James Buchanan Barnes

Your polite smile widens a little at the nickname. “You paged?”

“We’ve got a three-year-old girl. Suspected meningitis,” Robby briefs in a monotone, each word coated in a thick layer of fatigue. “High fever, lethargy, neck stiffness— labs are ugly, too.”

Your features soften instantly. “Oh, poor baby…”

Your eyes dart to the window. You catch only a sliver of the family through the edge of the curtain — young parents, likely in their early twenties, faking teary smiles for their sick baby, who sits in a too-big bed in a too-big hospital gown patterned with so many cartoon puppies.

“Parents are freaking out, obviously,” Jack adds gently, never once taking his eyes off of you. “We thought you could walk them through the admission process before we take her upstairs.” 

“Of course,” you nod, with a voice as gentle as you look.

Jack passes the clipboard over to you and allows his calloused fingers to brush your softer ones for a beat longer than probably necessary. Though if you notice it, you make no mention of it as you flip through the thin pages and follow behind Robby into the dim room. 

The chaos outside muffles when the door clicks shut behind you. 

A young mother — Nia, the form tells you — sits in a chair beside the bed with a wadded tissue clutched in her trembling hands. Her husband, Malcolm, sits on the edge of the hospital bed, wearing the long day all over, as his daughter curls lazily into his side. Ruby Turner is clammy with fever; her round eyes are heavy with it, too. And beneath her chubby arm, is a stuffed animal wearing a lab coat and a stethoscope around its long neck.

“Hi, there…” you greet in a gentle lilt, crouching beside the bed until you’re eye level with the toddler, who eyes your warm smile with a weary suspicion. “I have to say, that is a very serious giraffe you’ve got there, Miss Ruby.”

The girl blinks back at you with sleep-weary eyes; the same dark brown as her mother’s. “Pickles,” is all she can make out through her hoarse throat. The words came out like dry gravel, which rattles harshly in her chest when she coughs hard a second later.

Her dad pats her gently on the back with a wide hand and flashes you a tired smile. “She named him Pickles,” he clarifies.

“Pickles?” you gasp. “I had a dog named Pickles when I was growing up— He looked a little like that one there.”

You motion to the shaggy white dog on her hospital gown. The girl tilts her curly head down and begins pointing at each puppy herself, aptly naming each of them Pickles. It’s the first time the child has been moderately alert, or otherwise has been willing to engage, since she arrived some hours ago. Watching you work feels a little like watching a magic trick.

“Sorry. Hi. I should probably introduce myself,” you laugh warmly and rise to full height again, shaking both of the parents’ hands. “I’m one of the pediatric caseworkers upstairs— My job is basically helping families know what’s happening next. You know, all the boring insurance details, and making sure you guys aren’t going through things alone.”

The mother nods, wiping her nose with the crumbled tissue in her fist. “So what happens now?” she asks, voice teary and trembling.

You nod with a polite smile. “Yeah, so the pediatric unit is gonna start preparing a room for her upstairs, so our doctors can give her the full evaluation she needs— They’ll probably monitor her over the next few nights, too, just to make sure everything’s okay. And you’ll be able to go with her once transport comes, of course, we’ll just need to get everything squared away with insurance while she’s getting tested.”

“So she’s gonna be okay?” the father presses, half-strangled.

You never lie to families. Not ever. It was, as you saw it, the golden rule in any hospital. Jack noticed that about you, too — because he couldn’t help but notice everything about you. But he saw how hopeful you were without ever being dishonest, without ever making promises you knew you could not keep.

“She’s exactly where she needs to be,” you answer carefully. “And she has the best doctors I know taking care of her now. You guys made a great decision by bringing her when you did.”

The mother beside you sniffles. Her exhale leaves her mouth in a quiet sob, which she buries behind her hands before her daughter can see her crying. It’s not quite sad — certainly not as much as it had been earlier that day — but rather it’s a cry of distant relief; the first time all day she hasn’t felt like the worst mother on the planet.

Robby exhales quietly through his mouth behind you — scruffy cheeks puffing, obviously eager to leave. Jack, however, just keeps on staring at you, as you turn back toward the little girl with your voice now lowered in a feigned sort of seriousness.

“Now, Miss Ruby, I’m gonna need your professional opinion on this, okay?”

The girl blinks slowly back at you.

“…Do you think Mr. Pickles needs his own hospital bracelet, too?”

Jack sees the young girl laugh for the first time all day when you’re helping her wrap a plastic arm band around the giraffe’s stuffed leg. It’s basically your superpower, the way you make all the terrifying things feel halfway manageable. By the time you’re stepping back out into the hallway, with Jack and Robby at your side, the family is a little bit steadier than they were before you arrived.

Jack eyes you up and down for a moment, before leaning in to nudge your shoulder with his broader one. Your soft sweater grazes his bare arm, and he gets a faint whiff of your pretty perfume before he leans away again.

“When did you get so good at that, huh?”

Your head whips to the side. You blink like an owl up at him “…At talking?”

“Sure, yeah,” he laughs. “At talking people off the ledge.”

“Oh.” You bounce a shoulder in a lazy shrug, then reach to pull the neck of your sweater back up again when it slips off your collarbone. “I don’t know, I just… try not to sound like a hospital brochure, I guess.”

“Hear that, brother?” Jack quips, reaching behind you to clap Robby on the shoulder. “Try not to sound like a hospital brochure next time, yeah?”

The older man says nothing. He just lifts his hand and scratches at his temple with his middle finger, discreetly flipping him off.

You laugh under your breath and head back towards the elevator, pretty skirt swishing around your ankles. “Try not to traumatize anyone while I’m gone, alright?”

“Can’t make promises like that down here, Sunshine,” Robby calls back. “You know that.”

“Yeah, I’m starting to think we should just keep you down here permanently,” Jack says with a lazy shrug. His freckled biceps flex slightly when he crosses them over his broad chest, swaying back and forth on his feet. “You know, just— bring you into every room before the doctors go in. We’ll call you the Emotional Support Coordinator.”

“Oh, would you?” you scoff a faint laugh and hit the button for the upper floor. 

The doors part with a soft ding a second later. You step in through the threshold and turn to face him once more, giving him a much better view of the smile on your face.

“I mean, it’d certainly make me feel better,” he jokes.

“Well, you’re not the patient, Dr. Abbot,” you retort with a devilish grin. “I’m pretty sure you’ve got a few more years before your geriatric assessment, right?”

“A few,” he echoes sarcastically, light eyes squinted. “My opinion still counts, though.”

You shake your head at him despite the soft grin still dancing on the edges of your mouth. “You’re funny, Dr. Abbot,” is all you say, as you press the panel on the inside of the lift. The doors whir when they slide shut; your grin remains visible between them until hatch closes just ahead of you.

Jack drops his head with a chest-deflating huff when you’re gone.

Robby tries and fails to choke back his laughter. 

“You are officially 0 for 6, brother,” the man jokes. He claps Jack on the shoulder, hard, as his dark eyes squint under the weight of his smiling. “It’s honestly getting a little painful now.”

Jack turns to flash him a deadpanned look. “Shouldn’t you be clocking out now?” he wonders in a monotone.

“Not anymore,” Robby scoffs. “It’s just starting to get fun.”

The pediatric floor was quieter in the mornings, you found, after switching to the day shift some weeks back. It was never truly silent, exactly, but it was still a little bit softer, as the panic from the overnight patients faded into a calmer sort of quiet. 

Cartoon reruns play quietly behind closed doors, while lively children’s music can be heard from further in the main area, down the hall to your right. A softer set of lullabies, meanwhile, plays more distantly from the nursery behind the double doors to your left. And, somewhere within the soft sanctuary of it all, a wailing baby is fighting a losing battle against taking their liquid medicine.

It’s all confetti to you, really, from where you sit behind the reception desk with three different charts open on the monitors ahead of you. 

There’s a highlighter in your hand, a pen behind your ear, a paper cup of cooling coffee between your teeth, and approximately fourteen unfinished tasks glaring at you from the computer screen. 

You have not yet properly woken up — the same way the sun has not quite yet risen over the horizon. Your hair has been haphazardly dealt with, for one. Your cherry-colored sweater is bunched awkwardly at your waist, for another, while the white button-up you wear beneath it sticks out over top of your plaid-patterned bottoms. You vaguely noticed that your socks were mismatched when you slid into your scarlet flats, but were much too tired to bring yourself to care.

You don’t even flinch when the phone rings beside you. You reach for it with your free hand without looking, missing twice before finally plucking the plastic from the hook.

“PTMC—” You falter when you realize you still have the paper cup between your teeth. You scramble to set it back on the desk with the hand not holding the phone. You clear your throat and try again. “PTMC Pediatrics— How can I help you?”

“Morning, Sunshine.” 

Jack’s low voice crackles from the other line. You can practically picture him downstairs in the E.D. just now — leaning against the workstation with a computer glowing before him; with his messy silver curls, and his tired blue-green eyes, and that stupidly handsome half-smile he gets every time he talks to you.

You’re smiling at the thought alone before you even realize it. 

“Dr. Abbot?” you answer. “Do you need something? What didn’t you just page me—”

“Weren’t you the one who said I can call just to say hi before you switched to the dark side?”

(The day shift, he means.)

You scoff quietly and lean back in your swivel chair. “Well, I guess, that is preferable to getting paged about sick babies, so… I’ll take it.”

“Wow…” Jack croons drily. “You always say the sweetest things to me, you know that?”

“Well, what can I say? I’m very charming before seven A.M.”

“I think you’re very charming all the time, Sunshine.”

You falter for a brief moment, unable to tell if he’s flirting with you or if he’s just being nice and you’re the weirdo for thinking otherwise. So you shake the thought from your head and change the subject entirely.

“You sound tired, old man— Isn’t it almost bedtime for you?”

