shy girl in group settings. It makes him that much more grateful – that much prouder – that his first meeting with the tot went so well. 

Steve knows that he should probably be more mature and encourage Lucy to be brave, but he’s loving how she’s gone all snuggly on him and the way she clings to his shirt like his chest is the safest place to be. She’s not going to be little forever, and Steve knows he missed out on some of her littlest months; he’s not letting this opportunity go to waste. 

“I think Hopper actually shed a tear or two meeting her,” Nancy adds, shooting the two of them a warm smile. “Not that I can blame him.”

“I think he’s very happy at finally becoming a grandfather,” El murmurs softly, eyes glued to Lucy who looks at her warily from Steve’s lap. He rubs a broad hand across her little back comfortingly.

“Is the father in the picture at all?” Will asks gently.

Steve tries to bite down the bitterness that the – rather innocent – question inspires in him. He knows he has no reason to bristle, is quite aware that he’s the one with your baby girl cradled in his arms while you laugh with Joyce and Max about something in the next room. If anything, Steve should be grateful that the loser fumbled so hard, because now you’re here with him and his family being loved the way the two of you should’ve been since the very beginning. 

“No,” Steve answers eventually, deciding to keep it short. 

“Good,” Robin huffs definitively, having heard the story in detail from you herself. “That right there is Steve’s girl, anyway.” 

“Yeah?” Steve chuckles, gently nudging Lucy’s side encouraging her to look up at him. “Whaddya think, Lou? You Steve’s girl?”

“Stebe,” she murmurs quietly, fisting the collar of his shirt as she shifts up higher on his chest. 

“Yeah, you’re Steve’s girl.” 

“Poor thing,” Dustin taunts as he and Eddie return from a smoke. Steve tosses a dinner roll at him in retaliation. 

“What kind of tomfoolery are you teaching my daughter, Harrington?” you laugh, following Joyce in with a dish in your hand.

“Do you guys need help?” Steve starts, wanting to stand but halting when Lucy whines. 

Joyce answers for you. “No, no. You sit, Steve; you’re on dad duty. Jon?”

Jonathan quickly puts down his beer and jumps up to help bring in the rest of the meal with Will, Eddie, and Dustin following dutifully behind him.

“Dad duty, huh?” Max snickers as she takes a seat, apparently done helping now that Joyce has corralled most of the boys. 

Lucy sits up at the smell of dinner, willing to risk being perceived by everyone in order to get a look at the table. 

“I guess we can consider nugget number one checked off your list, hey Steve?” Nancy teases with a smile.

Steve laughs, surprising Lucy in his lap and causing her to look at him in question. 

“Sorry, baby,” he chuckles, pressing an apologetic kiss to her forehead before pushing her hair away from her face.

“Eugh,” Robin groans theatrically. “You guys are so cute it’s disgusting.”

“Honestly though?” Steve continues unperturbed, turning Lucy around so she can comfortably view the table. “I’d be happy if this is all she was willing to give me.” 

Robin groans again. “Would you stop? I’m gonna be sick.”

Nancy laughs and smiles warmly at the picture Steve and Lucy paint as the rest of the dishes are lowered onto the table and everyone takes their seats. 

You offer to relieve Steve of Lucy to which they both decline, forgoing the high chair Mrs. Wheeler dusted off and brought over from the Wheeler’s attic and letting Lucy eat directly from his plate. He doesn’t think he’s ever been so happy.

He ushers the two of you to his car later that evening with a full belly,  an even fuller heart, and a trunk full of gifts everyone brought for the newest, littlest member of the Party. 

Lucy is saved from being given a bath by falling asleep in the car, meaning she was quickly shucked out of her Thanksgiving outfit and put into pajamas before Steve tucked her into bed. 

You’re finishing up your nightly routine in the bathroom when Steve joins you to do the same. He goes to stamp a kiss to your cheek but quickly diverts to press one to your shoulder when you hiss in warning; he has a proclivity for messing up your skincare. 

“I had a nice night,” Steve says as he wets his toothbrush and reaches for the toothpaste. “Thank you guys for coming.”

“Of course,” you agree. “I’m glad we went. It was fun.” 

He bumps your hip with his, sensing that you’re holding back but unable to call you on it once his toothbrush is in his mouth. You wait until he spits to break the silence.

“Can I ask you something?”

Steve answers from the sink as he rinses his mouth out. “F’course.” 

“What did Nancy mean by nugget number one?” 

Steve nearly whacks his head on the tap as he hurries to straighten. “Oh, uh. You heard that, huh?”

You offer him an apologetic smile through the mirror. “I wasn’t, like, eavesdropping or anything, I just-”

“No, of course not.”

Steve turns his back to the mirror and leans against the counter. “Uh, well. A while back – like, forever ago – I… I was telling Nancy about the dreams I had. For, uh, my life, and future and stuff. You know?”

You hum in acknowledgement, letting him explain at his own pace. 

Steve smiles despite himself at the memory. “I told her I always wanted a big family. Just, huge. Six little nuggets, I told her. And a van to pack everyone up in and travel; to just go everywhere, bring them everywhere, show them everywhere. Three boys and three girls; a whole team of little Harrington’s.” 

He looks back over at you and immediately backpedals. “That was like, forever ago, though. Like, total pipe dream. I have no expectations, or- I mean, well- like, I know that Lucy isn’t mine and I can’t take any credit for the phenomenal job you’ve done with her. She’s- I’m not- I would never try to-”

“Steve,” you whisper on an exhale a moment before launching yourself at him. He catches you, the lip of the counter digging painfully into his hip as your arms wind around the back of his neck and he works on molding you to his front and fusing his lips to yours.

It seems like Steve’s chest is the safest place for Lucy and the warmest place for you; he makes a mental note to have this prime real estate assessed.

“I’m sorry,” he says breathlessly when the two of you part for air. You shake your head no, nose bumping into his with the action. “I- I didn’t mean any disrespect. She’s your daughter, she-”

“She loves you,” you tell him, pressing another kiss to his lips before continuing. “I love you. We love you. So much.” 

“I love you-” a kiss “-both of you-” another kiss “so much.” 

“Nugget number one,” you murmur mostly to yourself.

“You’re my girls, you’re-”

“We’re yours,” you agree. “She adores you, Steve.” 

“Not as much as I adore her,” he whispers, settling you between his legs and taking on most of your weight. “You’ve done such a good job with her.”

“She’s pretty great, isn’t she?” you agree bashfully, toying with the neck of his shirt.

“The best. She’s the best girl. I shouldn’t be surprised, she has the best mom.”

You beam at him; Steve wants to have the shape of your smile tattooed on his ribs. “She has the best Stebe.” 

“Well, didn’t you hear? She’s Stebe’s girl.” He probably looks as lovestruck as he is. He doesn’t care. “I’d do anything for you girls, you know? You’re…you guys are it for me. I- I’m all in.”

Your eyes flit between both of Steve’s, searching for the answer to a question Steve doesn’t remember being asked but hopes he can answer anyhow. 

“Well,” you hum eventually, bumping Steve’s chin with your nose and pressing a kiss to the column of his throat. “I guess you can consider nugget number one checked off your list, then.”

Working at such a central point of a small town – like a diner – means you have become intimately aware of the regulars’ comings and goings as well as the general local population at large. No one is safe from diner gossip, not even individuals who don’t patronize the restaurant. 

And you’ve come to like your regulars. 

You really like one of them in particular; Steve. 

Which brings you to your problem. Because Steve…Steve is really great; he’s got gorgeous eyes and a devastating smile and great hair and big hands and a lovely laugh and you’ve got a big ol’ crush on him like a teenager. 

Except you’re not a teenager, and neither is he. 

But the two of you are young enough in your adulthood that you’re well aware how this song and dance goes. 

A guy like Steve has probably tested the waters of every eligible person in the area and saw a new challenge in the new girl in town. 

Like shiny keys, you’re something new, some interesting to look at. 

But it’s all fun and games shooting the shit with the pretty little waitress at your favourite diner in town, it’s a totally different ball game when you find out she has a little one waiting for her at home. 

So, your existential crisis? Your moral quandary? Your ethical dilemma? 

You let Steve flirt with you. You encourage Steve to flirt with you. You even flirt with him back! 

But you know how this song and dance goes, which mean you’re basically stringing him along.

But can anyone blame you? He’s so, so handsome. And he’s got great hair; have you mentioned the hair yet? And maybe it’s just a little harmless flirting, maybe he’s this sweet and friendly to the waitress who serves him his tuna melts when you’re not clocked in. 

Except Steve always finds a way to ask when you’re working next, as if he only ever wants to be served by you. Except Steve sees you near the counter and smiles, asking what section you’re working before he chooses a seat. Except Steve has only ever come in alone, as if the front of house is sacred ground and he doesn’t want to bring anyone else into this hallowed space. 

And so, you’re a wretched thing.

Just awful, really. Letting him flirt with you, letting him call you sweet things like honey and beautiful, letting him tip you well and eat the majority of his meals in a rather mediocre diner, as far as diners go. 

Cruel girl. 

Maybe you should taper things off. You had your fun, he boosted your ego, he made your shifts much more enjoyable, and now you ought to put the whole thing to bed. 

Terrible, awful thoughts about Steve and to bed aside, perhaps it’s time to release Steve back into the wild where he can woo another girl who doesn’t have someone waiting for them to come home and make them mac & cheese or chicken nuggets. 

Speak of the devil…

“Hey, gorgeous,” Steve greets as he waltzes up to the counter. His smile does something wicked to your stomach and you have to lock your knees to keep you from actually swooning. Foolish girl. 

“Hi, handsome,” you greet in turn, internally kicking yourself at forgetting that you were supposed to be putting this to bed. “Take a seat anywhere you like.”

But Steve hesitates. That’s a first. 

“Actually I- uh, I can’t stay tonight.”

You pause where you’re drying the parfait glasses used for milkshakes to look at him. He shifts his weight between his feet as he brings a (big) hand up to rub at the back of his neck, seemingly unable to make eye contact with you. 

“No?” you prompt when he doesn’t seem like he’s going to continue. “Got a hot date tonight or something?”

It startles a laugh out of him, except this laugh is all high and tense and wrong in nearly every way; it’s nervous. Steve is nervous. “Uh, well…not- no, not tonight. But, hopefully, I, uh- shit, I used to be good at this.” 

You let out a nervous giggle of your own. “Good at what?”

“Good at asking girls out,” he answers honestly, shooting you an apologetic smile.

Oh. 

“Oh.” Your responding laugh is high and tense as well; what a picture the two of you paint.

“Yeah,” he chuckles self deprecatingly. “I, uhm, just wanted to ask if maybe you’d be interested in, I don’t know, getting to know each other outside of work? Or just getting dinner with me. Or, or maybe I make you something for dinner this time? Not that you make the food here, mind you, but-”

“I…I would like that,” you respond slowly, though Steve deflates a bit at the silent but teetering on the edge of your sentence. 

“But…” he guesses.

“I, uhm, well…I think you might’ve gotten the wrong idea about me.”

“Oh,” Steve breathes, cogs grinding in his head as he reroutes his course through this conversation. “Oh. Are you, like, married or something?”

“No, no. Nothing like that.” 

“Okay. Are you” Steve leans in further, eyes flicking behind you as though worried someone from the kitchen might overhear “into girls? ‘Cause if you are, that’s totally cool, and it’ll suck for me a bit but I have a friend I’d like to introduce to you in that case.”

Your following laugh is far more honest. “No, no. I’m- I have a secret. A different secret.” 

“Okay,” Steve agrees. “Okay, you can have secrets, if you want.”

“No- ugh. No, I…she’s not-” you shake your head as though trying to slip its faulty pieces back into place “-it’s not a secret. It’s just that I’ve kept her a secret from you; not that you asked and not that it came up and not that it was necessarily relevant but-”

“Her?” His question is quiet, soft, sweet.

You purse your lips and tilt your head at him. “I have a daughter.” 

A look akin to…relief paints Steve’s face, his brown eyes warming into something sweet and gooey and crinkling in the corners. “A daughter?”

You hum in acknowledgment. 

“How old?”

You clear your throat and start fussing with the parfait glasses again. “She’s two.”

“Two,” he repeats reverently. “What’s her name?”

You look back up at him, wondering if what you’re reading from him really is excitement. “Lucy.”

“Lucy.” He’s beaming at you. “And that’s your secret?”

You laugh. “Yeah, I- I guess, if she can be considered a secret.”

“Cool,” he says, leaning against the counter on his elbows. “And, so, just so I know what to tell my friend when she asks how this went: you don’t want to go out with me because you have a daughter…and you don’t have time to date? Or any interest in dating? Or ‘cause you think I’m a weirdo? It’s cool either way, just need something to report back to headquarters.” 