“Almost…” His sigh crackles through the faint static of the landline. “But unfortunately, there’s this case manager upstairs who won’t stop distracting me…”

You exhale a frustrated huff, utterly oblivious as you begin to gossip with him under your breath. “Is Hastings bothering you, too? Because she’s been hounding me about clearing beds up here since I came in an hour ago.”

There’s a long beat of silence on the other line, filled by the sound of distant chatter from the E.D.

“…I’m talking about you, Sunshine,” Jack clarifies.

“Oh…” you trail off, face burning hot. Your brain scrambles further when the light starts flashing on your desk, another call waiting. “That’s, uh— Sorry. There’s— There’s just someone on the other line.”

“Oh.”

You tuck the phone between your shoulder and cheek, fingers whizzing across the keyboard as you type with practiced (only now slightly anxious) hands. “So if you wanna have a conversation, you’re gonna have to trek all the way up to pedes, unfortunately.”

“Damn…”

“Yep…” you hum absentmindedly. “It’s a real difficult journey. Very treacherous elevator ride.”

“Well, you’re making a pret-ty compelling argument here, Sunshine.”

“Goodbye, Jack,” you lilt with a big dumb grin on your face, that you hope isn’t as audible in your voice.

“See you soon, Sunshine.”

You think nothing of his words when you decline his call and take another. You hardly expect to see him now, not when he’s still wrapping up the long night and briefing the day shift that’s trickling slowly in downstairs. He’s about half an hour shy of going home and collapsing face-first into his mattress — and you’re hardly special enough to lose sleep over.

Jack, however, respectfully disagrees. 

And so does Dana, who saunters into the workstation to start her morning, only to find the man hanging up the desk phone with a lazy grin hinting at the edges of his mouth. 

“What’s that look for, huh?” she croons in place of a greeting, shrugging off the jean jacket she arrived in and spreading it on the back of her chair before her.

Jack looks up from where he’s shoving the phone back into its cradle. “What look?” he scoffs. “I don’t have a look.”

“Oh, you most certainly have a look,” she argues.

“I have a face, Dana.”

“Uh-huh,” the older woman deadpans, half-distracted, as she logs into the monitor ahead of her, with her glasses sitting low on her nose. “And right now, that face looks like you’re the main character at the climax of a Nora Ephron movie.”

“…What’s a Nora Ephron?” Jack wonders with furrowed brows.

The corner of Dana’s mouth lifts in a crooked half-smile as she peers at him over the top of her clear frames. “Go ask Little Miss Sunshine about it. She’ll tell ya.”

Jack’s light eyes narrow in a smug sort of look as he strolls slowly past her. “Thanks for giving me an excuse to go up there, Evans,” he quips. 

“Oh, please,” she scoffs. “You were already on your way.”

There’s a newfound skip in his step, along with a faint limp in his prosthetic from the long shift, as he makes the elevator ride up to the pediatric floor — where he’s greeted instantly by soothing lullabies, children’s laughter, and reruns of old cartoons.

He’s swaddled instantly by the dim lighting and the soft warmth — both of which are rare to find in the cold, sterile chaos of the unrelenting E.D. just a few floors down. It’s like entering a whole new world when he steps out of the elevator.

Jack hears your voice, distant at first, but growing louder the further he treks down the hall. “No, I understand the policy, sir. You don’t have to explain it to me again—”

You exhale an annoyed sigh when the man on the other line prattles on, anyway, talking in a slow monotone as if you hadn’t understood him the first time. Despite your irritation, you perk instantly when Jack enters your vision, still in his black scrubs from the night shift, with a new exhaustion etched across his scruffy face.

He greets you with a tight-lipped smile anyway.

Your chest swells with a funny feeling accordingly.

“Sorry,” you mouth apologetically. “Just— one second.”

Jack waves a hand in your direction. “You’re fine,” he mumbles and turns away, idling awkwardly some feet away with his hands in his pockets, pretending not to hover. He marvels at the paintings on the walls, vivid scribbles from children of all ages, as he shifts on his weight — trying to relieve the distant pressure in his artificial limb.

You return to your phone call some feet behind him: “Yes, I get that. But this is a six-year-old going through extensive leukemia treatment— Delaying authorization for inpatient care would—”

You grumble an annoyed breath and drop your head into your hand when the man on the other line speaks over you once more. Jack glances over his shoulder at you, features softening instantly.

“—No, why should his parents waste their time fighting insurance, which should already be in place, by the way, when they could be spending it with their son? How is that fair?” you continue, obviously angry, but still so soft in your way. There’s a few seconds of silence as the person on the other line responds. You nod wordlessly to yourself at whatever they’re saying. “Yes, I will absolutely call back when your supervisor comes in— and every day until this is handled. Alright? Great. Bye…”

You set the telephone back on the hook with a huff.

“…Asshole,” you grumble around your breath, then get all sheepish again when your eyes find Jack’s. You cower under his softened stare. “Sorry… This insurance company’s trying to deny extended coverage for one of our oncology kids— because apparently compassion is illegal now, so…”

Jack musters a weak smile as he closes the distance between you. “I’m sure it’ll all work out.”

“Hopefully…” you sigh, a little embarrassed now, as you shrink further in your swivel chair. “So, uh... H-How was your shift?”

“Better now,” the older man croons, folding his arms along the countertop ahead of you, and leaning in until you can smell the cologne lingering on his skin — a mixture of leather and sandalwood.

“You’re such a suck-up, Dr. Abbot,” you say with squinted eyes.

His face twists into a look of faux-offense. “Well, that’s not a very nice thing to say to someone trying to invite you out for lunch, now is it?”

You brighten instantly. “Wait, really? That sounds so fun! Are Shen and Ellis coming, too— I haven’t seen them in ages!”

Jack’s smile falters slightly at the edges. “Well… Well, no, ‘cause I.. I thought, you know, it’d be just us. You know, you and me. Like a date.”

You blink owlishly back at him. “Oh…”

“Unless— Unless you don’t want to—” Jack stammers, quickly losing his ground.

“Of course I want to!” you blurt, a little louder and a far quicker than you mean to. “I just… I didn’t— I didn’t realize that you, you know, that you… liked me.”

His brows lower in confusion because, to him, it couldn’t have been more obvious that he was into you. He’d spent months tripping over himself to get your attention, including the time he ran into a crash cart ‘cause he was too busy staring at you to notice that it was in his way.

A chuckle sputters suddenly from his mouth accordingly. “I’ve been flirting with you for weeks! I mean, I’ve been calling up here just to talk to you since you changed shifts!”

“I thought you just liked bothering me!” you giggle in return, face burning hot.

“Yeah, well,” Jack tilts his silver head. “I do like bothering you, actually.”

“I like when you bother me, too…” you murmur sheepishly, struggling to meet the man’s unwavering stare as you swivel anxiously back and forth in your chair. You catch yourself smiling wider than you realize when you tell him, “And lunch sounds great, by the way.”

“Great…” Jack exhales a breath he didn’t know that he was holding, that he feels like he’s been holding in for weeks now. “‘Cause Robby’s kinda been threatening to ask you out for me if I didn’t do it myself, so… Happy to save myself the embarrassment.”

Your eyes widen with a girlish sort of horror. “Wait— Robby knew?”

“Sunshine,” Jack grins. “I’m pretty sure the entire hospital knew.”

"what're you doing here?" he asks, a little sharp, and you sense his annoyed tone.

"craig asked for help with something," you answer nonchalantly, "more importantly, where are you going?"

andrew glances at you. "none of your business."

you knew he wouldn't give you a real answer. "that shirt... it's very..." you try to find the words, "lavender."

"i know what color it is."

"right. i just wasn't aware you owned anything that's not grey or black."

he sighs, turning to sip his coffee. "was there something you needed?"

"no, just," you pause, eyeing him from head to toe, "you look nice."

andrew's eyebrow twitches.

andrew's disinterest or annoyance with you is no secret. you're one of the few people who pushes his buttons and he honestly doesn't know why he puts up with you.

you're one of craig's friends who has become close to the rest of the codys, and you particularly like to spend time commenting on things andrew does.

"you're supposed to rinse the sponge once you're finished." "i know. i'm not done." "ok, i'm just saying... the sponge could use a bit of rinsing."

"andrew, can you stop staring? god it's like you're drilling a hole on my head." "...maybe i am." "well knock it off." "you're annoying."

"he's going on a date." you hear deran say as he passes by.

"really, man?" andrew huffs, he doesn't want to make a big deal about it.

"oh." oh. you nod, feeling a twinge in your chest.

andrew sips his coffee and subtly glances at you, wondering why you're not making a snarky comment about it.

you fidget with your bag. "well, have fun then."

and then you leave to go find craig by the pool.

andrew frowns, something from your reaction not sitting right with him.

andrew's back by nine.

you're still at the house, ended up staying for dinner because craig ordered enough food to feed an army and it felt wasteful to leave. part of you is relieved he's back early, but you're still a little on edge.

"yo." craig nods his head at andrew, throwing him a can of beer.

he catches it easily, plopping down on the couch next to you.

and you can still smell his damn cologne.

"how was the date?" you can't help but ask, and then regret it immediately after.

"fine."

of course. not a drop of detail. you exhale quietly and eat your pizza.

andrew's gaze moves from the tv to you, wondering about your unusual silence. you'd normally bother him about everything, so technically you should be bothering him about this. you should be asking him a million questions by now.

was she your type? what did she wear? where did you guys go? was she nice? did she comment on the lavender shirt? was she funny? did you kiss her? did you...

and of course andrew doesn't know these questions are running in your head right now. you just don't want to ask. you can't. you don't want to know the answer to them. because deep down you're scared of the answer. you'd rather not know.

feeling that painful twinge in your chest again, you bite your lip and push yourself off the couch.

"alright, i'm taking off."

"what?" craig whines, "dude it's not even 10."

"yeah i got an early thing tomorrow." you lie. "see you guys."

you grab your bag and walk away, not even saying andrew specifically goodbye like you typically would.

andrew watches you leave. something's definitely wrong. he can feel it in his chest, in his head. he needs to get to the bottom of it.

he gets up from the couch and follows you out.

you're about to walk out of the gates when you hear andrew calling over you.

"what're you doing?"

"..leaving? duh." you cross your arms.

"i mean, why are you walking? where's your car?"

"oh," you lower your arms, "i sold it."

"you sold it?" andrew's brows raise.

you sigh, "yeah, i needed the extra money."

"jesus..." andrew sighs too. "come on."

"what?"

"what do you mean, what? i'm driving you home."

your face scrunches. "it's fine, i'll just walk--"

andrew calls your name sternly. "get in the car."

not up for debate. got it. you grit your teeth and walk towards his truck, climbing in. "...thanks."

andrew just glances at you before starting the engine.

the ride is quiet. your plan to walk home while sulking went sideways so now you have to hide the stinging feeling until you're home.

you already know what this is. you think you've actually been hiding the fact that you have feelings for andrew quite well and for quite some time. you dodge it with snide comments, slightly making fun of him to make sure he won't notice.

but you can't do it right now. you can't hide your sullen face. and andrew sees it clear as day.

"so, uh," he clears his throat, "what's wrong with you today?"

he gets right on it.

"what?"

he glances at you again. "you're all quiet."

"...i'm just tired."

"no, that wouldn't stop you normally." you roll your eyes at his comment. "you'd be making fun of my purple shirt and asking a thousand questions about my date and then some."

right. the date.

"so what's wrong?" he asks again.

"nothing is wrong, andrew." you sigh. "maybe i think you actually look good in that shirt. maybe i'm just not curious about your date that much. i did ask how it went, right? there. i asked."

"you don't want to know if she was rude to the waitress? where she's from? what she does for a living? how i met her?"

your jaw clenches and you close your eyes for a second. "no, no, no, and no. believe it or not, i don't care that much about you."

that lands a lot more meaner than you intended. it's actually not at all what you want to say. you want to tell him how much you do care and how much you want him and how he deserves the best in the world. but how can you tell him that?

andrew goes quiet.

"i'm sorry," you apologize. "i didn't mean that."

"so what do you mean?" he asks, pulling over to the front of your house.

"nothing. it's nothing." you repeat. "thanks for the ride."

you immediately open the door when andrew shifts the gear to park and the door unlocks automatically, but andrew's faster to reach over and grab the handle, shutting it close and locking it again.

"andrew--" you gasp when you turn around.

he's so close. you can smell his cologne again and feel his breath on your skin.

"tell me." he almost begs.

you feel that tightness in your chest again, and your gaze drops down to his lips.

and then out of adrenaline, emotions running high, you mentally scream fuck it and kiss him.

andrew's taken aback. he goes rigid.

he wasn't expecting this, you can tell. and after a few seconds of you basically kissing a wall, you pull away, unable to look him in the eye, unlock the door manually and leave without a word.

you can't believe you did that.

why would you do that?

you rush to your door, but again, andrew's fast. he's climbing out of his car and racing to you. your hands shake as you fumble for your keys, and then you feel his hand wrap around yours.

"fuck. fuck. fuck." you curse out, trying to calm your nerves.

andrew turns you around to face him, cupping your face and searching deep into your eyes. he wipes the tears away.

and then he kisses you this time. he pecks you once. twice. three times. until your arms start reaching up for him too.

hours after, you're lying in your bed next to andrew, bodies tangled as you both catch your breaths. he pulls you into his arms, foreheads touching.

"something's on your mind." he states.

you really can't escape him. "not sure you want to know this one."

"try me."

you bite your lip before looking at him and asking; "did you.. sleep with her?"

andrew softens. he shakes his head. "no. left right after i finished eating. then i went for a walk."

you won't admit you feel glad hearing that.

then andrew pulls you in even closer, whispering by your ear. "kept thinking of you."

you look up at him, eyes sparkling with hope. "yeah?"

"yeah." he mutters, leaving kisses on your neck. "been thinking of you for a long time. but you keep making fun of me. thought you hated me."

"sorry," you sigh, "defense mechanism. for what it's worth... i thought you hated me too."

andrew pauses and looks at you, making sure you're looking right at him when he says: "i don't hate you. i can never hate you."

you smile at that.

"who knew andrew cody is such a sap?"

All through dinner, he had been dismissing your job as a charge nurse. Like so many others before him, he thought you were too young and making it up just to impress him—his exact words. You truly didn't know why you didn't leave after he had said that.

He did believe you were a nurse, sure, just too young for the responsibilities you were talking about. At thirty three, who was running an entire service? He has asked with disdain and mockery.

Truth be told, you were used to that kind of judgment. When you had been transferred to the emergency department, the nurses had given you sideways looks before they saw what you were capable of. Lena had trained you, explained how things worked, and made sure you understood exactly what you were getting yourself into. It had been a hell of a ride this past year, but you'd say you were doing well and so did your nurses and the doctors.

It was a hard, demanding, and stressful job, yet one you were thriving in.

Gulping down the last of the wine in your glass, you zoned out, no longer really registering what Jordan was even saying. He talked about his job endlessly, unbothered by whether you were listening at all. You took comfort in the fact that you had finished your dessert and were simply waiting for him to finish his.

The moment you'd get home, you'd call your best friend and tell her you never wanted to be set up with anyone ever again. You already knew what she would say: that you needed to get over the massive crush you had on your sort of boss.

The night shift attending. Doctor Jack Abbot.

In your defence, he had been the one to start the flirting. And he had gone in hard. He had been all over your work during your training, and on your first night as charge nurse, he hadn't restrained himself on the praising.

Usually, you weren't the type to be thrown off by a man's words, but Jack was different. It was hard to explain what had shifted between the two of you, since you had known him from your very first day at the hospital—back when you were a surgery nurse. He would occasionally come up to the floor to check on a few patients, always warm and polite, a refreshing change compared to some of the surgeons.

When a charge nurse position opened up in the ER, you had applied and after a few interviews, you had gotten it. The step up was more than welcome, even if the role was more draining.

Once you had finally found your footing, built trust with your nurses, the doctors, the interns, and the students—you had felt confident enough to flirt back.

And from that point, there had been no coming back. He was older, but you didn't care. What were eleven years, really, at your age? Nothing drastic, nothing that would stop either of you anyways.

Also, you couldn't help but think he looked far better now than when he was younger. You had once seen a photo from when he was first hired, and while he had been genuinely cute back then, the silver in his hair and the quiet confidence and dominance that came with age had made him something else entirely.

It had started with small compliments, scattered here and there. How good your new hair colour looked. How fresh your makeup was. How well you worked. How the place wouldn't survive without you. All of them unapologetic, said loud enough for anyone nearby to hear. You were no different. Every haircut earned a comment from you. You would bring him food when you could tell the night was going to be a long one. You praised what a good doctor he was, just as he praised what a good nurse you were.

It was a little much and at first the rest of the crew had felt awkward around it—as though they were always walking in on something. Eventually they learned to move around the charged atmosphere you two put out and stopped hesitating to interrupt when needed.

After a year on the night shift, neither of you had ever acted on any of it, both seeming to feel that doing so might ruin what you had. As if it was something sacred. That hadn't stopped you from developing serious feelings for the man, and you were almost certain they were returned.

But for one reason, you were afraid. You had noticed that Jack had stopped wearing his wedding ring somewhere between your promotion and now, and that had unsettled you deeply. You didn't want to replace her—his late wife—you couldn't even if it was your greatest wish. It wasn't, you had too much respect for the deceased woman, it wasn't even a thought that had crossed your mind. However, you were terrified that was exactly what he was looking for in you.

It would be impossible to fill her shoes—to fill the hole she had left behind in Jack's heart. Even with all the love you could possibly have for him in a near future, you would never be her. And that was a terrifying thought: maybe he was simply looking for a replacement. Someone to fill the hole. A hole no one would ever be fit to fill.

That had been why you had accepted this awful date.

After splitting the bill, at his demand, you were now out on the street ready to part ways. He had driven you both here, but honestly, you couldn't stand the thought of spending another minute with this man. It wasn't that late and you lived close enough, you could and would walk.

As you pushed through the restaurant door, you felt a quiet frustration settled—you had wasted a perfectly good dress on someone who hadn't even bothered to notice it. It clung to your curves beautifully, with a low neckline that deserved at least a glance at your breasts. It hugged your stomach too, but you had never made any effort to hide the fact that you were on the curvier side, and you weren't about to start now.

After exchanging a few polite words, both of you promising to text—either of you knowing full well the both of you were lying—you set off toward your place, mildly annoyed that he hadn't even offered to drive you home. What a complete waste of an evening off.

Not three seconds later, you heard a loud crash behind you, unmistakably the sound of a car accident. You turned to find your date on the ground several feet from a stopped car, a large shard of windshield glass lodged in his shoulder.

"Oh, fuck," you breathed, and then you were running.

He was conscious, sitting up on his own, trying to make sense of what had just happened. Once you were satisfied he was alert, you rushed to the car. The driver was conscious too, yelling about how Jordan had come out of nowhere, his hands shoving uselessly at a jammed seatbelt.

People nearby had already called 911. All there was left to do was wait. As a nurse, walking away felt almost criminal, so you stayed. While bystanders gathered around the driver and worked to get him out of the car, you went back to Jordan.

You crouched in front of him, and for just a moment your eyes left his—long enough for something warm and wet to splash across you, followed by a sharp groan.