You’re almost embarrassed at how loudly you laugh, covering your mouth with your hands and turning to ensure no customers have turned to gawk at you. 

“No, I just…no, you’re not a weirdo.”

Steve lets out a theatrical phew and pretends to wipe sweat from his brow. 

“That’s just…usually as far as I get with guys.”

His brows furrow and he tilts his head at you. “What do you mean?”

“I mean it’s usually more fun flirting with the waitress than dating a single mom who’s new in town,” you explain, decorating your grimace with a tight smile. “Men usually look the other way once they know I have a kid.”

Steve scoffs. “Losers. Well, I love kids, so that really doesn’t change much for me. Actually, it’s kinda hot. You gotta be extra competent to move to a new town and set up shop with a little one on your hip.”

Your cheeks burn and the flames quickly spread to the tips of your ears. You keep your gaze pointed at the parfait glasses. 

“So…I’d love to take you out on that date, if that’s alright with you,” he continues, voice dropping low and dangerous as he dips his head in an attempt to meet your gaze. He’s smirking; the bastard. “And if it goes well, which I’m hoping it does, I’d love to meet Lucy one day.” 

And now you want to cry. Great, real nice. Damn Steve and his sweet eyes and his great hair and his charming smile and his big hands. 

“Yeah?”

He must hear the insecurity in your voice, because he ducks his head even lower to shoot you a real smile. “Yeah. Go out with me, don’t make me beg. ‘Specially in public; this is getting embarrassing, even for me.”

You laugh again. “Yeah, yeah. Okay, I’d like to go out with you.”

Steve, the dork, stands to his full height and drums his hands on the counter in excitement. “Think you can make time for me on Friday?”

“I can probably squeeze you in,” you play coy. 

“Good girl,” he purrs. You glare at him and he barks a laugh. “Okay, okay. Friday, I’ll swing by tomorrow to solidify plans, ‘kay?”

“‘Kay.”

“Great,” he beams, walking backwards. 

“Alright,” you laugh.

He bumps into an empty booth, turning to apologize to it. “Okay, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“See you tomorrow,” you agree.

“And then Friday!” 

He’s at the door now, though he pauses and waits for you to confirm.

“And then Friday, Steve.”

sorry if anything feels a little OOC or whatever...it's just me and my delulu brain working out whatever I've got rolling around in my mind 😮‍💨

Taglists are open for most of these so feel free to let me know if you'd like to be tagged 😊 whether it's character specific or series specific

Please do not post or translate this elsewhere under the guise that it is your own work.

Jack does the exact same. Having spent the last eighteen months working around the clock to avoid dealing with emotions, he’s accrued more PTO than he’s ever had before in his life. God bless PTMC’s rolling days policy.

Whenever he’s not at Gwen’s bedside, he’s with one of the hospital case-workers, pouring over each and every bill you’ve accumulated over the past few days.

Five hours in the ER racked up almost ten thousand dollars alone, from the bloods, X-Ray and treatment.

Each day in the NICU set you back a further twelve thousand for the private room, leaving almost sixty-thousand to be paid now.

In an ideal world, Gwen would be on Jack’s insurance, and everything would be paid for already. Unfortunately, in the few weeks he’s been in her life, neither of you had quite gotten onto the paperwork yet. Despite an appeal filed the day she was admitted, with both of you acknowledging that had Jack known about her, she would be on his insurance, you were denied.

So, he’s left to work the numbers.

It’s a burden he takes on entirely by himself - if you won’t let him at the delivery bills, he wants to cover this. Through haggling, favours, and even trying to invent a physician discount for doctors who work at the hospital.

Eventually, he gets it to thirty-thousand. Still not ideal, by any stretch, but he writes a cheque without complaint. It’s the least he can do.

Returning to Gwen’s room, he’s glad to see you relaxing for once - curled up in the corner with some book about Carolyn Bessette. All is quiet from Gwen’s crib, and Jack drops onto the couch beside you, letting out a heavy sigh. His back is categorically not happy with the fact that he’s slept in an upright chair the past couple of nights.

But he wasn’t about to make you sleep in a chair, and there’s definitely not enough room on the couch for both. Sleeping at home was also out of the question - he’s going to be there for both of you even if it kills him.

“She okay?” He asks, voice low.

“Yeah,” You reply, shooting him a glance. “The doctor said we can go home whenever the discharge forms are filled out. I was just waiting for you.”

Home.

The word leaves a sour taste in Jack’s mouth. Home, to you and Gwen, is a crappy apartment on the bad side of town, with a broken lock on the front of the building, and a bathroom that’s falling apart at the seams.

Meanwhile, Jack’s townhouse is sitting mostly empty, allowing him to live in a luxury that feels almost shameful. Who is he to sleep on a silk-covered king-sized bed, while you’ve spent the last three months on a pull-out couch?

He’d considered moving, briefly, after you broke up. Didn’t seem like much point having such a huge house, with not a single other soul to share it with.

But after spending the last decade or so remodelling it for his disability, he simply didn’t have the energy to start over. Finding a place with an elevator had been hard enough in central Pittsburgh.

The most he’d managed was moving out of the primary bedroom, and into one of the smaller ones. Not the one his mom had stayed in during her final weeks - that one has remained almost entirely untouched since her death.

Since finding out about Gwen, all his time not spent at work or with you has been dedicated to getting a nursery ready for her. Initially, it had been with the hope that you would one day trust him enough have her overnight. But as time has gone on, as he’s reconnected with you, and begun building a relationship with his daughter, he’s been thinking more and more about the idea of you both moving in with him.

You would have your own space - bedroom, bathroom, nursery. He’s even gone so far as to put a desk in one of the guest rooms, so that you could work from the house in peace.

He’s considered it far more than he would ever let on. In the quiet mornings, thinking of how you might lounge about in your pyjamas, Gwen in your arms while he cooked you breakfast before your classes.

How, even if you weren’t together romantically, you could be a family. A proper unit. He would be able to look after you both properly. Take care of you the way he should have been this whole time.

“Listen, I was thinking - with Gwen being sick and all-”

Potentially manipulative, Jack knows. But he truly cannot stand the two of you living in that unsafe dump anymore.

“-That maybe you’d be better off living with me for a while.” Upon seeing your expression shift into something unreadable, he stumbles on. “Not forever, obviously. But for as long as you wanted, until you were back on your feet. You wouldn’t have to pay rent or bills, so you could save properly. Get somewhere nicer.”

You fall into a silence, and Jack can practically hear his own heartbeat thumping in his ears. After the whole argument about bills, he knows that bringing up money is potentially a terrible idea. Especially when you haven’t had a good night’s sleep in days (or months, really, if he’s being honest), and you’re worrying yourself to death over Gwen.

Lip between your teeth, you glance over at the crib, before meeting his gaze again. “Can I think about it?”

That’s not a no.

Jack’s not sure he’s ever been more relieved in his life. He’d been fully expecting a firm no, tossed in his direction and inviting absolutely zero discussion.

Maybe there’s hope yet.

*****

It pains Jack to leave you both that night, but you make plans for the following morning. He can work with that.

What started as plans for ice cream and a walk in the park is quickly dashed when it rains all night. Instead, it shifts to a museum and brunch. Gwen’s still about two years away from appreciating anything in a museum, but you figure she might like the colours.

Jack insists on driving, and picks you both up half an hour early, as usual. The militaristic internal timing still hasn’t left him.

He gets her stroller out while you get Gwen out of the car-seat that’s been in Jack’s car since the day after he found out about her. Cooing softly, you settle her, glancing up at the sky as you do. It’s grey and gloomy, but you’re hoping it’ll last the day without another downpour.

You tuck Gwen’s hat down a little more snug over her ears as you step up onto the curb, the stroller bumping lightly behind you. She makes a small, offended noise at the interruption, then settles again.

“Sorry, sweetie,” you murmur, glancing down at her.

Jack’s beside you, one hand on the stroller handle now, the other shoved into his coat pocket, shoulders hunched slightly against the cold.

“You’ve got her zipped in like she’s going to summit Everest.”

You shoot him a look. “It’s thirty-eight degrees.”

“She’s fine.”

“She’s four months old.”

He huffs, but there’s no real argument behind it. He knows that you’ll be feeling protective after the hospitalisation. You fall into step beside him, and it strikes you how real this all looks. Sure, you and Jack are a family, courtesy of Gwen, but most passers-by will assume you’re together. Maybe even married.

You try not to think about it too much.

*****

The museum’s already busy - families shaking out umbrellas, kids dragging parents toward the entrance. Warm air hits you as soon as you step inside, a welcome change from the cold outside.

Jack pays for the tickets, despite your protests.

“My treat,” said in a voice so low and gravelly that it makes you a little dizzy.

You start at the dinosaur end, figuring it may be slightly more stimulating for a baby than the paintings. Granted, it’s much more of an outing for you and Jack than Gwen, but after the past week, you’re just glad to be out with her.

Jack steers the stroller carefully through the crowd, one hand on the handle, the other occasionally reaching down to tuck the blanket back around Gwen when it slips. As usual, he’s vigilant - arm ready to pull you into his side whenever a group of kids bustle past, entirely unaware of where they’re going.

“Reckon she’s impressed?” He murmurs, nodding toward the towering skeleton ahead.

Gwen blinks up at the ceiling, completely indifferent.

“Overwhelmed, clearly,” You say dryly. “I’m sure she’ll remember this experience for all of four hours.”

A kid barrels by, nearly clipping the stroller. Jack shifts it out of the way without breaking stride, his shoulder brushing yours as he does.

“Watch it,” He calls after them, not sharp, but enough to make the parent turn and mutter an apology.

You drift toward the massive dinosaur skeleton, its ribs arching overhead like a cathedral. Jack stops just off to the side, giving other people space, rocking the stroller gently back and forth with his foot. You start to murmur random facts to Gwen, as if she can even comprehend what a dinosaur is, much less care, when a lady approaches.

“You three are such a lovely little family,” She smiles, cooing down at Gwen. “Is she your first?”

Jack tries not to think about a world where this could have been your reality years ago, had he not been selfish and terrified. Maybe you would have had more than one. Gwen, and then maybe a boy, who looks just like you.

“She is, yeah,” You reply, reaching out to stroke Gwen’s cheek with your thumb. “It’s been an adjustment.”

“Oh, I remember the early days well. The days are long, but the years are short. You’ll have a stroppy teenager on your hands in no time.”

You let out a small laugh. “I’m trying not to think that far ahead.”

“Enjoy this bit, even when you’re exhausted. It goes quicker than you think.”

Jack shifts his weight, still rocking the stroller, eyes down on Gwen. “We will.”

The woman gives one last look at the baby, softens, then moves on with the flow of people.

*****

You don’t make it through much of the museum.

A couple of exhibits, slow wandering. You pause more than you move - adjusting Gwen’s blanket, checking her bottle, trading the stroller back and forth when one of you gets tired of pushing.

At one point, you duck into a quieter gallery, dimmer lighting, fewer people. Gwen’s eyes start to droop, her fussing tapering off into soft, uneven breaths.

Jack lowers his voice automatically. “She’s about to crash.”

“Don’t jinx it.”

“She is. Look at her.”

You glance down. He’s right - her lashes flutter, and she yawns up at you.

“Okay,” You whisper, easing the stroller to a stop. “Okay, yeah.” You tuck the blanket around her more carefully this time. She sighs - tiny, content - and drifts off.

“How much time do you think we have?”

“With this much stimulation? At least an hour.” You pause for a second, then, quieter, “Coffee?”

“Please.”

In Jack’s words, the museum café is “overpriced and overrated”, so he takes you to another, leading you to a quiet booth in the corner. “Your usual?”

“Yeah, that would be great-”

He’s already standing again before you finish speaking, shrugging out of his coat slightly as he heads for the counter. You watch him go, the way his muscles shift and flex with each movement.

Swallowing slightly, you turn your attention back to the sleeping baby. “Your daddy’s never been able to buy t-shirts in his own size. Always has to go one too small. If we’re being honest, it’s probably one of the reasons why you even exist. But you can’t tell anyone I told you that. Especially not your dad. Don’t want him getting a big head, do we?”

All too soon, Jack is back, carrying a tray of two of the largest coffees you’ve ever seen, and a whole array of pastries. “I uh, I didn’t know what you wanted, so I got a selection.”

“This has got to be like $30 worth of cakes,” You reply, but a smile tugs at your lips anyway.

“Try $47,” He winces, and your jaw drops. Before you can reply, he holds up a hand, shaking his head. “Which is totally fine, because today is my treat.”

There’s no sense in arguing with him. Even before Gwen, he’d always been old-fashioned that way. Never in an expectation of gendered stereotypes, but he liked to pay for things. A by-product of Gwendoline Abbot Sr. raising her son well.