"I don't think I was supposed to do that," Jordan said, the glass shard now in his hand a look of shock splattered across his face.

Blood had poured from the wound straight into your cleavage before slowing to a trickle running down his chest. You pressed both hands hard against the wound without hesitation.

"No, you weren't." You kept your voice flat, falling on your knees on the concrete scratching them. He was about to pass out—you could see it in the way he was staring at the glass in his hand. "Can someone get me a towel? Anything?" you called out to the crowd.

The response was immediate, as his eyes rolled to the back of his head. Seconds later you were pressing down on the wound with a clean towel while Jordan lay unconscious on the ground. It wasn't blood loss that had taken him under the wound was small, even if it had bled dramatically after he took of the piece of glass. It was the sight of his own blood.

You exhaled slowly and looked up just as ambulance lights swept down the street.

The paramedics assessed Jordan, applied pressure to the wound, and were now loading him into the ambulance. You stood there weighing whether to follow. You recognised the crew, and given where the restaurant was, you already knew they were heading to PTMC.

You looked down at your hands, still trying to decide and that was when you noticed it. Something was wrong. At some point between the accident and now, you had sliced your palm open. It wasn't serious, nothing you couldn't handle yourself, but your hands were covered in blood.

Blood that wasn't yours. Blood that could be infected.

"Oh, for fuck's sake," you muttered, then raised your voice to flag down the paramedics before they pulled away.

Walking into the ER was one of the most humiliating experiences of your life. Rationally, it wasn't that bad, you were staff, you walked in here almost everyday. But you were also covered in someone else's blood, and those two facts did not sit well with each other.

Your date had been taken straight through when they arrived, while you had deliberately hung back for a few minutes. It had seemed like the considerate thing to do at the time.

It was, after reflexion, possibly the worst decision you had made all evening. Because rather than looking like someone who had helped an injured man, you looked like a woman who had been assaulted.

The first person to spot you was Shen, who had been laughing with Ellis at the nurses' station. His laugh cut off the instant his eyes landed on you, replaced by a sharp intake of breath. Within seconds he was crossing the floor toward you at speed, already calling out for a wheelchair.

"No, no, I'm okay," you tried explaining as the entire ER seemed to converge on you at once. "It's not my blood, I'm fine."

But it was too late. You were gently lowered into a wheelchair while Lena rushed you into a free room, and everything you said was brushed aside—they had likely decided you were in shock and weren't taking any chances.

Lena was already calling for Abbot while hands came at you from every direction. Someone was listening to your heart and lungs, someone else was pressing along your ribs asking if it hurt here or there, nurses were checking your vitals from both sides.

It was the arrival of Abbot that finally pushed you over the edge. He came through the door looking as though someone had told him you were dead. The room felt like it was closing in: the nurses crowding around you, Lena directing everyone with sharp precision, all those hands on your body. It was too much.

You stood up quickly and backed yourself toward the far wall, away from all of it. You'd give them that much, you must have looked unhinged in that moment with palms raised in front of you like a barrier, your breathing starting to climb.

"Enough," you said, chest heaving. "I'm not hurt. This isn't my blood. I was with the man from the car accident who just came in, Jordan."

Every doctor and nurse in the room looked to the charge nurse on duty. Lena gave a short nod, confirming that a Jordan had indeed just been brought in.

"The idiot pulled a piece of glass out of his own shoulder and the blood went everywhere, all over me." You kept going, your breathing steadying now that nobody was staring at you like you were about to collapse. "I would have gone straight home if it weren't for the fact that I cut my hand and his blood is all over the wound." You looked around the room. "I just need a blood test."

That was when your eyes found Abbot's. He hadn't said a word yet—still standing at the entrance, arms folded across his chest. He looked almost composed, except for his eyes, which were moving over you carefully, methodically, searching for anything anyone might have missed.

"Okay, everyone back to work," he said at last, apparently satisfied you weren't in need of urgent care. When no one moved, you rolled your eyes before his voice boomed again. "Come on, Nightcrawlers. You're needed elsewhere."

That did it. The room cleared, leaving only you, Abbot, and Lena. Almost at the same time, as though they had rehearsed it, both of them tilted their heads toward the bed.

You let out a small laugh and shook your head, but you moved toward it all the same. Once you were sitting, Lena slipped the pulse oximeter back onto your finger and studied your face with quiet intensity.

"I'll be right back for the blood test," she said, her voice soft in a way that told you she was still being careful with you.

Technically, blood tests weren't part of a charge nurse's duties, but you weren't going to say a word. If she wanted to do it herself, you would let her.

It must have been genuinely frightening, seeing a colleague walk through those doors covered in blood. It was only now beginning to register that you could have gone home first to cleaned up and change before coming in.

"Well, that was something," you said lightly, glancing over at Jack, who still hadn't moved from the doorway.

The look on his face told you he did not find the situation even remotely amusing. His expression was hard enough that you felt your gaze drop, your fingers starting to fidget in your lap, until a sharp bolt of pain shot through your hand and up to your elbow.

Abbot was in front of you within seconds. He reached for your hand, then caught himself—almost as if he had reached out for your on instinct— and turned to pull a pair of gloves from the dispenser on the wall before taking your hand carefully in both of his and lowering himself onto the rolling stool.

"This is pretty deep," he said, eyes on the wound.

"No, it isn't," you scoffed.

You were a nurse. You knew how to assess an injury, and this was a cut you could have handled at home with what you had in your bathroom cabinet.

You laid back against the bed as he glanced up at you with that look again, and made yourself comfortable while Abbot reached for the saline. He opened his mouth, something sarcastic clearly on its way, but Lena reappeared in the doorway before he got the chance.

It took only a few minutes for Lena to run through her checks and let you know they had drawn blood from Jordan as well and were still waiting on his results. You gave her a thumb up and thanked her warmly while Jack continued rinsing your hand with saline.

He swivelled on his stool and rolled toward the supply drawers. "Have a look for yourself, genius. Not deep, my ass."

You pushed yourself up slightly and looked down at your now clean palm and, well, fuck. It was deeper than you had thought. Considerably so. How had you even managed that? You had felt the concrete scrape your knees, but how had you not noticed your entire palm getting sliced open?

"Shit," you said, and let your head fall back against the bed. "I need stitches."

"Yep," was all he offered in return.

What was supposed to be a quick stop at the ER had turned into you becoming a patient. You were on the other side of things entirely but apparently you were getting the full VIP treatment, because Abbot had already turned back around with a suture kit in hand.

"You can call one of the nurses. I know you have more important things to do," you said, watching him lay everything out.

Without even looking up at you, still focused on getting everything the way it was supposed to, Abbot shocked his head.

"Nuh uh," he let out, followed by an almost whispered, "I can take care of you."

The words, the cadence, the casual dominance, the way his voice dropped lower than usual—it sent a shiver straight down your spine and ran straight between your legs. It took everything you had not to press your thighs together.

You knew he would notice, as Jack noticed everything.

You opened your mouth to argue. His eyes met yours with a look that left not room for complains. That happened so often with Jack, the way he could hold a room without even trying. That effortless, unassuming authority he carried without ever seeming to reach for it.

"Shen has the floor covered," he said simply, leaving no room for further debate.

Once he had numbed your hand, he got to work. The silence that followed was uncomfortable in a way that surprised you, the two of you weren't used to quiet moment. There was always something easy and warm between you, something a little flirty and a little playful. The absence of it was starting to press on you.

"That's one pretty dress," Jack said, breaking it, almost as though he had sensed the shift.

"It's completely ruined," you said, glancing down at the dried blood stiffening the fabric. "And it didn't even get me a single compliment all night." The words were out before you had quite decided to say them.

"Really?" It wasn't quite a question, you could hear it in his tone while his eyes stayed on his sutures.

"Really," you confirmed, thinking back to the vaguely disgusted look Jordan had given it. "He split the bill too." You kept going, unable to stop yourself now that you had started. "And didn't offer to drive me home."

That made him look up.

"He let you walk home alone at night?" he asked, making sure he had understood correctly.

"Well, I would have said no anyways, I really didn't want to spend another minute with him… but the fact that he didn't even offer. That's a red flag if I've ever seen one." You laughed, and then the laugh faded the moment you caught his expression.

His jaw was set, his eyes hard and anger lingering behind them. Not at you but at the man who had let a woman walk home alone in the dark. You could practically watch the what-ifs moving behind his eyes.

"Karma got him in the end, though. I mean, he got hit by a car," you tried joking, reaching for even just a small twist of his lips.

The joke didn't land. He went back to suturing in silence, brow furrowed in concentration. Then, a few minutes later, without looking up.

"For what it's worth, you make the dress even prettier." His voice was barely above a whisper.

You laughed awkwardly, the way you always did when you didn't know how to receive a compliment, especially one about your body. "Well, enjoy it while you can. It's going straight in the bin when I get home."

"A shame," Jack said simply, and you knew he meant it.

You could feel the warmth spreading up your neck and into your cheeks, and you couldn't quite make yourself look away from him.

The ease of it, the way he could flirt so quietly and so naturally while stitching your hand, as if the two things required the same level of calm made him more attractive than you knew what to do with. You had a feeling this was a point of no return.

The thought dissolved when Lena reappeared in the doorway, a wide smile already on her face and a sheets of papers in her hand. You knew she had pulled a few strings to get the results flagged as a priority, and you were grateful for it—you needed the peace of mind.

"He's clean," she said, her smile widening. "You'll still need a round of antibiotics, but there's nothing to worry about."

You closed your eyes and exhaled slowly. It would have been a devastating thing, picking up an infection from a man you hadn't even wanted to have dinner with. When you opened your eyes, Jack was already gesturing for Lena to bring the results over. You watched some of the tension leave his face as he read through them.

Did he realise how expressive he was? At least with you.