You lift the cup, wrapping your hands around it, letting the heat seep in. For a minute, you both just sit there, watching Gwen breathe, the small rise and fall under her blanket.

“It’s nice seeing little hints of her personality. She did good today,” You say eventually.

“Yeah,” He replies. “So did you.”

You glance up at that, a little skeptical. “For… walking around a museum?”

“For getting out of the house.”

You look back down at Gwen instead. “It’s easier with… help. I like spending time with you both - makes me feel like I’m doing right by her.”

Jack’s expression is different now, less guarded. “I know this isn’t… simple. And I’m not trying to-” He exhales, a small shake of his head like he’s resetting. “I just… wanted to say thanks.”

You blink, caught a little off guard. “For what?”

“For letting me be here.” His gaze flicks down to Gwen, then back to you. “With her. With you. You would have been well within your right to tell me to go to hell - a-after what I did. But you didn’t, and I’m more grateful than you could ever know.”

“I thought about it,” You admit, casting your eyes down. “Disappearing. But… I think deep down, I wanted you to meet her. All those times during my pregnancy, whenever I was going to PTMC, a part of me hoped and prayed so desperately that I would bump into you. That you would have to talk to me.”

When you look back up at Jack, you’re shocked to see a tear roll down his cheek. “God, I wish I’d seen you. I’m so sorry, sweetheart.”

“I’m not pretending it’s all fine,” You say slowly. “I’m still… working through it.”

“You should be,” He adds quickly. “I don’t expect…” He cuts himself off, reins it back. “Take whatever time you need. I’m not going anywhere.”

*****

Jack’s expecting a call from you after your classes the next day. Normally, you let him know when you’re finishing up for the day, and he meets you back at your place with dinner made.

When his phone rings at 13:15, he’s more than a little concerned.

He answers on the first ring. “Is everything okay?”

“The heating is totally fucked. My afternoon classes got cancelled, and when we got home it was freezing. I don’t know what’s wrong.” Your voice drops when you swear, and Jack has to bite back a smile. It’s the teacher in you. Never cussing in front of the baby. “Are you at work?”

“No.” A lie. “You want me to come over? See what I can do?”

“Are you sure? I don’t want to-”

“Give me like half an hour,” He replies. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Jack Abbot has never fixed a heater in his life, but in November in Pittsburgh, there’s no way that you can do without one. Suddenly, he’s very glad for Al-Hashimi insisting on there being multiple attendings on every shift.

There’s no way he’d be able to slip out otherwise, but he figures Robby can handle himself for an hour or so, until Jack can get back. He’s out the door before you can finish whatever you were about to say next.

“Half an hour,” He repeats, already grabbing his coat. “You might want to bust out that fluffy coat thing for Gwen.”

“I think I have that part covered,” You say sarcastically. “Drive safe.”

*****

The door opens before he even knocks.

You’re standing there in a jumper that looks like it’s doing nothing against the cold, Gwen bundled against your chest in what might be three different layers.

“You are such a liar,” You gasp, upon seeing his scrubs. “Jack, I wouldn’t have bothered you if I’d known-”

“It’s not a problem,” Jack dismisses. “Really.”

“It’s your work.” You stare at him.

“It’s handled,” He murmurs. “I wouldn’t have come if it wasn’t.”

Gwen shifts against you, letting out a small, impatient sound. You adjust her automatically, but your eyes stay on him.

“That’s not the point.”

“It is, a little,” He says. “You needed help.”

“I could’ve called someone.”

“You called me.”

A silence settles over you both, full of something you don’t want to try and unpack.

“Kitchen,” You say finally. “Cupboard.”

Jack follows you through, and pulls up a chair so he can look at the boiler without worrying about his leg. He turns one dial, then the other, to no avail.

Not a great start.

A hollow click. Then nothing.

From the doorway, you shift Gwen against your chest, rubbing small circles into her back. “That bad?”

He glances over his shoulder. “I mean… it’s not good.”

“That’s reassuring.”

He huffs a quiet breath, sits back on his heels, and scrubs a hand over the back of his neck. There’s a beat where he just looks at the thing, like he might be able to will it into working. He starts googling, trying everything he can think of that might be wrong, but it stays stubbornly silent with every intervention.

You watch him for a second. “You don’t have to stay. I know you’ve got work. I can call someone,” You say. “Just - not until payday.”

He fights every urge to offer to pay for it, and just nods. He has a better idea anyway. “You thought any more about what I said?”

You frown slightly. “About…?”

“Coming to mine. Just for a few days. However long you need.”

You shift your weight, instinctively tightening your hold on Gwen. “Jack-”

“I’m not saying move in,” He adds quickly. “Not like that. Just - until this gets sorted. It’s warm, it’s closer to the hospital if anything comes up, and you won’t have to deal with this.”

He can tell you’re still unconvinced, so he presses on.

“It doesn’t have to mean anything,” He adds after a second. “You can bring what you need, stay a couple nights. If it’s weird, you leave. No questions.”

You look down at Gwen, her little face scrunched slightly from the cold. “I don’t want to impose.”

“You’re not.”

“It feels like I am.”

“Do it for Gwen. Even if you don’t want to do it for yourself. She can’t be in a freezing house at the best of times, much less when she’s recovering.”

Gwen lets out a sharper cry this time, and you bounce her slightly, trying to settle her. The cold’s getting to her now. You press your lips together, thinking, then exhale. “Okay.”

Jack looks up.

“Okay,” You repeat, a little more certain. “Just for a few days. Until I can get someone in.”

He nods once, offering you a small smile. “Yeah. That’s all.”

*****

The drive over is quiet. Not awkward, exactly - thankfully you both seem to be past that phase, but you’re deep in thought.

You keep your eyes on the window more than anything else, watching familiar streets come into view a little sooner than you expect.

“Here we are,” Jack says, softer than usual, like you didn’t almost live here once.

The door clicks open and it hits you straight away.

Warmth, for one. Proper, steady heat that seeps into your skin almost instantly. And then everything else - familiar in a way that makes your chest feel a little tight.

Jack steps in first, flicking on the light and hoisting Gwen’s carseat up into his arms.

“Watch the step,” he says automatically, glancing back at you.

You don’t need the warning. You remember it. Still, you step over it anyway. The house hasn’t changed.

Not really.

Same worn spot in the rug near the sofa. Same coat hooks by the door. Even the smell - always faintly of coffee - it’s all exactly the way you remember it. You’ve only been in here once in the six weeks Jack has been back in your life, but you were so exhausted after work that you don’t even really remember it. Today, you’re struck with the prospect of living here again, however briefly.

Jack immediately busies himself, setting up a travel cot in the living room, and transferring Gwen as quietly as possible. “I have something to show you,” He mumbles.

“Me?”

“No, the sleeping baby. Of course, you. I mean, well - it’s for her too, but I thought you should see it first.”

He leads you upstairs, and you try to ignore the way your chest tightens as you pass the primary bedroom. Thankfully, Jack continues on to a room at the end of the hall.

You don’t understand what you’re looking at at first.

The door creaks open under Jack’s hand, slow and hesitant. Where you’d been expecting a bare room, or maybe a crib in the corner, you’re instead met with colour.

Soft, gentle colour. Pinks, yellows, greens. Warm light spilling across freshly painted walls, a fully built crib, and a changing table - all in matching tones. There’s a wardrobe in the corner, largely empty, but with a few little dresses.

In the corner sits a rocking chair, topped with a zoo full of animal teddies.

The shelves aren’t full - yet - but it’s almost like they’re waiting.

For Gwen.

This is the kind of bedroom she deserves. Your hand comes up without thinking, pressing against your mouth like you can hold the sound in, stop yourself from crying. “Oh my god,” You breathe.

You glance over at Jack, who appears to be equally misty-eyed, and the distance between you closes before you even realise you’ve moved. One second you’re standing in the doorway, and the next you’re crashing into him, arms wrapping tight around his torso, fingers clutching at the back of his shirt to ground yourself.

The impact makes him stagger half a step, caught off guard, and then his arms come up around you - strong and enclosing. One hand spreads wide against your upper back, the other anchoring at your waist, pulling you in closer against him. It’s the closest you’ve been since before you broke up.

You press your face into his shoulder, breath shuddering out against the fabric, and it’s warm - he’s warm, solid, safe - and suddenly that’s too much too.

“Thank you.”

It’s barely audible, mumbled directly into Jack’s ear. His hand starts a circular motion, rubbing softly at the tension in your shoulders.

“Don’t need thanks,” Jack murmurs. “It’s what you both deserve. A proper space. ”Room next door is for you. I’ll get an office space set up for you too.”

“Jack, you don’t need to do that-”

“I want to,” His voice is firm, and you finally start to pull back. His arms loosen, almost a little reluctantly. “I uh, I also have this-”

He trails off, disappearing into a closet in the hallway for a second, before he emerges with a box.

Your brow furrows, before you realise that you recognise every single thing poking out of the top.

“You kept my stuff?” A tear trickles down your cheek as you reach for it. Most of it is menial, random books and a few sweaters. A bracelet you forgot you had. Earrings he bought you for your birthday one year. Anything you didn’t take with you when you left is here in this box.

And really, you’d never assumed Jack would be so petty as to throw it all out, but you hadn’t really thought about what he would do with it either.

Jack shifts his weight, watching you take the box. “Figured you might want it at some point.”

Your fingers brush over the top - spines of books you half remember reading here, a jumper you used to steal from him more than wear your own clothes.

“I thought about dropping it off,” He adds, a little quieter. “A few times.”

You glance up. “Why didn’t you?”

He swallows. “Scared, I guess. Of seeing you again. Of realising I made the biggest mistake of my life.”

You nod slowly, blinking the tears away as you pick up the bracelet, turning it over in your fingers. “I forgot about this.”

“Yeah,” Jack smiles softly. “You wore it all the time.”

You let out a small breath that almost turns into a laugh. “Clearly not enough to remember to take it with me.”

“It was a rough day,” He says, before he can stop himself.

You set the bracelet back in the box. “Yeah. It was.”

Without thinking, you reach for his hand. His thumb rubs over your skin soothingly, and he presses a small kiss to the back of it. “I should probably get back to work before Robby kills me. But you’re welcome to anything in the fridge, and I’ll sort dinner tonight too. Just focus on getting settled. I can take the night-shift with Gwen, too.”

“This is like, hotel level service,” You reply. “Not sure I could tell you when I last had a full night’s sleep.”

In his house that night, knowing that Jack is tending to Gwen, you sleep for thirteen hours straight.

Not that he was really at risk of falling over. His other crutch was propped up against the fridge, hand pulled free just for cooking purposes, and Frank was solid. Jack knew his back must be hurting, but definitely wouldn’t let him tip anywhere worrisome.

Seriously, the guy got on him for hopping. Wouldn’t do his own PT stretches, but did hours of research into Jack’s own disability. Asshole.

Frank groaned, good natured. “Has anyone told you today that you are no fun?”

“Nah, you haven’t been home.” Jack flipped the burgers over, entirely uncaring that this was technically his breakfast. Maybe he could add an egg. Technically breakfast food.

“I should text you it so you can wake up and see that.” Frank hummed, comeback a little clunky. “Make sure I bully you first thing in the evening for not saying hi to me.”

Jack huffed, amused, shaking his head. “Not my fault you were stuck in a trauma during handoff, babe.”

“Still.” Frank put on a slightly petulant tone just to be frustrating. “Can’t believe you didn’t even wave.”

He rolled his eyes, looking to the side. “I was busy. Like I am now, making food, for us, for dinner.”

“Oh my god, lemme be sweet.” Frank whined, bending his knees a little for emphasis before starting to press kisses everywhere he could reach. “C’mon, I spent all day in a hospital. I wanna spend the night loving on my gorgeous boyfriend.”

Something hot and fizzy bubbled out of Jack, snorting a laugh. “Gorgeous? Yeah, uh-huh.”

It was way too incredulous for the compliment, but honestly, it fit. Gorgeous was a step too far, considering everything about him.

Frank, however, did not find the protest nearly as entertaining, brows pinching. “Fuck yeah, gorgeous. Have you seen yourself? Ever?”

“Once or twice.” He gruffed back, shaking his head as he laid cheese over the burgers, turning off the flame and putting a lid on.

“So you have seen how hot and sexy you are.” Frank lifted a hand just enough to gesture before fitting it right back against Jack.

It was meant to be cute, affectionate. Right now, all it did was make him incredibly aware of the bodily differences between him and Frank.

Jack.. knew what he looked like. Knew to some kinds of people, his build, his scars, were enticing. Knew that Frank in particular was into the stretch marks, the freckles, loved pressing his lips or tongue or teeth to them.

But.. that was just Frank, and he found Jack fixing a broken window screen blisteringly hot. Not exactly a good objective judge of beauty.

“You’ve shown me, once or twice.” He side stepped the question, now annoyed he didn’t have anything in front of him to focus on.

“Uh-uh.” Frank pulled back enough that Jack felt the sudden rush of cool air against his back, only for heat to return quickly enough. It was just adjustment to be able to see him better. “You’re gorgeous, Jack.“

“Heard you the first time.”

“Nope. Look at me.”

Frank looked for eye contact. Jack did too, though he certainly preferred it for different reasons.

Frank had been told it was the right thing to do, and now sought it out to confirm, receive or be denied. Jack craved it so he could truly see, deeply understand in a way whoever it was couldn’t hide.

With a long sigh, Jack did the best turn he could while still held tight by Frank to look at him properly, tilting his head back some. “What? Make it quick, dinner’s almost ready.”

Frank raised his eyebrows, unimpressed by the tone. “You know that doesn’t work on me.”

“Maybe not right now, certainly has before.”

A spark lit up in Frank’s eyes, trying to stifle a smirk, before leaning down some to smile properly. “You, Jack Abbot, are gorgeous. Beautiful, even. Stunning. I’m glad you’re not a nudist because I would never be able to stop staring.”

That broke some of the tension, Jack chuckling and shaking his head to try and clear the tightly strung worn feeling in his chest. “You capable of being serious for ten seconds?”

“Had to get the point across.” Frank shrugged, pressing a mostly quick kiss to Jack’s lips. “Breakfast’s almost ready, after all.”

So he had noticed.

“Fucker.” Jack reached up with his free hand to pat Frank’s arm, stealing another kiss before turning to finish their food.

Frank hummed, hooking his chin back on Jack’s shoulder, leaning into him. “Not usually my job.”

Jack could feel Frank’s proud smile against his neck, lifting the lid with a gesture heavenward. “Food, Frankie. Then you can be weird and horny in my kitchen.”

“Deal.” Frank stole one more kiss and pat Jack’s hip once before pulling away to get plates, napkins, cups. All the shit they’d need for a breakfast-dinner together on the couch.

He couldn’t help but glance up as he watched him set up their usual condiments on burger buns, knowing Jack’s preferences by now.

Watch the movement of his arms, the determined stick to his jaw, damp strands falling into his face that probably were due for a cut.

Sure. His boyfriend thought he was gorgeous. Fine. Frank though?

Frank definitely was.

“W-what?” You stutter.

“You heard me. I could pay for a room or offer one of mine. And that’s not up for discussion.”

“I couldn’t possibly accept that.” You look around at your friends looking for a way out. Cassie shrugs, Trinity smirks and Mel isn’t paying attention but watching Langdon asses a patient at the other end of the ED. Huffing you grab him by the arm and pull Jack aside away from prying ears.

“What are you doing?” You ask him, lowering your voice.

“I can’t offer you a place to stay now, sweetheart?” The pet name makes your heart thump like it’s running a marathon.

“You can, but not make it obvious. They must be plotting already or worse, betting on us, because you’re being too obvious!”

“We’ve been dating for six months, baby. People gotta find out some time.”

You scoff, crossing your arms. “No, they don’t need to know. And by the way, i’d rather sleep in my new water bed and inhospitable apartment rather than deal with gossip about us.”

“Oh come on, my love, you don’t even have to ask me. You know for a fact id rather have you wake up next to me every single day rather than alternating between your building and mine. Besides, mine’s got a pool and we could go late and skinny dip and-“ Jack rambles and you place your hand on his chest to shut him up. Heat creeps up to your cheeks making you blush.

“Fine. I’ll stay with you. But the story we’re telling people is that I decided to rent a room from you instead. Got it?”

He salutes as if he was still in the army. Maybe its force of habit or maybe he just wants to make fun of me. Whatever it is, it’s working.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

The stuff you manage to save from your apartment (that’s not much since it was basically just a sleeping setting and everything you owed that mattered to you pretty much fit in your backpack) is now carefully placed on Jack’s guest room’s dresser.

He took you to the store to pick all essentials, toiletries and some pastel pink bedding sets that caught your eye. If you were going to stay in his house, it had to be on your own terms. You even bought a lilac mug for your morning coffee. He has a very expensive coffee maker that he rarely uses and you were planning on taking advantage of.

“Looks nice in here. What’s that smell?” Jack asks, resting his shoulder on the door frame.

“That candle I got. Seashore mist it’s called.” You reply, folding some of your socks to neatly arrange them in the dresser.

“Ah…” Jack walks inside and hugs you from behind. “I’m really glad you’re here.”

You melt into his embrace and rest your head on the crook of his neck. “I’m glad to be here too. Not the way I planned on moving in with my boyfriend since it’s too soon, but glad I’m able to see you all day long.”

“Careful with what you wish for, sweetheart. All day long?” The double meaning taints his voice and makes you chuckle. His hands rests on your hips and a comfortable silence envelops you for a few minutes as he sways you side by side. Suddenly he turns you around. “I’m really happy you’re under my roof. It’s yours now too.”

You press a soft short kiss on his lips and he hums in agreement. You see him favor his other leg as he lets go of you and you bring him to the bed. “You tired?”

The two of you sit down on the edge of the bed and you press your hand on his prosthetic leg. “Just a bit. But don’t worry about me, I want to help you finish putting away your stuff and then cook you lunch.”

Ignoring his plan, you kneel in front of him and undo his pants, then remove his prosthetic as he groans in satisfaction and leans back on the bed. You start massaging his leg and he shuts his eyes, breathing deeply.

“You don’t have to do that, you know.” He mumbles.

“I know. But I want to, Jack.”

“You do?”

You hum. “I’ll take care of you.” You say lying down next to him on your new bed and kissing his cheek. “You are taking care of me, let me return the favor.”

Placing his hand on your cheek, he stares at your eyes and caress it softly. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I should’ve flooded your apartment a long time ago.”

“What?”

“You heard me.” He chuckles and kisses you softly as a rain starts pouring outside and pelting against the window.

“You control the weather now?” You nuzzle your nose against his making him smile.

“Maybe… mother nature heard my pleas tho.”

“You seriously like having me here?”

“Oh darling, you’ve been here for less than a day and I’m already picturing how the rest of our lives are gonna go.”

The declaration makes your heart thump rapidly and that lands. He likes having you hear. He wants you forever. He’s also the best thing that’s ever happened to you. “Thanks for taking me in, Jack.”

Your parents were never fully together, per se, but your dad was a fairly constant presence in your life. At every birthday, recital, soccer game. He’d go away for work, and come back with some kind of present for you, and a little gift for your mom too.

If somebody had told you that his ‘work trips’ simply meant that he was with his other, original, family, you would have laughed.

There’s no way.

How could a man maintain two entirely separate families in the same city, and not get caught until your mom has a massive heart attack and dies in her sleep?

As your newfound legal guardian, he’d been left to introduce you to Mark and his mother. The other Greene Family.

To this day, you’re still not sure how he broke the news. You’ve never asked Mark - it didn’t seem fair to reopen old wounds.

As a nine-year-old with no other relatives, you’d moved into the box room at the back of the house - barely enough room for a bed, much less a person. It didn’t help that Mark’s mom insisted every single trace of your life be confined to that room.

If somebody was visiting, they’d never know you even lived there.

In hindsight, you understand where she was coming from. Mark’s parents had been married, and your presence wrecked that. They didn’t separate, but it was never the same.

All of them, including your dad, would have been far better off without you.

Despite that, Mark was a saving grace. Never once did he hold your past against you, understanding that you had nothing to do with your dad’s grievances. Instead, he took you under your wing, even at eighteen. He played soccer with you, took you out to lunch, and looked out for you.

Of course, it couldn’t last forever, and soon Mark went off to college, leaving you caught between a depressed step-mother (if that was what you could call her), and an alcoholic father.

Life was hard, made brighter only by Mark’s occasional visits. He’d call and write, telling you all about medical school - how he had a girlfriend named Jen, and they were going to have a baby. Sometimes, you liked to pretend that you had no parents at all, and simply lived with your brother.

Even now, you wonder if you would have become a doctor without Mark’s influence.

You hadn’t quite taken the same path as him, training as a nurse during undergrad, before landing a scholarship for medical school. Even with the extra help, you wouldn’t have been able to afford to move to Chicago without him.

The nursing job at County? Definitely something Mark managed to wrangle on your behalf. You can pick up locum shifts whenever you need some extra cash - Carol always needs the help.

You moved into his and Jen’s spare room, barely bigger than your one back home, but endlessly more inviting. You paid your rent in babysitting Rachel until you had enough saved to get your own shoebox, and life suddenly started looking up. Now, finally, it’s all making sense.

You’ve started your clinical rotations. Practicing the job you’re going to be working until you’re sixty. Being at County helps - you’ve grown very familiar with Mark’s friends over the years. Doug, Carol, Susan.

Feels a little less like being thrown to the wolves.

After a harrowing six weeks in surgery, spending as much time as possible in the ER with Benton, you’re finally back until Christmas. You love it here. It’s exactly your speed.

There’s just one problem.

In your entire medical school career thus far, nobody has terrified you the way John Carter does. Not because he’s scary, or unpleasant, or anything of the sort.

But because you can’t think straight whenever you’re in a ten-foot radius of him. Which, unfortunately, is most of your day.

It’s not your fault. Carter is exactly your type - practically tailor-made to your tastes. If you’d been asked to build yourself a boyfriend at the age of ten, you’re pretty sure you would’ve come up with somebody almost identical to him.

Maybe he wouldn’t be quite so popular with women. You’ve never been one for competition - ironic, since you’ve chosen to devote your life to medicine.

You had been clocked immediately by Doug and Carol for your crush, leading to some interminable teasing during your surgical rotation. After all your time in Chicago, they’ve become as much siblings to you as Mark.

Unfortunately, Doug Ross is far more perceptive than Mark Greene, and likes to lord that fact over you. Thus far, his meddling has included shoving you into Carter, tricking you both into wearing matching costumes at the ER Halloween party, and even locking you both in a supply closet under the guise of a dodgy hinge.

Things have only gotten worse now that you’re in the ER every day, with a whole new group of students.

There are four of you. You, Iain, Madeline, and Emil. All entrusted largely to Carter for the duration of your placement.

Emil is nice. Quiet, and very obviously not cut out for Emergency Medicine (he’d confessed to you on day one that he was gunning for geriatrics), he’s smart in an entirely non-judgemental way, and you’ve studied with him on more than one occasion.

You tried your hardest to like Madeline. As one of the few other women on your course, you’d felt like it was important to have some kind of sisterhood. Support each other in a field dominated by men. She didn’t quite share the same sentiment. While she doesn’t seem to have a huge interest in the ER, she does have an interest in John Carter.

A big one.

If you thought your crush was obvious, Madeline is shameless. She’ll try and flirt with him over the most severe traumas, while the rest of you are elbow-deep in some guy’s guts.

The worst part was, you thought it might be working at the start. For the first week or so, he seemed to entertain it, leading to all sorts of rumours in the ER.

You’re not proud to admit it, but it made you sick with jealousy. Pulling some strings with Mark, you cited an interest in paediatrics as an excuse to work with Doug instead, and tried to put John Carter out of your mind.

It worked for all of a week, before you went to a hospital gala with Mark and the others, and Carter was suddenly everywhere.

It was like Madeline didn’t exist anymore. He was calling for you with traumas, showing you how to suture, and helping you with your charting.

You have no idea what changed.

According to Doug, Carter is into you. But given his track record with Carol, you’re not jumping to take his advice. You’re too scared to ask for anyone else’s opinion, for fear it gets back to John.

It’s only so long before Mark figures it out.

He may be oblivious, but he’s not stupid.

“What’s your problem?” He asks, dropping down next to you in the doctor’s lounge.

You jump slightly at the intrusion, having spent the last ten minutes lost in your thoughts. Madeline’s been even more overt with her flirtations today, and you’re starting to worry that it might be working. “Nothing. I’m fine.”

“Mhm,” Mark replies, entirely unconvinced. “You sound like Rachel. And she’s seven.”

You shoot him a glare. “I do not. I just don’t want to come running to my brother every time anything goes wrong. Gives the wrong impression.”

“You know - you don’t have to make everything as hard as humanly possible for yourself, just because you don’t want to ask for help.”

“I ask for help!” You protest, and Mark snorts.

“Sure. And I’m not getting a divorce.”

Finally, there’s Iain. The worst of them all. Before he even opens his mouth, it’s obvious that he wants to go into surgery. Trauma surgery, to be specific. He carries himself like he’s already an intern, like this placement is just a formality before someone hands him a scalpel and a title.

And for some reason, he’s decided you’re the easiest one to bait.

Carter is tied up with a complicated trauma, Madeline hovering nearby like a shadow, Emil buried in charts, and you’re left with Iain and a patient who needs sutured - simple enough on paper.