"Thank you, Lena," you said warmly as she gave you a quiet wink and slipped back out of the room.

Soon enough, the sutures were done. Strangely, despite being someone who lived nocturnally even on your days off—deliberately, so as not to lose your rhythm—you were starting to feel the pull of exhaustion.

When Jack rolled away to dispose of everything, you wiggled your fingers experimentally, trying to gauge how much anaesthesia was left. Sensation was slowly creeping back, and the absence of feeling in your palm was really weird in that particular way that made you want to keep testing it.

"Stop that," Jack said, his back still to you, before turning around with bandages, antiseptic, and compresses.

"I can't feel anything," you said, not entirely sure whether he was telling you off to protect his work or protect your hand.

"I don't care. Don't ruin my good work." He looked at you as he said it, a faint edge of amusement in his expression.

"Oh, right, of course. My sincerest apologies, Doctor Abbot." You rolled your eyes and dropped your good forearm over your face.

All you wanted now was to go home and sleep. With an injury like this—even though you would have argued you were perfectly capable of working—you already knew Abbot would sign you off for at least a week, or until the stitches came out. There was no getting around it.

Once the bandage was secured, you moved to sit up, and a warm, heavy hand pressed gently but firmly on your shoulder and guided you back down. You frowned and tried again. The hand pressed once more.

"Don't move," Abbot said, clicking his tongue, his expression leaving no room for negotiation.

He shifted down the side of the bed and lifted the hem of your dress slightly without saying a word before reaching for the antiseptic. Of course, he had noticed your had scratched your knees. Abbot noticed everything.

"You don't have to do that," you said, keeping your voice gentle.

It was something you could easily take care of at home. You didn't need to take up any more of his time, knowing how wild the night shift could get. When you made another attempt to sit up, the same hand came to rest on your knee unhurried, measured and still so freaking warm. His eyes found yours, one eyebrow raised in a question that needed no words.

You tilted your head and felt a flicker of genuine irritation. "I'm a nurse. I can manage a few scraped knees myself."

He said nothing at first. He simply reached for a sealed compress and tore it open then paused, and looked up at you with a slow, knowing smirk. He knew exactly what he was doing. You hated wasting supplies and he was well aware of it.

"Oops," he said simply, and picked up the antiseptic.

It took everything you had not to say something about how annoying he was. You swallowed it and let him work in silence, watching. His movements were gentle and precise, carefully cleaning a wound that could have been sorted out under a shower at home.

His fingers were light against your skin, one hand cradling your knee while the other pressed the compress softly against the bruising. It was such an unexpectedly tender thing that it was making you feel warm and strange and a little undone. The way he was hunched over you, his posture terrible, as though his back wasn't going to punish him for it the moment he stood up straight.

"Your back, Abbot," you said, in a tone that came out far more like a scolding wife than you had intended.

The only answer you got was a knowing smirk as he moved on to the second knee. His fingers were warm, and you noticed—not for the first time, honestly—that they were the right size. Not large exactly, just... proportioned perfectly. It was a strange thing to be fixated on, but you had been quietly obsessed with his hands for months, and feeling them on your skin for the first time was doing something to your brain. Rewiring it, almost.

"All done," he said, pulling you back. "You can get up, now."

Feeling inexplicably guilty, as though you had been caught thinking something you shouldn't, you sat up too fast and felt the blood rush immediately. You lost your balance and missed the edge of the bed on your way down but Jack's military reflexes were faster. Both hands closed around your forearms and set you upright before you had any real chance of hitting the floor.

"Easy, tiger," he said, still watching your face with eyes that were a touch more worried than the joke suggested.

You laughed it off and stood again, slower this time, giving him a thumb up before grabbing your bag from the bed and following Abbot toward the nurses' station. After reassuring your colleagues that you were absolutely fine, despite knowing you looked anything but, you turned to Lena.

"What are the chances Abbot doesn't put me on medical leave?" you asked, watching him chart you from across the room. It wasn't a complicated entry given the nature of the injury, but it also meant he was prescribing medication, and very likely signing the paperwork you were dreading.

"Absolutely none," Lena replied without looking up from her own screen.

"I could work," you started, but the look Lena levelled at you over her monitor stopped the sentence dead. "How will you manage?" you asked instead, guilt settling in your chest.

"Don't worry about me," the older woman said, her smile warm enough to be annoying about it. She stood and pulled you into a hug. "I know you have a habit of worrying about the elderly," she murmured, "but I'm not quite there yet."

"Lena," you gasped, pulling back with mock horror.

You glanced around quickly to check whether anyone had caught that. Satisfied that the rest of the night shift seemed to be occupied occupied, you shook your head slowly. Ready to scold her, you were stopped by a masculine presence.

"Here." Jack's voice cut through as he appeared beside you, pressing a folded set of papers into your good hand.

"You know, I could—" you started, glancing down at the medical leave form.

"No." He cut you off immediately, steering you toward the ambulance bay with one hand settled at the small of your back.

He didn't even give you time to properly say goodbye to Lena. You threw her an apologetic look over your shoulder. Her smile only widened and she was soon joined by Shen and Mateo, wearing the exact same knowing smirk.

Jack's hand sat across the small of your back as though it had always belonged there—and again, it was just so warm. He wasn't pushing, exactly. It was more like being gently herded, a steady and certain pressure guiding you precisely where he had decided you were going: home.

Once outside, you drew breath to say goodnight and finally make your escape taking a small stop away from him. Looking at Jack, you were met with something unfamiliar. It was rare for this man to check on his phone and yet here he was.

His phone was in his hand—the hand with no wedding ring anymore—he appeared to be thinking. He frowned faintly, then looked up at you, his expression easing just slightly.

"What's your address again? I looked it up in your chart but I forgot," he said, almost to himself, his thumb already moving across the screen.

You caught a glimpse of the Uber app open in front of him. Widening your eyes, you shook your head, this wasn't happening.

"No. Nope. Absolutely not." You shook your head. "Goodnight, Abbot."

You should have known better. Of course Jack Abbot wasn't going to stand there and watch you walk away at nearly midnight. For what felt like the tenth time that night, he reached for you. His fingers wrapped around your wrist—not tight, always gentle, always warm—holding you back. He had been deliberate about it too, catching your uninjured arm.

"If you think," he began, his eyes steady on yours, "that I'm going to do what that terrible date of yours did and let you walk home alone, think again. You're either getting in that Uber or you're sitting here until my shift ends."

In his eyes, you could see it was pointless to argue. You clicked your tongue, closed your eyes, and let out a long breath. When you opened them, you gave a single nod, eyebrows raised.

"Put that I'm paying in cash," you said. Not a request.

He didn't even glance up. He simply scoffed, as though you had said something mildly entertaining.

"I'm not joking," you replied, a little sharper than you had intended but the exhaustion was beginning to win.

"She's three minutes away, out front," Jack said, unbothered, already looking back at his phone. "Text me when you're home. Come back in a week for the stitches."

And then he was gone, back through the doors without a goodbye, without giving you a chance to get another word in.

You stood there for a moment, weighing your options. With him inside and unable to see you, you could absolutely just walk home and let him deal with a one-star rating from you skipping the ride home. Your ego was genuinely putting up a fight.

But something about the way he had looked at you before disappearing inside made it difficult to do anything other than what he had asked. Almost as if he had anticipated the internal debate, your phone buzzed: a screenshot from Jack, the car model and licence plate from the Uber app.

Less than fifteen minutes later, you were home. When you had tried to pay the driver, the woman smiled and told you it had already been taken care of through the app. You exhaled slowly, thanked her, and got out of the car. At least she was honest enough.

Right after locking your front door behind you, you went straight to the bathroom, desperate to get out of the bloody dress you've been in for hours now. It was almost starting to itch from how uncomfortable you felt in it. Before stepping into the shower, you fired off two quick texts to Jack.

how much do i owe you fucker? im home btw

It was late, you were tired, and you were annoyed with him, the insult had slipped out on its own. Besides, technically you were equals hierarchically speaking. He simply had an extra qualification to his name. And you knew he wasn't the sort of person to get offended over such a trivial thing—even more when he had been the one pushing your patience.

You took your time in the shower, washing slowly and thoroughly. You had already washed your hair before the date, but it felt necessary to do it again—like washing the entire evening off. You were careful around the stitched hand, working methodically around it.

Hair dried, skincare done, body moisturised, new bandage on—you were finally ready for bed. It was half past one in the morning, and if there was one good thing about the medical leave, it was that you could sleep in without feeling any sort of guilt.

You didn't check your phone. You simply plugged it in on the nightstand, turned off the light, and settled into bed. Despite everything, despite the irritation still slithering quietly under the surface, all your mind kept returning to as your eyes closed was the feeling of his hands on you.

How warm they were. How careful. How certain. How capable.

You were seconds from sleep when your phone buzzed. Once. Short and deliberate. You reached for it blindly, hand patting across the nightstand until your fingers closed around it. You tilted the screen toward you. Two words.

Two words that sent warmth pooling straight to places it had no business going at one-thirty in the morning.

Good girl.

©fromsil.

| one

Jack, albeit all of his typical stereotypes people use to box him into, is secretly tech-savvy. It comes with the job, he supposed. Working in a field where technology is always evolving, he learnt to adapt, and he learnt to love it. It started with geeking out when the newest, most updated machine was delivered to the hospital, up to buying himself handheld medical pieces of equipment delivered to your door – he would wait for you at home before unboxing the most recent ‘toys’ he ordered, and he would talk your ears off about how cool and innovative it is. 

You loved it, you loved hearing him talk passionately, you love that even after all this time working in his job, he still finds wonders in it (it doesn’t help that he looked so hot with his forearms flexed, knife in hand, while opening the package).