“I’ll do it,” You say, a little too quickly, trying to sound confident.

Iain doesn’t stop you. He just steps back, folding his arms. Watching.

It’s almost worse.

You prep the site, hands steady at first as you gather the needle. You’ve done this before. Plenty of times. But there’s something about the way he’s standing there - silent, expectant - that makes your fingers feel heavier than usual.

“Local?” he asks, after a beat.

“I’ve got it,” you reply, sharper than you mean.

A pause. Then, mildly, “Just checking you weren’t going to skip steps.”

Heat creeps up your neck. You inject the anaesthetic, wait a moment longer than necessary, just to be sure. The patient winces, then settles.

Taking a breath, you angle the needle and press it into the skin. You realise immediately that your bite is wrong, and that the stitch won’t hold. Instead, it tears the flesh at one side. Thankfully, your patient isn’t watching, instead opting to look out the window instead.

God, you wish it was a cannula. Or bloods. You’ve been doing them for years - can get even the most tricky veins with your eyes closed.

But suturing is almost exclusively medical students and doctors. You haven’t had nearly as much practice. Especially with Iain’s presence.

You’re totally off your game.

“Depth’s wrong,” Iain says.

“I know.”

“Do you?”

Your jaw tightens. “I said I’ve got it.”

A small pause.

“Right,” He says. “Looks that way. You’re overthinking it. Or maybe underthinking. Hard to tell.”

You don’t respond, teeth gritted as you prepare for another attempt..

“Hand it here,” He adds, already reaching for gloves.

“No,” You snap. “I’ve got it.”

“Based on what?” he replies evenly.

You feel the patient shift under your hands.

“I said I’ve got it,” You repeat, quieter now.

His voice is devoid of all emotion, “You don’t.”

He steps in before you can stop him, close enough now that you have to move aside or be in his way. The decision is made for you.

God, you can’t believe he’s making such a fool of you in front of a patient. In private, you expect that kind of thing. But you’d hoped he would have slightly more respect for you in public.

“Watch,” He says, the word edged with a derision that makes your stomach ache. “This isn’t complicated.”

You leave him to it, for fear that you’re about to cry in the middle of Curtain Two. You’ve had enough embarrassment for one day, and stick to charting, to small tasks, to anything that doesn’t involve someone standing over your shoulder waiting for you to mess up again.

By the time things finally start to quiet down, you slip out under the excuse of grabbing supplies you don’t actually need.

The staff room is empty when you get there. Fluorescent lights humming faintly overhead, vending machine buzzing in the corner. You lean back against the counter, pressing your palms into your eyes for a second, willing the tightness in your throat to go away.

It was stupid.

It shouldn’t matter. You’ve done cannulas before. Nobody gets all of them first time. That’s not how it works. You shouldn’t be letting a stupid comment from a rich prick stick in your head like that. You’ve worked harder in the past year than he has in his whole life, just for the privilege of getting to be here.

A few tears come anyway.

Maybe Mark’s mom was right. Maybe you did just follow him out here because you had nothing else going for you.

“Hey.”

You drop your hands immediately.

John is standing in the doorway, one hand braced against the frame, like he’s been there a second, like he’s been watching you.

“You alright?”

You nod too quickly. “Yeah. Fine.”

He doesn’t move. “Carol said you were upset.”

You sigh. Of course she did.

You let out a small breath, shaking your head. “I’m okay. Just - long shift.”

“You’ve had longer. Worse. What’s different about today?”

If he keeps looking at you with such a tender expression, you think you might bawl. “Just Iain being a dick. I don’t really want to talk about it. Exam stress, portfolio stuff, it all just caught up with me. M’fine. Promise.” You offer him a smile, though you can’t imagine it’s in any way convincing.

“Want me to give him the impaction in four?”

You snort. “You’d do that for me?”

“Of course. Guy's a dick.”

“I think… that would make me feel a little better, yeah.”

“Consider it done,” Carter muses, before continuing. “I know you don’t like to use the Mark connection, but if Iain’s really bothering you-”

“I’m fine, John. Promise.”

He nods, and steps back towards the door, when you speak again.

“Carter?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you think you could maybe give me some suturing tips tomorrow? I think I could use some practice.”

He doesn’t seem at all surprised, and you wonder how much he knows. Just as he’s about to leave, he pauses. “You know, she had chronic steroid use. Makes skin really fragile.”

“What?” Your head whips round to face him.

“Not your fault,” Carter shrugs, and then he’s gone.

*****

You manage avoid Iain until your final hour, when Carter appears at your back. “Greene, McDougall - I want opinions.”

You fall into step behind John, Iain a few paces behind, barely able to hide his disinterest.

“Middle-aged male,” He says quickly. “Chest pain. Came in about twenty minutes ago. Central obesity, history of Type 2 Diabetes, currently taking Metformin, Propanolol and Atorvastatin. Here,” He passes you a chart, “is his ECG. Talk to me.”

You examine the patient in the bed first, while Iain goes straight for the ECG. The patient - Michael Murray, you note - is diaphoretic, pale, one hand pressed flat against his chest. Not sweaty, the way you’d expect from a straightforward MI, but you can’t rule it out yet.

Iain answers first, of course.

“Likely non-cardiac,” he says, glancing briefly at the chart. “Could be reflux. Maybe musculoskeletal. He’s overweight, risk factors unclear. When patients are that obese, they can’t really tell what’s chest and what’s stomach pain.”

You reach for the ECG, examining it carefully. On first glance there’s nothing hugely wrong - no obvious STEMI, or tented T-waves. But there is some ST-depression. “I would do another ECG. Posterior this time. Make sure it’s not an MI before I move onto other differentials.”

“Based on what?” Iain asks.

“ST-depression in the anterior leads. And I think I see some prominent R waves in V1 and V2.”

“It’s non-specific,” He cuts in. “You can’t call a posterior infarct off that.”

“I’m not calling it,” You reply, trying to keep your voice steady. “I’m saying it’s a possibility.”

“A remote one. Much more likely indigestion given the presentation.”

The patient shifts again, visibly uncomfortable. You glance at Carter, who remains quiet, and you suddenly realise what he’s waiting for. He wants you to fight for this, for your patient. “I’ll do another one,” You say, reaching for the leads. “Posterior, this time.”

Iain’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. “It’s not necessary,” he says.

“Maybe not,” Carter replies evenly. “But it’s quick, cheap, and if she’s right, it matters a hell of a lot to this patient.”

It’s a strange feeling when the ECG comes back with massive ST-elevation in the V7 to V9 leads. On the one hand, you know the patient has just had terrible news delivered to him, and you empathise greatly. On the other hand, you’re so relieved to finally get one up on Iain.

Within minutes, the trolley’s being wheeled out, heading upstairs to the cath lab. As it disappears through the doors, Carter turns back. His eyes land on Iain.

“You see the problem?” He says.

Iain doesn’t answer.

“You didn’t even glance at the patient. You went straight for the ECG, and treated him like a textbook case. Pain, presentation, risk - those matter more than your first impressions.”

Iain’s expression is tight. “It wasn’t a classic presentation.”

“They rarely are,” Carter replies. “That’s the point.” He checks his watch, before letting out a heavy sigh. “Anyway, I think that’s a good place to stop for the night. Go, try and enjoy the rest of your nights, and be here for seven sharp.”

You all disperse, and make for the lockers. Despite the save at the end of the day, you’re still desperate to get home, and clean the hospital grime that lingers for weeks out of your hair. Carter follows, chatting absentmindedly about the MI. How he doesn’t think he would’ve caught it at that age.

Madeline tries to catch him on the way out of the lounge. Asking for some kind of favour regarding her portfolio.

“Hm? Yeah, I’ll catch you tomorrow. We can talk about it then.” Carter’s voice is distracted, and he doesn’t slow down. Doesn’t stop.

Madeline falters, just slightly. “Oh - okay.”

But he’s already looking past her.

At you.

“You heading out?” he asks.

You nod, adjusting your bag. “Yeah.”

“Good,” he says. “Come on - I’m done too.”

You push through the hospital doors together, the air outside cooler, quieter - for a second, neither of you say anything. You wipe at the sweat on your forehead, and let out a small sigh.

Finally, he speaks, “You did well back there.”

You glance over at him. “I almost didn’t say anything.”

“I know,” He shrugs. “I watched you hesitate. But you spoke up, and that’s what matters. You saved a man’s life today.”

“You knew it was a posterior MI,” You argue.

“I suspected - you confirmed.” He pauses for a second, as you walk up to your respective platforms. “Get some sleep. You look like you need it.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Wow. Thanks.”

“Me too,” he admits. “Long shift.”

The train pulls in, brakes screeching slightly as it slows. “See you tomorrow, Carter.”

He offers you a soft smile. “See you round, Greene.”

*****

You hear them before you see them. Heading into work first thing, you’d been planning on getting a head-start on some scut work to free you up for studying later. It appears some of your colleagues have beaten you to it.

You don’t mean to overhear, but the lounge door is creaked open, and when you pause to tie your lace, you catch a voice.

“…it’s getting ridiculous.”

Madeline.

You pause, just out of sight of the doorway.

“What is?” Iain’s voice, lower, disinterested.

“Carter,” She says, sounding annoyed. Like he should just immediately know what she’s talking about. “Or have you not noticed?”

A beat.

Then, dryly, “If this is about you not being the centre of his attention anymore, I’m not interested.”

“It’s not that,” She snaps, a little too quickly. It definitely is.

You should leave.

You don’t.

“It’s about her,” Madeline continues. “He keeps pulling her onto cases. Showing her things he doesn’t show the rest of us. I mean, I know she’s his boss’ sister, but come on.”

“He’s overcorrecting,” Iain says. “People do that. Get fixated.”

“On her?” Madeline scoffs. “Why?”

“Why do you think?” Iain says, quieter now, but sharper.

Madeline doesn’t answer straight away.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she asks, guarded.

Another pause. You can almost picture the look on his face. “Come on,” He says. “You’re not that naïve.”

Your stomach twists.

Madeline lets out a small, incredulous laugh. “You think - what? That they’re…?”

He doesn’t answer immediately.

“I think,” Iain says finally, “that kind of attention usually comes with a reason.”

“No,” Madeline says quickly. Too quickly. “That’s not - no. He wouldn’t.”

“Wouldn’t?” Iain repeats, almost amused. “I thought that was actually kind of his thing. If you’re to believe what the nurses say.”

“He’s not like that,” She insists, but there’s something strained underneath it now. “And she-” a scoff, sharper this time, “-she’s not exactly-”

She stops again, like even she doesn’t quite know how to finish it. She doesn’t have to.

“Right,” Iain says, unconvinced. “Because this makes so much more sense otherwise.”

“It doesn’t have to be that,” Madeline snaps. “Maybe he just… pities her or something.”

That stings in a completely different way.

“Sure,” Iain says. “That must be it.” His tone makes it clear he doesn’t believe that for a second. “Either way, it won’t last.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Means,” He says, “if it’s about performance, she won’t keep up. I mean, she’s a fucking nurse, for Christ’s sake.” A pause. “And if it’s not,” He adds, “that kind of thing burns out fast. She’s just pretending, and they’re all indulging her because they like her.”

Madeline doesn’t respond.

You don’t wait to hear more. Your pulse is loud in your ears, drowning everything else out.

She won’t keep up.

That kind of thing burns out fast.

Not only do you have to deal with the very real prejudices against you for your background - now there’s apparently a sex scandal, so obscure that even you and Carter aren’t aware of it, despite allegedly being involved.

You just need to keep your head down, and ignore them entirely.

A patient needs reviewing. Then another. Observations, notes, small jobs no one else wants - you take them all, keep moving, keep your hands busy so your head doesn’t catch up.

When there’s a lull, you pull out your notes, leaning against the counter, flipping through exam checklists. Cardio, Neuro, GI, Breast - just a few of the practical exams you need to be able to perform flawlessly for your OSCEs coming up next month. You mouth them under your breath, like if you say them enough times they’ll stick in your brain.

“Practicing or hiding?”

You look up.

Carter nods toward the empty treatment bay. “Come on.”

You follow him in without question.

He sets up a practice pad, hands you the needle holder. “Show me.”

You start slower this time. Deliberate. Thinking about depth, angle, tension - getting the perfect bite. Already, things are looking better - all you had to do was remove Iain from the equation. He gives you a few tips, showing you how to do other stitches for different injuries, and you get to practicing on a banana.

He watches your next stitch. “OSCEs coming up, right?”

“Yeah.”

“You’ll be fine,” He says. “They’re more interested in whether you think about what you’re doing than whether it’s perfect.”

“That’s reassuring.”

“It’s true,” John shrugs. “Talk through it. Show your reasoning. Half of this is just convincing people you know why you’re doing something. Tell them what any sign you spot could indicate”

You nod, tying off the stitch a little more neatly this time.

“See?” he adds. “That’s already better.”

Before you can respond-

“Carter - trauma incoming! We need you in the bay.”

“Shit,” Carter scrubs a hand across his face. “I’m sorry-”

You’re about to interject and tell him it’s fine, that he’s done more than enough already, when he keeps talking.

“You want to run through some examinations later?”

“Oh,” You reply. “I uh, I get off at five.” It’s not that you aren’t grateful for the offer. But you’ve been here since six-forty-five this morning, and the idea of overtime is not an appealing one.

“Yeah, I know. I do too. You could come round to my place - we could order pizza, do a practice exam?”

You must be dreaming. This cannot be real. And yet, Carter’s scribbling something down on a piece of paper, and pressing it into your hand. An address.

“Any time after six is fine.”

*****

It’s only when you’re trying to pick out an outfit that you realise what a terrible idea this may be. Half of your classmates already think you’re sleeping with Carter - anything that could come out of tonight would surely only further that.

Then, you really start to consider Iain and Madeline’s position in your life. Realistically, once this rotation is over, you’re unlikely to ever see them again. Your graduating class is huge, and soon you’ll all be picking electives anyway.

In an ideal world, you’ll match to County. Neither of them want to stay in Chicago after graduating.

You’re overthinking.

This is fine.

Carter is your friend, and that’s all this is.

You manage to get out of your head, and land on an outfit - a slightly-nicer-than-average top and jeans. Casual, but definitely a step up from scrubs.

Unfortunately for you, Carter had neglected to mention the fact that he lives in a literal castle. You’re still trying to get your bearings when he opens the door, smile wide. “Hey, you made it!”

“Are you like a Kennedy or something?” You mumble, glancing around the foyer as he leads you inside. Your whole apartment could fit in one tiny corner of the hallway “Jesus.”

He has the decency to look a little embarrassed, rubbing at his neck. “Uh, yeah - the Carter Family isn’t really known for subtlety. But my grandparents are away on holiday, so we’ve got the place to ourselves.”

“I don’t think we’d be encroaching on their space even if they were here.”

Truthfully, you’re glad there’s nobody else here. While the red cotton is nicer than scrubs, it’s certainly not nice enough to meet Carter’s rich-as-God grandparents.

His room isn’t quite as extravagant - very Carter, but still obviously full of items that cost more than you make in a month. “Make yourself at home.”

You let your backpack drop to the floor, and perch at the very edge of the bed, too scared to touch anything else. “So… uh, how do you want to do this?”

“Well,” He starts, leaning back against the headboard. “I figured I could be your mock patient, and you can just treat this like an OSCE. Then we can go over anything you missed at the end over pizza?”

“Are all the medical students getting such special treatment?” Deep down, you know the answer already, but a part of you wants the confirmation.

Carter scoffs. “God, no. Emil, I would consider helping him out within my working hours. The other two are on their own though.”

“Really?” You murmur, leaning forward to rest your chin on your elbow. “Thought you were quite fond of Madeline-”

“Who said that?” Any teasing has disappeared from his tone, his brow furrowed slightly.

“Nurses talk,” You shrug. “You’re forgetting I still do the occasional shift. Lydia knows all.”

“Well, she doesn’t know that,” He grumbles. “I do not like Madeline. At all.”

“Got it,” You reply, suddenly desperate to change the subject. Maybe he’s regretting suggesting this. “Shall we get started?”

“What do you want to do first?”

“Um, Cardio.”

*****

“Okay,” Carter breathes, face only inches from yours. “What’s next?”

“I need to listen to the valves of your heart now,” You reply, trying to drag your gaze away from his. “But uh, first I need to feel your apex beat.”

“Good girl.”

You stiffen just slightly at the phrase, praying that he hasn’t noticed the shift. Your mind races ahead of you, wondering what it would be like if he was saying that in a different context, while you were writhing under him-

No.

You can’t think of him like that. Especially not now. He’s your friend, and he’s doing you a favour, and all you can do is think about how much you’d like him to-

“Mid-clavicular line,” You say, voice barely more than a squeak. “Fifth intercostal space.”

Your fingers press down his bare chest as you feel his ribs, moving slightly until you feel the familiar thump against your hand. It’s strong and regular, but definitely a lot faster than you’d be expecting from a guy Carter’s age.

“What do you notice?”

“It’s a little fast. I should listen to make sure.”

He just nods, and lets you reach for the stethoscope, before you press the diaphragm to the mitral valve. Just as you felt before, his heart is hammering.

You swallow heavily. “Still tachycardic.”

“Why do you think that might be?”

“Um, I guess it could be stress, high caffeine intakes, exercise…”

“Close proximity to a pretty girl?”

“What?”

“S’a good differential. Definitely one you should consider. Now, c’mon. Keep going.”

As if you can think about anything else after that admission. But he’s looking at you expectantly, and you try desperately to make your brain start thinking straight again. You listen to the other valves, and start to check for thrills and heaves, praying that he can’t tell how clammy your hands have gotten.

You press the bell of your stethoscope to his carotid, pretending not to notice the way his eyes keep flitting to your lips. “No sign of aortic stenosis,” You say softly, and Carter nods.

“Good sign. What next?”

“Um…” Shit. Your mind has drawn a total and utter blank. Your brain is too occupied with the way Carter’s cologne tickles your nose. “I don’t remember.”

He watches you for a second, before deciding to put you out of your misery. “You should check my back next.”

“Oh. Right. Yeah. Thanks.”

You check for scars or deformities, before listening to his lung sounds. Because of the way he’s sitting up, your back ends up bent at an awkward angle while you try and check for sacral pitting. “You know,” He murmurs. “Might be easier for you to just sit there.”

The idea of being any closer to John than you are right now makes you positively dizzy, but you’re not in the habit of not listening to him. Mostly.

Bracing your hands across his bare shoulders, you hoist yourself behind him, and get settled. Really, it’s unnecessary. You know already that Carter doesn’t have sacral pitting.

“Nothing interesting?”

“Nope.”

“Can’t really hear you from back there,” He replies. “Sit up a little closer to my ear, honey.”

You comply, getting ready to give him a rundown of the examination, when Carter tilts his head, and kisses you.

Even though the entire study session has arguably been preamble for this, it still manages to catch you off guard. His lips are soft but intentional, parting your own with his tongue.

God, you can’t believe this is happening.

In just a single movement he twists, bracing over you as you’re crowded up against his headboard. Your hand tangles in his hair, pulling him further into you.

As close as he can humanly get.

“Nobody would dare fail you if this is the kind of exam you give,” Carter mumbles between kisses, and you groan.

“You’re so mean.” There’s no real bite to it, but you pout against his lips anyway.

His fingers tug at the hem of your sweatshirt, and you lean back to let him discard it, leaving you in only your bra. It’s definitely not one of your sexier items of clothing - focused entirely on comfort during long shifts in the ER - but up until twenty minutes ago you’d assumed that this was simply a study session.

If it were anybody else, you’d feel self-conscious.

Something about John puts you at ease, though. It always has. Even when you were deeply terrified of him, of embarrassing yourself in front of him, you’d known deep down that he’d never make fun of you, even if he didn’t feel the same.

Based on the way you can feel him hardening against your thigh, you figure that’s not an issue. “Prettiest girl in the world,” He mumbles, lips returning to your neck. Eyes fluttering closed, you hook your fingers into the waistband of his jeans, and he allows you to tug them downwards. Yours go next, leaving you both in your underwear.

When it comes to foreplay, you’re used to a finger or two, scissoring you open just enough for the main event.

You’re not expecting John to draw back entirely from you, as he starts to press kisses down your navel.

You’re almost embarrassed for him to reach your panties, given how much you’ve managed to soak through them in just a short time. “Is this for me, or do cardio exams just really get you going?”

He shoots you that shit-eating grin, and you roll your eyes, before allowing your upper half to flop back onto his pillow. If he wants to be a dick, two can play at that game-

“Oh.”

Carter wastes no time, mouthing at your cunt through the wet fabric. One hand settles on each thigh, holding you firmly in place for him.

There’s no build-up - just Carter and his tongue, relentless against your skin. You don’t even register when he gets the fabric out of the way, your hand finding a home in his hair to guide him to where you need it most. “F-Fuck, John-”

“Yeah, honey? You like that?”

The coil in your belly is tightening, and you feel the familiar wave of panic start to wash over you. You’ve never been good with orgasms - it’s always felt too scary to let yourself go like that with another person. What Carter is doing feels really fucking good, but you also know that you don’t want to ruin this. “Need you up here-”

He complies immediately, clambering back up to press his lips to yours. You taste yourself against him, moaning into his touch. Everything’s going so well, Carter’s reaching for his bedside table, when…

“You have had sex before, haven’t you?”

You pull back. “You did not just ask me that.”

“What? You're… young.”

You stare at him, jaw dropped. “I'm twenty-five, not sixteen. What are you - twenty-nine?”

“Twenty-eight,” He grumbles.

“Well - I’m not a virgin, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Not worried,” He replies, more earnest than you expected. “Just want it to be good for you.”

You’re suddenly overwhelmed with a deep affection for the man in front of you, and lean forward to kiss him again. The wrapper crinkles as John fiddles to get the condom out without breaking contact with you.

“You’re sure about this?” He asks, and you laugh.

“Not sure I could get a better anatomy lesson if I tried-”

Your voice cuts off in a sharp gasp as he pushes in just slightly, before pulling out again, cock head dragging through for folds. “Fuck.”

He does it again, pushing just a little further, and then retreating. Only on his third time, does your hand cup the back of his head, to draw him against you. Carter bottoms out with a low moan, hips rolling so he catches your clit.

Instinctively, your legs wrap around his waist, and he starts to move.

“Thought about this so much, sweet girl,” He grunts, peppering kisses across your cheeks as he rocks against you.

It’s a real effort to form a coherent thought, and you lace your fingers through his. “You h-have?”

“Haven’t been able to get you out of my head since that gala. H-Had to get myself off in the shower as soon as I got home, ‘cause of that dress. ‘Cause of you in that dress.”

“Didn’t realise you even noticed.”

“S-Should’ve taken you home right there. Shouldn’t have left you wondering how I felt.”

Carter looks just as overwhelmed as you feel - a bead of sweat is trickling down his chest, and there’s a vein on his forehead that looks like it’s in serious danger of bursting. He picks up the pace a little, and you whimper.

You’ve never whimpered in your life.

You hope you remember this moment for the rest of your life. “Kiss me, Johnny.” Your voice is breathless, almost unmoored from your body.

You can feel the coil tightening again, but it doesn’t feel quite as scary when John is looking at you so sweetly, and pressing kisses to the corner of your mouth in between his praise.

It creeps up on you, and soon your face is buried in the crook of his shoulder as you cry out his name.

*****

“God. Your brother is going to kill me.”

“Mhm, he’ll get over it.” You’re currently tucked into Carter's side under the duvet, fingers tracing soft patterns onto his chest.

“Easy for you to say,” John snorts. “You won’t be the one he kills.”

“I’ll make sure that you’re remembered,” You hum, pressing a kiss to his cheek as you bite back a laugh. “I’ll throw you a memorial, get Benton to eulogise you. It’ll be the event of the season.”

“Glad to hear it. “Make sure to make it tasteful,” He adds, deadpan. “I want something upbeat. Something that says ‘he died young, but at least he had good hair.’”

“You do have good hair,” you murmur, carding your fingers through it like you’re proving the point. “I’ll make sure that’s mentioned. Extensively. Very pullable.”

“I’m sure my grandmother will love to hear that that’s my defining trait.”

“Well, you also give really good head. I’m not sure she’d want to hear about that, though.

A comfortable silence settles over you both, Carter’s arm tightening round you. “…You really think he’ll be that mad?” He asks after a moment, voice dropping just a notch.

You shrug against him. “Mad, yeah. Murderous? Probably not. He likes you.”

“He tolerates me. But just so we’re clear - if I do die, I want you to erect a statue in my honour.”

You groan. “Absolutely not.”

“Life-size.”

“No.”

“Bigger than life-size. Ten feet fall.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“Bronze,” He continues, ignoring you entirely. “Dramatic pose. Maybe a sword.”

“You’ve never held a sword in your life.”

“Details.”

It isn’t until an hour later, when you’re cross-legged on John’s bed wearing only his shirt, a pizza box perched between you both, that you have the courage to ask. “So… like, was this just a one-time thing, or… what?”

Not your most eloquent of phrasing, but you figure you’d scare him off if you admitted that you’ve been in love with him pretty much since you saw him for the first time.

“Technically it’s already a two-time thing, since we fucked again in the shower.”