He understands technology, he does. But he doesn’t get the idea of FaceTime. He wasn’t a big texter himself; nothing beats the good old phone calls, where you can get your point across without fear of miscommunication on both sides. Even when you dated, you never went as far as FaceTime; it was always a phone call with a promise of meeting each other, and now that you are married, sharing his home, he still doesn’t get it.

“Why do you even need to look at their faces when you call? What matters is what you say, y’know, besides, it’s awkward to call someone with your phone far away from your ears,” He once said while holding you tightly in his side, cuddling in his far too comfy leather couch. Both of you watching a movie, where the scene of people facetiming each other just finished. You laughed at him back then, nudging his sides, “Eh, don’t knock it till you try it, hon.” 

What a turn of events now for him, as you were called away across the country for a few guest lectures and seminars for two weeks. Away from Pittsburgh, away from him – that he finds himself thankful for whoever invented the damned thing. He’s sitting on his bed, currently deprived of your presence beside him, when he decides to try out FaceTime. 

 “Hi, handsome,” you pick up on the first ring, he’s greeted with the face he’s been missing for the past few days, smiling at him. He sighs in contentment, he finally gets to see your face. “Hi, sweetheart.” 

He can hear you rustling around, looking for something to prop up your phone before you settle on your water bottle. Your screen is now steady. You grin at him, “Finally getting the whole FaceTime thing now, huh?” 

He huffs, “Don’t wanna get used to it, i’d rather have you here.” he starts, “But yeah, thank god shit’s exist. Been so long since I've seen that face.” 

“I’ve been here four days and you turned grumpy, huh?” You tell him, referring to the text Dana sent you earlier, “Your husband is Mr. Grumpy. Med students scared to approach him all day” 

“What do you mean?” You’re still grinning at him, you’re afraid your cheeks might be too sore to talk to the faculty tomorrow. “Dana texted me, said you were being bad teacher.” 

He groaned, “I’m annoyed at everything, it seems.” he mumbles just loud enough for you to hear him on the other end. He’s holding the phone a little too close to his eyes, he squints to look at you. You noticed it, “Wear your glasses, hon.” He hates wearing his glasses, which you know, but he’s squinting so hard you’re afraid he’s gonna get a headache later on. He’s contemplating debating you, but he knows that you’re right; he’s getting too old to see something so close to his eyes now. 

“Ugh, fine. Wait,” he puts his phone in the bed, now his screen is showing the ceiling of the bedroom you share back home. A few rustling and groans later, you find yourself looking at Jack wearing his glasses. Your breath hitched. The sight of him in his glasses always gets to you, even after all this time. “Looking good, Dr. Abbot,” you joke. He smiles, “You’re Dr. Abbot yourself.” You frowned mockingly. “I was looking at my reflection, y’know.” 

He laughs, and your heart aches to be with him. You missed him as bad as he missed you, it seems. You lift your phone, standing up now, he’s curious, “What are you doing?” You reverse the camera now, showing your room. “I’m doing a room tour. Now shut up and listen to me yap.” 

He gladly obeys, he loves listening to your voice, he watches as you explain everything in your room, from the bathroom, the wardrobe, the bed, all the way to the balcony. His eyes caught something when your camera points at your desk, a familiar bottle of cologne – one he’s been wearing for ten years – so he decides to jab at you. “Is that why I can’t find my cologne in my bag?” You turn the camera facing you, and he’s glad now that he can see your face again. “I miss you. Sue me.” You stick your tongue out at him. How he wishes to wipe that shit eating grin from your face. 

“I’m suing you for that with a lifetime with me,” he says earnestly. You look at him fondly, “Jack Abbot, I didn’t know you get sappier the further we departed.” He puts his phone on the nightstand, angled so that you can still see his face, pulling the comforter up to his chin. 

“I miss you so much, baby,” you blegh at the nickname, phone now back at your desk, “You sounded like a teenager,” he chuckles, he looks at you putting on your glasses, the light from the laptop reflecting in your eyes. “Talk to me,” you say.

So he did, he tells you about the shift he’s had today while you’re typing away at your laptop, looking at him every once in a while. He tells you about the boy who went berserk, hands flailing around, making Langdon drop the scalpel in his hand, dropping it to his prosthetic feet, panicking the entire trauma room, only for him to be unfazed. You laugh fondly at him, eyes twinkling with the same mesmerization you only hold for him (and for a crazy innovation that you find interesting). 

He’s holding his yawn, but you know better. His eyes are glassy now. “Go to sleep. It’s late,” you say, he obeys you, taking off his glasses, relaxing into his pillow. “Don’t turn it off,” he says softly, eyes fluttering. You shake your head, “I’ll turn it off when you snore,” he huffs, “what? You snore.” you start, “But I need to hear you snore to sleep nowadays.” you explain. 

His eyes are half-closed now, and he finds himself relaxed, hearing your breaths on the other side, keys clacking softly. “I love you,” he whispers to you. You stopped your typing, now looking at his eyes fully closed, “I love you too, goodnight, hon.” 

For the next 7 days, he finds himself loving FaceTime, finds himself looking forward to FaceTime with you every night before he sleeps, and like other technology he once frowned at, he finally gets it. 

| two

Jack is not a man of pop culture, he never understands the appeal of it. He rarely watches movies by himself, let alone pop culture movies or series. But you loved it to no end, you often ask him to watch those movies with you, ranging from sci-fi, fantasy, to superhero movies, whatever you want to watch, he’ll gladly oblige. He’ll pretend to be uninterested in your series whenever you watch it alone with him moving around the house. But you always find him standing behind the couch, watching the show intently, before finding him beside you, starting to give commentary on what's happening on the screen. And slowly, he finds himself enjoying watching those movies and series with you. 

He loves watching you explain to him about the complexity of a character you like, loves hearing you badmouth a character you hate, and when you both find yourself watching sci-fi movies with futuristic technologies, he finds himself falling a little harder, hearing you explain to him the concept of the technology in said movies. “I don’t understand a single word you just said. Is this what you feel when I explain procedures to you?” he once asked you. You nodded, “Yeah, pretty much, but you’re hot when you’re explaining it. So I love it,” you said to him. And he agreed with you on that one. 

Jack was covering the night shift tonight, it’s Halloween night, so he’ll find himself drowning in patients in costumes, no doubt. You had dropped him off earlier with a kiss on his cheek and a promise to pick him up later in the morning.  

He’s talking to a ten-year-old kid in a yellow uniform, one he recognized as a Star Trek uniform when Ellis enters the room, “I got this, Abbot. You go ahead,” she says to Jack. Jack nods at her before saying, “You’re in good hands, kiddo.” Ellis looks at the boy in the bed, saying, “Well, what do we got here, Mr.Spock?” The kid was about to protest when Jack reactively says, “He’s Captain Kirk,” Earning a look from Ellis. He fistbumps the kid and leaves the room, fully trusting Ellis. 

The rest of the shift is pretty slow, filled with kids getting food poisoning from the candy being given away, typical drunks, and some OD patients from parties. It was now one hour left in the shift, everyone was either hanging by the hub or just doing a frequent check for their patients. He was charting when Shen and Ellis approached him.

“Hey, Abbot. How’s the stormtrooper guy?” Shen asks him. He’s currently scanning through his memory, not finding a single stormtrooper costume in his recollection of the night. “We haven’t got a stormtrooper,” He frowns at Shen. Shen points his fingers over Jack’s shoulder, he turns his head – now looking at a man in a Mandalorian get-up, his helmet on the chair beside the bed – he turns back to Shen, “That’s a fucking Mandalorian, good to go in a few hour, ” Shen doesn’t say anything, opting to look at Ellis beside him. Who, for the second time that night, gave him a weird look. He’s been doing medical procedures that might be crazy ballsy for some, but never once he received that look from either Ellis or Shen until tonight. 

“Okay, you know what, what the hell?” Ellis starts, “You corrected me earlier cause of a fuckin costume, and now, what the hell, man?” Jack shrugs, “What?” Shen points his finger at Jack, his voice accusatory, “Dude, you only ever turn your TV on for penguins games, now you tellin me you know fuckin sci-fi shit, now.?” Jack looks at him, “Wrong, I turn on my TV for the Steelers and Pirates too,” he says casually. 

“Ugh, you know what we meant. Since when do you even watch that stuff?” Ellis says exasperatedly. Jack crossed his arms, shrugging, “My wife likes that stuff.” He says that so casually that Shen and Ellis might combust at his tone. 

Shen laughs at him, “Holy shit, you’re whipped.” Jack smirks, “Yeah, I wouldn’t get married if I weren’t.” his hands find the ring in his necklace now. Fully smiling at Shen and Ellis, both of whom groan at him. “Ughhh, please be a simp somewhere else, not here.” Shen rolls his eyes. 

Shen and Ellis walked away from him before he muttered, “God forbid a man is in love,” smiling to himself with the thought of you in his mind. 

So slowly but surely, he understands the appeal now that he can see how your eyes lit up every time he referenced something. And like any other form of entertainment, he once cringed at, he finds himself enjoying and looking forward to the next time he has you curled up beside him, whispering theories he doesn’t get. Anything that makes you happy, it seems, makes him happy. 

| three

Jack is a man of many talents, but not of many coffee orders. He takes his coffee as plain as possible. Black, no sugar. He never ordered his coffee sweet, not before he met you at least. For him, coffee should be something simple, he doesn’t need extra flavor in his coffee, he just needs it to fuel him through the day. 

But you? You take your coffee as abstractly as possible. Though you do enjoy a plain black coffee once in a while, once the occasion calls for it, you actually prefer some flavor and sweetness in your coffee. 

“black , no sugar, please. What about you hon,” he asked you, ordering for himself to barista; he never ordered for you since he knew he would botch the task. “Uh, let me think. I ordered the almond latte yesterday. I think I’ll go with hazelnut today, please. Thank you,” you answered to the barista, who punched in some buttons. Jack tapped his card to pay before moving over to wait for your order. 