“John-”

“Okay, okay,” He concedes, hands in the air. “Comedy surrounding the sex is not appreciated. Noted. Well… on that note. I think I’d really like to take you out for dinner. Celebrate your catch yesterday properly. Celebrate you properly.”

You smile, so wide that it almost makes your cheeks hurt. “Really?”

“Oh yeah. You’re not getting rid of me that easy, Greene.”

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"Do you want to stop and grab some food?" he asked.

You glanced up at him, considering it. The thought of food made your stomach turn, but the thought of Frank going hungry because of you made you feel even worse. "Not unless you're hungry."

He shook his head immediately. "Not that hungry." It was probably a lie, but right now, he was just thinking about getting you home. "I still have some pasta left from yesterday. We can heat it up."

He gave you one last smile, the kind he only ever gave you, and then he closed the door.

You watched him walk around the front of the car through the windshield, his breath fogging in the cold air. When he got into the driver's seat, he shut his door and immediately reached for the climate control, twisting the dial all the way to the red, cranking the fan to high. Warm air started blasting from the vents almost immediately.

He turned to look at you. "Good?"

You were already half asleep. Your head was tipped back against the headrest and your eyes closed. And without opening your eyes, you held up a thumbs up.

Halfway through the drive, you opened your eyes, glancing around, seeing the familiar street yet most definitely not the street to your own home. You tilted your head sideways on the seat, your cheek pressing into the headrest and raised an eyebrow at him. Really?

Frank caught it at the next red light. "You need to rest," he said gently. "And my bed's softer."

A soft smile tugged at your lips as your gaze dipped downward. Frank’s hand rested on the gearshift, close enough that you could’ve reached out and touched it. You didn’t, but you thought about it.

You didn't even feel yourself drifting off. One moment you were watching Frank drive, the next you were somewhere where the bad shift couldn't follow you. Your head had lolled to the side at some point, your temple pressing against the cool glass of the passenger window.

You didn't know how long you were out, but it was long enough for Frank to park the car, kill the engine and sit in the silence for a moment just watching you sleep.

After a while, he leaned across the center console, his fingers fumbling with the buckle of your seatbelt. The click was what pulled you up from the depths. That and the warmth of him so close, his breath soft against your cheek.

You smiled as you woke up.

You couldn't help it. His face was the first thing you saw. He was so close you could count his eyelashes if you wanted to (and you've tried doing it before). It was the same way you felt every time you woke up with his face being the first thing you saw.

"Hey, baby," he mumbled.

His fingers were still near your collar, having just released the seatbelt, but he let them drift upward, brushing a strand of hair out of your face, tucking it behind your ear.

"We're here," he said quietly.

The cold hit you again when you stepped out of the car, grabbing your bag from the floorboard, slinging it over your shoulder, and shutting the door behind you.

Before Frank could take two steps toward the building, you closed the distance between you and wrapped your arms around his neck. Your bag bumped against his back, but neither of you moved to adjust it.

"Sorry," you mumbled into his shoulder. "Just need this."

The Pitt wasn't a place for physical touch. You've seen your coworkers get weird looks for hugging a little too long, for touching a little too much. The Pitt was a dark place, where gossip and rumours thrived. They were small distractions that kept people from fully waking to the hell it really was.

Which was why you'd been waiting like crazy just to hug him.

All day. Through every bad moment of that very bad shift. Through every patient who'd looked at you with desperate eyes, every family member who'd yelled at you for things beyond your control. You'd been waiting to be away from the Pitt, where no one would shoot you weird looks for hugging Frank for at least five minutes.

"Don't apologize," Frank mumbled into your neck.

His arms came around you slowly. One hand found the small of your back, the other pressed flat between your shoulder blades, and he pulled you in tighter. His face turned into the curve of your neck, his nose pressing against the spot just below your ear. He rubbed your back gently.

You knew, in the back of your exhausted mind, that you were just friends with benefits with Frank. That was the arrangement. That was what you'd agreed on, months ago, when things had first started between you. It was simple and easy.

Except it really wasn't.

You were slightly aware, standing there in the cold parking lot with your arms around his neck, that it was weird to hug him randomly like this. Friends with benefits didn't usually hold each other in parking lots for minutes at a time. They didn't rub each other's backs or mumble into each other's necks or act like they'd been starving for contact all day.

But this was Frank.

Frank, who'd let you do anything. Even just hug him gently because you needed it. He'd never made you feel weird about wanting more than the arrangement allowed. He'd never pulled away or set boundaries or reminded you that this was supposed to be casual. He just let you take what you needed, and he gave what he could, and neither of you talked about what it meant.

You pulled back eventually.

Your arms slid from his neck, your hands dropping to his shoulders, and you looked up at him and his eyes were soft in a way they always were when looking at you.

You smiled at him a little awkwardly, but old habits died hard. And your habit was to repress the feeling of vulnerability the second it surfaced.

So you kissed him. It was a little desperate. You grabbed the front of his jacket and pulled him closer, and you kissed him like you could make him forget the hug and soft look in your eyes.

Frank kissed you back. His hands found your waist immediately, fingers curling into the fabric of your scrub top, and he stepped into you until your back was almost against the car door. He was taller than you and he leaned down to meet your mouth, his nose pressing against yours, his breath warm on your skin.

You couldn't help but feel comforted by how gentle he was being. You grabbed his face, your palms pressing against his jaw, your fingers threading into the hair at the nape of his neck. You tried to pull him closer, but he didn't let you. You made a small sound when he finally pulled back.

But Frank just let his fingers trail down the side of your neck, before dropping back to your shoulder. "You've had a long day," he mumbled, still slightly dazed from the kiss. "Come on."

You stared at him. The word no was on the tip of your tongue. Just let me stay here with you in the cold parking lot where no one can see us.

But he was right. You had had a long day and you could feel the exhaustion creeping back in now that the adrenaline of kissing him was fading. Slowly, your fingers slipped from his jaw, trailing down his chest before falling back to your sides. You rocked back on the heels of your feet, putting a few inches of cold air between you.

Frank took your hand again and led you toward the building without another word.

His apartment door let out the same squeak it had for months when he pushed it open. You’d tried more than once to get it fixed, tired of being woken by it when he slipped out to grab breakfast after you’d spent the night together, but nothing ever worked.

He stepped inside and held the door for you, and you walked past him into the hallway. Frank closed the door behind you and turned to you, and before you could say anything, he was reaching for your bag. His fingers found the strap, lifted it gently off your shoulder, and plopped it onto the floor by the door.

His hands found the zipper of your jacket, pulling it down. He then pushed the fabric off your shoulders, his knuckles brushing against your arms.

"You need anything?" he asked softly.

You shook your head, but you could see him looking at your shoes and you could see him thinking about bending down.

You quickly shooed off your shoes, kicking them off and sending one of them skittering across the floor. You glared at him with a don't you dare look.

Frank held up his hands in surrender. I get it, stop glaring at me for even thinking about it. His mouth twitched like he was trying not to laugh, but he appreciated it nonetheless. It just reminded him how deeply in love with you he truly was, how you thought of the small things, like steering him away from anything that would make him have to bend down.

His bedroom was dark except for the sliver of streetlight filtering through the blinds shining onto the drawer where he kept the little teddy bear you'd given him for his birthday.

"Can I have the blue shirt?"

Frank huffed, already crossing to the closet, voice tinged with disbelief as he slid the door open and started pushing hangers aside. "Again?"

"It's my favorite," you murmured, stepping up behind him, close enough that your chest brushed his back, and reached past him into the closet. You pulled it off the hanger before he could even turn around.

"It's my favorite too!" he called out, spinning to watch you.

You were already stepping back, holding the shirt against your chest like a prize, grinning happily, because you knew he'd let you wear it.

Frank sighed. "The things I do for you," he said, shaking his head.

You giggled behind him, turning away from him as you pulled the blue shirt over your head and you buried your nose in the collar for just a second before you turned back around.

Without glancing back, he grabbed a pair of boxers from the drawer and handed them over his shoulder. You took them, your fingers brushing against his, and you pulled them on under the shirt.

He kept looking for pajamas for himself, pushing hangers around, muttering under his breath about how he needed to organize this closet someday.

"Sorry, I'll do the laundry tomorrow," you mumbled, now staring down at the pile of your scrubs where you'd dropped them.

"Leave it," Frank said, shrugging it off. He finally plucked a pair of grey sweatpants from the closet and tossed them onto the bed, then lingered there a moment, watching as you climbed in.

The sheets were cool against your legs. You pulled the blanket up to your waist, the blue shirt bunching around your hips, and you leaned back against his pillows.

"I’ll do it tomorrow morning, it’s fine," he went on, a small smile tugging at his mouth as he looked at you, like really not a big deal at all, don't feel bad about it.

He always woke up before you no matter how late you stayed up, no matter how tired he was, he was always the first one out of bed. He'd make coffee and start the laundry and let you sleep for an extra twenty minutes before he came back to wake you up with a hand on your shoulder and a quiet hey, baby, time to move.

He started changing. His scrub top came off first, and you watched the muscles in his back move as he pulled it over his head. Then he kicked off his pants and left them in a heap right next to yours. You watched him from bed, your chin tucked into the collar of his shirt, because you were incapable of not staring at him. Even when he did the most mundane things possible.

Then he turned toward the door.

"Where are you going?" You quickly sat up in bed, the blanket pooling around your waist

Frank paused with his hand on the doorframe. He looked over his shoulder at you. "Need to clean out the dishwasher," he sighed, ruffling his hair slightly. "God knows how long it's needed to be cleaned out."

"You can do that tomorrow," you said.

"I should really just—"

"Frank." Your fingers twisted in the blanket and you felt the vulnerability rising in your chest again. "Can you just—" You hesitated.

He was still standing in the doorway and his eyes were big and blue and so endlessly patient.

Your heart was beating faster than you wanted it to. "Can you just—come to bed. Please?"

You saw the way his mouth parted slightly in surprise. He couldn't help the flutter in his chest or the feeling he'd been trying to ignore for weeks now.

"Yeah, of course, baby," he said.

He hurried, closing the door first, then reaching for the light switch, plunging the room into darkness. Only the streetlight remained as he finally crossed the room. He scooted into bed with you, the mattress dipping under his weight and before he could find a comfortable position, you practically fell on top of him.

You barely had to adjust. Your body knew his by now. You entangled your legs with his, your calf sliding between his, your knee pressing against his thigh. The blue shirt rode up your hips, and his bare chest was warm against your cheek, and you could hear his fast heartbeat. You pressed your face into his warm neck.

His hand came up to your hip,his fingers finding the edge of the boxers. His thumb softly traced the line where fabric met skin, then he tugged, making the boxers slap lightly against your skin in a way he knew annoyed you.

You knew he was trying to get you in a fun mood and it worked. You immediately smiled to yourself, and Frank’s mouth softened into one too when he felt your smile pressing lightly against his neck.

But just as quick as the smile formed on your face so did the vulnerability come back. The need to hide.

You pressed a kiss against his neck, your lips dragging against his skin, hoping it'll distract you. Frank hummed slightly as you kept kissing. His eyes were closed, his head tipped back against the pillow, his hand still resting on your hip. After a while, his hand traveled from your hip to the back of your head. His fingers threaded into your hair and his thumb brushed gently behind your ear, making your eyes flutter closed even as you kept kissing his neck.

"Can I ask you something?" His voice was quiet and slightly rough, the way it always was after you kissed him.

"Yeah," you finally pulled back all the way, pushing yourself up on your elbow so you could peer down at him.

You were doing what you always did, which was to lean over him, do the job of letting him rest on his back, not wanting him to have to look down at you. He deserved to rest his back after standing for God knows how long.

He always appreciated it, because yes, his back was in so much pain right now and the only thing helping was you being in his bed and in his clothes.

He reached up and his palm cupped your cheek. His thumb moved to your forehead, brushing back the frown that had settled between your brows. "You think something changed between us?"

You tried to keep your face neutral, but his thumb was still on your forehead and he could probably feel the tension there. "Like what?"

You could sense, from the way his eyes held yours, that he already knew you knew the answer.

"I think we're dating," he said.

Your whole face shifted, and you felt all the emotions at once. Surprise, relief and terror. "How presumptuous of you."

For a second you worried you'd made it weird, but then Frank laughed and you couldn't help but smile too.

"Come on, think about it, pretty," he chuckled softly.

And you did, even if deep down you already knew the answer. You didn't know when it had changed. Maybe it had always been like this, and you'd just been pretending otherwise.

When you looked back at Frank, he was looking away. His eyes were fixed on the sheets now, avoiding your gaze and his neck was red from both your kisses and his nervousness.

Your heart was racing too, pounding loud in your ears, your palms were sweaty and your mouth was dry, but you spoke anyway. "Guess we are, handsome."

Frank's eyes finally shot toward you and he finally saw your sweet smile. He smiled widely, teeth showing, eyes crinkling, the whole thing. "Yeah?" he asked.

You smiled back nervously, but could hear the familiar voice in your head telling you that you'd said the wrong thing and that you should take it back before it was too late.

Frank sensed it immediately. His eyebrows furrowed, the smile fading just slightly as he read your face.

"Hey," he started again, softer this time, his voice losing its teasing ease. "I’m just—just saying…" He trailed off, then pushed through it anyway, words coming more careful. "I feel something different. I—"

His hand moved from his jaw to his mouth, brushing over his lips like he was trying to physically hold the words back. But they came anyway, because you were the one person he couldn't hide from.

"I like you more than—" He stopped again, took a breath and started over. "More than what's casual for what we're doing."He kept his eyes on your face and when you didn't immediately respond, he kept talking. "But if you don't feel that way—"

He was really nervous now, because you'd just agreed to it like it was nothing and then you'd gone quiet, and he couldn't tell what you were thinking, and he didn't wanna pressure you.

God, no.

The last thing he wanted was to pressure you. He'd spent too many months waiting and hoping. He could wait longer if he had to. For you, he would.

"I do." You interrupted him, your heart pounding so hard you were sure he could hear it now. Nervously, you bit your lip. "I—" you hesitated.

The word like felt too inadequate for everything you felt when you looked at him, but you didn't have a better one. So you used that one, hoping it would be enough.

"I like you," you whispered. "A lot."

Frank smiled, savoring the words. "Yeah?" he sounded breathless.

You nodded. "Yeah."

"That's—that's great," he said.

You stared at him before you started smiling. "That's great? That's what you go with?"

Frank groaned slightly, but he was grinning, completely gone for you. You finally softened up, the tension in your shoulders leaving, and he watched it happen like it was the best thing he'd seen all day.

"Don't judge," he mumbled, his face flushing slightly. "I've been meaning to talk to you about this for months."

Months. He'd been feeling this way for months.

He finally pulled you down onto his chest and he pressed his face into your hair. Maybe to hide his own vulnerability now. His nose was against your scalp, his breath warm through your hair, and you could feel his heartbeat racing under your cheek.

"You know how hard it was?" he mumbled. He pressed a kiss to your head and your body relaxed against his. "I'd see you in the hallways," he finally said, "and I'd want to just—I don't know. Grab your hand. Pull you aside. Tell you that I couldn't stop thinking about you."

His hand was moving on your back now as you smiled to yourself.

"But I didn't know if you felt the same. And I didn't wanna—" He paused, searching for words. "I didn't wanna mess things up. You were already in my bed. I didn't wanna push too hard and lose what we had."

You opened your mouth to respond to tell him that you'd been lying to yourself about the casual thing for weeks, but he kept talking. "But as soon as you let me do your laundry, I knew I had you."

He grinned, you could hear it in his voice. His hand, which had traveled back to your hip, found the waistband of the boxers and his finger hooked under the elastic and let it snap lightly against your hips.

You didn't hesitate to swat at his chest. "Seriously?" you looked up at him. "I thought you were about to say something romantic."

But you were smiling, because his grin was simply too infectious. He was so happy. If his racing heartbeat hadn't been enough proof under your ear, the look on his face would have told you everything.

He smiled down at you, and for a moment, neither of you said anything.

But then his hand, the one not on your boxers, reached down for your leg. His fingers curled around your thigh and he pulled it properly around his hips. The movement made your head bend backward over his shoulder as you glanced up at him from a new angle.

"I can be romantic," he mumbled. "Trust me," he continued, his hand still resting on your thigh. "I'll be plenty romantic now as your boyfriend."

Your smile widened and you looked up at him with eyes that probably gave away everything you'd been trying so hard to hide.

Now when he sleeps, he sleeps. 

Which he deserves, to be honest. Jack had only fallen asleep two hours ago after spending most of the morning negotiating with her to finally (let you) get some rest. He’d taken the first shift without complaint when he saw you dragging your feet after a particularly rough night at the hospital. 

Go to sleep, honey. I got her. 

And of course Jack did. Taking it the way he takes everything in life. Wars. Patients. SWAT duty. Robby. A nameless baby. You. 

No biggie. 

So when she woke up, you had slipped out of bed silently. Now, after feeding her in the kitchen and more desperate bargains, you are tiptoeing back into the bedroom with her asleep in your arms. 

Sunlight tries and fails to get past the heavy blackout curtains that cover almost the whole front wall. The bed is already calling your name, it looks so soft and you can’t wait to lie next to your husband again. The bassinet is on Jack’s side, since he has more space over there, so you carefully reach it to place the sleeping babygirl on it. 

You’re almost there. You can see salvation. You are already on cloud nine. 

You’re also too busy imagining the warmth of Jack’s body next to yours, that you don’t notice when your foot catches on one of his crutches, sending it flying against the bassinet in a loud clatter that wakes everybody and the neighbor up. 

Oh no. Oh no no no. You had almost cried in relief when her little body relaxed and she finally drifted off just a few minutes ago. You might cry for real now. 

The baby beats you to it though. Her eyes open wide for a second before her face twists and she lets out the most piercing cry you’ve ever heard in your entire life. 

“No, no, no, sweetheart. I’m sorry,” you panic, immediately bouncing her against your chest. “I’m sorry–shh, shh, it’s okay.” 

You try to soothe her, walking away from the bed but it’s already too late. 

“What happened?” Jack’s voice comes out low and raspy when he sits on the bed, rubbing his eyes violently before focusing on you. “Did you get hurt?” 

“No!” you say quickly, heading toward the door even if your ankle does sting a little. “I’m fine, I just tripped. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

You try to make a quick exit, but she cries harder, squirming in your hold with her little fists going into the air. You bounce her softly, patting her back reassuringly. 

“I know, I know you were asleep baby, I’m so sorry,” you whisper, almost at the door. 

“Wait,” Jack says before you can step out of the room, fully awake now as he reaches for something next to the bed. 

“Jack, no–you don’t have to get up,” you say, swaying in your spot. 

He ignores you as he sits on the edge of the bed. He’s shirtless, silver hair sticking up in messy waves, and already halfway through putting his prosthetic on. 

“Jack,” you try again, a little louder over the baby’s crying. “Please go back to sleep. I got her.”

He stands up after putting the crutch back on its place, and you take a few steps back as if to keep a distance between you. 

“You’re limping,” he points out. “Stop walking.”

“I said I’m fine,” you insist, now in the hallway. “I just tripped over the crutch. I already fed her, it took forever to get her to sleep again, but I swear I can–“

“Honey.”

It’s a simple word. It should not hold this much power over you. Yet it makes you stop right in your tracks as he gives you those impossible, worried hazel eyes. 

“Give her to me,” he says–no, he commands. “Please.”

“No.” You try to be just as firm, but your voice is barely audible over the wails. “You were up with her earlier and you’ve barely slept. You need more hours.”

“So do you,” he shrugs, crossing his arms. “Go back to bed, honey.” 

“Jack–“

“Bed.” 

His voice leaves no room for argument. 

Even when you want to tell him that you should be the one up. That you’re the one who convinced him you could do this, that you could open the door to this baby, to this fragile little life you already care too much for. But with the way the sweet girl is screaming in your ear, you’re too tired to keep pretending you have any real authority here. 

You sigh, carefully transferring the crying baby into his arms. Jack settles her on his bare chest, keeping a hand behind her head and his arm beneath her body. 

“I know. I know, sweetheart,” he coos, placing a soft kiss on the top of her head. “Shhh, you’re okay, I got you.”

Jack begins to sway softly, his palm covers almost her whole back, keeping her little body tucked safely against the warm skin of his neck.

He prompts you to walk inside the bedroom again, and you don’t waste time protesting anymore. Before you know it your body is already sinking onto the absurdly expensive mattress you’re so grateful for right now, as Jack begins pacing the room with the fussy baby. 

She’s got some great lungs, you’ll give her that. 

“I know that was scary, kid,” he coos at her, “big noise in a dark room, mhm mean crutches…it’s alright, come here…”

You peek from your spot to catch her still kicking and letting out little sobs while Jack shifts her lower, his arm holding her whole weight as he puts her little ear to his chest. 

“Listen to my heart, right there, you hear that?” he says, and you can hear the smile on his voice. “Thump, thump, thump…”

His index finger taps lightly on her round belly, matching the rhythm beneath his ribs.

“That’s mine, yeah,” he nods, as if she understands anything he’s saying. “Big, old, grumpy heart. It’s been through a lot, but I like to think it still works pretty good.” 

That gets a little laugh out of you. Jack glances at you for a second, since you’re supposed to be asleep already, but he keeps talking to the baby.

“Yours does the same thing, but faster,” he explains, all serious, lifting one hand and gesturing with his fingers. “Because it’s tiny tiny like this. Brand new, working extra hard.”

There isn’t a single thought behind her eyes, but Jack’s voice seems to soothe her enough for her cries to break into small sobs as she listens intently to him. 

“Little thump thump thump thump,” he taps her belly faster, catching her attention, and her angry fists finally lower, trying to reach for his hand. “There you go, sweetheart.”

He smiles down at her, moving his hand closer. She starts batting it, her little legs no longer kicking in distress but in awe at Jack’s attention as her crying slowly subsides. You watch endeared from your spot, because yes milk might be great, but there’s nothing Jack’s hold can’t fix. 

She’s already so much like you. 

“You just wanted a little cuddle, huh?” Jack whispers playfully, swaying her softly, watching her little eyes start to close. “You can sleep now, kid. You’re safe…you’re home.”

You see him lift his gaze toward you, but you close your eyes pretending to be asleep. 

Jack just smiles, padding softly across the room toward the bassinet. But just as he’s about to place her down, she lets out a discomfort whine and tenses up in his hold. 

“Okay, okay, I won’t let go,” he chuckles, holding her close to him again. “Someone really did a number on you, didn’t they?” he shakes his head, trying to keep his voice steady. “ But nobody's leaving you, kid. Nobody’s forgetting you anymore. Not here." 

You bury your face on the pillow, trying to keep your own tears at bay. 

“I know living with us might not be easy,” he continues, rubbing circles on her back. “Two exhausted doctors with blackout curtains in every room. Sounds questionable, yeah…but we’re not bad,” he says with a cheeky smile. “Your mom–your foster mom is better than me,” he glances at you, making sure you’re still asleep before continuing, “she’s softer, and prettier…and she’s my favorite person. She’ll be yours too in no time.” 

Yup. That definitely got you.

“And for your foster dad…I learn fast, and I don’t scare easily. So if you’re planning on being difficult, you should know we’re still gonna be there for you,” he reassures. “And…maybe one day we’ll take the foster out of it…” he offers casually, like his heart–thump thump thump–is not telling him to just go sign the papers right now. “No pressure, of course…just saying, if you like it here,” he clears his throat, only to smile when he notices the girl has finally fallen asleep in his arms. 

He kisses her forehead. 

“It’s gonna take some time getting used to being a night crawler, but I think you already got this kid,” he adds in barely a whisper. “Hooah…”

That earns a snort from you, that turns into a sniffle after Jack poured his entire heart out thinking you were out. You suddenly feel his hand on your ankle, rubbing circles to the sore spot you hit the crutch with. 

“Sleep, honey.”

“I’m sleeping,” you say, keeping your eyes closed. 

“You were eavesdropping,” he says, but there’s no resentment in his voice. That makes you shift just enough to meet his eyes. 

The sight of him holding a sleeping baby to his bare chest just makes you want to cry more. 

“I didn’t mean to,” you say, wiping your cheeks but he just lifts an unimpressed eyebrow at you. “Okay, maybe I did. But it’s just…I think you’re really good at this.”

Jack only nods fondly, because if he speaks he’s gonna break too. 

 “I think we got this, we…we got her,” you add.

This time Jack rounds the bed, keeping a hand on the baby’s head so he can lean down and place a soft kiss on your lips. It’s salty, dry lips dancing together with a small bundle between your bodies. Your bundle.

Baby Jane Abbot.

“We got her,” he agrees, lingering for a moment before straightening up to pace around the room again. He’s clearly not letting her go. “Now go to sleep, honey. I don’t want to have to tell you again,” he says in that maddenly authoritative tone.

You bite back a smile, sinking deeper into the covers and reaching for his pillow to cuddle it until he goes back to bed. 

“...Jack?” 

“Mm?”

“You should charge people for that voice,” you whisper, earning a chuckle from him.

“I think the lack of sleep is getting to you,” he says, lowering his voice when the baby shifts. “Close your eyes. Now.”

With a satisfied smile on your face, you close your eyes only for a few seconds before opening one to peek at him. 

“...Can you say that again?”

Part Two

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