“Here, try this. You’ll like it.” you said to him. He shakes his head, refusing to take a sip. “Just try it, I swear” he takes the coffee in his hand, sipping on it. Fuck. that’s good. He thought. He bites the inside of his cheek to hold back a smile, not wanting to give you the victory. You pointed at him victoriously, “aha! You like it don’t you.” he shrugged, giving you back your coffee. “Eh, black’s still better.” though you know that he actually enjoys it. 

But now that it’s been a while since the two of you went on cafe dates, he finds himself missing your random coffee order. So when the opportunity comes for him to drink your coffee order, he’ll take it. 

“Hey, I’m ordering coffee, your usual?” Robby asks him, typing in his notes app to list everyone’s coffee order. Jack thinks for a second before answering him, “I’ll have a vanilla latte,” earning a raised eyebrow from Robby, who types it down without question before moving over to the others. Making a mental note to ask him later on. 

It was a while later when the order came in, and everyone stopped by the break room to take their coffee. Jack is greeted by Langdon and Robby inside, both holding their coffee. Langdon doesn’t even think before handing him a black coffee, one that Jack doesn’t take. “It’s not mine,” he says, walking over to the table, reading the labels in each cup before settling on his order. 

He holds it in a way that the label is visible to Langdon, who looks at him weirdly, “a Latte? Really? Vanilla latte?” Langdon asks him. Jack sips on his coffee before entertaining Langdon, “What? It’s good,” he answers. Langdon, who looks at Robby as if saying, dude, you seeing what I’m seeing???. Robby teases him, “Yeah, I don’t think that cuts it, brother.” 

Jack huffs, sipping some more, “Fine. My wife takes her coffee like this.” he wants to look annoyed, but he can’t bear himself to do it; not when he just drank your coffee order, being reminded of you seems to have that effect on him. 

“I’m a married man myself, but I never even order my coffee her way, man.” Langdon laughs at him. Robby smiles at him, putting his hand on Langdon’s shoulder, slightly leaning toward him. “I believe we are seeing Jack in love. What is it? To be loved is to be changed?” says Robby to Langdon’s who laughed at Jack. 

Jack wants to retort something smart as usual, but somehow, he doesn’t want to. So he opted to just smile at both of them before taking his coffee outside the break room. 

Because yeah, he might realize himself that his preference is changing, but what Robby said earlier was right, that he’s in love and that he’s loved – and he wouldn’t change that for the world. 

But the next time the two of you went on your cafe dates, he would still order his usual, not because he wanted it, he ordered it because for him, nothing beats the mischievous smile you gave him after asking him to try your coffee. (and it doesn’t help that he liked seeing your lip product mark on his cup after you drink his coffee, and that both of you just did an indirect kiss) Though that was a thought he’ll keep to himself forever. 

+1

“How do I look?” you walk into the living room, twirling your body to Jack, who is sitting on the leather couch, now looking at you. You were sporting a Penguins jersey with a big 87 on the back, CROSBY above it. You were offered a sideline ticket to the Penguins game by your friend, which you excitedly accepted. So here you are, getting ready for the game with the Penguins heartbreaker’s Jersey on you. 

Jack smiles at you. “Well, you look like you’re drowning in it, Mrs. Crosby,” he says coyly. You frown at him, walking over to him, “Jack, as much as I love Sid, I actually prefer being Mrs. Abbot,” you say to him, leaning down to give his lips a peck.

Jack puts his hand on your waist, capturing your lips on his. Pulling back, Jack let out a breathy chuckle, “Yeah? Say that after you see him, hon. You know I’m straight, but he’s hot as hell,” he jested. You laugh at his confession, about to say something when you hear a honk in the driveway. Jack walks you over to the door, opening it for you.

Jack pecks your lips once again before saying, “Stay safe, okay? I love you.” You smile, kissing his cheek, “I will. Love you too.”

It’s almost midnight when you come home, and the Penguins won, so it was a victorious night out in your books. You open the door slowly, not wanting to disturb Jack, who should be sleeping by now. You can hear the TV still turned on in the living room, so you decide to check it out.  

Jack was sprawled over the couch, the light from the TV illuminating his figure, his prosthetic placed by the table, as much as you want to move him to the bed because you know that his back would scream at him tomorrow if he spends as much as an extra hour on the couch, he looked so cozy you can’t help yourself, so you lay down on the couch, joining him. 

Your movement startles him at first, but upon seeing that it’s you, he relaxes, “Hey,” he whispers into your ear. “It was fun, wished it was with you though,” you confess to him. His arms now caging you, drawing soft circles on your back. It was quiet before you started.

“Jack,” you whisper softly, he hums, acknowledging you. You continue, “I think you broke me.” Jack stops his hand, pulling his head just enough to look you in the eyes. “What do you mean?” you snuggle further into his chest before saying, “I don’t find Sid attractive anymore.” 

“Huh?” Jack asks, You sit up, placing your hand on his stomach. “Imagine, I was that close with him, I could practically see his pores, Jack.-” You put your hand in front of you, in an attempt to emphasize just how close you are to The Sidney Crosby earlier. “But all I can think about is eh, he’s okay. Jack’s way more attractive.” Jack’s entire body warms at hearing your confession. 

He’s about to comment before you put your hand that was previously on his stomach to his mouth, not allowing him to speak, “No, you don’t get it. It's THE SIDNEY CROSBY, Jack. You know how much I love him, right?” he nods against your hand, now smiling as wide as ever. You lift your hand from his mouth, continuing your explanation. “I was supposed to be entranced by him, Jack. But I kept on thinking that he had nothing against you.” 

“You’re putting me on a damn high pedestal now, hon,” he says jokingly, though his eyes shows nothing but adoration looking at you. 

You lie back on the couch again, cuddling him. “Nah. I think I just love you too much that I find any other guy to just be….mid.” 

He chuckles, resuming his hand motion on your back. “I love you too, so much.” You don’t say anything after that, you're both snuggling, the TV playing softly as background noise – the intimacy of this moment has nothing against anything else. 

You both stayed that way for a while until you mentioned to him that you needed to move before you both fell asleep on the couch, so you walked over to the bedroom, Jack behind you, searching for the remote to turn it off, seeing the highlight of the day on the screen, with crosby’s goal earlier. He smirks proudly at the TV, remembering your earlier admission. 

__________________

The step stool gives you an extra boost. There's a large bowl on the very top shelf that you need so you can Lena can bake cookies. You grab it, but lean too far back. Your heart drops as you brace for impact, but a pair of arms catch you instead.

"Holy crap," you murmur, looking at your savior.

Pope tsks and shakes your head, "You need to be more careful." He helps you stand up right as you hand Lena the mixing bowl.

You give him a sheepish smile, "I know, but you're also always there to catch me, right?"

He silently rolls his eyes and watches as you and Lena start gathering the rest of the ingredients to bake.

He leans against the counter, arms crossed over his chest. He says things here and there, answers a question or two when Lena asks.

"Okay, now we need to get a whisk-oh! Thanks, babe!" Pope is already holding out a whisk to you that he grabbed as you were reading the instructions aloud. You kiss his cheek in appreciation and hand the whisk to Lena.

He comes up behind you, hugging you from behind and resting his head against yours as you watch his niece mix the cookie ingredients all together.

_____________________

You'd just dried yourself off after a shower. You're standing at the bathroom sink, drying out your hair when Pope appears in the threshold. He leans against the wall, watching you. You catch his eyes in the reflection and softly smile at him. You go back to getting ready for bed.

After setting the hair dryer down, you go to grab your brush, but you see Pope standing behind you already, brush in hand. You stand there as he brushes through your hair, careful not to hurt you in anyway.

Once he's done, he sets the brush down and kisses your head. He goes back to being a silent observer.

You grab your skincare and start your routine. You feel his eyes completely focused on you the entire time. You don't feel unsettled. You feel seen, appreciated, loved, and protected.

______________________

"Does he do that all the time?" Your friend, Ella, asks, nodding to Pope who's sitting at the bar counter, watching you.

You glance at him over your shoulder and then turn back to Ella, "He's protective of me."

"It's creepy."

You roll your eyes, having explained this to several people beforehand, "It's how he shows he cares. Besides, he's out DD if we get too fucked up."

"That's what Ubers are for."

You scoff, "Why pay for a ride when Andrew can drive us for free?"

"Okay, but he's been staring at you nonstop," her eyes glance back at Pope in a disgusted way, "He's not controlling or anything, is he?" she looks at you seriously, silently asking a question you've gotten before.

You sigh, "I'm fine. I promise. Andrew's not like that. He just shows his love and care differently than others. It took me some time to understand it too, but he treats me so much better than anyone has."

Ella slowly nods, "Alright, but if he hurts you in anyway-"

You chuckle, "I know, girl. I'll let you know."

_____________________

Pope brought you to The Drop so he can discuss some things with his brothers. You're sitting at the counter, drinking a soda, and scrolling through your phone when a man decides to take up residence right next to you.

You sigh and say, "Not interested," without looking up from your phone.

The man scoffs, "Not even gonna let me say 'hi' or nothing?"

"Nope," you don't give the man any satisfaction of looking at him. Instead you continue drinking your soda and scrolling through your phone.

The man fully faces you, "I can treat you real good."

"I'm taken."

"And where's your guy right now, huh?"

"Right here," you hear Pope speak behind you and you smile into your straw. You completely turn to face Pope, "Everything good?"

His eyes soften when he looks at you, "Yeah. Go start the car," he hands his car keys to you.

You close your hands around his, "I'm fine. Let's go." You see him hesitating but immediately nods. You guide him out of the bar and he's following you, but not before sending a deadly glare back to the man who was bothering you.

_______________________

You're sitting in the sand, back pressed against an eroding wall, alone. You just needed some fresh air and sunshine after a rough few days. You listen to the waves crashing against the shore, the sound of children screaming with laughter, seagulls flying above head.

You hear a jingling of keys paired with the sounds of heavy boots approaching. A shadow looms over you, but you know who it is. You look up and see Pope staring down at you. He's giving you a questioning gaze.

"I'm okay. Just needed to think."

He nods and sits on the wall, right behind you. You lean against his legs, his hands resting on your shoulders.

"What do you mean?"

"Whenever I ask her questions about diagnosis or course of treatment, she just stares at me and doesn't say anything. She tried to do an IV three times before I stepped in to put the poor man out of his misery. I assumed it was first day jitters but Dana said she's been here over a week." Jack made sure to keep his voice low, not wanting to air his observations of you to the whole department. Robby's eyebrows came together in confusion.

"That doesn't sound like her. She did a perfect intubation with me earlier today." Robby crossed his arms, mirroring Jacks stance. "I can chat with her if you want?" Jack shook his head.

"No, that's okay. Maybe I could watch her do a case with you, see what you're doing differently?" Robby agreed and as if it was timed intentionally, a trauma case came through the door of the Pitt, with Langdon calling out to Robby for a hand. Jack watched as you got pulled from your discussion with Dana at the Hub to the trauma room, immediately jumping into action. Robby went inside but Jack decided to hang back and observe from afar.

The woman he was seeing in the trauma room was completely different to the intern he'd been around all day. You were confident, fast, and assured in your responses to Robby's questions and the administration of care. You leapt at the opportunity to assist with procedures and didn't freeze up once. Jack started to wonder if he was the problem. You were completely at ease with Robby, but with Jack you couldn't even speak. You'd open your mouth to answer him but no words would come out. Even when Jack rephrased the question or gave you a easier one, you still had nothing to say.

After the trauma patient was sent upstairs for surgery, Jack debriefed with Robby, trying to figure out why you were night and day with them, while you returned to the Hub to find Santos charting.

"Looks like you got your groove back." Santos commented as she typed up her chart note. You tilted your head in confusion and Santos glanced over at you, her chin propped on her hand. "You seemed kind of deer in the headlights with that cholelithiasis earlier." You broke the eye contact, looking down in embarrassment as the memory of working with Dr. Abbot today came to the forefront of your mind.

You just couldn't help the way your mind went blank when Dr. Abbot turned his attention to you. You found him so attractive that the words literally got lodged in your throat. You hadn't realized you had a thing for older men until you met him today but everything about him sent your mind reeling. His curly grey hair, and thick thighs, and broad shoulders, and large hands, and the lines near his eyes, and the whisper of freckles on his face, and the way his biceps bulged against his navy t-shirt, and the low rumble of his voice, and the calm and collected way he conducted himself as an attending. Honestly the list was endless and every single thing about Dr. Abbot had you blushing and stumbling over your words.

Just looking at him made your brain fill with absolute nonsense and wild, wild thoughts. Like him kissing you in one of the supply closets, or offering you a ride home and pulling over somewhere deserted to pull you into his lap in the drivers seat, or pressing himself against your back in the elevator as his hands and lips explored your body in the small timeframe before the elevator doors opened. Or the best one yet, him taking you home on your shared days off so you could spend the whole 48 hours in between his sheets.

It frustrated you, how much you looked like an idiot in front of him, but you couldn't control it. You glanced subtly over at Dr. Abbot speaking to Robby before responding to Santos.

"Yeah, I'm not sure what came over me." You lied, sitting down next to her. Santos, ever observant, glanced over at Abbot too before looking back at you.

"You sure it had nothing to do with the hunky attending?" She said, completely deadpan. You panicked, grabbing her arm as you pleaded with her.

"Trinity." You hissed through your teeth.

"What? I mean, I personally don't see it because he's not my type, but I can understand why you like him. Silver fox and all that." Santos shrugged and returned to typing. Your cheeks flamed as you scooted your chair closer to her for privacy.

"I can't help it okay? I know the answer, you know I know the answer, but he looks at me with those dreamy hazel eyes and I just can't string a sentence together." You sighed, placing your head in your hands.

"Maybe you should just ask him out." Your head shot up so fast you were sure you got whiplash.

"What?" You squeaked. Santos shrugged again, unbothered by your dilemma.

"You could ask him out, get it over with. If he turns you down then your crush is squashed and if he doesn't then you get what you're hoping for. Either way it solves your problem."

"Trinity I cannot ask out my attending, that's nuts. No matter how much I want to. Besides he'd say no." You added, a small nugget of insecurity growing in your chest.

"Why would he say no? You're pretty and smart, not that he's seen that yet but I know you are. You're a catch." Santos said it like it was no big deal as she submitted her chart note with a definitive click on the keyboard, but the words meant a lot to you. They filled you with a confidence you'd been lacking today. Santos turned in her chair, ready to find a new patient when she noticed who was standing a foot or so behind you.

"Whoops." The flat inflection in Santos voice had you spinning around to find none other than handsome attending Dr. Abbot standing behind you. Your mouth dropped open as he stared back at you, clearly having just overheard your conversation.

"Bye." Santos said before making an extremely quick exit. You barely registered her leaving, the blood rushing through your ears was too loud. Dr. Abbot rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly as he took a step closer to you.

"I, uh, appreciate that you-I mean it's flattering to know that's the reason you're quiet around me but I can't-we can't, I'm your attending. I mean, I'm not really sure why I'd have that affect on you, I'm old, ya know? I'm not exactly a spring chicken-"

"I like that about you." You said suddenly, cutting him off as you heart pounded in your chest. Santos' pep talk had you feeling bold and you decided to ride that feeling as long as you could. You stood up, practically chest to chest with Abbot. His mouth parted as he watched you, waiting for whatever else you were going to say.

"You say you're older like it's a bad thing when that's what's drawing me in. Thinking you're old is a mindset Dr. Abbot. Maybe you need some young energy in your life to help with that." You said softly as you looked up at him from under your lashes. You watched the apples of his cheeks turn pink and it took everything in you not to smile in satisfaction at the effect you had on him.

You decided to leave him wanting, be a bit mysterious by not saying too much, so you left him with your last comment and exited the Hub in search of another patient. Jack stood rooted where you left him, his chest rising and falling fast as your words left this thoughts swirling in his head.

Turns out Santos was right in the end and bold was the route to go because three weeks later Jack left you speechless again in the backseat of his Jeep with his head between your legs.

dividers by @ cursed-carmine

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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.

The lights in the apartment feel like physical needles against your eyes. You don't even bother taking off your clothes. You simply collapse onto the duvet, your limbs feeling like lead weights.

Seventeen hours.

You aren’t just tired.

You’re vibrating pure exhaustion.

Jack is there. He’s already softened his movements, sensing the fog that usually blankets you after a long shift.

"Hey," he murmurs, his voice low. He sits on the edge of the mattress, the dip in the bed making you roll slightly toward him. "How was it? Do you need water? Food?"

You don’t move. You don't even open your eyes. And the ceiling fan feels like a white sound.

"Jack," you croak out.

"Yeah, doll?"

"Just... lay on me."

There’s a brief silence. "You want me to... what?"

"Lay on top of me," you mutter gesturing vaguely at your body. "All of you. Your whole weight."

He chuckles but he doesn't argue. Jack knows you well enough to know when you've reached the point of sensory overload where only something physical can pull you back down to earth.

He moves carefully, hovering over you for a second before slowly lowering himself. He’s careful to distribute his weight, but you huff out a breath of protest. "No, handsome. Don't do polite weight. Just lay down."

He finally settles, his heavy frame covering yours. The effect is instantaneous. The pressure of him acts like a weighted blanket, twitching nerves in your legs and pinning your racing thoughts to the bed. It’s a heavy safety. You can feel the thrum of his heart against your chest and the warmth of his body through his shirt.

The dissociation starts to bleed away, replaced by the physical reality of him. You’re no longer floating somewhere; you’re right here, in your bedroom, being held into the mattress by the person you love most.

"Better?" he whispers, his breath warm against your ear.

"Mhm," you sigh, your muscles finally turning to liquid under him. "Don't move."

"Okay," he says. "I'm not going anywhere."

The crushing pressure of him is exactly what you needed, a physical feeling to keep you from drifting away into the memory of monitors and hospital's lights.

As the silence of the room settles, Jack begins to shift just a fraction, his lips finding your clavicle and neck. The kisses are soft and slow. Each one feels like a small reminder that the shift is over and you can relax now.

He works his way up toward your jaw, his stubble grazing your skin in a way that would usually be ticklish but right now just feels like a tether. You feel tension finally drain out of your body, your eyelids growing too heavy to keep even halfway open.

The world is narrowing down to the rhythmic thud of his heart against your body and the soft and repetitive press of his lips.

"Jack," you mumble, your voice thick with the first real wave of sleep.

"I know," he whispers, pressing one more lingering kiss just below your ear, feeling your breath become heavy. Gently, he hooked his arms under your form. "Come here, honey," he whispers.

He rolls onto his back, bringing you with him so you’re draped over his chest. He settles you between his arms, your head tucked perfectly into the hollow of his shoulder. The change in position doesn't wake you.

He begins a slow stroke down your back, his hand moving from your shoulder blades to your waist and back again. It’s a hypnotic motion that mutes the last of the hospital noise in your brain.

"Thank you... for this." You don't hear his answer, but you feel the way he settles even deeper against you, his arms wrapping around your sides to pull you closer into him. Before he can even tuck the blanket over both of your shoulders, you’ve drifted off.

"I love you," he mumbles, his chin resting on the top of your head.

The last thing you feel is him holding you tight against his body as the rest of the world finally fades.

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